"Heard? Why, the news—the great news," Baldassare spoke in the same jeering tone. He drew himself up, affecting to look over the cavaliere's head as he bent on his stick before him.

"Go on," retorted the cavaliere, doggedly.

"How strange you have not heard any thing!" Trenta now looked so enraged, Baldassare thought it was time to leave off bantering him. "Well, then, cavaliere, since you really appear to be ignorant, I will tell you. After you left the Orsetti ball, Malatesta asked me and the other young men of their set to supper at the Universo Hotel."

"Mercy on us!" ejaculated the cavaliere, who was now thoroughly irritated, "you consider yourself one of their set, do you? I congratulate you, young man. This is news to me."

"Certainly, cavaliere, if you ask me, I do consider myself one of their set."

The cavaliere shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

"We talked of the accident," continued Baldassare, affecting not to notice his sneers, "and we talked of Nobili. Many said, as you do, that Nobili is in love with Nera Boccarini, and that he would certainly marry her. Malatesta laughed, as is his way, then he swore a little. Nobili would do no such thing, he declared, he would answer for it. He had it on the best authority, he said, that of an eye-witness." (Ah, cruel old Carlotta, you have made good your threat of vengeance!) "An eye-witness had said that Nobili was in love with some one else—some one who wrote to him; that they had been watched—that he met some one secretly, and that by-and-by all the city would know it, and that there would be a great scandal."

"And who may the lady be?" asked the cavaliere carelessly, raising his head as he put the question, with a sardonic glance at Baldassare. "Not that I believe one word Malatesta says. He is a young coxcomb, and you, Baldassare, are a parrot, and repeat what you hear. Per Bacco! if there had been any thing serious, I should have known it long ago. Who is the lady?" Spite of himself, however, his blue eyes sparkled with curiosity.

"The marchesa's niece, Enrica Guinigi."

"What!" roared out the cavaliere, striking his stick so violently on the ground that the sound echoed through the solitary street. "Enrica Guinigi, whom I see every day! What a lie!—what a base lie! How dare Malatesta—the beast—say so? I will chastise him myself!—with my own hand, old as I am, I will chastise him! Enrica Guinigi!"

Baldassare shrugged his shoulders and made a grimace. This incensed the cavaliere more violently.

"Now, listen to me, Baldassare Lena," shouted the cavaliere, advancing, and putting his fist almost into his face. "Your father is a chemist; and keeps a shop. He is not a doctor, though you call him so. If ever you presume again to repeat scandals such as this—scandals, I say, involving the reputation of noble ladies, my friends—ladies into whose houses I have introduced you, there shall be no more question of your being of their 'set.' I will take care that you never enter one of their doors again. By the body of my holy ancestor, San Riccardo, I will disgrace you—publicly disgrace you!"

Trenta's rosy face had grown purple, his lips worked convulsively. He raised his stick, and flourished it in the air, as if about to make it descend like a truncheon on Baldassare's shoulders. Adonis drew back a step or two, following with his eyes the cavaliere's movements. He was quite unmoved by his threats. Not a day passed that Trenta did not threaten him with his eternal displeasure. Adonis was used to it, and bore it patiently. He bore it because he could not help it. Although by no means overburdened with brains, he was conscious that as yet he was not sufficiently established in society to stand alone. Still, he had too high an opinion of his personal beauty, fine clothes, and general merits, to believe that the ladies of Lucca would permit of his banishment by any arbitrary decree of the cavaliere.

"You had better find out the truth, cavaliere," he muttered, keeping well out of the range of Trenta's stick, "before you put yourself in such a passion."

"Domine Dio! that they should dare to utter such abominations!" ejaculated the cavaliere. "Why, Enrica lives the life of a nun! I doubt if she has ever seen Nobili—certainly she has never spoken to him. Let Malatesta, and the young scoundrels at the club, attack the married women. They can defend themselves. But, to calumniate an innocent girl!—it is horrible!—it is unmanly! His highness the Duke of Lucca would have banished the wretch forthwith. Ah! Italy is going to the devil!—Now, Baldassare," he continued, turning round and glaring upon Adonis, who still retreated cautiously before him, "I have a great mind to send you home. We are about to meet the young lady herself. You are not worthy to be in her company."

"I only repeated what Malatesta told me," urged Baldassare, plaintively, looking very blank. "I am not answerable for him. Go and quarrel with Malatesta, if you like, but leave me alone. You asked me a question, and I answered you. That is all."

Baldassare had dressed himself with great care; his hair was exquisitely curled for the occasion. He had nothing to do all day, and the prospect of returning home was most depressing.

"You are not answerable for being born a fool!" was the rejoinder. "I grant that. Who told Malatesta?" asked the cavaliere, turning sharply toward Baldassare.

"He said he had heard it in many quarters. He insisted on having heard it from one who had seen them together."

(Old Carlotta, sitting in her shop-door at the corner of the street of San Simone, like an evil spider in its web, could have answered that question.)

The cavaliere was still standing on the same spot, in the centre of the street.

"Baldassare," he said, addressing him more calmly, "this is a wicked calumny. The marchesa must not hear it. Upon reflection, I shall not notice it. Malatesta is a chattering fool—an ape! I dare say he was tipsy when he said it. But, as you value my protection, swear to me not to repeat one word of all this. If you hear it mentioned, contradict it—flatly contradict it, on my authority—the authority of the Marchesa Guinigi's oldest friend. Nobili will marry Nera Boccarini, and there will be an end of it; and Enrica—yes, Baldassare," continued the cavaliere, with an air of immense dignity—"yes, to prove to you how ridiculous this report is, Enrica is about to marry also. I am at this very time authorized by the family to arrange an alliance with—"

"I guess!" burst out Baldassare, reddening with delight at being intrusted with so choice a piece of news—"with Count Marescotti!" Trenta gave a conscious smile, and nodded. This was done with a certain reserve, but still graciously. "To be sure; it was easy to see how much he admired her, but I did not know that the lady—"

"Oh, yes, the lady is all right—she will agree," rejoined Trenta. "She knows no one else; she will obey her aunt's commands and my wishes."

"I am delighted!" cried Baldassare. "Why, there will be a ball at Palazzo Guinigi—a ball, after all!"

"But the marchesa must never hear this scandal about Nobili," added Trenta, suddenly relapsing into gravity. "She hates him so much, it might give her a fit. Have a care, Baldassare—have a care, or you may yet incur my severest displeasure."

"I am sure I don't want the marchesa or any one else to know it," replied Baldassare, greatly reassured as to the manner in which he would pass his day by the change in Trenta's manner. "I would not annoy her or injure the signorina for all the world. I am sure you know that, cavaliere. No word shall pass my lips, I promise you."

"Good! good!" responded Trenta, now quite pacified (it was not in Trenta's nature to be angry long). Now he moved forward, and as he did so he took Baldassare's arm, in token of forgiveness. "No names must be mentioned," he continued, tripping along—"mind, no names; but I authorize you, on my authority, if you hear this abominable nonsense repeated—I authorize you to say that you have it from me—that Enrica Guinigi is to be married, and not to Nobili. He! he! That will surprise them—those chattering young blackguards at the club."

Thus, once more on the most amiable terms, the cavaliere and Baldassare proceeded leisurely arm-in-arm toward the street of San Simone.



CHAPTER II.

CHURCH OF SAN FREDIANO.

Count Marescotti was walking rapidly up and down in the shade before the Guinigi Palace when the cavaliere and Baldassare appeared. He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not perceive them.

"I must speak to him as soon as possible about Enrica," was Trenta's thought on seeing him. "With this report going about, there is not an hour to lose."

"You have kept your appointment punctually, count," he said, laying his hand on Marescotti's shoulder.

"Punctual, my dear cavaliere? I never missed an appointment in my life when made with a lady. I was up long before daylight, looking over some books I have with me, in order to be able the better to describe any object of interest to the Signorina Enrica."

"An opportunity for you, my boy," said Trenta, nodding his head roguishly at Baldassare. "You will have a lesson in Lucchese history. Of course, you know nothing about it."

"Every man has his forte," observed the count, good-naturedly, seeing Baldassare's embarrassment at having his ignorance exposed. (The cavaliere never could leave poor Adonis alone.) "We all know your forte is the ballroom; there you beat us all."

"Taught by me, taught by me," muttered the cavaliere; "he owes it all to me."

Leaving the count and Baldassare standing together in the street, the cavaliere knocked at the door of the Guinigi Palace. When it was opened he entered the gloomy court. Within he found Enrica and Teresa awaiting his arrival.

At the sight of her whom he so much loved, and of whom he had just heard what he conceived to be such an atrocious calumny, the cavaliere was quite overcome. Tears gathered in his eyes; he could hardly reply to her when she addressed him.

"My Enrica," he said at last, taking her by the hand and imprinting a kiss upon her forehead, "you are a good child. Heaven bless you, and keep you always as you are!" A conscious blush overspread Enrica's face.

"If he knew all, would he say this?" she asked herself; and her pretty head with the soft curls dropped involuntarily.

