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

"Not about a lady!" cried Trenta, aghast. "Mercy of God!—"

"Let that pass," interrupted the count, waving his hand. "You have asked me for an explanation—an explanation you shall have." He sighed deeply, then proceeded—the cavaliere following every word he uttered with open mouth and wildly-staring eyes: "Of the lady I can say no more than that, on my honor as a gentleman, to me she approaches nearer the divine than any woman I have ever seen—nay, than any woman I have ever dreamed of."

A flash of fire lit up the depths of the count's dark eyes, and there was a tone of melting tenderness in his rich voice as he spoke of Enrica. Then he relapsed into his former weary manner—the manner of a man pronouncing his own death-warrant.

"Of the unspeakable honor you have done me, as has also the excellent Marchesa Guinigi—it does not become me to speak. Believe me, I feel it profoundly." And the count laid his hand upon his heart and bent his grand head. Trenta, with formal politeness, returned the silent salute.

"But"—and here the count's voice faltered, and there was a dimness in his eyes, round which the black circles had deepened—"but it is an honor I must decline."

Trenta, still rooted to the same spot, listened to each word that fell from the count's lips with a look of anguish.

"Sit down, cavaliere—sit down," continued Marescotti, seeing his distress. He put his arm round Trenta's burly, well-filled figure, and drew him down gently into the depths of the arm-chair. "Listen, cavaliere—listen to what I have to say before you altogether condemn me. The sacrifice I am making costs me more than I can express. You hold before my eyes what is to me more precious than life; you tempt me with what every sense within me—heart, soul, manliness—urges me to clutch; yet I dare not accept it."

He paused; so profound a sigh escaped him that it almost formed itself into a groan.

"I don't understand all this," said Trenta, reddening with indignation. He had been by degrees collecting his scattered senses. "I don't understand it at all. You have, count, placed me in a most awkward position; I feel it very much. You speak of a mistake—a misapprehension. I beg to say there has been none on my part; I am not in the habit of making mistakes."—It will be seen that the cavaliere's temper was rising with the sense of the intolerable injury Count Marescotti was inflicting on himself and all concerned.—"I have undertaken a very serious responsibility; I have failed, you tell me. What am I to say to the marchesa?"

His shrill voice rose into an angry cry. Altogether, it was more than he could bear. For a moment, the injury to Enrica was forgotten in his own personal sense of wrong. It was too galling to fail in an official embassy Trenta, who always acted upon mature reflection, abhorred failure.

"Tell her," answered the count, raising his voice, his eyes kindling as he spoke—"tell her I am here in Lucca on a sacred mission. I confide it to her honor. A man sworn to a mission cannot marry. As in the kingdom of heaven they neither marry nor are given in marriage, so I, the anointed priest of the people, dare not marry; it would be sacrilege." His powerful voice rang through the room; he raised his hands aloft, as if invoking some unseen power to whom he belonged. "When you, cavaliere, entered this room, I was about to confide my position to you. I am at Lucca—Lucca, once the foster-mother of progress, and, I pray Heaven, to become so again!—I am at Lucca to found a mission of freedom." A sudden gesture told him how much Trenta was taken aback at this announcement. "We differ in our opinions as widely as the poles," continued the count, warming to his subject, "but you are my old friend—I felt you would not betray me. Now, after what has passed, as a man of honor, I am bound to confide in you. O Italy! my country!" exclaimed the count, clasping his hands, and throwing back his head in a frenzy of enthusiasm, "what sacrifice is too great for thee? Youth, hope, love—nay, life itself—all—all I devote to thee!"

As he was speaking, a ray of sunlight penetrated through the closed windows. It struck like a fiery arrow across the darkened room, and fell full upon the count's upturned face, lighting up every line of his noble countenance. There was a solemn passion in his eyes, a rapt fervor in his gaze, that silenced even the justly-irritated Trenta.

Nevertheless the cavaliere was not a man to be put off by mere words, however imposing they might be. He returned, therefore, to the charge perseveringly.

"You speak of a mission, Count Marescotti; what is the nature of this mission? Nothing political, I hope?"

He stopped abruptly. The count's eyelids dropped over his eyes as he met Trenta's inquiring glance. Then he bowed his head in acquiescence.

"Another revolution may do much for Italy," he answered, in a low tone.

"For the love of God," ejaculated Trenta, stung to the quick by what he looked upon at that particular moment as in itself an aggravation of his wrongs, "don't remind me of your politics, or I shall instantly leave the room. Domine Dio! it is too much. You have just escaped by the veriest good luck (good luck, by-the-way, you did not in the least deserve) a life-long imprisonment at Rome. You had a mission there, too, I believe."

This was spoken in as bitter a sneer as the cavaliere's kindly nature permitted.

"Now pray be satisfied. If you and I are not to part this very instant, don't let me realize you as the 'Red count.' That is a character I cannot tolerate."

Trenta, so seldom roused to anger, shook all over with rage. "I believe sincerely that it is such so-called patriots as yourself, with their devilish missions, that will ruin us all."

"It is because you are ignorant of the grandeur of our cause, it is because you do not understand our principles, that you misjudge us," responded the count, raising his eyes upon Trenta, and speaking with a lofty disregard of his hot words. "Permit me to unfold to you something of our philosophy, a philosophy which will resuscitate our country, and place her again in her ancient position, as intellectual monitress of Europe. You must not, cavaliere, judge either of my mission or of my creed by the yelping of the miserable curs that dog the heels of all great enterprises. There is the penetralia, the esoteric belief, in all great systems of national belief."

The count spoke with emphasis, yet in grave and measured accents; but his lustrous eyes, and the wild confusion of those black locks, that waved, as it were, sympathetic to his humor, showed that his mind was engrossed with thoughts of overwhelming interest.

The cavaliere, after his last indignant outburst, had subsided into the depths of the arm-chair in which Marescotti had placed him; it was so large as almost to swallow up the whole of his stout little person. With his hands joined, his dimpled fingers interlaced and pointing upward, he patiently awaited what the count might say. He felt painfully conscious that he had failed in his errand. This irritated him exceedingly. He had not entered that room—No. 4, at the Universo Hotel—in order to listen to the elaboration of Count Marescotti's mission, but in order to set certain marriage-bells ringing. These marriage-bells were, it seemed, to be forever mute. Still, having demanded an explanation of what he conceived to be the count's most incomprehensible conduct, he was bound, he felt, in common courtesy, to listen to all he had to say.

Now Trenta never in his life was wanting in the very flower of courtesy; he would much sooner have shot himself than be guilty of an ill-bred word. So, under protest, therefore—a protest more distinctly written in the general puckering up of his round, plump face, and a certain sulky swell about his usually smiling mouth—it was clear he meant to listen, cost him what it might. Besides, when he had heard what the count had to say, it was clearly his duty to reason with him. Who could tell that he might not yield to such a process? He avowed that he was deeply enamored of Enrica—a man in love is already half vanquished. Why should Marescotti throw away his chance of happiness for a phantasy—a mere dream? There was no real obstacle. He was versatile and visionary, but the very soul of honor. How, if he—Trenta—could bring Marescotti to see how much it would be to Enrica's advantage that he should transplant her from a dreary home, to become a wife beside him?

Decidedly it was still possible that he, Cesare Trenta, who had arranged satisfactorily so many most difficult royal complications, might yet bring Marescotti to reason. Who could tell that he might not yet be spared the humiliation of returning to impart his failure to the marchesa? A return, be it said, the good Trenta dreaded not a little, remembering the characteristics of his dear friend, and the responsibility of success which he had so confidently taken upon himself before he started.



CHAPTER VI.

A NEW PHILOSOPHY.

There had been an interval of silence, during which the count paced up and down the spacious room meditatively, each step sounding distinctly on the stone floor. The rugged look of conscious power upon his face, the far-way glance in his sombre eyes, showed that his mind was working upon what he was about to say. Presently he ceased to walk, reseated himself opposite the cavaliere, and fixed a half-absent gaze upon him.

Trenta, who would cheerfully have undergone any amount of suffering rather than listen to the abominations he felt were coming, sat with half-closed eyes, gathered into the corner of the arm-chair, the very picture of patient martyrdom.

