"The marchesa has only to command me," was his polite reply. "I wonder Marescotti and Baldassare are not here already," he added, looking toward the door. "I left them both in the street; they were to follow me up-stairs immediately."

"Ah!" said the marchesa, smiling sarcastically, "Count Marescotti is not to be trusted. He is a genius—he may be back on his way to Rome by this time."

"No, no," answered Trenta, rising and walking toward the door, which he opened and held in his hand, while he kept his eyes fixed on the staircase; "Marescotti is disgusted with Rome—with the Parliament, with the Government—with every thing. He abuses the municipality because a secret republican committee which he headed, in correspondence with Paris, has been discovered by the police and denounced. He had to escape in disguise."

"Well, well, I rejoice to hear it!" broke in the marchesa. "It is a good Government; let him find a better. Why has he come to Lucca? We want no sans-culottes here."

"Marescotti declares," continued the cavaliere, "that even now Rome is still in bondage, and sunk in superstition. He calls it superstition. He would like to shut up all the churches. He believes in nothing but poetry and Red republicans. Any kind of Christian belief he calls superstition."

"Marescotti is quite right," said the marchesa, angrily; she was determined to contradict the cavaliere. "You are a bigot, Trenta—an old bigot. You believe every thing a priest tells you. A fine exhibition we had yesterday of what that comes to! The Holy Countenance! Do you think any educated person in Lucca believes in the Holy Countenance? I do not. It is only an excuse for idleness—for idleness, I say. Priests love idleness; they go into the Church because they are too idle to work." She raised her voice, and looked defiantly at Trenta, who stood before her the picture of meek endurance—holding the door-handle. "I hope I shall live to see all festivals abolished. Why didn't the Government do it altogether when they were about it?—no convents, no monks, no holidays, except on Sunday! Make the people work—work for their bread! We should have fewer taxes, and no beggars."

Trenta's benignant face had gradually assumed as severe an aspect as it was capable of bearing. He pointed to Enrica, of whom he had up to this time taken no notice beyond a friendly smile—the marchesa did not like Enrica to be noticed—now he pointed to her, and shook his head deprecatingly. Could he have read Enrica's thoughts, he need have feared no contamination to her from the marchesa; her thoughts were far away—she had not listened to a single word.

"Dio Santo!" he exclaimed at last, clasping his hands together and speaking low, so as not to be overheard by Enrica—"that I should live to hear a Guinigi talk so! Do you forget, marchesa, that it was under the banner of the blessed Holy Countenance (Vulturum di Lucca), miraculously cast on the shores of the Ligurian Sea, that your great ancestor Castruccio Castracani degli Antimelli overcame the Florentines at Alto Passo?"

"The banner didn't help him, nor St. Nicodemus either—I affirm that," answered she, angrily. Her temper was rising. "I will not be contradicted, cavaliere—don't attempt it. I never allow it. Even my husband never contradicted me—and he was a Guinigi. Is the city to go mad, eat, drink, and hang out old curtains because the priests bid them? Did you see Nobili's house?" She asked this question so eagerly, she suddenly forgot her anger in the desire she felt to relate her injuries. "A Guinigi palace dressed out like a booth at a fair!—What a scandal! This comes of usury and banking. He will be a deputy soon. Will no one tell him he is a presumptuous young idiot?" she cried, with a burst of sudden rage, remembering the crowds that filled the streets, and the admiration and display excited. Then, turning round and looking Trenta full in the face, she added spitefully, "You may worship painted dolls, and kiss black crucifixes, if you like: I would not give them house-room."

"Mercy!" cried poor Trenta, putting his hands to his ears. "For pity's sake—the palace will fall about your ears! Remember your niece is present."

And again he pointed to Enrica, whose head was bent down over her work.

"Ha! ha!" was all the reply vouchsafed by the marchesa, followed by a scornful laugh. "I shall say what I please in my own house. Poor Cesarino! You are very ignorant. I pity you!"

But Trenta was not there—he had rushed down-stairs as quickly as his old legs and his stick would carry him, and was out of hearing. At the mention of Nobili's name Enrica looked stealthily from under her long eyelashes, and turned very white. The sharp eyes of her aunt might have detected it had she been less engrossed by her passage of arms with the cavaliere.

"Ha! ha!" she repeated, grimly laughing to herself. "He is gone! Poor old soul! But I am going to have my rubber for all that.—Ring the bell, Enrica. He must come back. Trenta takes too much upon himself; he is always interfering."

As Enrica rose to obey her aunt, the sound of feet was heard in the anteroom. The marchesa made a sign to her to reseat herself, which she did in the same place as before, behind the thick cotton curtains of the Venetian casement.



CHAPTER VII.

COUNT MARESCOTTI.

Count Marescotti, the Red count (the marchesa had said sans-culotte; Trenta had spoken of him as an atheist), was, unhappily, something of all this, but he was much more. He was a poet, an orator, and a patriot. Nature had gifted him with qualities for each vocation. He had a rich, melodious voice, with soft inflections; large dark eyes, that kindled with the impress of every emotion; finely-cut features, and a pale, bloodless face, that tells of a passionate nature. His manners were gracious, and he had a commanding presence. He was born to be a leader among men. Not only did he converse with ease and readiness on every conceivable topic—not only did strophe after strophe of musical verse flow from his lips with the facility of an improvisatore, but he possessed the supreme art of moving the multitude by an eloquence born of his own impassioned soul. While that suave voice rung in men's ears, it was impossible not to be convinced by his arguments. As a patriot, he worshiped Italy. His fervid imagination reveled in her natural beauties—art, music, history, poetry. He worshiped Italy, and he devoted his whole life to what he conceived to be her good.

Marescotti was no atheist; he was a religious reformer, sincerely and profoundly pious, and conscientious to the point of honor. Indeed, his conscience was so sensitive, that he had been known to confess two and three times on the same day. The cavaliere called him an atheist because he was a believer in Savonarola, and because he positively refused to bind himself to any priestly dogma, or special form of worship whatever. But he had never renounced the creed of his ancestors. The precepts of Savonarola did, indeed, afford him infinite consolation; they were to him a via media between Protestant latitude and dogmatic belief.

The republican simplicity, stern morals, and sweeping reforms both in Church and state preached by Savonarola (reforms, indeed, as radical as were consistent with Catholicism), were the objects of his special reverence. Savonarola had died at the stake for practising and for teaching them; Marescotti declared, with characteristic enthusiasm, that he was ready to do likewise. Wrong or right, he believed that, if Savonarola had lived in the nineteenth century, he would have acted as he himself had done. In the same manner, although an avowed republican, he was no sans-culotte. His strong sense of personal independence and of freedom, political and religious, caused him to revolt against what he conceived tyranny or coercion of any kind. Even constitutional monarchy was not sufficiently free for him. A king and a court, the royal prerogative of ministers, patent places, pensions, favors, the unacknowledged influence of a reigning house—represented to his mind a modified system of tyranny—therefore of corruption. Constant appeals to the sovereign people, a form of government where the few yielded to the many, and the rich divided their riches voluntarily with the poor—was in theory what he advocated.

Yet with these lofty views, these grand aspirations, with unbounded faith, and unbounded energy and generosity, Marescotti achieved nothing. He wanted the power of concentration, of bringing his energies to bear on any one particular object. His mind was like an old cabinet, crowded with artistic rubbish—gems and rarities, jewels of price and pearls of the purest water, hidden among faded flowers; old letters, locks of hair, daggers, tinsel reliquaries, crosses, and modern grimcracks—all that was incongruous, piled together pell-mell in hopeless confusion.

His countrymen, singularly timid and conventional, and always unwilling to admit new ideas upon any subject unless imperatively forced upon them, did not understand him. They did not appreciate either his originality or the real strength of his character. He differed from them and their mediaeval usages—therefore he must be wrong. He was called eccentric by his friends, a lunatic by his enemies. He was neither. But he lived much alone; he had dreamed rather than reflected, and he had planned instead of acting.

"Count Marescotti," said the marchesa, holding out her hand, "I salute you.—Baldassare, you are welcome."

The intonation of her voice, the change in her manner, gave the exact degree of consideration proper to accord to the head of an ancient Roman family, and the dandy son of a Lucca chemist. And, lest it should be thought strange that the Marchesa Guinigi should admit Baldassare at all to her presence, I must explain that Baldassare was a protege, almost a double, of the cavaliere, who insisted upon taking him wherever he went. If you received the cavaliere, you must, perforce, receive Baldassare also. No one could explain why this was so. They were continually quarreling, yet they were always together. Their intimacy had been the subject of many jokes and some gossip; but the character of the cavaliere was immaculate, and Baldassare's mother (now dead) had never lived at Lucca. Trenta, when spoken to on the subject of his partiality, said he was "educating him" to fill his place as master of the ceremonies in Lucchese society. Except when specially bullied by the cavaliere—who greatly enjoyed tormenting him in public—Baldassare was inoffensive and useful.

