"Yes, yes, my dear count," he answers aloud, "we have much to say to each other--much to say on a most interesting subject." And he gives the count what he intends to be a very meaning glance.

"Interesting!" exclaims the count, his whole countenance lighting up--"enthralling, overwhelming!--a matter to me of life or death!"

As he speaks he turns aside, and begins to stride up and down the room, as was his wont when much moved.

"He! he! my dear count, pray be calm." And Trenta gives a little laugh, and feebly winks. "We hope it is a matter of _life_, not of _death_--no--not of _death_, surely."

"Of death," replied the count, solemnly, and his mobile eyes flash out, and a dark frown gathers on his brow--"of death, I repeat. Do you take me for a trifler? I stake my life on the die."

Trenta felt considerably puzzled. Before he begins, he is anxious to a.s.sure himself that the nature of his errand had at least distinctly dawned upon the count's mind, if it had not (as he hoped) been fully understood by him. Should he let Marescotti speak first; or should he, Trenta, address him formally? In order to decide, he again scans the count's face closely. But, after doing so, he is obliged to confess that Marescotti is impenetrable. Now he no longer strode up and down the room, but he has seated himself opposite the cavaliere, and again his speaking eyes have wandered off toward the book which he has been reading. It is evident he is mentally resuming the same train of thought Trenta's entrance had interrupted. Trenta feels therefore that he must begin. He has prepared himself for some transcendentalism on the subject of marriage; but with a man who is so much in love as Count Marescotti, and who was about to send for him and to tell him so, there can be no great difficulty; nor can it matter much who opens the conversation. The cavaliere takes a spotless handkerchief from his pocket, uses it, replaces it, then coughs.

"Count," he begins, in a tone of conscious importance, "when I proposed this meeting, it was to make you a proposal calculated to exercise the utmost influence over your future life, and--the life of another," he adds, in a lower tone. "You appear to have antic.i.p.ated me by desiring to send for me. You are, of course, aware of my errand?"

As he asks this question, there is, spite of himself, a slight tremor in his voice, and the usual ruddiness of his cheeks pales a little.

"How very mysterious!" exclaims the count, throwing himself back in his chair. "You look like a benevolent conspirator, cavaliere! Surely, my dear old friend, you are not about to change your opinions, and to become a disciple of freedom?"

"Change my opinions! At my age, count!--Che, che!"--Trenta waves his hand impatiently. "When a man arrives at my age, he does not change his opinions--no, count, no; it is, if you will permit me to say so, it is yourself in whom the change is to be wrought--yourself only--"

The count, who is still leaning back in his chair in an att.i.tude of polite attention, starts violently, sits straight upright, and fixes his eyes upon Trenta.

"What do you mean, cavaliere? After a life devoted to my country, you cannot imagine I should change? The very idea is offensive to me."

"No, no, my dear count, you misapprehend me," rejoins Trenta, soothingly. (He perceived the mistake into which the word "change"

had led Count Marescotti, and dreaded exciting his too susceptible feelings.) "It is no change of that kind I allude to; the change I mean is in the nature of a reward for the life of sacrifice you have led--a reward, a consolation to your fervid spirit. It is to bring you into an atmosphere of peace, happiness, and love. To reconcile you perhaps, as a son, erring, but repentant, with that Holy Mother Church to which you still belong. This is the change I am come to offer you."

As the cavaliere proceeds, the count's expressive eyes follow every word he utters with a look of amazement. He is about to reply, but Trenta places his finger on his lips.

"Let me continue," he says, smiling blandly. "When I have done, you shall answer. In one word, count, it is marriage I am come to propose to you."

The count suddenly rises from his seat, then he hurriedly reseats himself. A look of pain comes into his face.

"Permit me to proceed," urges the cavaliere, watching him anxiously.

"I presume you mean to marry?"

Marescotti was silent. Trenta's naturally piping voice grows shriller as he proceeds, from a certain sense of agitation.

"As the common friend of both parties, I am come to propose a marriage to you, Count Marescotti."

"And who may the lady be?" asks the count, drawing back with a sudden air of reserve. "Who is it that would consent to leave home and friends, perhaps country, to share the lot of a fugitive patriot?"

"Come, come, count, this will not do," answers Trenta, smiling, a certain twinkle returning to his blue eyes. "You are a perfectly free agent. If you are a fugitive, it is because you like change. You bear a great name--you are rich, singularly handsome--an ardent admirer of beauty in art and Nature. Now, ardor on one side excites ardor on the other."

While he is speaking, Trenta had mentally decided that Marescotti was the most impracticable man he had ever encountered in the various phases of his court career.

"A fugitive," he repeats, almost with a sneer. "No, no, count, this will not do with me." The cavaliere pauses and clears his throat.

"You have not yet answered me," says the count, speaking low, a certain suppressed eagerness penetrating the a.s.sumed indifference of his manner. "Who is the lady?"

"Who is the lady?" echoes the cavaliere. "Did you not tell me just now you were about to send for me?" Trenta speaks fast, a flush overspreads his cheeks. "Who is the lady?--You astonish me! Per Bacco!

There can be but one lady in question between you and me--that lady is Enrica Guinigi." His voice drops. There is a dead silence.

"That the marriage is suitable in all respects," Trenta continues, rea.s.sured by the silence--"I need not tell you; else I, Cesare Trenta, would not be here as the amba.s.sador."

Again the stout little cavaliere stops to take breath, under evident agitation; then he draws himself up, and turns his face toward the count. As Trenta proceeds, Marescotti's brow is overclouded with thought--a haggard expression now spreads over his features. His eyes are turned downward on the floor, else the cavaliere might have seen that their brilliancy is dimmed by rising tears. With his elbow resting on the arm of the chair on which he sits, the count pa.s.ses his other hand from time to time slowly to and fro across his forehead, pushing back the disordered curls that fall upon it.