Enrica was very simply attired, but the flowing lines of her graceful figure were not to be disguised by any mere accident of dress. A black veil, fastened upon her hair like a mantilla (a style much affected by the Lucca ladies), fell in thick folds upon her shoulders, and partially shaded her face.

Teresa stood by her young mistress, prepared to follow her. Trenta perceived this. He did not like Teresa. If she went with them, the whole conversation might be repeated in Casa Guinigi. This, with Count Marescotti in the company, would be—to say the least of it—inconvenient.

"You may retire," he said to Teresa. "I will take charge of the signorina."

"But—Signore Cavaliere"—and Teresa, feeling the affront, colored scarlet—"the marchesa's positive orders were, I was not to leave the signorina."

"Never mind," answered the cavaliere, authoritatively, "I will take that on myself. You can retire."

Teresa, swelling with anger, remained in the court. The cavaliere offered his arm to Enrica. She turned and addressed a few words to the exasperated Teresa; then, led by Trenta, she passed into the street. Upon the threshold, Count Marescotti met them.

"This is indeed an honor," he said, addressing Enrica—his face beamed, and he bowed to the ground. "I trembled lest the marchesa should have forbidden your coming."

"So did I," answered Enrica, frankly. "I am so glad. I fear that my aunt is not altogether pleased; but she has said nothing, and I came."

She spoke with such eagerness, she saw that the count was surprised. This made her blush. At any other time such an expedition as that they were about to make would have been delightful to her for its own sake, Enrica was so shut up within the palace, except on the rare occasions when she accompanied Teresa to mass, or took a formal drive on the ramparts at sundown with her aunt. But now she was full of anxiety about Nobili. They had not met for a week—he had not written to her even. Should she see him in the street? Should she see him from the top of the tower? Perhaps he was at home at that very moment watching her. She gave a furtive glance upward at the stern old palace before her. The thick walls of sun-dried bricks looked cruel; the massive Venetian casements mocked her. The outer blinds shut out all hope. Alas! there was not a chink anywhere. Even the great doors were closed.

"Ah! if Teresa could have warned him that I was coming!"—and she gave a great sigh. "If he only knew that I was here, standing in the very street! Oh, for one glimpse of his dear, bright face!"

Again Enrica sighed, and again she gazed up wistfully at the closed facade.

Meanwhile the cavaliere and Baldassare were engaged in a violent altercation. Baldassare had proposed walking to the church of San Frediano, which, in consideration of the cavaliere's wishes, they were to visit first. "No one would think of driving such a short distance," he insisted. "The sun was not hot, and the streets were all in shade." The cavaliere retorted that "it was too hot for any lady to walk," swung his stick menacingly in the air, called Baldassare "an imbecile," and peremptorily ordered him to call a fiacre. Baldassare turned scarlet in the face, and rudely refused to move.

"He was not a servant," he said. "He would do nothing unless treated like a gentleman."

This was spoken as he hurled what he intended to be a tremendous glance of indignation at the cavaliere. It produced no effect whatever. With an exasperating smile, the cavaliere again desired Baldassare to do as he was bid, or else to go home. The count interposed, a fiacre was called, in which they all seated themselves.

* * * * *

San Frediano, a basilica in the Lombard style, is the most ancient church in Lucca. The mid-day sun now flashed full upon the front, and lighted up the wondrous colors of a mosaic on a gold ground, over the entrance. At one corner of the building a marble campanile, formed by successive tiers of delicate arcades, springs upward into the azure sky. Flocks of gray pigeons circled about the upper gallery (where hang the bells), or rested, cooing softly in the warm air, upon the sculptured cornice bordering the white arches. It was a quiet scene of tranquil beauty, significant of repose in life and of peace in death—the church, with its wide portals, offering an everlasting home to all who sought shelter within its walls.

The cavaliere was so impatient to do the honors that he actually jumped unaided from the carriage.

"This, dear Enrica, is my parish church," he said, as he handed her out, pointing upward to the richly-tinted pile, which the suns of many centuries had dyed of a golden hue. "I know every stone in the building. From a child I have played in this piazza, under these venerable walls. My earliest prayers were said at the altar of the Sacrament within. Here I confessed my youthful sins. Here I received my first communion. Here I hope to lay my bones, when it shall please God to call me."

Trenta spoke with a tranquil smile. It was clear neither life nor death had any terrors for him. "The very pigeons know me," he added, placidly. He looked up to the campanile, gave a peculiar whistle, and, putting his hand into his pocket, threw down some grains of corn upon the pavement. The pigeons, whirling round in many circles (the sunlight flashing upon their burnished breasts, and upon the soft gray and purple feathers of their wings), gradually—in little groups of twos and threes—flew down, and finally settled themselves in a knot upon the pavement, to peck up the corn.

"Good, pious old man, how I honor you!" ejaculated Count Marescotti, fervently, as he watched the timid gray-coated pigeons gathering round the cavaliere's feet, as he stood apart from the rest, serenely smiling as he fed them. "May thy placid spirit be unruffled in time and in eternity!"

The interior of the church, in the Longobardic style, is bare almost to plainness. On entering, the eye ranges through a long broad nave with rounded arches, the arches surmounted by narrow windows; these dividing arches, supported on single columns with monumental capitals, forming two dark and rather narrow aisles. The high altar is raised on three broad steps. Here burn a few lights, dimmed into solitary specks by the brightness of the sun. The walls on either side of the aisles are broken by various chapels. These lie in deep shadow. The roof, formed of open rafters, bearing marks of having once been elaborately gilded, is now but a mass of blackened timbers. The floor is of brick, save where oft-recurring sepulchral slabs are cut into the surface. These slabs, of black-and-white marble, or of alabaster stained and worn from its native whiteness into a dingy brown, are almost obliterated by the many footsteps which have come and gone upon them for so many centuries. Not a single name remains to record whom they commemorate. Dimly seen under a covering of dirt and dust deposited by the living, lie the records of these unknown dead: here a black lion rampant on a white shield; there a coat-of-arms on an escutcheon, with the fragment of a princely coronet; beyond, a life-sized monk, his shadowy head resting on a cushion—a matron with her robes soberly gathered about her feet, her hands crossed on her bosom—a bishop, under a painted canopy, mitre on head and staff in hand—a warrior, grimly helmeted, carrying his drawn sword in his hand. Who are these? Whence came they? None can tell.

Beside one of the most worn and defaced of these slabs the cavaliere stopped.

"On this stone," he said, his smiling countenance suddenly grown solemn—"on this very stone, where you see the remains of a mosaic"—and he pointed to some morsels of color still visible, crossing himself as he did so—"a notable miracle was performed. Before I relate it, let us adore the goodness of the Blessed Virgin, from whom all good gifts come."

Cavaliere Trenta was on his knees before he had done speaking; again he fervently crossed himself, reciting the "Maria Santissima." Enrica bowed her head, and timidly knelt beside him; Baldassare bent his knees, but, remembering that his trousers were new, and that they might take an adverse crease that could never be ironed out, he did not allow himself to touch the floor; then, with open eyes and ears, he rose and stood waiting for the cavaliere to proceed. Baldassare was uneducated and superstitious. The latter quality recommended him strongly to Trenta. He was always ready to believe every word the cavaliere uttered with unquestioning faith. At the mention of a church legend Count Marescotti turned away with an expression of disgust, and leaned against a pillar, his eyes fixed on Enrica.

The cavaliere, having risen from his knees, and carefully dusted himself with a snowy pocket-handkerchief, took Enrica by the hand, and placed her in such a position that the sunshine, striking through the windows of the nave, fell full upon the monumental stone before them.

"My Enrica," he said, in a subdued voice, "and you, Baldassare"—he motioned to him to approach nearer—"you are both young. Listen to me. Lay to heart what an old man tells you. Such a miracle as I am about to relate must touch even the count's hard heart."

He glanced round at Marescotti, but it was evident he was chagrined by what he saw. Marescotti neither heard him, nor even affected to do so. Trenta's voice in the great church was weak and piping—indistinct even to those beside him. Finding the count unavailable either for instruction or reproof, the cavaliere shook his head, and his countenance fell. Then he turned his mild blue eyes upon Enrica, leaned upon his stick, and commenced:

"In the sixth century, the flagstones in this portion of the nave were raised for the burial of a distinguished lady, a member of the Manzi family; but oh! stupendous prodigy!"—the cavaliere cast up his eyes to heaven, and clasped his dimpled hands—"no sooner had the coffin been lowered into the vault prepared for it, than the corpse of the lady of the Manzi family sat upright in the open bier, put aside the flowers and wreaths piled upon her, and uttered these memorable and never-to-be-forgotten words: 'Bury me elsewhere; here lies the body of San Frediano.'"

Baldassare, who had grown very pale, now shuddered visibly, and contemplated the cavaliere with awe.

"Stupendous!" he muttered—"prodigious!—Indeed!"

Enrica did not speak; her eyes were fixed on the ground.