Now he pressed forward to the front.

"Signora Marchesa," he said, eagerly, "allow me to make my excuses to you."

The marchesa turned a surprised and distant gaze upon him; but Baldassare was not to be discouraged. He had that tough skin of true vulgarity which is impervious to any thing but downright hard blows.

"Allow me to make my excuses," he continued. "The cavaliere here has been scolding me all the way up-stairs for not bringing Count Marescotti sooner to you. I could not."

Marescotti bowed an acquiescence.

"While we were standing in the street, waiting to know if the noble lady received, an old beggar, known in Lucca as the Hermit of Pizzorna, come down from the mountains for the festival, passed by."

"Yes, it was a providence," broke in the count—"a real hermit, not one of those fat friars, with shaven crowns, we have in Rome, but a genuine recluse, a man whose life is one long act of practical piety."

When Marescotti had entered, he seemed only the calm, high-bred gentleman; now, as he spoke, his eye sparkled, and his pale cheeks flushed.

"Yes, I addressed the hermit," he continued, and he raised his fine head and crossed his hands on his breast as if he were still before him. "I kissed his bare feet, road-stained with errands of charity. 'My father,' I said to him, 'bless me'—"

"Not only so," interrupted Baldassare, "but, would you believe it, madame, the count cast himself down on the dusty street to receive his blessing!"

"And why not?" asked the count, looking at him severely. "It came to me like a voice from heaven. The hermit is a holy man. Would I were like him! I have heard of him for thirty years past. Winter after winter, among those savage mountains, in roaring winds, in sweeping storms, in frost and snow, and water-floods, he has assisted hundreds, who, but for him, must infallibly have perished. What courage! what devotion! It is a poem." Marescotti spoke hurriedly and in a low voice. "Yes, I craved his blessing. I kissed his hands, his feet. I would have kissed the ground on which he stood." As he proceeded, Marescotti grew more and more abstracted. All that he described was passing like a vision before him. "Those venerable hands—yes, I kissed them."

"How much money did you leave in them, count?" asked the marchesa, with a sneer.

"Great is the mercy of God!" ejaculated the count, earnestly, not heeding her. "Sinner as I am, the touch of those hands—that blessing—purified me. I feel it."

"Incredible! Well," cried Baldassare, "the price of that blessing will keep the good man in bread and meat for a year. Let the old beggar go to the devil, count, his own way. He must soon appear there, anyhow. A good-for-nothing old cheat! His blessing, indeed! I can get you a dozen begging friars who will bless you all day for a few farthings."

The count's brow darkened.

"Baldassare," said he, very gravely, "you are young, and, like your age, inconsiderate. I request that, in my presence, you speak with becoming respect of this holy man."

"Per Bacco!" exclaimed the cavaliere, advancing from where he had been standing behind the marchesa's chair, and patting Baldassare patronizingly on the shoulder, "I never heard you talk so much before at one time, Baldassare. Now, you had better have held your tongue, and listened to Count Marescotti. Leading the cotillon last night has turned your head. Take my advice, however—an old man's advice—stick to your dancing. You understand that. Every man has his forte—yours is the ballroom."

Baldassare smiled complaisantly at this allusion to the swiftness of his heels.

"Out of the ballroom," continued Trenta, eying him with quiet scorn, "I advise caution—great caution. Out of the ballroom you are capable of any imbecility."

"Cavaliere!" cried Baldassare, turning very red and looking at him reproachfully.

"You have deserved this reproof, young man," said the marchesa, harshly. "Learn your place in addressing the Count Marescotti."

That the son of a shopkeeper should presume to dispute in her presence with a Roman noble, was a thing so unsuitable that, even in her own house, she must put it down authoritatively. She had never liked Baldassare—never wanted to receive him, now she resolved never to see him again; but, as she feared that Trenta would continue to bring him, under pretext of making up her whist-table, she did not say so.

The medical Adonis was forced to swallow his rage, but his cheeks tingled. He dared not quarrel either with the marchesa, Trenta, or the count, by whose joint support alone he could hope to plant himself firmly in the realms of Lucchese fashionable life—a life which he felt was his element. Utterly disconcerted, however, he turned down his eyes, and stared at his boots, which were highly glazed, then glanced up at his own face (as faultless and impassive as a Greek mask) in a mirror opposite, hastily arranged his hair, and finally collapsed into silence and a corner.

At this moment Count Marescotti became suddenly aware of Enrica's presence. She was, as I have said, sitting in the same place by the casement, concealed by the curtain, her head bent down over her knitting. She had only looked up once when Nobili's name had been mentioned. No one had noticed her. It was not the usage of Casa Guinigi to notice Enrica. Enrica was not the marchesa's daughter; therefore, except in marriage, she was not entitled to enjoy the honors of the house. She was never permitted to take part in conversation.

Marescotti, who had not seen her since she was fourteen, now bounded across the room to where she sat, overshadowed by the curtain, bowed to her formally, then touched the tips of her fingers with his lips.

Enrica raised her eyes. And what eyes they were!—large, melancholy, brooding, of no certain color, changing as she spoke, as the summer sky changes the color of the sea. They were more gray than blue, yet they were blue, with long, dark eyelashes that swept upon her cheeks. As she looked up and smiled, there was an expression of the most perfect innocence in her face. It was like a flower that opens its bosom frankly to the sun.

Marescotti's artistic nature was deeply stirred. He gazed at her in silence for some minutes; he was seeking in his own mind in what type of womanhood he should place her. Suddenly an idea struck him.—She was the living image of the young Madonna—the young Madonna before the visit of the archangel—pale, meditative, pathetic, but with no shadow of the future upon her face. Marescotti was so engrossed by this idea that he remained motionless before her. Each one present observed his emotion, the marchesa specially; she frowned her disapproval.

Trenta laughed quietly to himself, then stroked his well-shaved chin.

"Signorina," said the count, at length breaking silence, "permit me to offer my excuses for not having sooner perceived you. Will you forgive me?"

"Mio Dio!" muttered the marchesa to herself, "he will turn the child's head with his fine phrases."

"I have nothing to forgive, count," answered Enrica simply. She spoke low. Her voice matched the expression of her face; there was a natural tone of plaintiveness in it.

"When I last saw you," continued the count, standing as if spellbound before her, "you were only a child. Now," and his kindling eyes riveted themselves upon her, "you are a woman. Like the magic rose that was the guerdon of the Troubadours, you have passed in an hour from leaf to bud, from bud to fairest flower. You were, of course, at the Orsetti ball last night?" He asked this question, trying to rouse himself. "What ball in Lucca would be complete without you?"

"I was not there," answered Enrica, blushing deeply and glancing timidly at the marchesa, who, with a scowl on her face, was fanning herself violently.

"Not there!" ejaculated Marescotti, with wonder.—"Why, marchesa, is it not barbarous to shut up your beautiful niece? Is it because you deem her too precious to be gazed upon? If so, you are right."

And again his eyes, full of ardent admiration, were bent on Enrica.

Enrica dropped her head to hide her confusion, and resumed her knitting.

It was a golden sunset. The sun was sinking behind the delicate arcades of the Moorish garden, and spreading broad patches of rosy light upon the marble. The shrubs, with their bright flowers, were set against a tawny orange sky. The air was full of light—the last gleams of parting day. The splash of the fountain upon the lion's heads was heard in the silence, the heavy perfume of the magnolia-flowers stole in wafts through the sculptured casements, creeping upward in the soft evening air.

Still, motionless before Enrica, Marescotti was rapidly falling into a poetic rapture. The marchesa broke the awkward silence.

"Enrica is a child," she said, dryly. "She knows nothing about balls. She has never been to one. Pray do not put such ideas into her head, count," she added, looking at him angrily.

"But, marchesa, your niece is no child—she is a lovely woman," insisted the count, his eyes still riveted upon her. The marchesa did not consider it necessary to answer him.

Meanwhile the cavaliere, who had returned to his seat near her, had watched the moment when no one was looking that way, had given her a significant glance, and placed his finger warningly upon his lip.

Not understanding what he meant by this action, the marchesa was at first inclined to resent it as a liberty, and to rebuke him; but she thought better of it, and only glanced at him haughtily.

It was not the first time she had found it to her advantage to accept Trenta's hints. Trenta was a man of the world, and he had his eyes open. What he meant, however, she could not even guess.

Meanwhile the count had drawn a chair beside Enrica.

"Yes, yes, the Orsetti ball," he said, absently, passing his hand through the masses of black curls that rested upon his forehead.

He was following out, in his own mind, the notion of addressing an ode to her in the character of the young Madonna—the uninstructed Madonna—without that look of pensive suffering painters put into her eyes.