"To restore and to continue an ill.u.s.trious race--to unite yourself with a lovely girl just bursting into womanhood." Trenta's voice quivers as he says this. "Ah! lovely indeed, in mind as well as body,"

he adds, half aloud. "This is a privilege you, Count Marescotti, can appreciate above all other men. That you do appreciate it you have already made evident. There is no need for me to speak about Enrica herself; you have already judged her. You have, before my eyes, approached her with the looks and the language of pa.s.sionate admiration. It is not given to all men to be so fascinating. I have seen it with delight. I love her"--his voice broke and shook with emotion--"I love her as if she were my own child."

All the enthusiasm of which the old chamberlain is capable pa.s.ses into his face as he speaks of Enrica. At that moment he really did look as young as he was continually telling every one that he felt.

"Count Marescotti," he continues, a solemn tone in his voice as he slowly p.r.o.nounces the words, raising his head at the same time, and gazing fixedly into the other's face--Count Marescotti, "I am come here to propose a marriage between you and Enrica Guinigi. The marchesa empowers me to say that she const.i.tutes Enrica her sole heiress, not only of the great Guinigi name, but of the remaining Guinigi palace, with the portrait of our Castruccio, the heirlooms, the castle of Corellia, and lands of--"

"Stop, stop, my dear Trenta!" cries the count, holding up both his hands in remonstrance; "you overwhelm me. I require no such inducements; they horrify me. Enrica Guinigi is sufficient in herself--so bright a jewel requires no golden settings."

At these words the cavaliere beams all over. He rubs his fat hands together, then gently claps them.

"Bravo!--bravo, count! I see you appreciate her. Per Dio! you make me feel young again! I never was so happy in my life! I should like to dance! I will dance by-and-by at the wedding. We will open the state-rooms. There is not a grander suite in all Italy. It is superb.

I will dance a quadrille with the marchesa. Bagatella! I shall insist on it. I will execute a solo in the figure of the _pastorelle_. I will show Balda.s.sare and all the young men the finish of the old style.

People did steps then--they did not jump like wild horses--nor knock each other down. No--then dancing was practised as a fine art."

Suddenly the brisk old cavaliere stops. The expression of Marescotti's large, earnest eyes, fixed on him wonderingly, recalls him to himself.

"Excuse me, my dear friend; when you are my age, you will better understand an old man's feelings. We are losing time. Now get your hat, and come with me at once to Casa Guinigi; the marchesa expects you. We will settle the day of the betrothal.--My sweet Enrica, how I long to see you!"

While he is speaking Trenta rises and strikes his cane on the ground with a triumphant air; then he holds out both his hands toward the count.

"Shake hands with me, my dear Marescotti. I congratulate you--with my whole soul I congratulate you! She will be your salvation, the dear, blue-eyed little angel?"

In the tumult of his excitement Trenta had taken every thing for granted. His thoughts had flown off to Enrica. His benevolent heart throbbed with joy at the thought of her emanc.i.p.ation from the thralldom of her home. A vision of the dark-haired, pale-faced Marescotti, and the little blond head, with its shower of golden curls, kneeling together before the altar in the sunshine, danced before his eyes. Marescotti would become a, Christian--a firm pillar of the Church; he would rear up children who would worship G.o.d and the Holy Father; he would restore the glory of the Guinigi!

From this roseate dream the poor cavaliere was abruptly roused. His outstretched hand had not been taken by Marescotti. It dropped to his side. Trenta looked up sharply. His countenance suddenly fell; a purple flush covered it from chin to forehead, penetrating even the very roots of his snowy hair. His cane dropped with a loud thud, and rolled away along the uncarpeted floor. He thrust both his hands into his pockets, and stood motionless, with his eyes wide open, like a man stunned.

"Dio buono!--Dio buono!" he muttered, "the man is mad!--the man is mad!" Then, after a few minutes of absolute silence, he asked, in a husky voice, "Marescotti, what does this mean?"

The count had turned away toward the window. At the sound of the cavaliere's husky voice, he moved and faced him. In the s.p.a.ce of a few moments he had greatly changed. Suddenly he had grown worn and weary-looking. His eyes were sunk into his head; dark circles had formed round them. His bloodless cheeks, transparent with the pallor of perfect health, were blanched; the corners of his mouth worked convulsively.

"Does the lady--does Enrica Guinigi know of this proposal?" he asked, in a voice so sad that the cavaliere's indignation against him cooled considerably.

"Good G.o.d!" exclaimed Trenta, "such a question is an insult to me and to my errand. Can you imagine that I, all my life chamberlain to his highness the Duke of Lucca, am capable of compromising a lady?"

"Thank G.o.d!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the count, emphatically, clasping his hands together, and raising his eyes--"thank G.o.d! Forgive me for asking."

His whole voice and manner had changed as rapidly as his aspect. There was a sense of suffering, a quiet resignation about him, so utterly unlike his usual excitable manner that Trenta was puzzled beyond expression--so puzzled, indeed, that he was speechless. Besides, a veteran in etiquette, he felt that it was to himself an explanation was due. Marescotti had been about to send for him. Now he was there, Marescotti had heard his proposal, it was for Marescotti to answer.

That the count felt this also was apparent. There was something solemn in his manner as he turned away from the window and slowly advanced toward the cavaliere. Trenta was still standing immovable on the same spot where he had muttered in the first moment of amazement, "He is mad!"

"My dear old friend," said the count, speaking with evident effort in a dull, sad voice, "there is some mistake. It was not to speak about any lady that I was about to send for you."

"Not about a lady!" cried Trenta, aghast. "Mercy of G.o.d!--"