The count contemplated him for a moment. As he did so an expression, half cynical, half melancholy, passed over his countenance, and a faint smile lurked about the corners of his mouth. Then in a voice so full and sweet that the ear eagerly drank in the sound, like the harmony of a cadence, he began:

"The Roman Catholic Church," he said, "styles itself divinely constituted. It claims to be supreme arbiter in religion and morals; supreme even in measuring intellectual progress; absolute in its jurisdiction over the state, and solely responsible to itself as to what the limit of that jurisdiction shall be. It calls itself supreme and absolute, because infallible—infallible because divine. Thus the vicious circle is complete. Now entire obedience necessarily comes into collision with every species of freedom—nay, it is in itself antagonistic to freedom—freedom of thought, freedom of action—specially antagonistic to national freedom."

"The supremacy of the pope (the Holy Father)," put in Trenta, meekly; he crossed himself several times in rapid succession, looking afterward as if it had been a great consolation to him.

"The supremacy of the pope," repeated the count, firmly, the shadow of a smile parting his lips, "is eternal. It is based as firmly in the next world as it is in this. It constitutes a condition of complete tyranny both in time and in eternity. Now I," and the count's voice rose, and his eyes glowed, "I—both in my public and private capacity—(call me Antichrist if you please)." A visible shudder passed over the poor cavaliere; his eyes closed altogether, and his lips moved. (He was repeating an Ave Maria Sanctissima). "I abhor, I renounce this slavery!—I rebel against it!—I will have none of it. Who shall control the immortality of thought?—a Pius, a Gregory? Ignorant dreamers, perjured priests!—never!"

As he spoke, the count raised his right arm, and circled it in the air. In imagination he was waving the flag of liberty over a prostrate world.

"But, alas! this slavery is riveted by the grasp of centuries; it requires measures as firm and uncompromising as its own to dislodge it. Now the pope "—Trenta did not this time attempt to correct Marescotti—"the pope is theoretically of no nation, but in reality he is of all nations; and he is surrounded by a court of celibate priests, also without nation. Observe, cavaliere—this absolute dominion is attained by celibates only—men with no family ties—no household influences." (This was spoken, as it were, en parenthese, as a comment on the earlier portion of the conversation that had taken place between them.) "Each of these celibate priests is the pope's courtier—his courtier and his slave; his slave because he is subject to a higher law than the law of his own conscience, and the law of his own country. Without home or family, nationality or worldly interest, the priest is a living machine, to be used in whatever direction his tyrant dictates. Every priest, therefore, be he cardinal or deacon, moves and acts the slave of an abstract idea; an idea incompatible with patriotism, humanity, or freedom."

An audible and deep groan escaped from the suffering cavaliere as the count's voice ceased.

"Now, Cavaliere Trenta, mark the application." As the count proceeded with his argument, his dark eyes, lit up with the enthusiasm of his own oratory, riveted themselves on the arm-chair. (It could not properly be said that his eyes riveted themselves on Trenta, for he was stooping down, his face covered with his hands, altogether insensible to any possible appeal that might be addressed to him.) "I, Manfredi Marescotti, consecrated priest of the people"—and the count drew himself up to the full height of his lofty figure—"I am as devoted to my cause—God is my witness"—and he raised his right hand as though to seal a solemn pledge of truth—"as that consecrated renegade, the pope! My followers—and their name is legion—believe in me as implicitly as do the tonsured dastards of the Vatican."

Another ill-suppressed groan escaped from Trenta, and for a moment interrupted the count's oration. The miserable cavaliere! He had, indeed, invoked an explanation, and, cost him what it might, he must abide it. But he began to think that the explanation had gone too far. He was sitting there listening to blasphemies. He was actually imperiling his own soul. He was horrified as he reflected that he might not obtain absolution when he confessed the awful language which was addressed to him. Such a risk was really greater than his submission to etiquette exacted. There were bounds even to that, the aged chamberlain told himself.

Gracious heavens!—for him, an unquestioning papalino, a sincere believer in papal infallibility and the temporal power—to hear the Holy Father called a renegade, and his faithful servants stigmatized as dastards! It was monstrous!

He secretly resolved that, once escaped from No. 4 at the Universo Hotel—and he wondered that a thunderbolt had not already struck the count dead where he stood—he would never allow himself to have any further intercourse whatever with him.

"I have been elected," continued the count, speaking in the same emphatic manner, and in the same distinct and harmonious voice, utterly careless or unobservant of the conflict of feelings under which the cavaliere was struggling—"head pope, if you please, cavaliere, so to call me."—("God forbid!" muttered Trenta.)—"It makes my analogy the clearer—I have been elected by thousands of devoted followers. But my followers are not slaves, nor am I a tyrant. I have accepted the glorious title of Priest of the People, and nothing—nothing" the count repeated, vehemently, "shall tempt me from my duty. I am here at Lucca to establish a mission—to plant in this fertile soil the sacred banner of freedom—red as the first streaks of light that lace the eastern heavens; red as the life-blood from which we draw our being. I am here, under the protection of this glorious banner, to combat the tyranny upon which the church and the throne are based. Instead of the fetters of the past, binding mankind in loathsome trammels of ignorance—instead of the darkness that broods over a subjugated world—of terrors that rend agonized souls with horrible tortures—I bring peace, freedom, light, progress. To the base ideal of perpetual tyranny—both here and hereafter—I oppose the pure ideal of absolute freedom—freedom to each separate soul to work out for itself its own innate convictions—freedom to form its independent destiny. Freedom in state, freedom in church, freedom in religion, literature, commerce, government—freedom as boundless as the sunshine that fructifies the teeming earth! Freedom of thought necessitates freedom in government. As the soul wings itself toward the light of simple truth, so should the body politic aspire to perfect freedom. This can only be found in a pure republic; a republic where all men are equal—where each man lives for the other in living for himself—where brother cleaves to brother as his own flesh—family is knit to family—one, yet many—one, yet of all nations!"

"Communism, in fact!" burst forth the cavaliere. His piping voice, now hoarse with rage, quivered. "You are here to form a communistic association! God help us!"

"I care not what you call it," cried the count, with a rising passion. "My faith, my hope, is the ideal of freedom as opposed to the abstraction of hierarchical superstition and monarchic tyranny. What are popes, kings, princes, and potentates, to me who deem all men equal? It is by a republic alone that we can regenerate our beloved, our unfortunate Italy, now tossed between a debauched monarch—a traitor, who yielded Savoy—an effete Parliament—a pack of lawyers who represent nothing but their own interests, and a pope—the recreant of Gaeta! The sooner our ideas are circulated, the sooner they will permeate among the masses. Already the harvest has been great elsewhere. I am here to sow, to reap, and to gather. For this end—mark me, cavaliere, I entreat you—I am here, for none other."

Here the triumphant patriot became suddenly embarrassed. He stopped, hesitated, stopped again, took breath, and sighed; then turned full upon Trenta, in order to obtain some response to the appeal he had addressed to him. But again Trenta, sullenly silent, had buried himself in the depths of the arm-chair, and was, so to say, invisible.

"For this end" (a mournful cadence came into the count's voice when he at length proceeded) "I am ready to sacrifice my life. My life!—what is that? I am ready to sacrifice my love—ay, my love—the love of the only woman who fulfills the longings of my poetic soul."

The count ceased speaking. The fair Enrica, with her tender smile, and patient, chastened loveliness—Enrica, as he had imagined her, the type of the young Madonna, was before him. No, Enrica could never be his; no child of his would ever be encircled by those soft, womanly arms! With a strong effort to shake off the feeling which so deeply moved him, the count continued:

"In the boundless realms of ideal philosophy"—his noble features were at this moment lit up into the living image of that hero he so much resembled—"man grapples hand to hand with the unseen. There are no limits to his glorious aspirations. He is as God himself. He, too, becomes a Creator; and a new and purer world forms beneath his hand."

"Have you done?" asked Trenta, looking up out of the arm-chair. He was so thoroughly overcome, so subdued, he could have wept. From the very commencement of the count's explanation, he had felt that it was not given to him to combat his opinions. If he could, he was not sure that he would have ventured to do so. "Let pitch alone," says the proverb.