The Madonna figured prominently in Marescotti's creed, spite of his belief in the stern precepts of Savonarola—the plastic creed of an artist, made up of heavenly eyes, ravishing forms, melodious sounds, rich color, sweeping rhythms, moonlight, and violent emotions.

"I was not there myself—no, or I should have been aware you had not honored the Countess Orsetti with your presence. But in the morning—that glorious mass in the old cathedral—you were there?"

Enrica answered that she had not left the house all day, at which the count raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

"That mass," he continued, "in celebration of a local miracle (respectable from its antiquity), has haunted me ever since. The gloomy splendor of the venerable cathedral overwhelmed me; the happy faces that met me on every side, the spontaneous rejoicing of the whole population, touched me deeply. I longed to make them free. They deserve freedom; they shall have it!" A dark fire glistened in his eye. "I have been lost in day-dreams ever since; I must give them utterance." And he gazed steadfastly at Enrica.—"I have not left my room, marchesa, ever since"—at last Marescotti left Enrica's side, and approached the marchesa—"until an hour ago, when Baldassare"—and the count bowed to Adonis, still seated sulky in a corner—"came and carried me off in the hope that you would permit me to join your rubber. Had I known"—he added, in a lower voice, bending his head toward Enrica. Then he stopped, suddenly aware that every one was listening to all he said (a fact which he had been far too much absorbed to notice previously), colored, and retreated to the sofa with the spindle-legs.

"Per Bacco!" whispered the cavaliere to the marchesa, sitting near her on the other side; "I am convinced poor Marescotti has never touched a morsel of food since that mass—I am certain of it. He always lives upon a poetical diet, poor devil!—rose-leaves and the beauties of Nature, with a warm dish now and then in the way of a ragout of conspiracy. God help him! he's a greater lunatic than ever." This was spoken aside into the marchesa's ear. "If you have a soul of pity, marchesa, order him a chicken before we begin playing, or he will faint upon the floor." The marchesa smiled.

"I don't like impressionable people at all," she responded, in the same tone of voice. "In my opinion, feelings should be concealed, not exhibited." And she sighed, recalling her own silent vigils on the floor beneath, unknown to all save the cavaliere.

"But—a thousand pardons!" cried Marescotti, gradually waking up to some social energy, "I have been talking only of myself! Talking of myself in your presence, ladies!—What can we do to amuse your niece, marchesa? Lucca is horribly dull. If she is to go neither to festivals nor to balls, it will not be possible for her to exist here."

"It will be quite possible," answered the marchesa, greatly displeased at the turn the conversation was taking. "Quite possible, if I choose it. Enrica will exist where I please. You forget she has lived here for seventeen years. You see she has not died of it. She stays at home by my order, count."

Enrica cast a pleading look at her aunt, as if to say, "Can I help all this?" As for Count Marescotti, he was far too much engrossed with his own thoughts to be aware that he was treading on delicate ground.

"But, marchesa," he urged, "you can't really keep your niece any longer shut up like the fairy princess in the tower. Let me be permitted to act the part of the fairy prince and liberate her."

Again he had turned, and again his glowing eyes fixed themselves on Enrica, who had withdrawn as much as possible behind the curtains. Her cheeks were dyed with blushes. She shrank from the count's too ardent glances, as though those glances were an involuntary treason to Nobili.

"Something must be done," muttered the count, meditating.

"Will you trust your niece with Cavaliere Trenta, and permit me to accompany them on some little excursion in the city, to make up for the loss of the cathedral and the ball?"

The marchesa, who found the count decidedly troublesome, not to say impertinent, had opened her lips to give an unqualified negative, but another glance from Trenta checked her.

"An excellent idea," put in the cavaliere, before she could speak. "With me, marchesa—with me" he added, looking at her deprecatingly.

Trenta loved Enrica better than any thing in the world, but carefully concealed it, the better to serve her with her aunt.

"As for me, I am ready for any thing." And, to show his agility, he rose, and, with the help of his stick, made a glissade on the floor.

Baldassare laughed out loud from the corner. It gratified his wounded vanity to see his elder ridiculous.

Marescotti, greatly alarmed, started forward and offered his arm, in order to lead the cavaliere back to his seat, but Trenta indignantly refused his assistance. The marchesa shook her head.

"Calm yourself," she said, looking at him compassionately. "Calm yourself, Cesarino, I should not like you to have a fit in my house."

"Fit!—che che?" cried Trenta, angrily. "Not while I am in the presence of the young and fair," he added, recovering himself. "It is that which has kept me alive all this time. No, marchesa, I refuse to sit down again. I refuse to sit down, or to take a hand at your rubber, until something is settled."

This was addressed to the marchesa, who had caught him by the tails of his immaculate blue coat and forced him into a seat beside her.

"Vive la bagatelle! Where shall we go? You cannot refuse the count," he added, giving the marchesa a meaning look. "What shall we do? Let us all propose something. Let me see. I propose to improve Enrica's mind. She is young—the young have need of improvement. I propose to take her to the church of San Frediano and to show her the ancient fresco representing the discovery of the Holy Countenance; also the Trenta chapel, containing the tombs of my family. I will try to explain to her their names and history.—What do you say to this, my child?"

And the cavaliere turned to Enrica, who, little accustomed to be noticed at all, much less to occupy the whole conversation, looked supplicatingly at her aunt. She would gladly have run out of the room if she had dared.

"No, no," exclaimed the irrepressible Baldassare, from the corner. "Never! What a ghastly idea! Tombs and a mouldy old church! You may find satisfaction, Signore Trenta, in the contemplation of your tomb, but the signorina is not eighty, nor am I, nor is the count. I propose that after being shut up so many years the Guinigi Palace be thrown open, and a ball given on the first floor in honor of the signorina. There should be a band from Florence and presents from Paris for the cotillon. What do you say to that, Signora Marchesa?" asked the misguided young man, with unconscious self-satisfaction.

If a mine had sprung under the marchesa's feet, she could not have been more horrified. What she would have said to Baldassare is difficult to guess, but fortunately for him, while she was struggling for words in which she could suitably express her sense of his presumption, Trenta, seeing what was coming, was beforehand.

"Be silent, Baldassare," he exclaimed, "or, per Dio, I will never bring you here again."

Before Baldassare could offer his apologies, the count burst in—

"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 Nobili? 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 assuredly 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 passed 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 casements 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 Baldassare kept up a perpetual wrangle. The cavaliere was cool, sardonic, smiling, and provoking—Baldassare 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. Baldassare, 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 Baldassare!—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.

Baldassare 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 passing 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 assuredly 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 assented.

"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 Baldassare.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE CABINET COUNCIL.

When the count and Baldassare 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, noble 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 Baldassare 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 circumstances, 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?"

"Not at all," replied the marchesa, curtly. "The count is a republican. I hate republicans. The Guinigi have always been Ghibelline, and loyal. I dislike him, too, personally. I was about to desire you never to bring him here again. Contact with low people has spoiled him. His manners are detestable."

"But, marchesa, che vuole?" Trenta shrugged his shoulders. "He belongs to one of the oldest families in Rome; he is well off, handsome (he reminds me of your ancestor, Castruccio Castracani); a wife might improve him." The marchesa shook her head.

"He like the great Castruccio!—I do not see it."

"Permit me," resumed Trenta, "without entering into details which, as a friend, you have confided to me, I must remind you that your affairs are seriously embarrassed."

The marchesa winced; she guessed what was coming. She knew that she could not deny it.

"You are embarrassed by lawsuits. Unfortunately, all have gone against you."

"I fought for the ancient privileges of the Guinigi!" burst out the marchesa, imperiously. "I would do it again."

"I do not in the least doubt you would do it again, exalted lady," responded Trenta, with a quiet smile. "Indeed, I feel assured of it. I merely state the fact. You have sacrificed large sums of money. You have lost every suit. The costs have been enormous. Your income is greatly reduced. Enrica is therefore portionless."

"No, no, not altogether." The marchesa moved nervously in her chair, carefully avoiding meeting Trenta's steely blue eyes. "I have saved money, Cesarino—I have indeed," she repeated. The marchesa was becoming quite affable. "I cannot touch the heirlooms. But Enrica will have a small portion."

"Well, well," replied Trenta. "But it is impossible you can have saved much since the termination of that last long suit with the chapter about your right to the second bench in the nave of the cathedral, the bench awarded to Count Nobili when he bought the palace. The expense was too great, and the trial too recent."

She made no reply.

"Then there was that other affair with the municipality about the right of flying the flag from the Guinigi Tower. I do not mention small affairs, such as disputes with your late steward at Corellia, trials at Barga, nor litigation here at Lucca on a small scale. My dear marchesa, you have found the law an expensive pastime." The cavaliere's round eyes twinkled as he said this. "Enrica is therefore virtually portionless. The choice lies between a husband who will wed her for herself, or a convent. If I understand your views, a convent would not suit you. Besides, you would not surely voluntarily condemn a girl, without vocation, and brought up beside you, to the seclusion of a convent?"

