"I propose that we shall show the signorina something that will amuse her." He thought for a moment. "Have you ever ascended the old tower of this palace?" he asked.

Enrica shook her head.

"Then I propose the Guinigi Tower--the stairs are rather rickety, but they are not unsafe. I was there the last time I visited Lucca. The view over the Apennines is superb. Will you trust yourself to us, signorina?"

Enrica raised her head and looked at him hesitatingly, glanced at her aunt, then looked at him again. Until the marchesa had spoken she dared not reply. She longed to go. If she ascended the tower, might she not see n.o.bili? She had not set her eyes on him for a whole week.

Marescotti saw her hesitation, but he misunderstood the cause. He returned her look with an ardent glance. Where was the young Madonna leading him? He did not stop to inquire, but surrendered himself to the enchantment of her presence.

"Is my proposal accepted?" Count Marescotti inquired, anxiously turning toward the marchesa, who sat listening to them with a deeply-offended air.

"And mine too?" put in the cavaliere. "Both can be combined. I should so much like to show Enrica the tombs of the Trenta. We have been a famous family in our time. Do not refuse us, marchesa."

All this was entirely out of the habits of Casa Guinigi. Hitherto Enrica had been kept in absolute subjection. If she were present no one spoke to her, or noticed her. Now all this was to be changed, because Count Marescotti had come up from Rome. Enrica was not only to be gazed at and flattered, but to engross attention.

The marchesa showed evident tokens of serious displeasure. Had Count Marescotti not been present, she would a.s.suredly have expressed this displeasure in very strong language. In all matters connected with her niece, with her household, and with the management of her own affairs, she could not tolerate remark, much less interference. Every kind of interference was offensive to her. She believed in herself, as I have said, blindly: never, up to that time, had that belief been shaken.

All this discussion was, to her mind, worse than interference--it was absolute revolution. She inwardly resolved to shut up her house and go into the country, rather than submit to it. She eyed the count, who stood waiting for an answer, as if he were an enemy, and scowled at the excellent Trenta.

Enrica, too, had fixed her eyes upon her beseechingly; Enrica evidently wanted to go. The marchesa had already opened her lips to give an abrupt refusal, when she felt a warning hand laid upon her arm. Again she was shaken in her purpose of refusal. She rose, and approached the card-table.

"I shall take time to consider," she replied to the inquiring eyes awaiting her reply.

The marchesa took up the pack of cards and examined the markers.

She was debating with herself what Trenta could possibly mean by his extraordinary conduct, _twice_ repeated.

"You had better retire now," she said to Enrica, with an expression of hostility her niece knew too well. "You have listened to quite enough folly for one night. Men are flatterers."

"Not I! not I!" cried Marescotti. "I never say any thing but what I mean."

And he flew toward the door in order to open it before Enrica could reach it.

"All good angels guard you!" he whispered, with a tender voice, into her ear, as, greatly confused, she pa.s.sed by him, into the anteroom.

"May you find all men as true as I! Per Dio! she is the living image of the young Madonna!" he added, half aloud, gazing after her.

"Countenance, manner, air--it is perfect!"

A match was now produced out of Trenta's pocket. The candles were lighted, and the cas.e.m.e.nts closed. The party then sat down to whist.

The marchesa was always specially irritable when at cards. The previous conversation had not improved her temper. Moreover, the count was her partner, and a worse one could hardly be conceived. Twice he did not even take up the cards dealt to him, but sat immovable, staring at the print of the Empress Eugenie in the Spanish dress on the green wall opposite. Called to order peremptorily by the marchesa, he took up his cards, shuffled them, then laid them down again on the table, his eyes wandering off to the chair hitherto occupied by Enrica.

This was intolerable. The marchesa showed him that she thought so. He apologized. He did take up his cards, and for a few deals attended to the game. Again becoming abstracted, he forgot what were trumps, losing thereby several tricks. Finally, he revoked. Both the marchesa and the cavaliere rebuked him very sharply. Again he apologized, tried to collect his thoughts, but still played abominably.

Meanwhile, Trenta and Balda.s.sare kept up a perpetual wrangle. The cavaliere was cool, sardonic, smiling, and provoking--Balda.s.sare hot and flushed with a concentration of rage he dared not express.

The cavaliere, thanks to his court education, was an admirable whist-player. His frequent observations to his young friend were excellent as instruction, but were conveyed in somewhat contemptuous language. Balda.s.sare, having been told by the cavaliere that playing a good hand at whist was as necessary to his future social success as dancing, was much chagrined.

Poor Balda.s.sare!--his life was a continual conflict--a sacrifice to his love of fine company. It might be doubted if he would not have been infinitely happier in the atmosphere of the paternal establishment, weighing out drugs, in shabby clothes, behind the counter, than he was now, snubbed and affronted, and barely tolerated.

