est tire--il faut le boire_.'

'Yes, yes,' answered the old man, 'we will drain the cup together to
the dregs--but still I'm a madman! I'm a madman! All was going on so
quietly, so well ... and all of a sudden: ta-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta!'

'Like the _tutti_ in the orchestra,' observed Sanin with a forced
smile. 'But it's not your fault.'

'I know it's not. I should think not indeed! And yet ... such insolent
conduct! _Diavolo, diavolo_!' repeated Pantaleone, sighing and shaking
his topknot.

The carriage still rolled on and on.

It was an exquisite morning. The streets of Frankfort, which were just
beginning to show signs of life, looked so clean and snug; the windows
of the houses glittered in flashes like tinfoil; and as soon as the
carriage had driven beyond the city walls, from overhead, from a blue
but not yet glaring sky, the larks' loud trills showered down in
floods. Suddenly at a turn in the road, a familiar figure came from
behind a tall poplar, took a few steps forward and stood still. Sanin
looked more closely.... Heavens! it was Emil!

'But does he know anything about it?' he demanded of Pantaleone.

'I tell you I'm a madman,' the poor Italian wailed despairingly,
almost in a shriek. 'The wretched boy gave me no peace all night, and
this morning at last I revealed all to him!'