We met but rarely after this meeting; Bernardo was always jovial and
friendly, though not confidential, until, on the occasion of a dance at
the Borghese Palace, when I asked him about the handsome Jewish maiden,
he laughed. "I have found," he said, "another and tamer little golden
bird. The other has flown out of the Ghetto--nay, even out of Rome!"

My patron's family left Rome; and I had to throw myself into the study
for the examination that was to bring me the title of an abbé. With the
advent of the carnival I had assumed the black dress and the short silk
coat of an abbate, and had become a new and happier person. For the
first time I took part in the jollities of the carnival, and at the end
of the first day again came across Bernardo, who insisted upon taking me
to the opera to hear a new prima donna who had turned everybody's heart
at Naples. Rumour had not belied her. Her appearance was greeted with
rapturous applause. Bernardo seized my arm; he had recognised in her his
Jewish maiden, just as I was about to exclaim, "It is she!"--the lovely
child who had preached that Christmas at Ara Coeli. There were endless
calls for "Annunciata" when the curtain fell; flowers and garlands were
thrown at her feet, and among them a little poem which I had written
under the inspiration of her exquisite voice. With a crowd of
enthusiasts, we hurried to the stage-door, took the horses from her
carriage, and conducted her in triumph to her apartments.

Bernardo, who, bolder than I, had called on Annunciata, brought me to
her the next day. She was friendly, brilliant in her conversation, and
appeared deeply impressed with my improvisation on "Immortality"--the
immortality first of eternal Rome, and then of the fair singer's art--to
which I was pressed when Bernardo let out the secret of my gift.