"You can't," says Orazio Franchi, tapping his heel upon the marble pavement. "He's gone."

"Gone! I'll follow him to h.e.l.l!" roars n.o.bili "Who is he?"

"Possibly he may find his own way there in time," answers Orazio, with a sneer. He rises so as to increase the distance between himself and Prince Ruspoli. "But as yet the wretch crawls on mother earth."

"Silence, Orazio!" shouts Ruspoli, "or you may go there yourself quicker than Marescotti."

"Marescotti! Is that the name?" cries n.o.bili, with a hungry eye, that seems to thirst for vengeance. "Who is Marescotti?"

"This is some horrid fiction," n.o.bili mutters to himself. Stay!--Where had he heard that name lately? He gnawed his fingers until the blood came, and a crimson drop fell upon the marble floor. Suddenly an icy chill rose at his heart. He could not breathe. He sank into a chair--then rose again, and stood before Orsetti with a face out of which ten years of youth had fled. Yes, Marescotti--that is the very man Enrica had mentioned to him under the trees at Corellia. Each letter of it blazes in fire before his eyes. Yes--she had said Marescotti had read her eyes. "O G.o.d!" and n.o.bili groans aloud, and buries his face within his hands.

"You take this too much to heart, my dear Mario," Count Orsetti said; "indeed you do, else I would not say so. Remember there is nothing proved. Be careful," Orsetti whispered in the other's ear, glancing round. Every eye was riveted on n.o.bili.

Orsetti felt that n.o.bili had forgotten the public place and the others present--such as Count Malatesta, Orazio Franchi, and Balda.s.sare, who, though they had not spoken, had devoured every word.

"It is nothing but a sonnet found among Marescotti's papers." Orsetti now was speaking. "Marescotti has fled from the police. Nothing but a sonnet addressed to the lady--a poet's day-dream--untrue of course."

"Will no one tell me what the sonnet said?" demanded n.o.bili. He had mastered himself for the moment.

"Stuff, stuff!" cried Ruspoli. "Every pretty woman has heaps of sonnets and admirers. It is a brevet of beauty. After all this row, it was only an offer of marriage made to Count Marescotti and refused by him. Probably the lady never knew it."

"Oh, yes, she did, she accepted him," sounded from behind. It was Balda.s.sare, whose vanity was piqued because no one had referred to him for information.

"Accepted! Refused by Count Marescotti!" n.o.bili caught and repeated the words in a voice so strange, it sounded like the echo from a vault.

"Wall! by Jove! It's five o'clock!" exclaimed Prince Ruspoli, looking at his watch. "My dear fellow," he said, addressing n.o.bili, "I have an appointment on the ramparts; will you go with me?" He pa.s.sed his arm through that of n.o.bili. It was a painful scene, which Ruspoli desired to end. n.o.bili shook his head. He was so stunned and dazed he could not speak.

"If it is five o'clock," said Malatesta, "I must go too."

Malatesta drew n.o.bili a little apart. "Don't think too much of this, n.o.bili. It will all blow over and be forgotten in a month. Take your wife a trip to Paris or London. We shall hear no more of it, believe me. Good-by."

"Count n.o.bili," called out Franchi, from the other end of the portico, making a languid bow, "after all that I have heard, I congratulate you on your marriage most sincerely."

n.o.bili did not hear him. All were gone. He was alone with Ruspoli. His head had dropped upon his breast. There was the shadow of a tear in Prince Ruspoli's steely eye. It was not enough to be brushed off, for it absorbed itself and came to nothing, but it was there nevertheless.

"Wall, Mario," he said, apparently unmoved, "it seems to me the club is made too hot to hold you. Come home."

n.o.bili nodded. He was so weak he had to hang heavily on Prince Ruspoli's arm as they crossed the piazza. Prince Ruspoli did not leave him until he saw him safe to his own door.

"You will judge what is right to do," were Ruspoli's last words. "But do not be guided by those young scamps. They live in mischief. If you love the girl, marry her--that is my advice."

CHAPTER VIII.