After this the marchesa and Trenta became partners; but matters did not improve. A violent altercation ensued as to who led a certain crucial card, which decided the game. Once seated at the whist-table, the cavaliere was a real autocrat. _There_ he did not affect even to submit to the marchesa. Now, provoked beyond endurance, he plainly told her "she never had played a good game, and, what was more, that she never would--she was too impetuous." Upon hearing this the marchesa threw down her cards in a rage, and rose from the table.

Trenta rose also. With an imperturbable countenance he offered her his arm, to lead her back to her seat.

The marchesa, extremely irate at what he had said, pushed him rudely to one side and reseated herself.

Balda.s.sare and Marescotti rose also. The count, having continued persistently absent up to the last, was utterly unconscious of the little fracas that had taken place between the marchesa and the cavaliere, and the consequent sudden conclusion of the game. He had seen her rise, and it was a great relief to him. He had been debating in his own mind whether he should adopt the Dante rhyme for his ode to the young Madonna, or make it in strophes. He inclined to the latter treatment as more picturesque, and therefore more suitable to the subject.

"May I," said he, suddenly roused to what was pa.s.sing about him, and advancing with a gracious smile upon his mobile face, lit up by the pleasant musings of the whist-table--pleasant to him, but a.s.suredly not pleasant to his partner--"may I hope, marchesa, that you will acquiesce in our little plan for to-morrow?"

The marchesa had come by this time to look on the count as a bore, of whom she was anxious to rid herself. She was so anxious, indeed, to rid herself of him that she actually a.s.sented.

"My niece, Signore Conte," she said, stiffly, "shall be ready with her gouvernante and the Cavaliere Trenta, at eleven o'clock to-morrow.

Now--good-night!"

Marescotti took the hint, bowed, and departed arm-in-arm with Balda.s.sare.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE CABINET COUNCIL.

When the count and Balda.s.sare had left the room, Cavaliere Trenta made no motion to follow them. On the contrary, he leaned back in the chair on which he was seated, and nursed his leg with the nankeen trouser meditatively. The expression of his face showed that his thoughts were busy with some project he desired to communicate. Until he had done so in his own way, and at his own time, he would continue to sit where he was. It was this imperturbable self-possession and good-humor combined which gave him so much influence over the irascible marchesa. They were as iron to fire, only the iron was never heated.

The marchesa, deeply resenting his remarks upon her whist playing, tapped her foot impatiently on the floor, fanned herself, and glowered at him out of the darkness which the single pair of candles did not dispel. As he still made no motion to go, she took out her watch, looked at it, and, with an exclamation of surprise, rose. Quite useless. Trenta did not stir.

"Marchesa," he said at last, abruptly, raising his head and looking at her, "do me the favor to sit down. Spare me a few moments before you retire."

"I want to go to bed," she answered, rudely. "It is already past my usual hour."

"Marchesa--one moment. I permitted myself the liberty of an old friend just now--to check your speech to Count Marescotti."

"Yes," said she, drawing up her long throat, and throwing back her head, an action habitual to her when displeased, "you did so. I did not understand it. We have been acquainted quite long enough for you to know I do not like interference."

"Pardon me, n.o.ble lady"--(Trenta spoke very meekly--to soothe her now was absolutely necessary)--"pardon me, for the sake of my good intentions."

"And pray what _were_ your good intentions, cavaliere?" she asked, in a mocking tone, reseating herself. Her curiosity was rapidly getting the better of her resentment.

As she asked the question, the cavaliere left off nursing his leg with the nankeen trouser, rose, drew his chair closer to hers, then sat down again. The light from the single pair of candles was very dim, and scarcely extended beyond the card-table. Both their heads were therefore in shadow, but the marchesa's eyes gleamed nevertheless, as she waited for Trenta's explanation.

"Did you observe nothing this evening, my friend?" he asked--"_nothing_?" His manner was unusually excited.

"No," she answered, thoughtfully. She had been so exclusively occupied with the slights put upon herself that every thing else had escaped her. "I observed nothing except the impertinence of Count Marescotti, and the audacity--the--"

"Stop, marchesa," interrupted Trenta, holding up his hand. "We will talk of all that another time. If Count Marescotti and Balda.s.sare have offended you, you can decline to receive them. You observed nothing, you say? I did." He leaned forward, and spoke with emphasis--"Marescotti is in love with Enrica."

The marchesa started violently and raised herself bolt upright.

"The Red count in love with a child like Enrica!"

"Only a child in your eyes, Signora Marchesa," rejoined Trenta, warmly. (He had warmed with his own convictions, his benevolent heart was deeply interested in Enrica. He had known her since she had first come to Casa Guinigi, a baby; from his soul he pitied her.) "In the eyes of the world Enrica is not only a woman, but promises to be a very lovely one. She is seventeen years old, and marriageable. Young ladies of her name and position must have fortunes, or they do not marry well. If they do, it is a chance--quite a chance. Under these circ.u.mstances, it would be cruel to deprive her of so suitable an alliance as Count Marescotti. Now, allow me to ask you, seriously, how would this marriage suit you?"