Now Trenta, of a most cleanly nature, morally and physically—abhorred pitch, especially such pitch as this. He had long looked upon Count Marescotti as an atheist, a visionary—but he had never conceived him capable of establishing an organized system of rebellion and communism. At Lucca, too! It was horrible! By some means such an incendiary must be got rid of. Next to the foul Fiend himself established in the city, he could conceive nothing more awful! It was a Providence that Marescotti could not marry Enrica! He should tell the marchesa so. Such sophistry might have perverted Enrica also. It was more than probable that, instead of reforming him, she might have fallen a victim to his wickedness. This reflection was infinitely comforting to the much-enduring cavaliere. It lightened also much of his apprehension in approaching the marchesa, as the bearer of the count's refusal.

To Trenta's question as to "whether he had done," Marescotti had promptly replied with easy courtesy, "Certainly, if you desire it. But, my dear cavaliere," he went on to say, speaking in his usual manner, "you will now understand why, cost me what it may, I cannot marry. Never, never, I confess, have I been so fiercely tempted! But the pang is past!" And he swept his hand over his brow. "Marriage with me is impossible. You will understand this."

"Yes, yes, I quite agree with you, count," put in Trenta—sideways, as it were. He was rejoiced to find he had any common standing-point left with Marescotti. "I agree with you—marriage is quite impossible. I hope, too," he added, recovering himself a little, with a faint twinkle in his eye, "you will find your mission at Lucca equally impossible. San Riccardo grant it!" And the old man crossed himself, and secretly fingered an image of the Virgin he wore about his neck.

"Putting aside the sacred office with which I am invested," resumed the count, without noticing Trenta's observation, "no wife could sympathize with me. It would be a case of Byron over again. What agony it would be to me to see the exquisite Enrica unable to understand me! A poet, a mystic, I am only fit to live alone. My path"—and a far-away look came into his eyes—"my path lies alone upon the mountains—alone! alone!" he added sorrowfully, and a tear trembled on his eyelid.

"Then why, may I ask you," retorted Trenta, with energy, raising himself upright in the arm-chair, "why did you mislead me by such passionate language to Enrica? Recall the Guinigi Tower, your attitude—your glances—I must say, Count Marescotti, I consider your conduct unpardonable—quite unpardonable."

Trenta's face and forehead were scarlet, his steely blue eyes were rounded to their utmost width, and, as far as such mild eyes could, they glared at the count.

"You have entirely misled me. As to your political opinions, I have, thank God, nothing to do with them; that is your affair. But in this matter of Enrica you have unjustifiably misled me. I shall not forgive you in a hurry, I can tell you." There was a rustling of anger all over the cavaliere, as the leaves of the forest-trees rustle before the breath of the coming tempest.

"My admiration for women," replied the count, "has hitherto been purely aesthetic. You, cavaliere, cannot understand the discrepancies of an artistic nature. Women have been to me heretofore as beautiful abstractions. I have adored them as I adore the works of the great masters. I would as soon have thought of plucking a virgin from the canvas—a Venus from her pedestal, as of appropriating one of them. Enrica Guinigi"—there was a tender inflection in Count Marescotti's voice whenever he named her, an involuntary bending of the head that was infinitely touching—"Enrica Guinigi is an exception. I could have loved her—ah! she is worthy of all love! Her soul is as rare as her person. I read in the depths of her plaintive eyes the trust of a child and the fortitude of a heroine. If I dared to give these thoughts utterance, it was because I knew she loved another!"

"Loved another?" screamed Trenta, losing all self-control and tottering to his feet. "Loved another?" he repeated, every feature working convulsively. "What do you mean?"

Marescotti rose also. Was it possible that Trenta could be in ignorance, he asked himself, hurriedly, as he stared at the aged chamberlain, trembling from head to foot.

"Loved another? You are mad, Count Marescotti, I always said so—mad! mad!" Trenta gasped for breath. He was hardly able to articulate.

The count bowed to him ironically.

"Calm yourself, cavaliere," he said, haughtily, measuring from head to foot the plump little cavaliere, who stood before him literally panting with rage. "There is no need for violence. You and the marchesa must have known of this. I shuddered, when I thought that Enrica might have been driven into acquiescence with your proposal against her will. I love her too much to have permitted it."

The cavaliere could with difficulty bring himself to allow Marescotti to finish. He was too furious to take in the full sense of what he said. His throat was parched.

"You must answer to me for this!" Trenta could barely articulate. His voice was dry and hoarse. "You must—you shall. You have refused Enrica, now you insult her. I demand—I demand satisfaction. No excuse—no excuse!" he shouted. And seeing that Marescotti drew back toward the window, the cavaliere pressed closer upon him, stamped his foot upon the floor, and raised his clinched fist as near to the count's face as his height permitted.

Had the official sword hung at Trenta's side, he would undoubtedly have drawn it at that moment and attacked him. In the defense of Enrica he forgot his age—he forgot every thing. His very voice had changed into a manly barytone. In the absence of his sword, Trenta was evidently about to strike Marescotti. As he advanced, the other retreated.

A hot flush overspread the count's face for an instant, then it faded out, and grew pale and rigid. He remembered the cavaliere's great age, and checked himself. To avoid him, the count retreated to the farthest limit of the room, hastily seized a chair, and barricaded himself behind it. "I will not fight you, Cavaliere Trenta," he answered, speaking with calmness.

"Ah, coward!" screamed Trenta, "would you dishonor me?"

"Cavaliere Trenta, this is folly," said the count, crossing his arms on his breast. "Strike me if you please," he added, seeing that Trenta still threatened him. "Strike me; I shall not return it. On my honor as a gentleman, what I have said is true. Had you, cavaliere, been a younger man, you must have heard it in the city, at the club, the theatre; it is known everywhere."

"What is known?" asked Trenta, hoarsely, standing suddenly motionless, the flush of rage dying out of his countenance, and a look of helpless suffering taking its place.

"That Count Nobili loves Enrica Guinigi," answered Marescotti, abruptly.

Like a shot Baldassare's words rose to Trenta's remembrance. The poor old chamberlain turned very white. He quivered like a leaf, and clung to the table for support.

"Pardon me, oh! pardon me a thousand times, if I have pained you," exclaimed the count; he left the place where he was standing, threw his arms round Trenta, and placed him with careful tenderness on a seat. His generous heart upbraided him bitterly for having allowed himself for an instant to be heated by the cavaliere's reproaches. "How could I possibly imagine you did not know all this?" he asked, in the gentlest voice.

Trenta groaned.

"Take me home, take me home," he murmured, faintly. "Gran Dio! the marchesa! the marchesa!" He clasped his hands, then let them fall upon his knees.

"But what real obstacle can there be to a marriage with Count Nobili?"

"I cannot speak," answered the cavaliere, almost inaudibly, trying to rise. "Every obstacle." And he sank back helplessly on the chair.

Count Marescotti took a silver flask from a drawer, and offered him a cordial. Trenta swallowed it with the submissiveness of a child. The count picked up his cane, and placed it in his hand. The cavaliere mechanically grasped it, rose, and moved feebly toward the door.

"Let me go," he said, faintly, addressing Marescotti, who urged him to remain. "Let me go. I must inform the marchesa, I must see Enrica. Ah! if you knew all!" he whispered, looking piteously at the count. "My poor Enrica!—my pretty lamb! Who can have led her astray? How can it have happened? I must go—go at once. I am better now. Yes—give me your arm, count, I am a little weak. I thank you—it supports me."

The door of No. 4 was at last opened. The cavaliere descended the stairs very slowly, supported by Marescotti, whose looks expressed the deepest compassion. A fiacre was called from the piazza.

"The Palazzo Trenta," said Count Marescotti to the driver, handing in the cavaliere.

"No, no," he faintly interrupted, "not there. To Casa Guinigi. I must instantly see the marchesa," whispered Trenta in the count's ear.

The fiacre containing the unhappy chamberlain drove from the door, and plunged into a dark street toward the cathedral.