"Yes, yes, you may well say prodigious," responded Trenta, bowing his white head; then, looking round triumphantly: "It was prodigious, but a prodigy, remember, vouched for by the chronicles of the Church. (Chronicles of the Church are much more to be trusted than any thing else, much more than Evangelists, who were not bishops, and therefore had no authority—we all know that.) No sooner, my friends, had the corpse of the lady of the Manzi family spoken, as I have said, than diligent search was made by those assembled in the church, when lo!—within the open vault the remains of the adorable San Frediano were discovered in excellent preservation. I need not say that, having died in the odor of sanctity, the most fragrant perfume filled the church, and penetrated even to the adjacent streets. Several sick persons were healed by merely inhaling it. One man, whose arm had been shot off at the shoulder-joint many years before, found his limb come again in an instant, by merely touching the blessed relic." The cavaliere paused to take breath. No one had spoken.—"Have you heard the miracle of the glorious San Frediano?" asked Trenta, a little timidly, raising his voice to its utmost pitch as he addressed Count Marescotti.

"No, I have not, cavaliere; but, if I had, it would not alter my opinion. I do not believe in mediaeval miracles." As he spoke, Count Marescotti turned round from the steps of a side-altar, whither he had wandered to look at a picture. "I did not hear one word you said, my dear cavaliere, but I am acquainted with the supposed miracles of San Frediano. They are entirely without evidence, and in no way shake my conclusions as to the utter worthlessness of such legends. In this I agree with the Protestants," he continued, "rather than with that inspired teacher, Savonarola. The Protestants, spite of so-called 'ecclesiastical authority,' persist in denying them. With the Protestants, I hold that the entire machinery of modern miracles is false and unprofitable. With the Apostles miraculous power ended."

"Marescotti!" ejaculated the poor cavaliere, aghast at the effect his appeal had produced, "for God's sake, don't, don't! before Enrica—and in a church, too!"

"I believe with Savonarola in other miracles," continued the count, in a louder tone, addressing himself directly to Enrica, on whom he gazed with a tender expression—he was far too much engrossed with her and with the subject to heed Trenta's feeble remonstrance—"I believe in the mystic essence of soul to soul—I believe in the reappearance of the disembodied spirit to its kindred affinity still on earth—still clothed with a fleshly garment. I believe in those magnetic influences that circle like an atmosphere about certain purified and special natures, binding them together in a closely-locked embrace, an embrace that neither time, distance, nor even death itself, can weaken or sever!"

He paused for an instant; a dark fire lit up his eyes, which were still bent on Enrica.

"All this I believe—life would be intolerable to me without such convictions. At the same time, I am ready to grant that all cannot accept my views. These are mysteries to be approached without prejudice—mysteries that must be received absolutely without prejudice of religion, country, or race; received as the aesthetic instinct within us teaches. Who," he added, and as he spoke he stood erect on the steps of the altar, his arms outstretched in the eagerness of argument, his grand face all aglow with enthusiasm—"who can decide? It is faith that convinces—faith that vivifies—faith that transforms—faith that links us to the hierarchy of angels! To believe—to act on our belief, even if that belief be false—that is true religion. A merciful Deity will accept our imperfect sacrifice. Are we not all believers in Christ? Away with creeds and churches, with formularies and doctrines, with painted walls and golden altars, with stoled priests, infallible popes, and temporal hierarchies! What are these vain distinctions, if we love God? Let the whole world unite to believe in the Redeemer. Then we shall all be brothers—you, I—all, brothers—joined within the holy circle of one universal family—of one universal worship!"

Count Marescotti ceased speaking, but his impassioned words still echoed through the empty aisles. His eyes had wandered from Enrica; they were now fixed on high. His countenance glowed with rapture. Wrapped in the visions his imagination had called forth, he descended from the altar, and slowly approached the silent group gathered beside the monumental stone.

Enrica had eagerly drunk in every word the count had uttered. He seemed to speak the language of her secret musings; to interpret the hidden mysteries of her young heart. She, at least, believed in the affinity of kindred spirits. What but that had linked her to Nobili? Oh, to live in such a union!

Trenta had become very grave.

"You are a visionary," he said, addressing the count, who now stood beside them. "I am sorry for you. Such a consummation as you desire is impossible. Your faith has no foundation. It is a creation of the brain. The Catholic Church stands upon a rock. It permits no change, it accepts no compromise, it admits no errors. The authority given to St. Peter by Jesus Christ himself, with the spiritual keys, can alone open the gates of heaven. All without are damned. Good intentions are nothing. Private interpretation, believe me, is of the devil. Obedience to the Holy Father, and the intercession of the saints, can alone save your soul. Submit yourself to the teaching of our mother Church, my dear count. Submit yourself—you have my prayers." Trenta watched Marescotti with a fixed gaze of such solemn earnestness, it seemed as though he anticipated that the blessed San Frediano himself might appear, and then and there miraculously convert him. "Submit yourself," he repeated, raising his arm and pointing to the altar, "then you will be blessed."

No miraculous interposition, however, was destined to crown the poor cavaliere's strenuous efforts to convert the heretical count; but, long before he had finished, the sound of his voice had recalled Count Marescotti to himself. He remembered that the old chamberlain belonged, in years at least, if not in belief, to the past. He blamed himself for his thoughtlessness in having said a syllable that could give him pain. The mystic disciple of Savonarola became in an instant the polished gentleman.

"A thousand pardons, my dear Trenta," he said, passing his hand over his forehead, and putting back the dark, disordered hair that hung upon his brow—"a thousand pardons!—I am quite ashamed of myself. We are here, as I now remember, to examine the tombs of your ancestors in the chapel of the Trenta. I have delayed you too long. Shall we proceed?"

Trenta, glad to escape from the possibility of any further discussion with the count, whose religious views were to him nothing but the ravings of a mischievous maniac, at once turned into the side-aisle, and, with ceremonious politeness, conducted Enrica toward the chapel of the Trenta.

The chapel, divided by gates of gilt bronze from the line of the other altars bordering the aisles, forms a deep recess near the high altar. The walls are inlaid by what had once been brilliantly-colored marbles, in squares of red, green, and yellow; but time and damp had dulled them into a sombre hue. Above, a heavy circular cornice joins a dome-shaped roof, clothed with frescoes, through which the light descends through a central lantern. Painted figures of prophets stand erect within the four spandrils, and beneath, breaking the marble walls, four snow-white statues of the Evangelists fill lofty niches of gray-tinted stone. Opposite the gilded gates of entrance which Trenta had unlocked, a black sarcophagus projects from the wall. This sarcophagus is surmounted by a carved head. Many other monuments break the marble walls; some very ancient, others of more recent shape and construction. The floor, too, is almost entirely overlaid by tombstones, but, like those in the nave, they are greatly defaced, and the inscriptions are for the most part illegible. Over the altar a blackened painting represents "San Riccardo of the Trenta" battling with the infidels before Jerusalem.

"Here," said the cavaliere, standing in the centre under the dome, "is the chapel of the Trenta. Here I, Cesare Trenta, fourteenth in succession from Gaultiero Trenta—who commanded a regiment at the battle of Marignano against the French under Francis I.—hope to lay my bones. The altar, as you see, is sanctified by the possession of an ancestral picture, deemed miraculous." He bowed to the earth as he spoke, in which example he was followed by Enrica and Baldassare. "San Riccardo was the companion-in-arms of Godfrey de Bouillon. His bones lie under the altar. Upon his return from the crusades he died in our palace. We still show the very room. His body is quite entire within that tomb. I have seen it myself when a boy."

Even the count did not venture to raise any doubt as to the authenticity of the patron saint of the Trenta family. The cavaliere himself was on his knees; rosary in hand, he was devoutly offering up his innocent prayers to the ashes of an imaginary saint. After many crossings, bowings, and touchings of the tomb (always kissing the fingers that had been in contact with the sanctified stone), he arose, smiling.

"And now," said the count, turning toward Enrica, "I will ask leave to show you another tomb, which may, possibly, interest you more than the sepulchre of the respected Trenta." As he spoke he led her to the opposite aisle, toward a sarcophagus of black marble placed under an arch, on which was inscribed, in gilt letters, the name "Castruccio Castracani degli Antimelli," and the date "1328." "Had our Castruccio moved in a larger sphere," said the count, addressing the little group that had now gathered about him, "he would have won a name as great as that of Alexander of Macedon. Like Alexander, he died in the flower of his age, in the height of his fame. Had he lived, he would have been King of Italy, and Lucca would have become the capital of the peninsula. Chaste, sober, and merciful—brave without rashness, and prudent without fear—Castruccio won all hearts. Lucca at least appreciated her hero. Proud alike of his personal qualities, and of those warlike exploits with which Italy already rang, she unanimously elected him dictator. When this signal honor was conferred upon him," continued the count, addressing himself again specially to Enrica, who listened, her large dreamy eyes fixed upon him, "Castruccio was absent, engaged in one of those perpetual campaigns against Florence which occupied so large a portion of his short life. At that very moment he was encamped on the heights of San Miniato, preparing to besiege the hated rival of our city—broken and reduced by the recent victory he had gained over her at Altopasso. At Altopasso he had defeated and humiliated Florence. Now he had planted our flag under her very walls. Upon the arrival of the ambassadors sent by the Lucchese Republic—one of whom was a Guinigi—"

"There was a Trenta, too, among them; Antonio Trenta, a knight of St. John," put in the cavaliere, gently, unwilling to interrupt the count, but finding it impossible to resist the temptation of identifying his family with his country's triumphs. The count acknowledged the omission with a courteous bow.