"But Enrica is a child—I tell you she is too young to think about marriage, cavaliere."

The marchesa spoke with anger. She would stave off as long as possible the principal question—that of marriage. Sudden proposals, too, emanating from others, always nettled her; it narrowed her prerogative.

"Besides," objected the marchesa, still fencing with the real question, "who can answer for Count Marescotti? He is so capricious! Supposing he likes Enrica to-day, he may change before to-morrow. Do you really think he can care enough about Enrica to marry her? Her name would be nothing to him."

"I think he does care for her," replied Trenta, reflectively; "but that can be ascertained. Enrica is a fit consort for a far greater man than Count Marescotti. Not that he, as you say, would care about her name. Remember, she will be your heiress—that is something."

"Yes, yes, my heiress," answered the marchesa, vaguely; for the dreadful question rose up in her mind, "What would Enrica have to inherit?"

That very day she had received a most insolent letter from a creditor. Under the influence of the painful thoughts, she turned her head aside and said nothing. One of her hands was raised over her eyes to shade them from the candles; the other rested on her dark dress.

If a marriage were really in question, what could be more serious? Was not Enrica's marriage to raise up heirs to the Guinigi—heirs to inherit the palace and the heirlooms? If—the marchesa banished the thought, but it would return, and haunt her like a spectre—if not the palace, then at least the name—the historic name, revered throughout Italy? Nothing could deprive Enrica of the name—that name was in itself a dower. That Enrica should possess both name and palace, with a husband of her—the marchesa's—own choosing, had been her dream, but it had been a far-off dream—a dream to be realized in the course of years.

Taken thus aback, the proposal made by Trenta appeared to her hurried and premature—totally wanting in the dignified and well-considered action that should mark the conduct of the great. Besides, if an immediate marriage were arranged between Count Marescotti and Enrica, only a part of her plan could be realized. Enrica was, indeed, now almost portionless; there would be no time to pile up those gold-pieces, or to swell those rustling sheaves of notes that she had—in imagination—accumulated.

"Portionless!" the marchesa repeated to herself, half aloud. "What a humiliation!—my own niece!"

It will be observed that all this time the marchesa had never considered what Enrica's feeling might be. She was to obey her—that was all.

But in this the marchesa was not to blame. She undoubtedly carried her idea of Enrica's subserviency too far; but custom was on her side. Marriages among persons of high rank are "arranged" in Italy—arranged by families or by priests, acting as go-betweens. The lady leaves the convent, and her marriage is arranged. She is unconscious that she has a heart—she only discovers that unruly member afterward. To love a husband is unnecessary; there are so many "golden youths" to choose from. And the husband has his pastime too. Cosi fan tutti! It is a round game!

All this time the cavaliere had never taken his eyes off his friend. To a certain extent he understood what was passing in her mind. A portionless niece would reveal her poverty.

"A good marriage is a good thing," he suggested, as a safe general remark, after having waited in vain for some response.

"In all I do," the marchesa answered, loftily, "I must first consider what is due to the dignity of my position." Trenta bowed.

"Decidedly, marchesa; that is your duty. But what then?"

"No feeling whatever but that will influence me now, or hereafter—nothing." She dwelt upon the last word defiantly, as the final expression of her mind. Spite of this defiance, there was, however, a certain hesitation in her manner which did not escape the cavaliere. As she spoke, she looked hard at him, and touched his arm to arouse his attention.

Trenta, who knew her so well, perfectly interpreted her meaning. His ruddy cheeks flushed crimson; his kindly eyes kindled; he felt sure that his advice would be accepted. She was yielding, but he must be most cautious not to let his satisfaction appear. So strangely contradictory was the marchesa that, although nothing could possibly be more advantageous to her own schemes than this marriage, she might, if indiscreetly pressed, veer round, and, in spite of her interest, refuse to listen to another syllable on the subject.

All this kept the cavaliere silent. Receiving no answer, she looked suspiciously at him, then grasped his arm tightly.

"And you, cavaliere—how long have you been so deeply interested in Enrica? What is she to you? Her future can only signify to you as far as it affects myself."

She waited for a reply. What was the cavaliere to answer? He loved Enrica dearly, but he dared not say so, lest he should offend the marchesa. He feared that if he spoke he should assuredly say too much. Well as he knew her, the marchesa's egotism horrified him.

"Poor Enrica!" he muttered, involuntarily, half aloud.

The marchesa caught at the name.

"Enrica?—yes. From the time of my husband's death I have sacrificed my life to the duties imposed on me by my position. So must Enrica. No personal feeling for her shall bias me in the least."

Her eyes were fixed on those of Trenta. She paused again, and passed her white hand slowly one over the other. The cavaliere looked down; he durst not meet her glance, lest she should read his thoughts. Thinking of Enrica at that moment, he absolutely hated her!

"What would you advise me to do?" she asked, at last. Her voice fell as she put the question.

Trenta had been waiting for this direct appeal. Now his tongue was unloosed.

"I will tell you, Signora Marchesa, plainly what I would advise you to do," was his answer. "Let Enrica marry Marescotti. Put the whole matter into my hands, if you have sufficient confidence in me."

"Remember, Trenta, the humiliation!"

"What humiliation?" asked the cavaliere, with surprise.

"The humiliation involved in the confession that my niece is almost portionless." The words seemed to choke her. "She will inherit all I have to leave," and she glanced significantly at the cavaliere; "but that is—you understand me?—uncertain."

"Bagatella!—that will be all right," he rejoined, with alacrity. "The idea of money will not sway Marescotti in the least. He is wealthy—a fine fellow. Have no fear of that. Leave it all to me, Enrica, and Marescotti. I am an old courtier. Many a royal marriage has passed through my hands. Per Bacco—though no one but the duke knew it—through my hands! You may trust me, marchesa."

There was a proud consciousness of the past in the old man's face. He showed such perfect confidence in himself that he imparted the same confidence to the marchesa.

"I would trust no one else, Cesarino," she said, rising from her chair. "But be cautious; bind me to nothing until we meet again. I must hear all that passes between you and the count, then judge for myself."

"I will obey you in all things, noble lady," replied Trenta, submissively.

How he dreaded betraying his secret exultation! To emancipate Enrica from her miserable life by an honorable marriage, was, to his benevolent heart, infinite happiness!

"Good-night, marchesa. May you repose well!"

"Good-night, Cesarino—a rivederci!"

So they parted.



CHAPTER IX.

THE COUNTESS ORSETTI'S BALL.

The ball at Casa Orsetti was much canvassed in Lucca. Hospitality is by no means a cardinal virtue in Italy. Even in the greatest houses, the bread and salt of the Arab is not offered to you—or, if offered at all, appears in the shape of such dangerously acid lemonade or such weak tea, it is best avoided. Every year there are dances at the Casino dei Nobili, during the Carnival, and there are veglioni, or balls, at the theatre, where ladies go masked and in dominoes, but do not dance; but these annual dissipations are paid for by ticket. A general reception, therefore, including dancing, supper, and champagne, gratis, was an event.

The Orsetti Palace, a huge square edifice of reddish-gray stone, with overtopping roof, four tiers of lofty windows, and a broad arched entrance, or portone, with dark-green doors, stands in the street of San Michele. You pass it, going from the railway-station to the city-gate (where the Lucchese lions keep guard), and the road leads onward to the peaked mountains over Spezia.

On the evening of the ball the entire street of San Michele was hung with Chinese lanterns, arranged in festoons. Opposite the entrance shone a gigantic star of gas. The palace itself was a blaze of light. As the night was warm, every window was thrown open; chandeliers—scintillating like jeweled fountains—hung from the ceilings; wax-lights innumerable, in gilded sconces, were grouped upon the walls; crimson-silk curtains cast a ruddy glare across the street, and the sound of harps and violins floated through the night air. The crowd of beggars and idlers, generally gathered in the street, saw so much that they might be considered to "assist," in an independent but festive capacity, at the entertainment from outside. Matches were hawked about for the convenience of the male portion of this extempore assembly, and fruit in baskets was on sale for the women. "Cigars—cigars of quality!"—"Good fruit—ripe fruit!" were cries audible even in the ballroom; and a fine aroma of coarse tobacco mounted rapidly upward to the illuminated windows.

Within the archway groups of servants were ranged in the Orsetti livery. Also a magnificent personage, not to be classed with any of the other domestics, wearing a silver chain with a key passed across his breast. The personage called a major-domo, in the discharge of his duty, divested the ladies of their shawls, and arranged their draperies.