Count Marescotti stood for some minutes in the doorway, gazing after it. The full blaze of a hot September sun played round his uncovered head, lighting it up as with a glory. Then he turned, and, slowly reascending the stairs to No. 4, opened his door, and locked it behind him.



CHAPTER VII.

THE MARCHESA'S PASSION.

The Marchesa Guinigi dined early. She had just finished when a knock at the door of her squalid sitting-room on the second story, with the pea-green walls and shabby furniture, aroused her from what was the nearest approach to a nap in which she ever indulged. In direct opposition to Italian habits, she maintained that sleeping in the day was not only lazy, but pernicious to health. As the marchesa did not permit herself to be lulled by the morphitic influences of those long, dreary days of an Italian summer, which must perforce be passed in closed and darkened chambers, and in a stifling atmosphere, she resolutely set her face against any one in her palace enjoying this national luxury.

At the hottest moment of the twenty-four hours, and in the dog-days, when the rays of a scalding sun pour down upon roof and wall and tower like molten lead, searching out each crack and cranny with cruel persistence, the marchesa was wont stealthily to descend into the very bowels, as it were, of that great body corporate, the Guinigi Palace—to see with her own eyes if her orders were obeyed. With hard words, and threats of instant dismissal, she aroused her sleeping household. No refuge could hide an offender—no hole, however dark, could conceal so much as a kitchen-boy.

The marchesa's eye penetrated everywhere. From garret to cellar she knew the dimensions of every cupboard—the capacity of each nook—the measure of the very walls. Woe to the unlucky sleeper! his slumbers from that hour were numbered; she watched him as if he had committed a crime.

When the marchesa, as I have said, was aroused by a knock, she sat up stiffly, and rubbed her eyes before she would say, "Enter." When she spoke the word, the door slowly opened, and Cavaliere Trenta stood before her. Never had he presented himself in such an abject condition; he was panting for breath; he leaned heavily on his gold-headed cane; his snowy hair hung in disorder about his forehead, deep wrinkles had gathered on his face; his eyes were sunk in their sockets, and his white lips twitched nervously, showing his teeth.

"Cristo!" exclaimed the marchesa, fixing her keen eyes upon him, "you are going to have a fit!"

Trenta shook his head slowly.

The marchesa pulled a chair to her side. The cavaliere sank into it with a sigh of exhaustion, put his hand into his pocket, drew out his handkerchief, placed it before his eyes, and sobbed aloud.

"Trenta—Cesarino!"—and the marchesa rose, laid her long, white fingers on his shoulder—it was a cruel hand, spite of its symmetry and aristocratic whiteness—"what does this mean? Speak, speak! I hate mystification. I order you to speak!" she added, imperiously. "Have you seen Count Marescotti?"

Trenta nodded.

"What does he say? Is the marriage arranged?"

Trenta shook his head. If his life had depended upon it he could not have uttered a single word at that moment. His sobs choked him. Tears ran down his aged cheeks, moistening the wrinkles and furrows now so apparent. He was in such a piteous condition that even the marchesa was softened as she looked at him.

"If all this is because the marriage with Count Marescotti has failed, you are a fool, Trenta! a fool, do you hear?" And she leaned over him, tightened her hand upon his shoulder, and actually shook him.

Trenta submitted passively.

"On the whole, I am very glad of it. Do you hear? You talked me over, Cesarino; I have repented it ever since. Count Marescotti is not the man I should have selected for raising up heirs to the Guinigi. Now don't irritate me," she continued, with a disdainful glance at the cavaliere. "Have done with this folly. Do you hear?"

"Enrica, Enrica!" groaned Trenta, who, always accustomed to obey her, began wiping his eyes—they would, however, keep overflowing—"O marchesa! how can I tell you?"

"Tell me what?" demanded the marchesa, sternly.

Her breath came short and quick, her thin face grew set and rigid. Like a veteran war-horse, she scented the battle from afar!

"Ah! if you only knew all!" And a great spasm passed over the cavaliere's frame. "You must prepare yourself for the worst."

The marchesa laughed—a short, contemptuous laugh—and shrugged her shoulders.

"Enrica, Enrica—what can she do?—a child! She cannot compromise me, or my name."

"Enrica has compromised both," cried Trenta, roused at last from his paroxysm of grief. "Enrica has more than compromised it; she has compromised all the Guinigi that ever lived—you, the palace, herself—every one. Enrica has a lover!" The marchesa bounded from her chair; her face turned livid in the waning light.

"Who told you this?" she asked, in a strange, hollow voice, without turning her eyes or moving a muscle of her face.

"Count Marescotti," answered Trenta, meekly.

He positively cowered beneath the pent-up wrath of the marchesa.

"Who is the man?"

"Nobili."

"What!—Count Nobili?"

"Yes, Count Nobili."

With a great effort she commanded herself, and continued interrogating Trenta.

"How did Marescotti hear it?"

"From common report. It is known all over Lucca."

"Was this the reason that Count Marescotti declined to marry my niece?"

The marchesa spoke in the same strange tone, but she fixed her eyes savagely on Trenta, so as to be able to convince herself how far he might dare to equivocate.

"That was a principal reason," replied the cavaliere, in a faltering voice; "but there were others."

"What are the others to me? The dishonor of my niece is sufficient."

There was a desperate composure about the marchesa, more terrible than passion.

"Her dishonor! God and all the saints forbid!" retorted Trenta, clasping his hands. "Marescotti did not speak of dishonor."

"But I speak of dishonor!" shrieked the marchesa, and the pent-up rage within her flashed out over her face like a tongue of fire. "Dishonor!—the vilest, basest dishonor! What do I care "—and she stamped her foot loudly on the brick floor—"what do I care what Nobili has done to her? By that one fact of loving him she has soiled this sacred roof." The marchesa's eyes wandered wildly round the room. "She has soiled the name I bear. I will cast her forth into the street to beg—to starve!"

And as the words fell from her lips she stretched out her long arm and bony finger as in a withering curse.

"But, ha! ha!"—and her terrible voice echoed through the empty room—"I forgot. Count Nobili loves her; he will keep her—in luxury, too—and in a Guinigi palace!" She hissed out these last words. "She has learned her way there already. Let her go—go instantly," the marchesa's hand was on the bell. "Let her go, the soft-voiced viper!"

The transport of fury which possessed the marchesa had had the effect of completely recalling Trenta to himself. For his great age, Trenta possessed extraordinary recuperative powers, both of body and mind. Not only had he so far recovered while the marchesa had been speaking as to arrange his hair and his features, and to smoothe the creases of his official coat into something of their habitual punctilious neatness, but he had had time to reflect. Unless he could turn the marchesa from her dreadful purpose, Enrica (still under all circumstances his beloved child) would infallibly be turned into the street by her remorseless aunt.

At the moment that the marchesa had laid her hand upon the bell, Trenta darted forward and tore it from her hand.

"For the love of the Virgin, pause before you commit so horrible an act!"

So sudden had been his movement, so unwonted his energy, that the marchesa was checked in the very climax of her passion.

"If you have no mercy on a child that you have reared at your side," exclaimed Trenta, laying his hand on hers, "spare yourself, your name, your house, such a scandal! Is it for this that you cherish the name of the great Paolo Guinigi, whose acts were acts of clemency and wisdom? Is it for this you honor the memory of Castruccio Castracani, who was called the 'father of the people?' Bethink you, marchesa, that they lived under this very roof. You dare not—no, not even you—dare not tarnish their memories! Call Enrica here. It is the barest justice that the accused should be heard. Ask her what she has done? Ask her what has passed? How she has met Count Nobili? Until an hour ago I could have sworn she did not even know him."

"Ay, ay," burst out the marchesa, "so could I. How did she come to know him?"

"That is precisely what we must learn," continued Trenta, eagerly seizing on the slightest abatement of the marchesa's wrath. "That is what we must ask her. Marchesa, in common decency, you cannot put your own niece out of your house without seeing her and hearing her explanation."

"You may call her, if you please," answered the marchesa, with a look of dogged rage; "but I warn you, Cesare Trenta, if she avows her love for Nobili in my presence, I shall esteem that in itself the foulest crime she can commit. If she avows it, she leaves my house to-night. Let her die!—I care not what becomes of her!"