"Upon the arrival of the ambassadors," he resumed, "announcing the honor conferred upon him, Castruccio instantly left his camp, and returned with all haste to Lucca. The dignity accorded to Castruccio exalted him above all external demonstration, but he understood that his native city longed to behold, and to surround with personal applause, the person of her idol. In the piazza without this church, the very centre of Lucca, the heart, as it were, whence all the veins and arteries of our municipal body flow, Castruccio was received with all the pomp of a Roman triumph. Ah! cavaliere"—and the count's lustrous eyes rested on Trenta, who was devouring every word he uttered with silent delight—"those were proud days for Lucca!"

"Recall them—recall them, O Count!" cried Trenta. "It does me good to listen."

"Thirty thousand Florentine prisoners followed Castruccio to Lucca. His soldiers were laden with booty. They drove before them innumerable herds of cattle; strings of wagons, filled with the spoils of a victorious campaign, blocked the causeways. Last of all appeared, rumbling on its ancient wheels, the carroccio, or state-car of the Florentine Republic, bearing their captured flags lowered, and trailing in the dust. Castruccio—whose sole representatives are the Marchesa Guinigi and yourself, signorina—Castruccio followed. He was seated in a triumphal chariot, drawn by eight milk-white horses. Banners fluttered around him. A golden crown of victory was suspended above his head. He was arrayed in a flowing mantle of purple, over a suit of burnished armor. His brows were bound by a wreath of golden laurel. In his right hand he carried a jeweled sceptre. Upon his knees lay his victorious sword unsheathed. Never was manly beauty more transcendent. His lofty stature and majestic bearing fulfilled the expectation of a hero. How can I describe his features? They are known to all of you by that famous picture (the only likeness of him extant) belonging to the Marchesa Guinigi, placed in the presence-chamber of her palace."

"Yes, yes," burst forth Trenta, no longer able to control his enthusiasm. "Old as I am, when I think of those days, it makes me young again. Alas! what a change! Now we have lost not only our independence, but our very identity. Our sovereign is gone—banished—our state broken up. We are but the slaves of a monster called the kingdom of Italy, ruled by Piedmontese barbarians!"

"Hush!—hush!" whispered the irrepressible Baldassare. "Pray do not interrupt the count." Even the stolid Adonis was moved.

"The daughters of the noblest houses of Lucca," continued Marescotti, "strewed flowers in Castruccio's path. The magistrates and nobles received him on their knees. Young as he was, with one voice they saluted him 'Father of his Country!'"

The count paused. He bowed his head toward the sarcophagus before which they were gathered, in a mute tribute of reverence. After a few minutes of rapt silence he resumed:

"When the multitude heard that name, ten thousand thousand voices echoed it. 'Father of his Country!' resounded to the summits of the surrounding Apennines. The mountain-tops tossed it to and fro—the caves thundered it—the very heavens bore it aloft to distant hemispheres! Our great soldier, overcome by such overwhelming marks of affection, expressed in every look and gesture how deeply he was moved. Before leaving the piazza, Castruccio was joined by his relative, young Paolo Guinigi!—after his decease to become dictator, and Lord of Lucca. Amid the clash of arms, the braying of trumpets, and the applause of thousands, they cordially embraced. They were fast friends as well as cousins. Our Castruccio was of a type incapable of jealousy. Paolo was a patriot—that was enough. Together they proceeded to the cathedral of San Martino. At the porch Castruccio was received by the archbishop and the assembled clergy. He was placed in a chair of carved ivory, and carried in triumph up the nave to the chapel of the Holy Countenance. Here he descended, and, while he prostrated himself before the miraculous image, hymns and songs of praise burst from the choir."

"Such, Signorina Enrica," said the count, turning toward her, "is a brief outline of the scene that passed within this city of Lucca, before that tomb held the illustrious dust it now contains."

"Bravo, bravo, count!" exclaimed the mercurial Trenta, in a delighted tone. (He was ready to forgive all the count's transgressions, in the fervor of the moment.) "That is how I love to hear you talk. Now you do yourself justice. Gesu mio! how seldom it is given to a man to be so eloquent! How can he bring himself to employ such gifts against the infallible Church?" This last remark was addressed to Enrica in a tone too low to be overheard.

"And now," said the old chamberlain, always on the lookout to marshal every one as he had marshaled every one at court—"now we will leave the church, and proceed to the Guinigi Tower."



CHAPTER III.

THE GUINIGI TOWER.

Count Marescotti, by reason of too much imagination, and Baldassare, by reason of too little, were both oblivious; consequently the key and the porter were neither of them forthcoming when the party arrived at the door of the tower, which opened from a side-street behind and apart from the palace. Both the count and Baldassare ran off to find the man, leaving Trenta alone with Enrica.

"Ahi!" exclaimed the cavaliere, looking after them with a comical smile, "this youth of New Italy! They have no more brains than a pin. When I was young, and every city had its own ruler and its own court, I should not have escorted a lady and kept her waiting outside in the sun. Bah! those were not the manners of my day. At the court of the Duke of Lucca ladies were treated like divinities, but now the young men don't know how to kiss a woman's hand."

Receiving no answer, Trenta looked hard at Enrica. He was struck by her absent expression. There was a far-away look on her face he had never noticed on it before.

"Enrica," he said, taking both her hands within his own, "I fear you are not amused. These subjects are too grave to interest you. What are you thinking about?"

An anxious look came into her eyes, and she glanced hastily round, as if to assure herself that no one was near.

"Oh! I am thinking of such strange things!" She stopped and hesitated, seeing the cavaliere's glance of surprise. "I should like to tell you all, dear cavaliere—I would give the world to tell you—"

Again she stopped.

"Speak—speak, my child," he answered; "tell me all that is in your mind."

Before she could reply, the count and Baldassare reappeared, accompanied by the porter of the Guinigi Palace and the keys.

"Are you sure you would rather not return home again, Enrica? You have only to turn the corner, remember," asked Trenta, looking at her with anxious affection.

"No, no," she answered, greatly confused; "please say nothing—not now—another time. I should like to ascend the tower; let us go on."

The cavaliere was greatly puzzled. It was plain there was something on her mind. What could it be? How fortunate, he told himself, if she had taken a liking to Marescotti, and desired to confess it! This would make all easy. When he had spoken to the count, he would contrive to see her alone, and insist upon knowing if it were so.

The door was now opened, and the porter led the way, followed by the count and Baldassare. Trenta came next, Enrica last. They ascended stair after stair almost in darkness. After having mounted a considerable height, the porter unlocked a small door that barred their farther advance. Above appeared the blackened walls of the hollow tower, broken by the loop-holes already mentioned, through which the ardent sunshine slanted. Before them was a wooden stair, crossing from angle to angle up to a dizzy height, with no other support but a frail banister; this even was broken in places. The count and Enrica both entreated the cavaliere to remain below. Marescotti ventured to allude to his great age—a subject he himself continually, as has been seen, mentioned, but which he generally much resented when alluded to by others.

Trenta listened with perfect gravity and politeness, but, when the count had done speaking, he placed his foot firmly on the first stair, and began to ascend after the porter. The others were obliged to follow. At the last flight several loose planks shook ominously under their feet; but Trenta, assisted by his stick, stepped on perseveringly. He also insisted on helping Enrica, who was next to him, and who by this time was both giddy and frightened. At length a trap-door, at the top of the tower, was reached and unbarred by the attendant. Without, covered with grass, is a square platform, protected by a machicolated parapet of turreted stone-work. In the centre rises a cluster of ancient bay-trees, fresh and luxuriant, spite of the wind and storms of centuries.

The count leaped out upon the greensward and rushed to the parapet.

"How beautiful!" he exclaimed, throwing back his head and drawing in the warm air. "See how the sun of New Italy lights up the old city! Cathedral, palace, church, gallery, roof, tower, all ablaze at our feet! Speak, tell me, is it not wonderful?" and he turned to Enrica, who, anxiously turning from side to side, was trying to discover where she could best overlook the street of San Simone and Nobili's palace.

Addressed by Marescotti, she started and stopped short.

"Never, never," he continued, becoming greatly excited, "shall I forget this meeting!—here with you—the golden-haired daughter of this ancient house!"

"I!" exclaimed Enrica. "O count, what a mistake! I have no house, no home. I live on the charity of my aunt."