All this was witnessed with much glee by the plebs outside—the men smoking, the women eating and talking. As the guests arrived in rapid succession, the plebs pressed more and more forward, until at last some of the boldest stood within the threshold. The giants in livery not only tolerated this, but might be said to observe them individually with favor—seeing how much of their admiration was bestowed on themselves and their fine clothes. The major-domo also, with amiable condescension, affected not to notice them—no, not even when one tall fellow, a butcher, with eyes as black as sloes, a pipe in his mouth, and a coarse cloak wrapped round him, took off his hat to the Princess Cardeneff, as she passed by him glittering with diamonds, and cried in her face, "Oh! bella, bella!"

When the major-domo had performed those mysteries intrusted to him, attendant giants threw open folding doors at the farther end of the court, and the bright visions disappeared into a long gallery on the ground-floor, painted in brilliant frescoes, to the reception-room. The suite of rooms on the ground-floor are the summer apartments, specially arranged for air and coolness. Rustic chairs stand against walls painted with fruit and flowers, the stems and leaves represented as growing out of the floor, as at Pompeii. The whole saloon is like a parterre. Settees, sofas, and cozy Paris chairs covered with rich satins, are placed under arbors of light-gilt trellis-work, wreathed with exquisite creepers in full flower. Palms, orange and lemon trees, flowering cacti, and large-leaved cane-plants, are grouped about; consoles and marble tables, covered with the loveliest cut flowers.

Near the door, in the first of these floral saloons where sweet scents made the air heavy, stands the Countess Orsetti. Although she had certainly passed that great female climacteric, forty, a stately presence, white skin, abundant hair, and good features treated artistically, gave her still a certain claim to matronly beauty. She greets each guest with compliments and phrases which would have been deemed excessive out of Italy. Here in Lucca, where she met most of her guests every day, these compliments and phrases were not only excessive, but wearisome and out of place. Yet such is the custom of the country, and to such fulsome flattery do the language and common usage lend themselves. Countess Orsetti, therefore, is not responsible for this absurdity.

Her son is beside her. He is short, stout, and smiling, with a hesitating manner, and a habit of referring every thing to his magnificent mamma. Away from his mamma, he is frank, talkative, and amusing. It is to be hoped that he will marry soon, and escape from the leading-strings. If he marries Teresa Ottolini—and it is said such a result is certain—no palace in Lucca would be big enough to hold Teresa and the countess-mother at one time.

Group after group enters, bows to the countess, and passes on among the flowers: the Countess Navascoes (with her lord), pale, statuesque, dark-eyed, raven-haired—a type of Italian womanhood; Marchesa Manzi—born of the noble house of Buoncampagni—looking as if she had walked out of a picture by Titian; the Da Gia, separated from her husband—a little habit, this, of Italian ladies, consequent upon intimacy with the jeunesse doree, who prefer the wives of their best friends to all other women—it saves trouble, and a "golden youth" is essentially idle. This little habit, moreover, of separation from husbands does not damage the lady in the least; no one inquires what has happened, or who is in the wrong. Society receives and pets her just the same, and, quite impartial, receives and pets the husband also.—Luisa Bernardini, a glowing little countess, as plump as an ortolan, dimpling with smiles, an ugly old husband at her side—comes next. It is whispered, unless the ugly old husband is blind as well as deaf, they will be separated, too, very shortly. Young Civilla, a "golden youth," is so very pressing. He could live with Luisa at Naples—a cheap place. They might have gone on for years as a triangular household—but for Civilla's carelessness. Civilla would always put out old Bernardini about the dinner. (Civilla dined at Bernardini's house every day, as he would at a cafe.) Now, old Bernardini did not care a button that his little wife had a lover; it would not have been en regle if she had not—nor did he care that his wife's lover should dine with him every day—not a bit—but old Bernardini is a gourmand, and he does care to be kept waiting for his dinner. He has lately confided to a friend, that he should be sorry to cause a scandal, but that he must separate from his wife if Civilla will not reform in the matter of the dinner-hour. "He is getting old," Bernardini says, "and his digestion suffers." No man keeps a French cook to be kept waiting for his dinner.

Luisa, who looks the picture of innocence, wears an unexceptionable pink dress, with a train that bodes ill-luck, and many apologies, to her partners. A long train is Luisa's little game. (Spite of Civilla, she has many other little games.) Fragments of the train fly about the room all the evening, and admirers take care that she shall see these picked up, fervently kissed, and stowed away as relics in breast-pockets. One enthusiast pinned his fragment to his shoulder, like an order—a knight of San Luisa, he called himself.

Teresa Ottolini, with her mother, has just arrived. Being single, Teresa either is, or affects to be, excessively steady; no one would marry her if she were not—not even the good-natured Orsetti. Your Italian husband in futuro will pardon nothing in his wife that may be—not even that her dress should be conspicuous, much less her manners. Neither is it expedient that she should be seen much in society. That dangerous phalanx of "golden youth" are ever on the watch, "gentlemen sportsmen," to a man; their sport, woman. If she goes out much these "golden youth" might compromise her. Less than a breath upon a maiden's name is social death. That name must not be coupled with any man's—not coupled even in lightest parlance. So the lady waits, waits until she has a husband—it is more piquant to be a naughty wife than a fast miss—then she makes her choice—one, or a dozen—it is a matter of taste. Danger is added to vice; and that element of intrigue dear to the Italian soul, both male and female. The jeunesse doree delight in mild danger—a duel with swords, not pistols, with a foolish husband. Why cannot he grin and bear it?—others do.

But to return to Teresa. She is courtesying very low to the Countess Orsetti. Although it is well known that these ladies hate each other, Countess Orsetti receives Teresa with a special welcome, kisses her on both cheeks, addresses more compliments to her, and makes her more courtesies than to any one else. How beautiful she is, the Ottolini, with those white flowers twisted into the braids of her chestnut hair!—those large, lazy eyes, too—like sleeping volcanoes!—Count Orsetti thinks her beautiful, clearly; for, under the full battery of his mother's glances, he advances to meet her, blushing like a girl. He presses Teresa's hand, and whispers in her ear that "she must not forget her promise about the cotillon. He has lived upon it ever since." Her reply has apparently satisfied him, for the honest fellow breaks out all over into smiles and bows and amorous glances. Then she passes on, the fair Teresa, like a queen, followed by looks of unmistakable admiration—much more unmistakable looks of admiration than would be permitted elsewhere; but we are in Italy, where men are born artists and have artistic feelings.

The men, as a rule, are neither as distinguished looking nor as well dressed as the women. The type of the Lucchese nobleman is dark, short, and commonplace—rustic is the word.

There is the usual crowding in doorways, and appropriation of seats whence arrivals can be seen and criticised. But there is no line of melancholy young girls wanting partners. The gentlemen decidedly predominate, and all the ladies, except Teresa Ottolini and the Boccarini, are married.

The Marchesa Boccarini had already arrived, accompanied by her three daughters. They are seated near the door leading from the first saloon, where Countess Orsetti is stationed. In front of them is a group of flowering plants and palm-trees. Madame Boccarini peers through the leaves, glass in eye. As a general scans the advance of the enemy's troops from behind an ambush, calculates what their probable movements will be, and how he can foil them—either by open attack or feigned retreat, skirmish or manoeuvre—so Madame Boccarini scans the various arrivals between the dark-green foliage.

To her every young and pretty woman is a rival to her daughters; if a rival, an enemy—if an enemy, to be annihilated if possible, or at least disabled, and driven ignominiously from the field.

It is well known that the Boccarini girls are poor. They will have no portions—every one understands that. The Boccarini girls must marry as they can; no priest will interest himself in their espousals. It was this that made Nera so attractive. She was perfectly natural and unconventionally bold—"like an English mees," it was said—with looks of horror. (The Americans have much to answer for; they have emancipated young ladies; all their sins, and our own to boot, we have to answer for abroad.)

The Boccarini were in reality so poor that it was no uncommon thing for them to remain at home because they could not afford to buy new dresses in which to display themselves. (Poor Madame Boccarini felt this far more than the girls did themselves.) To be seen more than thrice in the same dress is impossible. Lucca is so small, every one's clothes are known. There was no throwing dust in the eyes of dear female friends in this particular.

On the present occasion the Boccarini girls had made great efforts to produce a brilliant result. Madame Boccarini had told her daughters that they must expect no fresh dresses for six months at least, so great had been the outlay. Nera, on hearing this, had tossed her stately head, and had inwardly resolved that before six months she would marry—and that, dress or no dress, she would go wherever she had a chance of meeting Count Nobili. Her mother tacitly concurred in these views, as far as Count Nobili was concerned, but said nothing.

A Belgravian mother who frankly drills her daughter and points out, viva voce, when to advance and when to retreat, and to whom the honors of war are to be accorded—is an article not yet imported into classic Italy with the current Anglomania.