CHAPTER VIII.

ENRICA'S TRIAL.

The Cavaliere Trenta, without an instant's delay, seized the bell and rang it. The broken-down retainer, in his suit of well-worn livery, shuffled in through the anteroom.

"What did the excellency command?" he asked in a dreary voice, as the marchesa did not address him.

"Tell the signorina that the Marchesa Guinigi desires her presence immediately," answered the cavaliere, promptly. He would not give her an opportunity of speaking.

"Her excellency shall be obeyed," replied the servant, still addressing himself to the marchesa. He bowed, then glided noiselessly from the room.

A door is heard to open, then to shut; a bell is rung; there is a muttered conversation in the anteroom, and the sound of receding footsteps; then a side-door in the corner of the sitting-room near the window opens; there is the slight rustle of a summer dress, and Enrica stands before them.

It is the same hour of sunset as when she had sat there three days before, knitting beside the open casement, with the twisted marble colonnettes and delicate tracery. The same subtile fragrance of the magnolia rises upward from the waxy leaves of the tall flowering trees growing beneath in the Moorish garden. The low rays of the setting sun flit upon her flaxen hair, defining each delicate curl, and sharply marking the outline of her slight girlish figure; the slender waist, the small hands. Even the little foot is visible under the folds of her light dress.

Enrica's face is in shadow, but, as she raises it and sees the cavaliere seated beside her aunt, a quiet smile plays about her mouth, and a gleam of pleasure rises in her eyes.

What is it that makes youth in Italy so fresh and beautiful—so lithe, erect, and strong? What gives that lustre to the eye, that ripple to the hair, that faultless mould to the features, that mellowness to the skin—like the ruddy rind of the pomegranate—those rounded limbs that move with sovereign ease—that step, as of gods treading the earth? Is it the color of the golden skies? Is it a philter brewed by the burning sunshine? or is it found in the deep shadows that brood in the radiance of the starry night? Is it in those sounds of music ever floating in the air? or in the solemn silence of the primeval chestnut-woods? Does it come in the crackling of the mountain-storm—in the terror of the earthquake? Does it breathe from the azure seas that belt the classic land—or in the rippling cadence of untrodden streams amid lonely mountains? Whence comes it?—how?—where? I cannot tell.

The marchesa is seated on her accustomed seat; her face is shaded by her hand. So stern, so solemn, is her attitude that her chair seems suddenly turned into a judgment-seat.

The cavaliere has risen at Enrica's entrance. Not daring to display his feelings in the presence of the marchesa, he thrusts his hands into his pockets, and stands behind her, his head partly turned away, leaning against the edge of the marble mantel-piece. There is such absolute silence in the room that the ticking of a clock is distinctly heard. It is the deadly pause before the slaughter of the battle. "You sent for me, my aunt?" Enrica speaks in a timid voice, not moving from the spot where she has entered, near the open window. "What is your pleasure?"

"My pleasure!" the marchesa catches up and echoes the words with a horrible jeer. (She had been collecting her forces for attack; she had lashed herself into a transport of fury. Her smooth, snake-like head was reared erect; her upright figure, too thin to be majestic, stiffened. Thunder and lightning were in her eyes as she turned them on Enrica.) "You dare to ask me my pleasure! You shall hear it, lost, miserable girl! Leave this house—go to your lover! Let it be the motto of his low-born race that a Nobili dishonored a Guinigi. Go—I wish you were dead!" and she points with her finger toward the door.

Every word that fell from the marchesa sounded like a curse. As she speaks, the smiles fade out of Enrica's face as the lurid sunlight fades before the rising tempest. She grasps a chair for support. Her bosom heaves under the folds of her thin white dress. Her eyes, which had fixed themselves on her aunt, fall with an agonized expression on the floor. Thus she stands, speechless, motionless, passive; stunned, as it were, by the shock of the words.

Then a low cry of pain escapes her, a cry like the complaint of a dumb animal—the bleat of a lamb under the butcher's knife.

"Have I not reared you as my own child?" cries the marchesa—too excited to remain silent in the presence of her victim. "Have you ever left my side? Yet under my ancestral roof you have dared to degrade yourself. Out upon you!—Go, go—or with my own hand I shall drive you into the street!"

She starts up, and is rushing upon Enrica, who stands motionless before her, when Trenta steps forward, puts his hand firmly on the marchesa's arm, and draws her back.

"You have called Enrica here," he whispers, "to question her. Do so—do so. Look, she is so overcome she cannot speak," and he points to Enrica, who is now trembling like an aspen-leaf, her fair head bowed upon her bosom, the big tears trickling down her white cheeks.

When the marchesa, checked by Trenta, has ceased speaking, Enrica raises her heavy eyelids and turns her eyes, swimming in tears, upon her aunt. Then she clasps her hands—the small fingers knitting themselves together with a grasp of agony—and wrings them. Her lips move, but no sound comes from them. Something there is so pitiful in this mute appeal—she looks so slight and frail in the background of the fading sunlight—there is such a depth of unspoken pathos in every line of her young face—that the marchesa pauses; she pauses ere putting into execution her resolve of turning Enrica herself, with her own hands, from the palace.

A new sentiment has also within the last few minutes arisen within her—a sentiment of curiosity. The marchesa is a woman; in many respects a thorough woman. The first flash of fury once passed, she feels an intense longing to know how all this had come about. What had passed? How had Enrica met Nobili? Whether any of her household had betrayed her? On whom her just vengeance shall fall?

Each moment that passes as the quick thoughts rattle through her brain, it seems to her more and more imperative that she should inform herself what had really happened under her roof!

At this moment Enrica speaks in a low voice.

"O my aunt! I have done nothing! Indeed, indeed,"—and a great sob breaks in and cuts her speech. "I have done nothing."

"What!" cries the marchesa, her fury again roused by such a daring assertion. "What do you call nothing? Do you deny that you love Nobili?"

"No, my aunt. I love him—I love him."

The mention of Nobili's name gave Enrica courage. With that name the sunlit days of meeting came back again. A gleam of their divine refraction swam before her. Nobili—is he not strong, and brave, and true? Is he not near at hand? Oh, if he only knew her need!—oh, if he could only rush to her—bear her in his arms away—away to untrodden lands of love and bliss where she could hide her head upon his breast and be at peace!

All this gave her courage. She passes her hand over her face and brushes the tears away. Her blue eyes, that shine out now like a rent in a cloudy sky, are meekly but fearlessly cast upon her aunt.

"You dare to tell me you love him—you dare to avow it in my presence, degraded girl! have you no pride—no decency?"

"I have done nothing," Enrica answers in the same voice, "of which I am ashamed. From the first moment I saw him I loved him. I loved—him—oh! how I loved him!" She repeats this softly, as if speaking to herself. An inner light shines over her whole countenance. "And Nobili loves me. I know it." Her voice sounds sweet and firm. "He is mine!"

"Fool, you think so; you are but one of many!" The marchesa, incensed beyond endurance at her firmness, raises her head with the action of a snake about to spring upon its prey. "Dare you deny that you are his mistress?"

(Could the marchesa have seen the cavaliere standing behind her, at that moment, and how those eyes of his were riveted on Enrica with a look in which hope, thankfulness, pity, and joy, crossed and combated together—mercy on us! she would have turned and struck him!)

The shock of the words overcame Enrica. She fixes her eyes on her aunt as if not understanding their meaning. Then a deep blush covers her from head to foot; she trembles and presses both her hands to her bosom as if in pain.

"Spare her, spare her!" is heard in less audible sounds from Trenta to the marchesa. The marchesa tosses her head defiantly.

"I am to be Count Nobili's wife," Enrica says at last, in a faltering voice. "The Holy Mother is my witness, I have done nothing wrong. I have met him in the cathedral, and at the door of the Moorish garden. He has written to me, and I have answered."

"Doubtless; and you have met him alone?" asked the marchesa, with a savage sneer.

"Never, my aunt; Teresa was always with me."

"Teresa, curse her! She shall leave the house as naked as she came into it. How many other of my servants did you corrupt?"

"Not one; it was known to her and to me only."