"That makes no difference in your descent, fair Guinigi. Charity! charity! Who would not shower down oceans of charity to possess such a treasure?" He leaned his back against the parapet, and bent his eyes with fervent admiration on her. "It is only in verse that I can celebrate her," he muttered, "prose is too cold for her warm coloring. The Madonna—the uninstructed Madonna—before the archangel's visit—"

"But, count," said Enrica timidly (his vehemence and strange glances made her feel very shy), "will you tell me the names of the beautiful mountains around? I have seen so little—I am so ignorant."

"I will, I will," replied Marescotti, speaking rapidly, his glowing eyes raising themselves from her face to look out over the distance; "but, in mercy, grant me a few moments to collect myself. Remember I am a poet; imagination is my world; the unreal my home; the Muses my sisters. I live there above, in the golden clouds"—and he turned and pointed to a crest of glittering vapor sailing across the intense blue of the sky. Then, with his hand pressed on his brow, he began to pace rapidly up and down the narrow platform.

The cavaliere and Baldassare were watching him from the farther end of the tower.

"He! he!" said Trenta, and he gave a little laugh and nudged Baldassare. "Do you see the count? He is fairly off. Marescotti is too poetical for this world. Unpractical, poor fellow—very unpractical. The fit is on him now. Look at him, Baldassare; see how he stares about, and clinches his fist. I hope he will not leap over the parapet in his ecstasy."

"Ha! ha!" responded Baldassare, who with eyes wide open, and hands thrust into his pockets, leaned back beside Trenta against the wall. "Ha, ha!—I must laugh," Baldassare whispered into his ear—"I cannot help it—look how the count's lips are moving. He is in the most extraordinary excitement."

"It's all very fine," rejoined Trenta, "but I wonder he does not frighten Enrica. There she stands, quite still. I can't see her face, but she seems to like it. It's all very fine," he repeated, nodding his white head reflectively. "Republicans, communists, orators, poets, heretics—all the plagues of hell! Dio buono! give me a little plain common-sense—plain common-sense, and a paternal government. As to Marescotti, these new-fangled notions will turn his brain; he'll end in a mad-house. I don't believe he is quite in his senses at this very minute. Look! look! What strides he is taking up and down! For the love of Heaven, my boy, run and fasten the trap-door tight! He may fall through! He's not safe! I swear it, by all the saints!" Baldassare, shaking with suppressed laughter, secured the trap-door.

"I must say you are a little hard on the count," Baldassare said. "Why, he's only composing. I know his way. Trust me, it's a sonnet. He is composing a sonnet addressed perhaps to the signorina. He admires her very much."

Trenta smiled, and mentally determined, for the second time, to take the earliest opportunity of speaking to Count Marescotti before the ridiculous reports circulating in Lucca reached him.

"Per Bacco!" he replied, "when the count is as old as I am, he will have learned that quiet is the greatest luxury a man can enjoy—especially in Italy, where the climate is hot and fevers frequent."

How long the count would have continued in the clouds, it is impossible to say, had he not been suddenly brought down to earth—or, at least, the earth on the top of the tower—by something that suddenly struck his gaze.

Enrica, who had strained her eyes in vain to discover some trace of Nobili in the narrow street below, or in the garden behind his palace, had now thrown herself on the grass under the overhanging branches of the glossy bay-trees. These inclosed her as in a bower. Her colorless face rested upon her hand, her eyes were turned toward the ground, and her long blond hair fell in a tangled mass below the folds of her veil, upon her white dress. The count stood transfixed before her.

"Move not, sweet vision!" he cried. "Be ever so! That innocent face shaded by the classic bay; that white robe rustling with the thrill of womanly affinities; those fair locks floating like an aureole in the breeze thy breath has softly perfumed! Rest there enthroned—the world thy backguard, the sky thy canopy! Stay, let me crown thee!"

As he spoke he hastily plucked some sprays of bay, which he twisted into a wreath. He approached Enrica, who had remained quite still, and, kneeling at her feet, placed the wreath upon her head.

"Enrica Guinigi"—the count spoke so softly that neither Trenta nor Baldassare could catch the words—"there is something in your beauty too ethereal for this world."

Enrica, covered with blushes, tried to rise, but he held out his hands imploringly for her to remain.

"Suffer me to speak to you. Yours is a face of one easily moved to love—to love and to suffer," he added, strange lights coming into his eyes as he gazed at her.

Enrica listened to him in painful silence; his words sounded prophetic.

"To love and to suffer; but, loving once"—again the count was speaking, and his voice enchained her by its sweetness—"to love forever. Where shall the man be found pure enough to dare to accept such love as you can bestow? By Heavens!" he added, and his voice fell to a whisper, and his black eyes seemed to penetrate into her very soul, "you love already. I read it in the depths of those heavenly eyes, in the shadow that already darkens that soft brow, in the dreamy, languid air that robs you of your youth. You love—is it possible that you love—?"

He stopped before the question was finished—before the name was uttered. A spasm, as if wrung from him by sharp bodily pain, passed over his features as he asked this question, never destined to be answered. No one but Enrica had heard it. An indescribable terror seized her; from pale she grew deadly white; her eyelids dropped, her lips trembled. Tears gathered in Marescotti's eyes as he gazed at her, but he dared not complete the question.

"If you have guessed my secret, do not—oh! do not betray me!"

She said this so faintly that the sound came to him like a whisper from the rustling bay-leaves.

"Never!" he responded in a low, earnest tone—"never!"

She believed him implicitly. With that look, that voice, who could doubt him?

"I have cause to suffer," she replied with a sigh, not venturing to meet his eyes—"to suffer and to wait. But my aunt—"

She said no more; her head fell on her bosom, her arms dropped to her side, she sighed deeply.

"May I be at hand to shield you!" was his answer.

After this, he, too, was silent. Rising from his knees, he leaned against the trunk of the bay-tree and contemplated her steadfastly. There was a strange mixture of passion and of curiosity in his mobile face. If she would not tell him, could he not rend her secret from her?

Trenta, seated at the opposite side of the platform, observed them as they stood side by side, half concealed by the foliage—observed them with benign satisfaction. It was all as it should be; his mission would be easy. It was clear they understood each other. He believed at that very moment Enrica was receiving the confession of Marescotti's love; the confusion of her looks was conclusive. The cavaliere's whole endeavor was, at that moment, to keep Baldassare quiet; he rejoiced to see that he was gently yielding to the influence of the heat, and nodding at his side.

"Count," said Enrica, looking up and endeavoring to break a silence which had become painful, "if I have inspired you with any interest—"

She hesitated.

"If you have inspired me?" ejaculated Marescotti, reproachfully, not moving his eyes off her.

"I can hardly believe it," she added; "but, if it be so, speak to me in the voice of poetry. Tell me your thoughts."

"Yes," exclaimed the count, clasping his hands; "I have been longing to do so ever since I first saw you. Will you permit it? If so, give me paper and pencil, that I may write."

Enrica had neither. Rising from the ground, she crossed over to where Trenta sat, apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the roofs of his native city. Fortunately, after diving into various pockets, he found a pencil and the fly-leaf of a letter. Marescotti took them and retreated to the farther end of the tower; Enrica leaned against the wall beside the cavaliere.

In a few minutes the count joined them; he returned the pencil with a bow to the cavaliere. The sonnet was already written on the fly-leaf of the letter.

"Oh!" cried Enrica, "give me that paper, I know it will tell me my fate. Give it to me. Count, do not refuse me." Her look, her manner, was eager—imploring. As the count drew back, she endeavored to seize the paper from his hand. But Marescotti, holding the paper above his head, in one moment had crushed it in his fingers, and, rushing forward, he flung it over the battlements.

"It is not worthy of you!" he exclaimed, with excitement; "it is worthy neither of you nor of me! No, no," and he leaned over the tower, and watched the paper as it floated downward in the still air. "Let it perish."

"Oh! why have you destroyed it?" cried Enrica, greatly distressed. "That paper would have told me all I want to know. How cruel! how unkind!"

But there was no help for it. No lamentation could bring the paper back again. The sonnet was gone. Marescotti had sacrificed the man to the poet. His artistic sense had conquered.

"Excuse me, dear signorina," he pleaded, "the composition was imperfect. It was too hurried. With your permission, on my return, I will address some other verses to you, more appropriate—more polished."

"Ah! they will not be like those. They will not tell me what I want to know. They cannot come from your very soul like those. The power to divine is gone from you." Enrica could hardly restrain her tears.

"I am very sorry," answered the count, "but I could not help it; I did it unconsciously."

"Indeed, count, you did very wrong," put in the cavaliere; "one understands you wrote in furore—so much the better," and Trenta gave a sly wink, which was entirely lost on Marescotti. "But time is getting on. When are we to have that oration on the history and beauties of Lucca that we came up to hear? Had you not better begin?"

The count was engaged at that moment in plucking a sprig of bay for himself and for the cavaliere to wear, as he said, "in memoriam." "I am ready," he replied. "It is a subject that I love."

"Let us begin with the mountains; they are the nearest to God." As he pronounced that name, the count raised his eyes reverently, and uncovered his head. Enrica had placed herself on his right hand, but all interest had died out of her face. She only listened mechanically.

