Envy, Jealousy, ye green-
eyed and loathsome monsters, how miserably small and mean can ye
make the hearts of men!" said Leandro, lifting up hands and eyes.
"Bravo, Leandro, bravo! get upon the table, man!" cried Farini.
"Get home to bed, rather. It is too bad, because no human being will
read his poetry, he takes to spouting it!" said the other.
"Let us look what she says," cried Ludovico di Castelmare; putting
out his hand to take the little note. "Upon my word she writes a
pretty hand. It is a very neatly expressed note."
"Oh, you can see that much, can you?" returned Leandro. "I should
think it was too! Is there any one of you here can show such a note
from any woman, let her be who she may? She says she will read the
poem I have been good enough to send her--good enough to send her,
mark that!--as soon as she can find time to do so! What could she
say more, I should like to know? Of course she is occupied. It
stands to reason. But she will read my poem; and then you will see!"
"Ay, then we shall see our little Leandro duly appreciated at last!"
said the Barone Manutoli. "As soon as the Diva has found time to
read the poem there will come another little pink note, adorably
perfumed: he will be summoned to her august presence, and installed
as her poet in ordinary, and who knows what else besides,--her
Magnus Apollo? It is a pity there are not eight other prime donne to
make up the sacred number.
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