"And why not to me, your guardian? why not to me?" And the marchesa advances step by step toward Enrica, as the bitter consciousness of having been hoodwinked by such a child fills her with fresh rage. "You have deceived me—I who have fed and clothed and nourished you—I who, but for this, would have endowed you with all I have, bequeathed to you a name greater than that of kings! Answer me this, Enrica. Leave off wringing your hands and turning up your eyes. Answer me!"

"My aunt, I was afraid."

"Afraid!" and the marchesa laughs a loud and scornful laugh; "you were not, afraid to meet this man in secret."

"No. Fear him! what had I to fear? Nobili loves me."

The word was spoken. Now she had courage to meet the marchesa's gaze unmoved, spite of the menace of her look and attitude. Enrica's conscience acquitted her of any wrong save the wrong of concealment, "Had you asked me," she adds, more timidly, "I should have spoken. You have asked me now, and I have told you."

The very spirit of truth spoke in Enrica. Not even the marchesa could doubt her. Enrica had not disgraced the name she bore. She believed her; but there was a sting behind sharper to her than death. That sting remained. Enrica had confessed her love for the man she hated!

As to the cavaliere, the difficulty he experienced at this moment in controlling his feelings amounted to positive agony. His Enrica is safe! San Riccardo be thanked! She is safe—she is pure! Except his eyes, which glowed with the secret ecstasy he felt, he appeared outwardly as impassive as a stone. The marchesa turned and reseated herself. There is, spite of her violence, an indescribable majesty about her as she sits erect and firm upon her chair in judgment on her niece. Right or wrong, the marchesa is a woman born to command.

"It is not for me," she says, with lofty composure, "to reason with a love-sick girl, whose mind runs to the tune of her lover's name. Of all living men I abhor Count Nobili. To love him, in my eyes, is a crime—yes, a crime," she repeats, raising her voice, seeing that Enrica is about to speak. "I know him—he is a vain, purse-proud reprobate. He has come and planted himself like a mushroom within our ancient walls. Nor did this content him—he has had the presumption to lodge himself in a Guinigi palace. The blood in his veins is as mud. That he cannot help, nor do I reproach him for it; but he has forced himself into our class—he has mingled his name with the old names of the city; he has dared to speak—live—act—as if he were one of us. You, Enrica, are the last of the Guinigi. I had hoped that a child I had reared at my side would have learned and reflected my will—would have repaid me for years of care by her obedience."

"O my aunt!" exclaims Enrica, sinking on her knees, "forgive me—forgive me! I am ungrateful."

"Rise," cries the marchesa, sternly, not in the least touched by this outburst of natural feeling. "I care not for words—your acts show you have defied me. The project which for years I have silently nursed in my bosom, waiting for the fitting time to disclose it to you—the project of building up through you the great Guinigi name."

The marchesa pauses; she gasps, as if for breath. A quick flush steals over her white face, and for a moment she leans back in her chair, unable to proceed. Then she presses her hand to her forehead, on which the perspiration had risen in beads.

"Alas! I did not know it!" Enrica is now sobbing bitterly. "Why—oh! why, did you not trust me?"

In a strange, weary-sounding voice the marchesa continues:

"Let us not speak of it. Enrica"—she turns her gray eyes full upon her, as she stands motionless in front of the pillared casement—"Enrica, you must choose. Renounce Nobili, or prepare to enter a convent. His wife you can never be."

As a shot that strikes a brightly-plumaged bird full in its softly-feathered breast, so did these dreadful words strike Enrica. There is a faint, low cry, she has fallen upon the floor!

The marchesa did not move, but, looking at her where she lay, she slowly shook her head. Not so the cavaliere. He rushed forward, and raised her tenderly in his arms. The tears streamed down his aged cheeks.

"Take her away!" cried the marchesa; "take her away! She has broken my heart!"



CHAPTER IX.

WHAT CAME OF IT.

When Cavaliere Trenta returned, after he had led away Enrica, and consigned her to Teresa, he was very grave. As he crossed the room toward the marchesa, he moved feebly, and leaned heavily on his stick. Then he drew a chair opposite to her, sat down, heaved a deep sigh, and raised his eyes to her face.

The marchesa had not moved. She did not move now, but sat the picture of hard, haughty despair—a despair that would gnaw body and soul, yet give no sigh. But the cavaliere was now too much absorbed by Enrica's sufferings to affect even to take much heed of the marchesa.

"This is a very serious business," he began, abruptly. "You may have to answer for that girl's life. I shall be the first to witness against you."

Never in her life had the marchesa heard Cesare Trenta deliver himself of such a decided censure upon her conduct. His wheedling, coaxing manner was all gone. He was neither the courtier nor the counselor. He neither insinuated nor suggested, but spoke bluntly out bold words, and those upon a subject she esteemed essentially her own. Even in the depth of her despondency it made a certain impression upon her.

She roused herself and glared at him, but there was no shrinking in his face. Trenta's clear round eyes, so honest and loyal in their expression, seemed to pierce her through and through. She fancied, too, that he contemplated her with a sort of horror.

"You have accused Enrica," he continued; "she has cleared herself. You cannot doubt her. Why do you continue to torture her?"

"That is my affair," answered the marchesa, doggedly. "She has deceived me, and defied me. She has outraged the usages of society. Is not that enough?"

"You have brought her up to fear you," interrupted Trenta. "Had she not feared you, she would never have deceived you."

"What is that to you? How dare you question me?" cried the marchesa, the glitter of passion lighting up her eyes. "Is it not enough that by this deception she has foiled me in the whole purpose of my life? I have given her the choice. Resign Nobili, or a convent."

Saying this, she closed her lips tightly. Trenta, in the heat of his enthusiasm for Enrica, had gone too far. He felt it; he hastened to rectify his error.

"Every thing that concerns you and your family, Marchesa Guinigi, is a subject of overwhelming interest to me."

Now the cavaliere spoke in his blandest manner. The smoothness of the courtier seemed to unknit the wrinkles on his face. The look of displeasure melted out of his eyes, the roughness fled from his voice.

"Remember, marchesa, I am your oldest friend. A crisis has arrived; a scandal may ensue. You must now decide."

"I have decided," returned the marchesa; "that decision you have heard." And again her lips closed hermetically.

"But permit me. There are many considerations that will doubtless present themselves to you as necessary ingredients of this decision. If Enrica goes into religion, the Guinigi race is doomed. Why should you, with your own hand, destroy the work of your life? If Enrica will not consent to renounce her engagement to Count Nobili, why should she not marry him? There is no real obstacle other than your will."

No sooner were these daring words uttered, than the cavaliere positively trembled. The marchesa listened to them in ominous silence. Such a possibility had never presented itself for a instant to her imagination. She turned slowly round, pressed her hands tightly on her knees, and darkly eyed him.

"You think that I should consent to such a marriage?" she asked in a deep voice, a mocking smile upon her lips.

"I think, marchesa, that you should sacrifice every thing—yes—every thing." And Trenta, feeling himself on safe ground, repeated the word with an audacity that would have surprised those who only knew him in the polite details of ordinary life. "I think that you should sacrifice every thing to the interests of your house."

This was hitting the marchesa home. She felt it and winced; but her resolution was unshaken.

"Did I not know that you are descended from a line as ancient, though not so illustrious as my own, I should think I was listening to a Jew peddler of Leghorn," she replied, with insolent cynicism.

The cavaliere felt deeply offended, but had the presence of mind to affect a smile, as though what she had said was an excellent joke.

"Nobili shall never mix his blood with the Guinigi—I swear it! Rather let our name die out from the land."

She raised both her hands in the twilight to ratify the imprecation she had hurled upon her race. Her voice died away into the corner of the darkening room; her thoughts wandered. She sat in spirit upon the seigneurial throne, below, in the presence-chamber. Should Nobili sit there, on that hallowed seat of her ancestors?—the old Lombard palace call him master, living—gather his bones with their ashes, dead?—Never! Better far moulder into ruin as they had mouldered. Had she not already permitted herself to be too much influenced? She had offered Enrica in marriage to Count Marescotti, and he had refused her—refused her niece!

Suddenly she shook off the incubus of these thoughts and turned toward Trenta. He had been watching her anxiously.