Beside Nera sat Prince Ruspoli, a young Roman of great wealth. Ruspoli aspired to lead the fashion, but not even Poole could well tailor him. (Ruspoli was called poule mouillee.) Nature had not intended it. His tall, gaunt figure, long arms, and thin legs, rendered him artistically unavailable. The music has just sounded from a large saloon at the end of the suite, and Prince Ruspoli has offered his arm to Nera for the first waltz. If Count Nobili had arrived, she would have refused Ruspoli, even on the chance of losing the dance; but he had not come. Her sisters, who are older, and less attractive than herself, had as yet found no partners; but they were habitually resigned and amiable, and submitted with perfect meekness to be obliterated by Nera.

A knot of young men have now formed near the door of the dancing-saloon. They are eagerly discussing the cotillon, the final dance of the evening. Count Orsetti had left his mother's side and joined them.

The cotillon is a matter of grave consideration—the very gravest. Indeed it was very seldom these young heads considered any thing so grave. On the success of the cotillon depends the success of the evening. All the "presents" had come from Paris. Some of the figures were new and required consultation.

"I mean to dance with Teresa Ottolini," announced Count Orsetti, timidly—he could not name Teresa without reddening. "We arranged it together a month ago."

"And I am engaged to Countess Navascoes," said Count Malatesta.

This engagement was said to have begun some years back, and to be very enthralling. No one objected, least of all the husband, who worshiped at the shrine of the blooming Bernardini when she quarreled with Civilla. A lady of fashion has a choice of lovers, as she has a choice of dresses—for all emergencies.

"But how about these new figures?" asked Orsetti.

"Per Bacco—hear the music!" cried Malatesta. "What a delicious waltz! I want to dance. Let's settle it at once. Who's to lead?"

"Oh! Baldassare, of course," replied Franchi, a sallow, languid young man, who looked as if he had been raised in a hot-house, and had lost all his color. "Nobody else would take the trouble. Who is he to dance with?"

"Let him see who will have him. I shall not interfere. He'll dance for both, anyhow," answered Orsetti, laughing. "No one competes with Adonis."

"Where is he?"

"Oh! dancing, of course," returned Orsetti. "Don't you see him twirling round like a teetotum, with Marchesa Amici 'of the swan-neck?'" And he pointed to a pair who were waltzing with such precision that they never by a single step broke the circle—Baldassare gallantly receiving the charge of any free lancers who flung themselves in their path.

Baldassare is much elated at being permitted to dance with "the swan-neck," a little faded now, but once a noted beauty. The swan-neck is a famous lady. Ill-natured persons might have added an awkward syllable to famous. She had been very dear to a great Russian magnate who lived in a villa lined with malachite, and loaded her with gifts. But as the marquis, her husband, was always with her and invariably spoke of his wife as an angel, where was the harm? Now the Russian magnate was dead, and the Marchesa Amici had retired to Lucca, to enjoy the spoils along with her discreet and complaisant marquis.

"How that young fellow does push himself!" observes the cynical Franchi. "Dancing with the Amici—such a great lady! Nothing is sacred to him."

"I wish Nobili were come." It was Orsetti who spoke now. "I should have liked him to lead instead of Baldassare. Adonis is getting forward. He wants keeping in order. Will no one else lead? I cannot, in my own house."

"Oh! but you would mortally offend poor Trenta if you did not let Baldassare lead. The women will keep him in order," was the immediate reply of a young man who had not yet spoken. "The cavaliere must marshal the dancers, and Baldassare must lead, or the old man would break his heart."

"I wish Nobili were here all the same," replied Orsetti. "If he does not come soon, we must select his partner for him. Whom is he to have?"

"Oh! Nera Boccarini, of course," responded two or three voices, amid a general titter.

"I don't think Nobili cares a straw about Nera," put in the languid Franchi, drawling out his words. "I have heard quite another story about Nobili. Give Nera to Ruspoli. He seems about to take her for life. I wish him joy!" with a sneer. "Ruspoli likes English manners. Nera won't get Nobili, my word upon that—there are too many stories about her."

But these remarks at the moment passed unnoticed. No one asked what Franchi had heard, all being intent about the cotillon and the choice of partners.

"Well," burst out Orsetti, no longer able to resist the music (the waltz had been turned into a galop), "I am sure I don't care if Nobili or Ruspoli likes Nera. I shall not try to cut them out."

"No, no, not you, Orsetti! We know your taste does not lie in that quarter. Yours is the domestic style, chaste and frigid!" cried Malatesta, with a sardonic smile. There was a laugh. Malatesta was so bad, even according to the code of the "golden youths," that he compromised any lady by his attentions. Orsetti blushed crimson.

"Pardon me," he replied, much confused, "I must go; my partner is looking daggers at me. Call up old Trenta and tell him what he has to do." Orsetti rushes off to the next room, where Teresa Ottolini is waiting for him, with a look of gentle reproach in her sleepy eyes, where lies the hidden fire.

Meanwhile Cavaliere Trenta's white head, immaculate blue coat and gold buttons—to which coat were attached several orders—had been seen hovering about from chair to chair through the rooms. He attached himself specially to elderly ladies, his contemporaries. To these he repeated the identical high-flown compliments he had addressed to them thirty years before, in the court circle of the Duke of Lucca—compliments such as elderly ladies love, though conscious all the time of their absurd inappropriateness.

Like the dried-up rose-bud of one's youth, religiously preserved as a relic, there is a faint flavor of youth and pleasure about them, sweet still, as a remembrance of the past. "Always beautiful, always amiable!" murmured the cavaliere, like a rhyme, a placid smile upon his rosy face.

Summoned to the cabinet council held near the door, Trenta becomes intensely interested. He weighs each detail, he decides every point with the gravity of a judge: how the new figures are to be danced, and with whom Baldassare is to lead—no one else could do it. He himself would marshal the dances.

The double orchestra now play as if they were trying to drown each other. Half a dozen rooms are full of dancers. The matrons, and older men, have subsided into whist up-stairs. All the ladies have found partners; there is not a single wall-flower.

Nothing could exceed the stately propriety of the ball. It was a grand and stately gathering. Nobody but Nera Boccarini was natural. "To save appearances" is the social law. "Do what you like, but save appearances." A dignified hypocrisy none disobey. These men and women, with the historic names, dare not show each other what they are. There was no flirting, no romping, no loud laughter; not a loud word—no telltale glances, no sitting in corners. It was a pose throughout. Men bowed ceremoniously, and addressed as strangers ladies with whom they spent every evening. Husbands devoted themselves to wives whom they never saw but in public. Innocence may betray itself, seems to betray itself—guilt never. Guilt is cautious.

At this moment Count Nobili entered. He was received with lofty courtesy by the countess. Her manner implied a gentle protest. Count Nobili was a banker's son; his mother was not—nee—any thing. Still he was welcome. She graciously bent her head, on which a tiara of diamonds glittered—in acknowledgment of his compliments on the brilliancy of her ball.

Nobili's address was frank and manly. There was an ease and freedom about him that contrasted favorably with the effeminate appearance and affected manners of the jeunesse doree. His voice, too, was a pleasant voice, and gave a value to all he said. A sunny smile lighted up his fair-complexioned face, the face old Carlotta had called "lucky."

"You are very late," the countess had said, with the slightest tone of annoyance in her voice—fanning herself languidly as she spoke. "My son has been looking for you."

"It has been my loss, Signora Contessa," replied Nobili, bowing. "Pardon me. I was delayed. With your permission, I will find your son." He bowed again, then walked on into the dancing-rooms beyond.

Nobili had come late. "Why should he go at all?" he had asked himself, sighing, as he sat at home, smoking a solitary cigar. "What was the Orsetti ball, or any other ball, to him, when Enrica was not there?"

Nevertheless, he did dress, and he did go, telling himself, however, that he was simply fulfilling a social duty by so doing. Now that he is here, standing in the ballroom, the incense of the flowers in his nostrils, the music thrilling in his ear—now that flashing eyes, flushed cheeks, graceful forms palpitating with the fury of the dance—and hands with clasping fingers, are turned toward him—does he still feel regretful—sad? Not in the least.

No sooner had he arrived than he found himself the object of a species of ovation. This put him into the highest possible spirits. It was most gratifying. He could not possibly do less than return these salutations with the same warmth with which they were offered.

Not that Count Nobili acknowledged any inferiority to those among whom he moved as an equal. Count Nobili held that, in New Italy, every man is a gentleman who is well educated and well mannered. As to the language the Marchesa Guinigi used about him, he shook with laughter whenever it was mentioned.

So it fell out that, before he had arrived many minutes, the remembrance of Enrica died out, and Nobili flung himself into the spirit of the ball with all the ardor of his nature.

"Why did you come so late, Nobili?" asked Orsetti, turning his head, and speaking in the pause of a waltz with Luisa Bernardini. "You must go at once and talk to Trenta about the cotillon."