COUNT n.o.bILI'S THOUGHTS.

I have seen a valley canopied by a sky of blue and opaline, girt in by wooded heights, on which the sun poured down in mid-day splendor.

A broad river sparkled downward, giving back ray for ray. The forest glowed without a shadow. Each little detail of leaf or stone, even a blade of gra.s.s, was turned to flame. The corn lay smooth and golden.

The grapes and olives hung safe upon the branch. The flax--a goodly crop--reached to the trees. The peasants labored in the rich brown soil, singing to the oxen. The women sat spinning beside their doors.

A little maid led out her snowy lamb to graze among the woods, and children played at "morra" beside the river, which ran at peace, lapping the silver sand.

A cloud gathers behind the mountains--yonder, where they come interlacing down, narrowing the valley. It is a little cloud, no one observes it; yet it gathers and spreads and blackens, until the sky is veiled. The sun grows pale. A greenish light steals over the earth. In the still air there is a sudden freshness. The tall canes growing in the brakes among the vineyards rustle as if shaken by a spectral hand. The white-leaved aspens quiver. An icy wind sweeps down the mountain-sides. A flash of lightning shoots across the sky. Then the storm bursts. Thunder rolls, and cracks, and crashes; as if the brazen gates of heaven clashed to and fro. The peasants fly, driving their cattle before them. The pig's run grunting homeward. The helpless lamb is stricken where it stands, crouching in a deep gorge; the little maid sits weeping by. Down beats the hail like pebbles. It strikes upon the vines, scorches and blackens them. The wheat is leveled to the ground. The river suddenly swells into a raging torrent. Its turbid waters bear away the riches of the poor--the cow that served a little household and followed the children, lowing, to reedy meadows bathed by limpid streams--a horse caught browsing in a peaceful vale, thinking no ill--great trees hurling destruction with them. Rafters, roofs of houses, sometimes a battered corpse, float by.

The roads are broken up. The bridge is snapped. Years will not repair the fearful ravage. The evening sun sets on a desolate waste. Men sit along the road-side wringing their hands beside their ruined crops.

Children creep out upon their naked feet, and look and wonder. Where is the little kid that ran before and licked their hands? Where is the gray-skinned, soft-eyed cow that hardly needed a cord to lead her? The shapely cob, so brave with its tinkling bells and crimson ta.s.sels? The cob that daddy drove to market, and many merry fairs? Gone with the storm! all gone!

Count n.o.bili was like the Italian climate--in extremes. Like his native soil, he must live in the sunshine. His was not a nature to endure a secret sorrow. He must be kissed, caressed, and smoothed by tender hands and loving voices. He must have applause, approval, be flattered, envied, and followed. Hitherto all this had come naturally to him. His gracious temper, generous heart, and great wealth, had made all bright about him. Now a sudden storm had swept over him and brought despair into his heart.

When Prince Ruspoli left him, n.o.bili felt as battered and sore as if a whirlwind had caught him, then let him go, and he had dropped to earth a broken man. Yet in the turmoil of his brain a pale, scared little face, with wild, beseeching eyes, was ever before him. It would not leave him. What was this horrible nightmare that had come over him in the heyday of his joy? It was so vague, yet so tangible if judged by its effect on others. Others held Enrica dishonored, that was clear.

Was she dishonored? He was bound to her by every tie of honor. He loved her. She had a charm for him no other woman ever possessed, and she loved him. A women's eye, he told himself, had never deceived him.

Yes, she loved him. Yet if Enrica were as guileless as she seemed, how could she conceal from him she had another lover--less loved perhaps than he--but still a lover? And this lover had refused to marry her?

That was the stab. That every one in Lucca should know his future bride had been scouted by another man who had turned a rhyme upon her, and left her! Could he bear this?