"I can never forgive Enrica," she said. "She may not have disgraced herself—that matters little—but she has disgraced me. She must enter a convent; until then I will allow her to remain in my house."

"Exactly," burst in Trenta, again betrayed into undue warmth by this concession.

The cavaliere was old; he had seen that life revolves itself strangely in a circle, from which we may diverge, but from which we seldom disentangle ourselves. Desperate resolves are taken, tragedies are planned, but Fate or Providence intervenes. The old balance pendulates again—the foot falls into the familiar step. Death comes to cut the Gordian knot. The grave-sod covers all that is left, and the worm feeds on the busy brain.

As a man of the world, Trenta was a profound believer in the chapter of accidents.

"I will not put Enrica out of my house," resumed the marchesa, gazing at him suspiciously. (Trenta seemed, she thought, wonderfully interested in Enrica's fate. She had noticed this interest once before. She did not like it. What was Enrica to him? Trenta was her friend.) "But she shall remain on one condition only—Nobili's name must never be mentioned. You can inform her of this, as you have taken already so much upon yourself. Do you hear?"

"Certainly, certainly," answered the chamberlain with alacrity. "You shall be obeyed. I will answer for it—excellent marchesa, you are right, always right"—and he stooped down and gently took her thin fingers in his fat hands, and touched them with his lips.

"I will cause no scandal," she continued, withdrawing her hand. "Once in a convent, Enrica can harm no one."

"No, certainly not," responded Trenta, "and the family will become extinct. This palace and its precious heirlooms will be sold."

The marchesa put out her hand with silent horror.

"It is the case with so many of our great families," continued the impassable Trenta. "Now, on the other hand, Enrica may possibly change her mind; Nobili may change his mind. Circumstances quite unforeseen may occur—who can answer for circumstances?"

The marchesa listened silently. This was always a good sign; she was too obstinate to confess herself convinced. But, spite of her prejudices, her natural shrewdness forbade her to reject absolutely the voice of reason.

"I shall not treat Enrica cruelly," was her reply, "nor will I cause a scandal, but I can never forgive her. By this act of loving Nobili she has separated herself from me irrevocably. Let her renounce him; she has her choice—mine is already made."

The cavaliere listened in silence. Much had been gained, in his opinion, by this partial concession. The subject had been broached, the hated name mentioned, the possibility of the marriage mooted. He rose with a cheerful smile to take his leave.

"Marchesa, it is late—permit me to salute you; you must require repose."

"Yes," she answered, sighing deeply. "It seems to me a year since I entered this room. I must leave Lucca. Enrica cannot, after what has passed, remain here. Thanks to her, I, in the solitude of my own palace, am become the common town-talk. Cesare, I shall leave Lucca to-morrow for my villa of Corellia. Good-night."

The cavaliere again kissed her hand and departed.

"If that weathercock of a thousand colors, that idiot, Marescotti," muttered the cavaliere, as he descended the stairs, "could only be got to give up his impious mission, and marry the dear child, all might yet be right. He has an eye and a tongue that would charm a woman into anything. Alas! alas! what a pasticcio!—made by herself—made by herself and her lawsuits about the defunct Guinigi—damn them!"

It was seldom that the cavaliere used bad words—excuse him.



PART III



CHAPTER I.

A LONELY TOWN.

The road from Lucca to Corellia lies at the foot of lofty mountains, over-mantled by chestnut-forests, and cleft asunder by the river Serchio—the broad, willful Serchio, sprung from the flanks of virgin fastnesses. In its course a thousand valleys open up, scoring the banks. Each valley has its tributary stream, down which, even in the dog-days, cool breezes rustle. The lower hills lying warm toward the south, and the broad glassy lands by the river, are trellised with vines. Some fling their branches in wild festoons on mulberry or aspen trees. Some trained in long arbors are held up by pillars of unbarked wood; others trail upon the earth in delicious luxuriance. The white and purple grapes peep from the already shriveled leaves, or hang in rich masses on the brown earth.

It is the vintage. The peasants, busy as bees, swarm on the hill-sides; the women pluck the fruit; the men bear it away in wooden measures. While they work, they sing those wild Tuscan melodies that linger in the air like long-drawn sighs. The donkeys, too, climb up and down, saddled with wooden panniers, crammed with grapes. These grapes are shot into large tubs, and placed in a shady outhouse. Some black-eyed boy will dance merrily on these tubs, by-and-by, with his naked feet, and squeeze out the juice. This juice is then covered and left to ferment, then bottled into flasks, covered with wicker-work, corked with tow, and finally stowed away in caves among the rocks.

The marchesa's lumbering coach, drawn by three horses harnessed abreast (another horse, smaller than the rest, put in tandem in front), creaks along the road by the river-side, on its high wheels. She sits within, a stony look upon her hard white face. Enrica, pale and silent, is beside her. No word has passed between them since they left Lucca two hours ago. They pass groups of peasants, their labors over for the day—turning out of the vineyards upon the high-road. The donkeys are driven on in front. They are braying for joy; their faces are turned homeward. Boys run at their heels, and spur them on with sticks and stones. The women lag behind talking—their white head-gear and gold ear-rings catching the low sunshine that strikes through rents of parting mountains. Every man takes off his hat to the marchesa; every woman wishes her good-day.

It is only the boys who do not fear her. They have no caps to raise; when the carriage has passed, they leave the donkeys and hang on behind like a swarm of bees. The driver is quite aware of this, and his long whip, which he has cracked at intervals all the way from Lucca—would reach the grinning, white-toothed little vagabonds well; but he—the driver—grins too, and spares them.

Together they all mount the zigzag mountain-pass, that turns short off from the right bank of the valley of the Serchio, toward Corellia. The peasants sing choruses as they trudge upward, taking short cuts among the trees at the angles of the zigzag. The evening lights come and go among the chestnut-trees and on the soft, short grass. Here a fierce flick of sunshine shoots across the road; there deep gloom darkens an angle into which the coach plunges, the peasants, grouped on the top of a bank overhead, standing out darkly in the yellow glow.

It is a lonely pass in the very bosom of the Apennines, midway between Lucca and Modena. In winter the road is clogged with snow; nothing can pass. Now, there is no sound but the singing of water-falls, and the trickle of water-courses, the chirrup of the cicala, not yet gone to its rest—and the murmur of the hot breezes rustling in the distant forest.

No sound—save when sudden thunder-pelts wake awful echoes among the great brotherhood of mountain-tops—when torrents burst forth, pouring downward, flooding the narrow garden ledges, and tearing away the patches of corn and vineyard, the people's food. Before—behind—around—arise peaks of purple Apennines, cresting upward into the blue sky—an earthen sea dashed into sudden breakers, then struck motionless. In front, in solitary state, rises the lofty summit of La Pagna, casting off its giant mountain-fellows right and left, which fade away into a golden haze toward Modena.

High up overhead, crowning a precipitous rock, stands Corellia, a knot of browned, sun-baked houses, flat-roofed, open-galleried, many-storied, nestling round a ruined castle, athwart whose rents the ardent sunshine darts. This ruined castle and the tower of an ancient Lombard church, heavily arched and galleried with stone, gleaming out upon a surface of faded brickwork, form the outline of the little town. It is inclosed by solid walls, and entered by an archway so low that the marchesa's driver has to dismount as he passes through. The heavy old carriage rumbles in with a hollow noise; the horse's hoofs strike upon the rough stones with a harsh, loud sound.

The whole town of Corellia belongs to the marchesa. It is an ancient fief of the Guinigi. Legend says that Castruccio Castracani was born here. This is enough for the marchesa. As in the palace of Lucca, she still—even at lonely Corellia—lives as it were under the shadow of that great ancestral name.

Lonely Corellia! Yes, it is lonely! The church bells, high up in the Lombard tower sound loudly the matins and the eventide. They sound louder still on the saints days and festivals. With the festivals pass summer and winter, both dreary to the poor. Children are born, and marriage-flutes wake the echoes of the mountain solitudes—and mothers weep, hearing them, remembering their young days and present pinching want. The aged groan, for joy to them comes like a fresh pang!