(Yes, the mountains, the glorious mountains! There they were—before, behind, in front; range upon range—peak upon peak, like breakers on a restless sea! Mountains of every shade, of every shape, of every height. Already their mighty tops were flecked with the glow of the western sunbeams; already pink and purple mists had gathered upon their sides, filling the valleys with mystery!)

"There," said the count, pointing in the direction of the winding river Serchio, "is La Panga, the loftiest Apennine in Central Italy. The peaked summits of those other mountains more to the right are the marble-bosomed range of Carrara. One might believe them at this time covered with a mantle of snow, but for the ardent sun, the deep green of the belting plains, and the luxuriance of the forests. Yonder steep chestnut-clothed height that terminates the valley opening before us is Bargilio, a mountain fortress of the Panciatici over the Baths of Lucca."

Marescotti paused to take breath. Enrica's eyes languidly followed the direction of his hand. The cavaliere, standing on his other side, was adjusting his spectacles, the better to distinguish the distance.

"To the south," continued the count, pointing with his finger—"in the centre of that rich vine-trellised Campagna, lies Pescia, a garden of luscious fruits. Beyond, nestling in the hollows of the Apennines, shutting in the plain of that side, is ancient Lombard-walled Pistoja—the key to the passes of Northern Italy. Farther on, nearer Florence, rise the heights of Monte Catni, crowned as with a diadem by a small burgh untouched since the middle ages. Nearer at hand, glittering like steel in the sunshine, is the lake of Bientina. You can see its low, marshy shores fringed by beauteous woodlands, but without a single dwelling."

Enrica, in a fit of abstraction, leaned over the parapet. Her eyes were riveted upon the city beneath. Marescotti followed her eyes.

"Yes," said he, "there is Lucca;" and as he spoke he glanced inquiringly at her, and the tones of his clear, melodious voice grew soft and tender. "Lucca the Industrious, bound within her line of ancient walls and fortifications. Great names and great deeds are connected with Lucca. Here, tradition says, Julius Caesar ruled as proconsul. How often may the sandals of his feet have trod these narrow streets—his purple robes swept the dust of our piazza! Here he may have officiated as high-priest at our altars—dictated laws from our palaces! It was after the conquest of the Nervii (most savage among the Gaulish tribes) that Julius Caesar is said to have first come to Lucca. Pompey and Crassus met him here. It was at this time that Domitius—Caesar's enemy, then a candidate for the consulship—boasted that he would ruin him. But Caesar, seizing the opportune moment of his recent victories over the Gauls, and his meeting with Pompey—formed the bold plan of grasping universal power by means of his deadliest enemies. These enemies, rather than see the supreme power vested in each other, united to advance him. The first triumvirate was the consequence of the meeting. Ages pass by. The Roman Empire dissolves. Barbarians invade Italy. Lucca is an independent state—not long to remain so, however, for the Countess Matilda, daughter of Duke Bonifazio, is born within her walls. At Lucca Countess Matilda holds her court. By her counsels, assistance, and the rich legacy of her patrimonial dominions, she founds the temporal power of the papacy. To Lucca came, in the fifteenth century, Charles VIII. of France, presumptuous enough to attempt the conquest of Naples; also that mighty dissembler, Charles V. to meet the reigning pontiff Paul III. in our cathedral of San Martino. But more precious far to me than the traditions of the shadowy pomp of defunct tyrants is the remembrance that Lucca was the Geneva of Italy—that these streets beneath us resounded to the public teaching of the Reformation! Such progress, indeed, had the reformers made, that it was publicly debated in the city council, 'If Lucca should declare herself Protestant—'"

"Per Bacco! a disgraceful fact in our history!" burst out Trenta, a look of horror in his round blue eyes. "Hide it, hide it, count! For the love of Heaven! You do not expect me to rejoice at this? Pray, when you mention it, add that the Protestants were obliged to flee for their lives, and that Lucca purified itself by abject submission to the Holy Father."

"Yes; and what came of that?" cried the count, raising his voice, a sudden flush of anger mounting over his face. "The Church—your Catholic and Apostolic Church—established the Inquisition. The Inquisition condemned to the flames the greatest prophet and teacher since the apostles—Savonarola!"

Trenta, knowing how deeply Marescotti's feelings were engaged in the subject of Savonarola, was too courteous to desire any further discussion. But at the same time he was determined, if possible, to hear no more of what was to him neither more nor less than blasphemy.

"Do you know how long we have been up here, count?" he asked, taking out his watch. "Enrica must return. I hope you won't detain us," he said, with a pitiful look at the count, who seemed preparing for an oration in honor of the mediaeval martyr. "I have already got a violent rheumatism in my shoulder.—Here, Baldassare, open the trap-door, and let us go down.—Where is Baldassare?—Baldassare! Where are you, imbecile? Baldassare, I say! Why, diamine! Where can the boy be? He's not been privately practising his last new step behind the bay-trees, and taken a false one over the parapet?"

The small space was easily searched. Baldassare was discovered sketched at full length and fast asleep under a bench on the other side of the bay-trees.

"Ah, wretch!" grumbled the old chamberlain, "if you sleep like this you will outlive me, who mean to flourish for the next hundred years. He's always asleep, except when dancing," he added indignantly appealing to Marescotti. "Look at him. There's beauty without expression. Doesn't he inspire you? Endymion who has overslept himself and missed Diana—Narcissus overcome by the sight of his own beauty."

After being called, pushed, and pinched, by the cavaliere, Baldassare at last opened his eyes in great bewilderment—stretched himself, yawned, then, suddenly clapping his hand to his side, looked fiercely at Trenta. Trenta was shaking with laughter.

"Mille diavoli!" cried Baldassare, rubbing himself vigorously, "how dare you pinch me so, cavaliere? I shall be black and blue. Why should not I sleep? Nobody spoke to me."

"I fear you have heard little of the history of Lucca," said the count, smiling.

"Dio buono! what is history to me? I hate it!—I-tell you what, cavaliere, you have hurt me very much." And Baldassare passed his hand carefully down his side. "The next time I go to sleep in your company, I'll trouble you to keep your fingers to yourself. You have rapped me like a drum."

Trenta watched the various phases of Baldassare's wrath with the greatest amusement. The descent having been safely accomplished, the whole party landed in the street. Count Marescotti, who came last, advanced to take leave of Enrica. At this moment an olive-skinned, black-eyed girl rose out of the shadow of a neighboring wall, and, lowering a basket from her head, filled with fruit—tawny figs, ruddy peaches, purple grapes, and russet-skinned medlars, shielded from the heat by a covering of freshly-picked vine-leaves—offered it to Enrica. Our Adonis, still sulky and sore from the pinches inflicted by the mischievous fingers of the cavaliere, waved the girl rudely away.

"Fruit! Che! Begone! our servants have better. Such fruit as that is not good enough for us; it is full of worms."

The girl looked up at him timidly, tears gathered in her dark eyes.

"It is for my mother," she answered, humbly; "she is ill."

As she bent her head to replace the basket, Marescotti, who had listened to Baldassare with evident disgust, raised the basket in his arms, and with the utmost care poised it on the coil of her dark hair.

"Beautiful peasant," he said, "I salute you. This is for your mother," and he placed some notes in her hand.

The girl thanked him, coloring as red as the peaches in her basket, then, hastily turning the corner of the street, disappeared.

"A perfect Pomona! I make a point of honoring beauty whenever I find it," exclaimed the count, looking after her. He cast a reproving glance at Baldassare, who stood with his eyes wide open. "The Greeks worshiped beauty—I agree with them. Beauty is divine. What say you? Were not the Greeks right?"

The words were addressed to Baldassare—the sense and the direction of his eyes pointed to Enrica.

"Yes; beauty," replied Baldassare, smoothing his glossy mustache, and trying to look very wise (he was not in the least conscious of the covert rebuke administered by Marescotti)—"beauty is very refreshing, but I must say I prefer it in the upper classes. For my part, I like beauty that can dance—wooden shoes are not to my taste."

"Ah! canaglia!" muttered the cavaliere, "there is no teaching you. You will never be a gentleman."

Baldassare was dumbfounded. He had not a word to reply.

"Count"—and the old chamberlain, utterly disregarding the dismay of poor Adonis, who never clearly understood what he had done to deserve such severity, now addressed himself to Marescotti—"will you be visible to-morrow after breakfast? If so, I shall have the honor of calling on you."

"With pleasure," was the count's reply.

Enrica stood apart. She had not spoken one word since the disappearance of the sonnet—that sonnet which would have told her of her future; for had not Marescotti, by some occult power, read her secret? Alas! too, was she not about to reenter her gloomy home without catching so much as a glimpse of Nobili? Count Marescotti had no opportunity of saying a word to Enrica that was not audible to all. He did venture to ask her if she would be present next evening, if he joined the marchesa's rubber? Before she could reply, Trenta had hastily answered for her, that "he would settle all that with the count when they met in the morning." So, standing in the street, they parted. Count Marescotti sought in vain for one last glance from Enrica. When he turned round to look for Baldassare, Baldassare had disappeared.