What were Enrica's relations with Marescotti? Some one had said she had accepted him. n.o.bili was sure he had heard this. He, Marescotti, must have approached her nearly by her own confession. He had celebrated her in sonnets, amorous sonnets--d.a.m.nable thought!--gone with her to the Guinigi Tower--then rejected her! A mist seemed to gather about n.o.bili as he thought of this. He grew stupid in long vistas of speculation. Had Enrica not dared to meet him--n.o.bili--clandestinely? Was not this very act unmaidenly? (Such are men: they urge the slip, the fall, then judge a woman by the force of their own urging!) Had Enrica met Marescotti in secret also?

No--impossible! The scared, white face was before n.o.bili, now plainer than ever. No--he hated himself for the very thought. All the chivalry of his nature rose up to acquit her.

Still there was a mystery. How far was Enrica concerned in it? Would she have married Count Marescotti? Trenta was away, or he would question him. _Had he better ask? What might he hear_? Some one had deceived him grossly. The marchesa would stick at nothing; yet what could the marchesa have done without Enrica? n.o.bili was perplexed beyond expression. He buried his head within his arms, and leaned upon a table in an agony of doubt. Then he paced up and down the splendid room, painted with frescoed walls, and hung with rose and silver draperies from Paris (it was to have been Enrica's boudoir), looking south into a delicious town-garden, with statues, and flower-beds, and terraces of marble diamonded in brilliant colors. To be so cheated!--to be the laughing-stock of Lucca! Good G.o.d! how could he bear it? To marry a wife who would be pointed at with whispered words!

Of all earthly things this was the bitterest! Could he bear it?--and Enrica--would she not suffer? And if she did, what then? Why, she deserved it--she must deserve it, else why was she accused? Enrica was treacherous--the tool of her aunt. He could not doubt it. If she cared for him at all, it was for the sake of his money--hateful thought!--yet, having signed the contract, he supposed he _must_ give her the name of wife. But the future mother of his children was branded.

Oh, the golden days at mountain-capped Corellia!--that watching in the perfumed woods--that pleading with the stars that shone over Enrica to bear her his love-sick sighs! Oh, the triumph of saving her dear life!--the sweetness of her lips in that first embrace under the magnolia-tree! Fra Pacifico too, with his honest, st.u.r.dy ways--and the white-haired cavaliere, so wise and courteous. Cheats, cheats--all!

It made him sick to think how they must have laughed and jeered at him when he was gone. Oh, it was d.a.m.nable!

His teeth were set. He started up as if he had been stung, and stamped upon the floor. Then like a madman he rushed up and down the s.p.a.cious floor. After a time, brushing the drops of perspiration from his forehead, n.o.bili grew calmer. He sat down to think.

Must he marry Enrica?--he asked himself (he had come to that)--marry the lady of the sonnet--Marescotti's love? He did not see how he could help it. The contract was signed, and nothing proved against her.

Well--life was long, and the world wide, and full of pleasant things.

Well--he must bear it--unless there had been sin! n.o.bili did not see it, nor did he hear it; but much that is never seen, nor heard, nor known, is yet true--horribly true. He did see it, but as he thought these cruel thoughts, and hardened himself in them, a pale, scared face, with wild, pleading eyes, vanished with a shriek of anguish.

Others had loved him well, n.o.bili reasoned--other women--"_Not so well as I_" an inaudible voice would have whispered, but it was no longer there to answer--others that had not been rejected--others fairer than Enrica--Nera!

With that name there came a world of comfort to him. Nera loved him--she loved him! He had not seen Nera since that memorable night she lay like one dead before him. Before he took a final resolve (by-and-by he must investigate, inquire, know when, and how, and by whom, all this talk had come), would it not be well to see Nera? It was a duty, he told himself, he owed her; a duty delayed too long; only Enrica had so absorbed him. Nera would have heard the town-talk.

How would she take it? Would she be glad, or sorry, he wondered? Then came a longing upon n.o.bili he could not resist, to know if Nera still loved him. If so, what constancy! It deserved reward. He had treated her shamefully. How sweet her company would be if she would see him!

At all events, he could but try. At this point he rose and rang the bell.

When the servant came, n.o.bili ordered his dinner. He was hungry, he said, and would eat at once. His carriage he should require later.

CHAPTER IX.

NERA.