The Italians have always been born musicians, and in Milan, too, there are plenty of artists. Among the latter, Maestro Ticellini occupied the first place. He had a great deal of talent, wrote charming cavatinas, and his songs were much sought after. He had not composed an opera as yet; and what was the cause of this? Simply because he could find no fitting libretto; the strict censorship always had something to say, and the most innocent verses were looked upon as an insult to his majesty, the emperor.

Since a few weeks Ticellini was in a state of great excitement. Salvani, the impresario of the Scala and a friend of Ticellini, had engaged La Luciola, the star of the opera at Naples, for Milan, and the maestro had not been able to find a libretto.

Dozens of text books had been sent back by the censor; the subjects out of the old and new history were looked down upon, because in all of them allusions were made to tyrants and oppressed people, and while La Luciola achieved triumphs each evening in the operas of Bellini and Donizetti, Ticellini grew desperate.

One night as he returned to his home in the Via de Monte an unexpected surprise awaited him. His faithful servant stood in front of the door and triumphantly waved a roll of paper before his eyes. Ticellini indifferently unrolled the package, but suddenly he broke into a cry of joy. He held a libretto in his trembling hands.

Shutting himself in his room, Ticellini flew over the manuscript. He did not notice that the binding which held the libretto was tricolored. And yet they were the Italian colors, white, green and red, the tricolor which was looked down upon.

The title already pleased the maestro. It was "The Queen of Flowers." The verses were very lucid and melodious, and the subject agreeable. The queen of flowers was the rose, which loved a pink, whereas the pink was enamored of a daisy. After many entanglings the allegory closed with the union of the pink and the daisy, and the rose generously blessed the bond. All was joy and happiness, and as soon as Ticellini had finished reading, he began to compose.

The part of the daisy was made for the high soprano of La Luciola, the pink must be sung by Signor Tino, the celebrated baritone, and Signora Ronita, the famous contralto, would secure triumphs as the rose. The subordinate characters were soon filled, and the next morning, when Ticellini breathlessly hurried to Salvani, he was in a position to lay the outline of the opera before him.

Salvani, of course, was at first distrustful, but after he assured himself that there was nothing treasonable in it, he put the manuscript in his pocket and went to see the censor.

The censor received Salvani cordially, and taking his ominous red pencil in his hand, he glanced over the libretto. But no matter how much he sought, he could not find a single libellous sentence, and at the end of an hour Salvani was able to bring his friend the news that the performance of the opera was allowed.

Ticellini was overjoyed; he worked night and day, and at the end of a week he appeared before Salvani, waving the completed score triumphantly in the air.

While the two friends were sitting at the piano, and Ticellini marked several songs and duets, a knock was heard.

"No one can enter," said Salvani, springing up; "we wish to be alone."

"Oh, how polite!" exclaimed a clear, bright voice, and as Salvani and Ticellini looked up in surprise they uttered a cry of astonishment:

"Luciola!"

La Luciola was very beautiful. She was slim and tall, about twenty-seven years of age, with beautiful black hair and finely-formed features. Her almond-shaped eyes were likewise dark, but had a phosphorescent gleam, which gave her the name of Luciola, or the fire-fly. She was dressed in a red satin dress, and wore a jaunty black felt hat. There was quite a romantic legend connected with the pretty girl: no one knew from what country she came, since she spoke all the European tongues with equal facility, and steadfastly refused to say a word about the land of her birth. She possessed the elegance of a Parisian, the grace of a Creole, and the vivacity of an Italian. Her real name was unknown. She was called the heroine of several romantic adventures, though no one could say which one of her numerous admirers she preferred. La Luciola appeared to have no heart.

Very often La Luciola, dressed in men's clothes, would cross the Neapolitan plains, accompanied by her only friend, a tender, tall blonde. The latter was just as modest as La Luciola was audacious, and she clung to the proud Amazon like the ivy to the oak.

A few days before her departure from Naples, a Croatian officer had insulted her, and instead of asking a gentleman of her acquaintance to revenge the coarse remark, she herself sought the ruffian, dressed in men's clothes, and boxed his ears as he sat in a cafÉ. Amid the laughter of his comrades the officer left the cafÉ, and La Luciola triumphed.

Such was the person upon whom the fate of the new opera depended, for she reigned supreme at the Scala, and Salvani as well as Ticellini knew this.

While they were both meditating how to secure the Luciola in the easiest way, the songstress said:

"My visit seems to be unwelcome to the gentlemen?"

"Unwelcome?" repeated Salvani. "Signora, what are you thinking of? On the contrary, we were just speaking about you and wishing you were here."

"Flatterer," said La Luciola, laughing, and pointing her finger warningly at him.

"No, signora, Salvani says the truth," Ticellini said, earnestly. "We wish to ask a great favor of you."

"That is excellent. I also come to ask for a favor," replied the diva, springing up hurriedly. "You speak first, and then you shall hear what brought me to your office."

"Oh, signora," said Ticellini, crossing his hands and falling on one knee, "my fate lies in your hands."

"That sounds quite tragical! One would imagine I was Marshal Radetzky. But are you ever going to tell me what is the matter?"

"We—I—" began Salvani, stammering.

"My dear impresario," interrupted La Luciola, laughing, "let us make short work of it. I will tell you why I came, and, in the meantime, you can collect your thoughts. Well, then, I am growing tired at La Scala; Donizetti, Bellini, and whatever other names your great composers bear, are very good fellows, but, you know, toujours perdrix."

"Well—and—" asked Salvani, breathlessly, as the diva paused.

"Well, I must have a new rÔle in a new opera or I shall run away," said La Luciola, firmly.

Both men uttered a cry of joy. Luciola looked from one to the other and finally said:

"Does my demand embarrass you?"

"No, luck alone makes us dumb. We intended, signora, to ask you to-day to take a part in a new opera."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed La Luciola, clapping her hands with joy. "Who is the composer of the new opera? Gioberto, Palmerelli, or perhaps you, Ticellini? But stay! before we go any further, I make one condition: the subject must not be tragical."

"Oh, tragic opera has long since gone out of fashion."

"Thank God, you have the same opinion as I. What I should like now would be a spectacular piece, an allegory or something like it—pretty music and bright verses."

"Oh, signora!" exclaimed Ticellini, joyfully, "I have got what you want. The new opera is called the 'Queen of Flowers.'"

"What a pretty title!"

"Your part will be that of the daisy."

"Beautiful, beautiful!"

"Permit me to play you the first cavatina."

Ticellini hurried to the piano and began to play.

Luciola listened attentively and nodded satisfaction as Ticellini sung the verses.

"That will do," she said. "Get everything ready for the rehearsals; I shall sing the part."

She went out, and the next day the rehearsals began for the new opera, the first performance of which was to take place on the 15th of May, 1848.