CHAPTER IV.

COUNT NOBILI.

When Nobili rushed home through the dark streets from the Countess Orsetti's ball, he shut himself up in his own particular room, threw himself on a divan, and tried to collect his thoughts. At first he was only conscious of one overwhelming feeling—a feeling of intense joy that Nera Boccarina was alive. The unspeakable horror he had felt, as she lay stretched out on the floor before him, had stupefied him. If she had died?—As the horrible question rose up within him, his blood froze in his veins. But she was not dead—nay, if the report of Madame Orsetti was to be trusted, she was in no danger of dying.

"Thank God!—thank God!" Then, as the quiet of the night and the solitude of his own room gradually restored his scattered senses, Nobili recalled her, not only in the moment of danger, as she lay death-like, motionless, but as she stood before him lit up by the rosy shadow of the silken curtains. Was it an enchantment? Had he been under a spell? Was Nera fiend or angel? As he asked himself these questions, again her wondrous eyes shone upon him like stars; again the rhythm of that fatal waltz struck upon his ears soft and liquid as the fall of oars upon the smooth bosom of an inland lake, bathed in the mellow light of sunset.

What had he done? He had kissed her—her lips had clung to his; her fingers had linked themselves in his grasp; her eyes—ah!—those eyes had told him that she loved him. Loved him!—why not?

And Enrica!—the thought of Enrica pierced through him like the stab of a knife. Nobili sprang to his feet, pressed both hands to his bosom, then sank down again, utterly bewildered. Enrica!—He had forgotten her! He, Nobili, was it possible? Forgotten her!—A pale plaintive face rose up before him, with soft, pleading eyes. There was the little head, with its tangled meshes of yellow curls, the slight girlish figure, the little feet. "Enrica! my Enrica!" he cried aloud, so palpable did her presence seem—"I love you, I love you only!" He dashed, as it were, Nera's image from him. She had tempted him—tempted him with all the fullness of her beauty, tempted him—and he had yielded! On a sudden it came over him. Yes, she had tempted him. She had followed him—pursued him rather. Wherever he went, there Nera was before him. He recalled it all. And how he had avoided her with the avoidance of an instinct! He clinched his fists as he thought of it. What devil had possessed him to fall headlong into the snare? What was Nera—or any other woman—to him now? If he had been obliged to dance with her, why had he yielded to her?

"I will never speak to her again," was his instant resolve. But the next moment he remembered that he had been indirectly the cause of an accident which might have been fatal. He must see her once more if she were visible—or, if not, he must see her mother. Common humanity demanded this. Then he would set eyes on her no more. He had almost come to hate her, for the spell she had thrown over him.

But for Enrica he would have left Lucca altogether for a time. What had passed that evening would be the subject of general gossip. He remembered with shame—and as he did so the blood rushed over his face and brow—how openly he had displayed his admiration. He remembered the hot glances he had cast upon Nera. He remembered how he had leaned entranced over her chair; how he had pressed her to him in the fury of that wild waltz, her white arms entwined round him—the fragrance of the red roses she wore in her hair mounting to his brain! At the moment he had been too much entranced to observe what was passing about him. Now he recalled glances and muttered words. The savage look Ruspoli had cast on him, when he led her up to him in one of the figures of the cotillon; how Malatesta had grinned at him—how Orsetti had whispered "Bravo!" in his ear. Might not some rumor of all this reach Enrica?—through Trenta, perhaps, or that chattering fool, Baldassare? If they spoke of the accident, they would surely connect his name with that of Nera. Would they say he was in love with her? He grew cold as he thought of it.

Neither could Nobili conceal from himself how probable it was that the Marchesa Guinigi should come to some knowledge of his clandestine interviews with her niece. It had been necessary to trust many persons. Spite of heavy bribes, one of these might at any moment betray them. He might be followed and watched, spite of his precautions. Their letters might be intercepted. Should any thing happen, what a situation for Enrica! She was too trusting and too inexperienced fully to appreciate the danger; but Nobili understood it, and trembled for her. Something must, he felt, be done at once. Enrica must be prepared for any thing that might happen. He must write to her—write this very night to her.

And then came the question—what should he say to her? Then Nobili felt, and felt keenly, how much he had compromised himself. Hitherto his love for Enrica, and Enrica's love for him, had been so full, so entire, that every thought was hers. Now there was a name he must hide from her, an hour of his life she must never know.

Nobili rose from the divan on which he had been lying, lighted some candles, and, sitting down at a table, took a pen in his hand. But the pen did not help him. He tore it between his teeth, he leaned his head upon his hand, he stared at the blank paper before him. What should he say to her? was the question he asked himself. After all, should he confess all his weakness, and implore her forgiveness? or should he take the chance of her hearing nothing?

After much thought and many struggles with his pen, he decided he would say nothing. But write he would; write he must. Full of remorse for what had passed, he longed to assure her of his love. He yearned to cast himself for pardon at her feet; to feast his eyes upon the sweetness of her fair face; to fill his ears with the sound of her soft voice; to watch her heavenly eyes gathering upon him with the gleam of incipient passion.

How pure she was! How peerless, how different from all other women! How different from Nera! dark-eyed, flashing, tempting Nera!—Nera, so sensual in her ripe and dazzling beauty. At that moment of remorse and repentance he would have likened her to an alluring fiend, Enrica to an angel! Yes, he would write; he would say something decisive. This point settled, Nobili put down the pen, struck a match, and lit a cigar. A cigar would calm him, and help him to think.

His position, even as he understood it, was sufficiently difficult. How much more, had he known all that lay behind! He had entered life a mere boy at his father's death, with some true friends; his wealth had created him a host of followers. His frank, loyal disposition, his generosity, his lavish hospitality, his winning manners, had insured him general popularity. Not one, even of those who envied him, could deny that he was the best fellow in Lucca. Women adored him, or said so, which came to the same thing, for he believed them. Many had proved, with more than words, that they did so. In a word, he had been feted, followed, and caressed, as long as he could remember. Now the incense of flattery floating continually in the air which he breathed had done its work. He was not actually spoiled but he had grown arrogant; vain of his person and of his wealth. He was vain, but not yet frivolous; he was insolent, but not yet heartless. At his age, impressions come from without, rather than from within. Nobili was extremely impressionable; he also, as has been seen, wanted resolution to resist temptation. As yet, he had not developed the firmness and steadfastness that really belonged to his character.

But spite of foibles, spite of weakness—foibles and weakness were but part of the young blood within him—Nobili possessed, especially toward women, that rare union of courage, tenderness, and fortitude, we call chivalry; he forgot himself in others. He did this as the most natural thing in the world—he did it because he could not help it. He was capable of doing a great wrong—he was also capable of a great repentance. His great wealth had hitherto enabled him to indulge every fancy. With this power of wealth, unknown almost to himself, a spirit of conquest had grown upon him. He resolved to overcome whatever opposed itself to him. Nobili was constantly assured by those ready flatterers who lived upon him—those toadies who, like a mildew, dim and deface the virtues of the rich—that "he could do what he pleased."

With the presumption of youth he believed this, and he acted on it, especially in regard to women. He was of an age and temperament to feel his pulse quicken at the sight of every pretty woman he met, even if he should meet a dozen in the day. Until lately, however, he had cared for no one. He had trifled, dangled, ogled. He had plucked the fair fruit where it hung freely on the branch, and he had turned away heart-whole. He knew that there was not a young lady in Lucca who would not accept him as her suitor—joyfully accept him, if he asked her. Not a father, let his name be as old as the Crusades, his escutcheon decorated with "the golden rose," or the heraldic ermine of the emperors, who would not welcome him as a son-in-law.

The Marchesa Guinigi alone had persistently repulsed him. He had heard and laughed at the outrageous words she had spoken. He knew what a struggle it had cost her to sell the second Guinigi Palace at all. He knew that of all men she had least desired to sell it to him. For that special reason he had resolved to possess it. He had bought it, so to say, in spite of her, at the price of gold.

Yet, although Nobili laughed with his friends at the marchesa's outrageous words, in reality they greatly nettled him. By constant repetition they came even to rankle. At last he grew—unconfessed, of course—so aggravated by them that a secret longing for revenge rose up within him. She had thrown down the gauntlet, why should he not pick it up? The marchesa, he knew, had a niece, why should he not marry the niece, in defiance of the aunt?

No sooner was this idea conceived than he determined, if he married at all (marriage to a young man leading his dissipated life is a serious step), that, of all living women, the marchesa's niece should be his wife. All this time he had never seen Enrica. Yes, he would marry the niece, to spite the marchesa. Marry—she, the marchesa, should see a Guinigi head his board; a Guinigi seated at his hearth; worse than all, a Guinigi mother of his children!