"Well, Nobili, you gave us a splendid entertainment for the festival," said Franchi. "Per Dio! there were no women to trouble us."

"No women!" exclaimed Civilla—"that was the only fault. Divine woman!—Otherwise it was superb. Who has been ill-treating you, Franchi, to make you so savage?"

Franchi put up his eye-glass and stared at him.

"When there is good wine, I prefer to drink it without women. They distract me."

"Never saw such a reception in Lucca," said Count Malatesta; "never drank such wine. Go on, caro mio, go on, and prosper. We will all support you, but we cannot imitate you."

Nobili, passing on quickly, nearly ran over Cavaliere Trenta. He was in the act of making a profound obeisance, as he handed an ice to one of his contemporaries.

"Ah, youth! youth!" exclaimed poor Trenta, softly, with difficulty recovering his equilibrium by the help of his stick.—"Never mind, Count Nobili, don't apologize; I can bear any thing from a young man who celebrates the festival of the Holy Countenance with such magnificence. Per Bacco! you are the best Lucchese in Lucca. I have seen nothing like it since the duke left. My son, it was worthy of the palace you inhabit."

Ah! could the marchesa have heard this, she would never have spoken to Trenta again!

"You gratify me exceedingly, cavaliere," replied Nobili, really pleased at the old man's praise. "I desire, as far as I can, to become Lucchese at heart. Why should not the festivals of New Italy exceed those of the old days? At least, I shall do my best that it be so."

"Eh? eh?" replied Trenta, rubbing his nose with a doubtful expression; "difficult—very difficult. In the old days, my young friend, society was a system. Each sovereign was the centre of a permanent court circle. There were many sovereigns and many circles—many purses, too, to pay the expenses of each circle. Now it is all hap-hazard; no money, no court, no king."

"No king?" exclaimed Nobili, with surprise.

"I beg pardon, count," answered the urbane Trenta, remembering Nobili's liberal politics—"I mean no society. Society, as a system, has ceased to exist in Italy. But we must think of the cotillon. It is now twelve o'clock. There will be supper. Then we must soon begin. You, count, are to dance with Nera Boccarini. You came so late we were obliged to arrange it for you."

Nobili colored crimson.

"Does the lady—does Nera Boccarini know this?" he asked, and as he asked his color heightened.

"Well, I cannot tell you, but I presume she does. Count Orsetti will have told her. The cotillon was settled early. You have no objection to dance with her, I presume?"

"None—none in the world. Why should I?" replied Nobili, hastily (now the color of his cheeks had grown crimson). "Only—only I might not have selected her." The cavaliere looked up at him with evident surprise. "Am I obliged to dance the cotillon at all, cavaliere?" added Nobili, more and more confused. "Can't I sit out?"

"Oh, impossible—simply impossible!" cried Trenta, authoritatively. "Every couple is arranged. Not a man could fill your place; the whole thing would be a failure."

"I am sorry," answered Nobili, in a low voice—"sorry all the same."

"Now go, and find your partner," said Trenta, not heeding this little speech. "I am about to have the chairs arranged. Go and find your partner."

"Now what could make Nobili object to dance with Nera Boccarini?" Trenta asked himself, when Nobili was gone, striking his stick loudly on the floor, as a sign for the music to cease.

There was an instant silence. The gentlemen handed the ladies to a long gallery, the last of the suite of the rooms on the ground-floor. Here a buffet was arranged. The musicians also were refreshed with good wine and liquors, before the arduous labors of the cotillon commenced. No brilliant cotillon ends before 8 A.M.; then there is breakfast and driving home by daylight at ten o'clock.

Nobili, his cheeks still tingling, felt that the moment had come when he must seek his partner. It would be difficult to define the contending feelings that made him reluctant to do so. Nera Boccarini had taken no pains to conceal how much she liked him. This was flattering; perhaps he felt it was too flattering. There was a determination about Nera, a power of eye and tongue, an exuberance of sensuous youth, that repelled while it allured him. It was like new wine, luscious to the taste, but strong and heavy. New wine is very intoxicating. Nobili loved Enrica. At that moment every woman that did not in some subtile way remind him of her, was distasteful to him. Now, it was not possible to find two women more utterly different, more perfect contrasts, than the dreamy, reserved, tender Enrica—so seldom seen, so little known—and the joyous, outspoken Nera—to be met with at every mass, every fete, in the shops, on the Corso, on the ramparts.

Now, Nera, who had been dancing much with Prince Ruspoli, had heard from him that Nobili was selected as her partner in the cotillon.

"Another of your victims," Prince Ruspoli had said, with a kindling eye.

Nera had laughed gayly.

"My victims?" she retorted. "I wish you would tell me who they are."

This question was accompanied by a most inviting glance. Prince Ruspoli met her glance, but said nothing. (Nera greatly preferred Nobili, but it is well to have two strings to one's bow, and Ruspoli was a prince with a princely revenue.)

When Nobili appeared, Prince Ruspoli, who had handed Nera to a seat near a window, bowed to her and retired.

"To the devil with Nobili!" was Prince Ruspoli's thought, as he resigned her. "I do like that girl—she is so English!" and Ruspoli glanced at Poole's dress-clothes, which fitted him so badly, and remembered with satisfaction certain balls in London, and certain water-parties at Maidenhead (Ruspoli had been much in England), where he had committed the most awful solecisms, according to Italian etiquette, with frank, merry-hearted girls, whose buoyant spirits were contagious.

Nobili's eyes fell instinctively to the ground as he approached Nera. The rosy shadow of the red-silk curtains behind her fell upon her face, bosom, and arms, with a ruddy glow.

"I am to have the honor of dancing the cotillon with you, I believe?" he said, still looking down.

"Yes, I believe so," she responded—"at least so I am told; but you have not asked me yet. Perhaps you would prefer some one else. I confess I am satisfied."

As she spoke, Nera riveted her full black eyes upon Nobili. If he only would look up, she would read his thoughts, and tell him her own thoughts also. But Nobili did not look up; he felt her gaze, nevertheless; it thrilled him through and through.

At this moment, the melody of a voluptuous waltz, the opening of the cotillon, burst from the orchestra with an entrain that might have moved an anchorite. As the sounds struck upon his ear, Nobili grew dizzy under the magnetism of those unseen eyes. His cheeks flushed suddenly, and the blood stirred itself tumultuously in his veins.

"Why should I repulse this girl because she loves me?" he asked himself.

This question came to him, wafted, as it were, upon the wings of the music.

"Count Nobili, you have not answered me," insisted Nera. She had not moved. "You are very absent this evening. Do you wish to dance with me? Tell me."

She dwelt upon the words. Her voice was low and very pleading. Nobili had not yet spoken.

"I ask you again," she said.

This time her voice sounded most enticing. She touched his arm, too, laying her soft fingers upon it, and gazed up into his face. Still no answer.

"Will you not speak to me, Nobili?" She leaned forward, and grasped his arm convulsively. "Nobili, tell me, I implore you, what have I done to offend you?"

Tears gathered in her eyes. Nobili felt her hand tremble.

He looked up; their eyes met. There was a fire in hers that was contagious. His heart gave a great bound. Pressing within his own the hand that still rested so lovingly upon his arm, Nobili gave a rapid glance round. The room was empty; they were standing alone near the window, concealed by the ample curtains. Now the red shadow fell upon them both—

"This shall be my answer, Nera—siren," whispered Nobili.

As he speaks he clasps her in his arms; a passionate kiss is imprinted upon her lips.

* * * * *

Hours have passed; one intoxicating waltz-measure has been exchanged for another, that falls upon the ear as enthralling as the last. Not an instant had the dances ceased. The Cavaliere Trenta, his round face beaming with smiles, is seated in an arm-chair at the top of the largest ballroom. He keeps time with his foot. Now and then he raps loudly with his stick on the floor and calls out the changes of the figures. Baldassare and Luisa Bernardini lead with the grace and precision of practised dancers.

"Brava! brava! a thousand times! Brava!" calls out the cavaliere from his arm-chair, clapping his hands. "You did that beautifully, marchesa!"—This was addressed to the swan's-neck, who had circled round, conducted by her partner, selecting such gentlemen as she pleased, and grouping them in one spot, in order to form a bouquet. "You couldn't have done it better if you had been taught in Paris.—Forward! forward!" to a timid couple, to whom the intricacies of the figure were evidently distracting. "Belle donne! belle donne! Victory to the brave! Fear nothing.—Orsetti, keep the circle down there; you are out of your place. You will never form the bouquet if you don't—Louder! louder!" to the musicians, holding up his stick at them like a marshal's baton—"loud as they advance—then piano—diminuendo—pia-nis-si-mo—as they retreat. That sort of thing gives picturesqueness—light and shade, like a picture. Hi! hi! Malatesta! The devil! You are spoiling every thing! Didn't I tell you to present the flowers to your partner? So—so. The flowers—they are there." Trenta pointed to a table. He struggled to rise to fetch the bouquets himself. Malatesta was too quick for him, however.

