to her favor. The passions she instigated sometimes took eccentric
courses. The French Ambassador, who loved her madly, suspected the
Portuguese Minister of being more successful than himself with the
lovely Gabrielli. His suspicions being confirmed at one of his visits,
he drew his sword in a transport of rage, and all that saved the
operatic stage one of its most brilliant lights was the whalebone
bodice, which broke the point of the furious Frenchman's rapier. The
sight of the bleeding beauty--for she received a slight scratch--brought
the diplomat to his senses. Falling on his knees, he poured forth his
remorse in passionate self-reproaches, but only received his pardon on
the most humiliating terms, namely, that he should present her with
the weapon which had so nearly pierced her heart, on which was to be
inscribed this memento of the jealous madness of its owner: "_Epée de
M------, qui osa frapper La Gabrielli_." Only Metastasio's persuasions
(for Gabrielli prized his friendship and advice as much as she trifled
with him in a different _rôle_) persuaded her to spare the Frenchman the
insufferable ridicule which her retention of the telltale sword would
have imposed on one whose rank and station could ill afford to be made
the laughing-stock of his times.

The siren's infinite caprices furnished the most interesting _chronique
scandaleuse_ of Vienna. Brydone in his "Tour" tells us that it was
fortunate for humanity that the fair cantatrice had so many faults; for,
had she been more perfect, "she must have made dreadful havoc in the
world; though, with all her deficiencies," he says, "she was supposed to
have achieved more conquests than any one woman breathing." Her caprice
was so stubborn, that neither interest, nor threats, nor punishment had
the least power over it; she herself declared that she could not command
it, but that it for the most part commanded her. The best expedient to
induce her to sing when she was in a bad humor was to prevail upon her