All this he kept closely locked within his own breast. As the marchesa had intimated to him, at the time he bought the palace, that she would never permit him to cross her threshold, he was debarred from taking the usual social steps to accomplish his resolve. Not that he in the least desired to see her, save for that overbearing disposition which impelled him to combat all opposition. With great difficulty, and after having expended various sums in bribes among the ill-paid servants of the marchesa, he had learned the habits of her household.

Enrica, he found, had a servant, formerly her nurse, who never left her. Teresa, this servant, was cautiously approached. She was informed that Count Nobili was distractedly in love with the signorina, and addressed himself to her for help. Teresa, ignorant, well-meaning, and brimming over with that mere animal fondness for her foster-child uneducated women share with brute creatures, was proud of becoming the medium of what she considered an advantageous marriage for Enrica. The secluded life she led, the selfish indifference with which her aunt treated her, had long moved Teresa's passionate southern nature to a high pitch of indignation. Up to this time no man had been permitted to enter Casa Guinigi, save those who formed the marchesa's whist-party.

"How, then," reasoned Teresa, shrewdly, "was the signorina to marry at all? Surely it was right to help her to a husband. Here was one, rich, handsome, and devoted, one who would give the eyes out of his head for the signorina." Was such an opportunity to be lost? Certainly not.

So Teresa took Nobili's bribes (bribes are as common in Italy as in the East), putting them to fructify in the National Bank with an easy conscience. Was she not emancipating her foster-child from that old devil, her aunt? Had she not seen Nobili himself when he sent for her?—seen him, face to face, inside his palace glittering like paradise? And had he not given her his word, with his hand upon his heart (also given her a pair of solid gold ear-rings, which she wore on Sundays), that to marry Enrica was the one hope of his life? Seeing all this, Teresa was, as I have said, perfectly satisfied.

When Nobili had done all this, impelled by mixed feelings of wounded pride, obstinacy, and defiance, he had never, let it be noted, seen Enrica. But after a meeting had been arranged by Teresa one morning at early mass in the cathedral, near a dark and unfrequented altar in the transept—an arrangement, be it observed, unknown to Enrica—all his feelings changed. From the moment he saw her he loved her with all the fervor of his ardent nature; from that moment he knew that he had never loved before. The mystery of their stolen meetings, the sweet flavor of this forbidden fruit—and what man does not love forbidden fruit better than labeled pleasures?—the innocent frankness with which Enrica confessed her love, her unbounded faith in him—all served to heighten his passion. He gloried—he reveled in her confidence. Never, never, he swore a thousand times, should she have cause to repent it. In the possession of Enrica's love, all other desires, aims, ambitions, had—up to the night of the Orsetti ball—vanished. Up to that night, for her sake, he had grown solitary, silent—nay, even patient and subtle. He had clean forgotten his feud with the Marchesa Guinigi, or only remembered it as a possible obstacle to his union with Enrica; otherwise the marchesa was absolutely indifferent to him. Up to the night of the Orsetti ball the whole world was indifferent to him. But now!—

Nobili, sitting very still, his face shaded by his hand, had finished his cigar. While smoking it he had decided what he would say to Enrica. Again he took up his pen. This time he dropped it in the ink, and wrote as follows:

AMORE: I have treasured all the love you gave me when last we met. I know that love witnesses for me also in your own heart. Beyond all earthly things you are dear to me. Come to me, O my Enrica—come to me; never let us part. I must have you, you only. I must gaze upon you hour by hour; I must hang upon that dear voice. I must feel that angel-presence ever beside me. When will you meet me? I implore you to answer. After our next meeting I am resolved to claim you, by force or by free-will, to be my wife. To wait longer, O my Enrica, is good neither for you nor for me. My love! my love! you must be mine—mine—mine! Come to me—come quickly. Your adoring.

"MARIO NOBILI."



CHAPTER V.

NUMBER FOUR AT THE UNIVERSO HOTEL.

Cesare Trenta is dressed with unusual care. His linen is spotless; his white hair, as fine as silk, is carefully combed; his chin is well shaven. He wears a glossy white hat, and carries his gold-headed cane in his hand. Not that he condescends to use that cane as he mounts the marble staircase of the Universo Hotel (once the Palazzo Buffero) a little stiffly, on his way to keep his appointment with Count Marescotti; oh, no—although the cavaliere is well past eighty, he intends to live much longer; he reserves that cane, therefore, to assist him in his old age. Now he does not want it.

It is quite clear that Trenta is come on a mission of great importance; his sleek air, and the solemnly official expression of his plump rosy face, say so. His glassy blue eyes are without their pleasant twinkle, and his lips, tightly drawn over his teeth, lack their usual benignant smile. Even his fat white hand dimples itself on the top of his cane, so tightly does he clutch it. He has learned below that Count Marescotti lives at No. 4 on the second story; at the door of No. 4 he raps softly. A voice from within asks, "Who is there?"

"I," replies Trenta, and he enters.

The count, who is seated at a table near the window, rises. His tall figure is enveloped in a dark dressing-gown, that folds about him like a toga. He has all the aspect of a man roused out of deep thought; his black hair stands straight up in disordered curls all over his head—he had evidently been digging both his hands into it—his eyes are wild and abstracted. Taken as he is now, unawares, that expression of mingled sternness and sweetness in which he so much resembles Castruccio Castracani is very striking. From the manner he fixes his eyes upon Trenta it is clear he does not at once recognize him. The cavaliere returns his stare with a look of blank dismay.

"Oh, carissimo!" the count exclaims at last, his countenance changing to its usual expression—he holds out both hands to grasp those of the cavaliere—"how I rejoice to see you! Excuse my absence; I had forgotten our appointment at the moment. That book"—and he points to an open volume lying on a table covered with letters, manuscripts, and piles of printed sheets tossed together in wild confusion—"that book must plead my excuse; it has riveted me. The wrongs of persecuted Italy are so eloquently pleaded! Have you read it, my dear cavaliere? If not, allow me to present you with a copy."

Trenta made a motion with his hand, as if putting both the book and the subject from him with a certain disgust: he shakes his head.

"I have not read it, and I do not wish to read it," he replies, curtly.

The poor cavaliere feels that this is a bad beginning; but he quickly consoles himself—he was of a hopeful temperament, and saw life serenely and altogether in rose-color—by remembering that the count is habitually absent, also that he habitually uses strong language, and that he had probably not been so absorbed by the wrongs of Italy as he pretends.

"I fear you have forgotten our appointment, count," recommences the cavaliere, finding that Marescotti is silent, and that his eyes have wandered off to the pages of the open book.

"Not at all, not at all, my dear Trenta. On the contrary, had you not come, I was about to send for you. I have a very important matter to communicate to you."

The cavaliere's face now breaks out all over into smiles. "Send for me," he repeats to himself. "Good, good! I understand." He seats himself with great deliberation in a large, well-stuffed arm-chair, near the table, at which Marescotti still continues standing. He places his cane across his knees, folds his hands together, then looks up in the other's face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Permit me to proceed," urges the cavaliere, watching him anxiously. "I presume you mean to marry?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is the lady?" echoes the cavaliere. "Did you not tell me just now you were about to send for me?" Trenta speaks fast, a flush overspreads his cheeks. "Who is the lady?—You astonish me! Per Bacco! There can be but one lady in question between you and me—that lady is Enrica Guinigi." His voice drops. There is a dead silence.

"That the marriage is suitable in all respects," Trenta continues, reassured by the silence—"I need not tell you; else I, Cesare Trenta, would not be here as the ambassador."

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

"To restore and to continue an illustrious race—to unite yourself with a lovely girl just bursting into womanhood." Trenta's voice quivers as he says this. "Ah! lovely indeed, in mind as well as body," he adds, half aloud. "This is a privilege you, Count Marescotti, can appreciate above all other men. That you do appreciate it you have already made evident. There is no need for me to speak about Enrica herself; you have already judged her. You have, before my eyes, approached her with the looks and the language of passionate admiration. It is not given to all men to be so fascinating. I have seen it with delight. I love her"—his voice broke and shook with emotion—"I love her as if she were my own child."

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

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

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

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

"Bravo!—bravo, count! I see you appreciate her. Per Dio! you make me feel young again! I never was so happy in my life! I should like to dance! I will dance by-and-by at the wedding. We will open the state-rooms. There is not a grander suite in all Italy. It is superb. I will dance a quadrille with the marchesa. Bagatella! I shall insist on it. I will execute a solo in the figure of the pastorelle. I will show Baldassare and all the young men the finish of the old style. People did steps then—they did not jump like wild horses—nor knock each other down. No—then dancing was practised as a fine art."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank God!" ejaculated the count, emphatically, clasping his hands together, and raising his eyes—"thank God! Forgive me for asking." His whole voice and manner had changed as rapidly as his aspect. There was a sense of suffering, a quiet resignation about him, so utterly unlike his usual excitable manner that Trenta was puzzled beyond expression—so puzzled, indeed, that he was speechless. Besides, a veteran in etiquette, he felt that it was to himself an explanation was due. Marescotti had been about to send for him. Now he was there, Marescotti had heard his proposal, it was for Marescotti to answer.

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