"Now bring up all the ladies and place them in chairs; bow to them," etc., etc.

Thanks to the energy of the cavaliere, and the agility of Baldassare—who, it is admitted on all hands, had never distinguished himself so much as on this occasion—all the difficulties of the new figures have been triumphantly surmounted. Gentlemen had become spokes of a gigantic wheel that whirled round a lady seated on a chair in the centre of the room. They had been named as roots, trees, and even vegetables; they had answered to such names, seeking corresponding weeds as their partners. At a clap of the cavaliere's hands they had dashed off wildly, waltzing. Gentlemen had worn paper nightcaps, put on masks, and been led about blindfold. They had crept under chairs, waved flags from tables, thrown up colored balls, and unraveled puzzles—all to the rhythm of the waltz-measure babbling on like a summer brooklet under the sun, through emerald meadows.

And now the exciting moment of the ribbons is come—the moment when the best presents are to be produced—the ribbons—a sheaf of rainbow-colors, fastened into a strong golden ring, which ring is to be held by a single lady, each gentleman grasping (as best he can) a single ribbon. As long as the lady seated on the chair in the centre pleases, the gentlemen are to gyrate round her. When she drops the ring holding the sheaf of ribbons, the Cavaliere Trenta is to clap his hands, and each gentleman is instantly to select that lady who wears a rosette corresponding in color to his ribbon—the lady in the chair being claimed by her partner.

Nobili has placed Nera Boccarini on the chair in the centre. (Ever since the flavor of that fervid kiss has rested on his lips, Nobili has been lost in a delicious dream. "Why should not he and Nera dance on—on—on—forever?—Into indefinite space, if possible—only together?" He asks himself this question vaguely, as she rests within his arms—as he drinks in the subtile perfume of the red roses bound in her glossy hair.)

Nera is triumphant. Nobili is her own! As she sits in that chair when he has placed her, she is positively radiant. Love has given an unknown tenderness to her eyes, a more delicate brilliancy to her cheeks, a softness, almost a languor, to her movements. (Look out, acknowledged belle of Lucca—look out, Teresa Ottolini—here is a dangerous rival to your supremacy! If Nobili loves Nera as Nera believes he does—Nera will ripen quickly into yet more transcendent beauty.)

Now Nobili has left Nera, seated in the chair. He is distributing the various ribbons among the dancers. As there are over a hundred couples, and there is some murmuring and struggling to secure certain ladies, who match certain ribbons, this is difficult, and takes time. See—it is done; again Nobili retires behind Nera's chair, to wait the moment when he shall claim her himself.

How the men drag at the ribbons, whirling round and round, hand-in-hand!—Nera's small hand can scarcely hold them—the men whirling round every instant faster—tumbling over each other, indeed; each moment the ribbons are dragged harder. Nera laughs; she sways from side to side, her arms extended. Faster and more furiously the men whirl round—like runaway horses now, bearing dead upon the reins. The strain is too great, Nera lets fall the ring. The cavaliere claps his hands. Each gentleman rushes toward the lady wearing a rosette matching his ribbon. Nera rises. Already she is encircled by Nobili's arm. He draws her to him; she makes one step forward. Nera is a bold, firm dancer, but, unknown to her, the ribbons in falling have become entangled about her feet; she, is bound, she cannot stir; she gives a little scream. Nobili, startled, suddenly loosens his hold upon her waist. Nera totters, extends her arms, then falls heavily backward, her head striking on the parquet floor. There is a cry of horror. Every dancer stops. They gather round her where she lies. Her face is turned upward, her eyes are set and glassy, her cheeks are ashen.

"Holy Virgin!" cries Nobili, in a voice of anguish, "I have killed her!" He casts himself on the floor beside her—he raises her in his strong arms. "Air, air!—give her air, or she will die!" he cries.

Putting every one aside, he carries Nera to the nearest window, he lays her tenderly on a sofa. It is the very spot where he had kissed her—under the fiery shadow of the red curtain. Alas! Nobili is sobered now from the passion of that moment. The glamour has departed with the light of Nera's eyes. He is ashamed of himself; but there is a swelling at his heart, nevertheless—an impulse of infinite compassion toward the girl who lies senseless before him—her beauty, her undisguised love for him, plead powerfully for her. Does he love her?

The Countess Boccarini and Nera's sisters are by her side. The poor mother at first is speechless; she can only chafe her child's cold hands, and kiss her white lips.

"Nera, Nera," at last she whispers, "Nera, speak to me—speak to me—one word—only one word!"

But, alas! there is no sign of animation—to all appearance Nera is dead. Nobili, convinced that he alone is responsible, and too much agitated to care what he does, kneels beside her, and places his hand upon her heart.

"She lives! she lives!" he cries—"her heart beats! Thank God, I have not killed her!"

This leap from death to life is too much for him; he staggers to his feet, falls into a chair, and sobs aloud. Nera's eyelids tremble; she opens her eyes, her lips move.

"Nera, my child, my darling, speak to me!" cries Madame Boccarini. "Tell me that you can hear me."

Nera tries to raise her head, but in vain. It falls back upon the cushion.

"Home, mamma—home!" her lips feebly whisper.

At the sound of her voice Nobili starts up; he brushes away the tears that still roll down his cheeks. Again he lifts Nera tenderly in his arms. For that night Nera belongs to him; no one else shall touch her. He bears her down-stairs to a carriage. Then he disappears into the darkness of the night.

No one will leave the ball until there is some report of Nera's condition from the doctor who has been summoned. The gay groups sit around the glittering ballroom, and whisper to each other. The "golden youth" offer bets as to Nera's recovery; the ladies, who are jealous, back freely against it. In half an hour, however, Countess Orsetti is able to announce that "Nera Boccarini is better, and that, beyond the shock, it is hoped that she is not seriously hurt."

"You see, Malatesta, I was right," drawls out the languid Franchi as he descends the stairs. "You will believe me another time. You know I told you and Orsetti that Nera Boccarini and Nobili understood each other. He's desperately in love with her."

"I don't believe it, all the same," answers Malatesta, shaking his head. "A man can't half kill a girl and show no compunction—specially not Nobili—the best-hearted fellow breathing. Nobili is just the man to feel such an accident as that dreadfully. How splendid Nera looked to-night! She quite cut out the Ottolini." Malatesta spoke with enthusiasm; he had a practised eye for woman's fine points. "Here, Adonis—I beg your pardon—Baldassare, I mean—where are you going?"

"Home," replies the Greek mask.

"Never mind home; we are all obliged to you. You lead the cotillon admirably."

Baldassare smiles, and shows two rows of faultless teeth.

"Come and have some supper with us at the Universo. Franchi is coming, and all our set."

"With the greatest pleasure," replies Baldassare, smiling.



PART II.



CHAPTER I.

CALUMNY.

Baldassare was, of course, invited by the cavaliere to join the proposed expedition to the tombs of the Trenta and to the Guinigi Tower. Half an hour before the time appointed he appeared at the Palazzo Trenta. The cavaliere was ready, and they went out into the street together.

"If you have not been asleep since the ball, Baldassare—which is probable—perhaps you can tell me how Nera Boccarini is this morning?"

"She is quite well, I understand," answered Adonis, with an air of great mystery, as he smoothed his scented beard. "She is only a little shaken."

"By Jove!" exclaimed the cavaliere. "Never was I present at any thing like that! A love-scene in public! Once, indeed, I remember, on one occasion, when her highness Paulina threw herself into the arms of his serene highness—"

"Have you heard the news?" asked Baldassare, interrupting him.

He dreaded a long tirade from the old chamberlain on the subject of his court reminiscences; besides, Baldassare was bursting with a startling piece of intelligence as yet evidently unknown to Trenta.

"News!—no," answered the cavaliere, contemptuously. "I dare say it is some lie. You have, I am sorry to say, Baldassare, all the faults of a person new to society; you believe every thing."

Baldassare eyed the cavaliere defiantly; but he pulled at his curled mustache in silence.

The cavaliere stopped short, raised his head, and scanned him attentively.

"Out with it, my boy, out with it, or it will choke you! I see you are dying to tell me!"

"Not at all, cavaliere," replied Baldassare, with assumed indifference; "only I must say that I believe you are the only person in Lucca who has not heard it."

"Heard what?" demanded Trenta, angrily.

Baldassare knew the cavaliere's weak point; he delighted to tease him. Trenta considered himself, and was generally considered by others, as a universal news-monger; it was a habit that had remained to him from his former life at court. From the time of Polonius downward a court-chamberlain has always been a news-monger.