The marchesa's carriage passes through Corellia at a foot's pace. The driver has no choice. It is most difficult to drive at all—the street is so narrow, and the door-steps of the houses jut out so into the narrow space. The horses, too, hired at Lucca, twenty miles away, are tired, poor beasts, and reeking with the heat. They can hardly keep their feet upon the rugged, slippery stones that pave the dirty alley. As the marchesa passes slowly by, wan-faced women—colored handkerchiefs gathered in folds upon their heads, knitting or spinning flax cut from the little field without upon the mountain-side—put down the black, curly-headed urchins that cling to their laps—rise from where they are resting on the door-step, and salute the marchesa with an awe-struck stare. She, in no mood for condescension, answers them with a frown. Why have these wan-faced mothers, with scarcely bread to eat, children between their knees? Why has God given her none? Again the impious thought rises within her which tempted her when standing before the marriage-bed in the nuptial chamber. "God is my enemy." "He has smitten me with a curse." "Why have I no child?" "No child, nothing but her"—and she flashes a savage glance at Enrica, who has sunk backward, covering her tear-stained face with a black veil, to avoid the peering eyes of the Corellia townsfolk—"nothing but her. Born to disgrace me. Would she were dead! Then all would end, and I should go down—the last Guinigi—to an honored grave."

The sick, too, are sitting at the doorways as the marchesa passes by. The mark of fever is on many an ashy cheek. These sick have been carried from their beds to breathe such air as evening brings. Air! There is no air from heaven in these foul streets. No sweet breath circulates; no summer scents of grasses and flowers reach the lonely town hung up so high. The summer sun scorches. The icy winds of winter, sweeping down from Alpine ridges, whistle round the walls. Within are chilly, desolate hearths, on which no fire is kindled. These sick, as the carriage passes, turn their weary eyes, and lift up their wasted hands in mute salutations to that dreaded mistress who is lord of all—the great marchesa. Will they not lie in the marchesa's ground when their hour comes? Alas! how soon—their weakness tells them very soon! Will they not be carried in an open bier up those long flights of steps—all hers—cut in the rocky sides of overlapping rocks, to the cemetery, darkly shaded by waving cypresses? The ground is hers, the rocks, the steps, the stones, the very flowers that brown, skinny hands will sprinkle on their bier—all hers. From birth to bridal, and the marriage-bed (so fruitful to the poor), from bridal to death, all hers. The land they live on, and the graves they fill, all—but a shadow of her greatness!

At the corner of the squalid, ill-smelling street through which she is now passing, is the town fountain. This fountain, once a willful mountain-torrent, now cruelly captured and borne hither by municipal force, splashes downward through a sculptured circle cut in a marble slab, into a covered trough below. Here bold-eyed maidens are gathered, who poise copper vessels on their dark heads—maidens who can chat, and laugh, and romp, on holidays, and with flushed faces dance wild tarantellas (fingers for castanets), where the old tale of love is told in many a subtile step, and shuffle, rush, escape, and feint, ending in certain capture! Beside the maidens linger some mountain lads. Now their work is over, they loll against the wall, pipe in mouth, or lie stretched on a plot of grass that grows green under the spray of the fountain. In a dark angle, a little behind from these, there is a shrine hollowed out of the city wall. Within the shrine an image of the Holy Mother of the Seven Sorrows stands, her arms outstretched, her bosom pierced by seven gilded arrows. The shrine is protected by an iron grating. Bunches of pale hill-side blossoms, ferns, and a few blades of corn, are thrust in between the bars. Some lie at the Virgin's feet—offerings from those who have nothing else to give. A little group (but these are old, and bowed by grief and want) kneel beside the shrine in the quiet evening-tide.

The rumble of a carriage, so strange a sound in lonely Corellia, rouses all. From year to year, no wheels pass through the town save the marchesa's. Ere she appears, all know who it must be. The kneelers at the shrine start up and hobble forward to stare and wonder at that strange world whence she comes, so far away at Lucca. The maidens courtesy and smile; the lads jump up, and range themselves respectfully against the wall; yet in their hearts neither care for her—neither the maidens nor the lads—no one cares for the marchesa. They are all looking out for Enrica. Why does the signorina lie back in the carriage a mass of clothes? The maidens would like to see how those clothes are made, to cut their poor garments something like them. The lads would like to let their eyes rest on her golden hair. Why does the Signorina Enrica not nod and smile to those she knows, as is her wont? Has that old tyrant, her aunt—these young ones are bold, and dare to whisper what others think; they have no care, and, like the lilies of the field, live in the wild, free air—has that old tyrant, her aunt, bewitched her?

Now the carriage has emerged from the dark alley, and entered the dirty but somewhat less dark piazza—the market-place of Corellia. The old Lombard church of Santa Barbara, with its big bells in the arched tower, hanging plainly to be seen, opens into the piazza by a flight of steps and a sculptured doorway. The Municipio, too, calling itself a palace (heaven save the mark!), with its list of births, deaths, and marriages, posted on a black-board outside the door, to be seen of all, adorns it. The Cafe of the Tricolor, and such shops as Corellia boasts of, are there opposite. Men, smoking, and drinking native wine, are lounging about. Ser Giacomo, the notary, spectacles on nose, sits at a table in a corner, reading aloud to a select audience a weekly broad-sheet published at Lucca, news of men and things not of the mountain-tops. Every soul starts up as they hear wheels approaching. If a bomb had burst in the piazza the panic could not be greater. They know it is the marchesa. They know that now the marchesa is come she will grind and harry them, and seize her share of grapes, and corn, and olives, to the uttermost farthing. Silvestro, her steward, a timid, pitiful man, can be got over by soft words, and the sight of want and misery. Not so the marchesa. They know that now she is come she will call the Town Council, fine them, pursue them for rent, cite them to the High Court of Barga, imprison them if they cannot pay. They know her, and they curse her. The ill-news of her arrival runs from lip to lip. Checco, the butcher, who sells his meat cut into dark, indescribably-shaped scraps, more fit for dogs than men, first sees the carriage turn into the piazza. He passes the word on to Oreste, the barber round the corner. Oreste, who, with his brother Pilade, both wearing snow-white aprons, are squaring themselves at their open doorway, over which hangs a copper basin, shaped like Manbrino's helmet, looking for customers—Oreste and Pilade turn pale. Then Oreste tells the baker, Pietro, who, naked as Nature made him, has run out from his oven to the open door, for a breath of air. The bewildered clerk at the Municipio, who sits and writes, and sleeps by turns, all day, in a low room beside a desk, taking notes for the sindaco (mayor) from all who come (he is so tired, that clerk, he would hear the last trumpet sound unmoved), even he hears the news, and starts up.

Now the carriage stops. It has drawn up in the centre of the piazza. It is the marchesa's custom. She puts her head out of the window, and takes a long, grave look all round. These are her vassals. They fear her. She knows it, and she glories in it. Every head is uncovered, every eye turned upon her. It is obviously some one's duty to salute her and to welcome her to her domain. She has stopped for this purpose. It is always done. No one, however, stirs. Ser Giacomo, the notary, bows low beside the table where he has been caught reading the Lucca broad-sheet; but Ser Giacomo does not stir. How he wishes he had staid at home!

He has not the courage to move one step toward her. Something must be done, so Ser Giacomo he runs and fetches the sindaco from inside the recesses of the cafe, where he is playing dominoes under a lighted lamp. The sindaco must give the marchesa a formal welcome. The sindaco, a saddler by trade—a snuffy little man, with a face drawn and yellow as parchment, wearing his working-clothes—advances to the carriage with a step as cautious as a cat.

"I trust the illustrious lady is well," he says timidly, bowing low and trying to smile. Mr. Sindaco is frightened, but he can be proud enough to his fellow-townsfolk, and he is downright cruel to that poor lad his clerk, at the Municipal Palace.

The marchesa, with a cold, distant air, that would instantly check any approach to familiarity—if any one were bold enough to be familiar—answers gravely, "That she is thankful to say she is in her usual health."

The sindaco—although better off than many, painfully conscious of long arrears of unpaid rent—waxing a little bolder at the sound of his own voice and his well-chosen phrases, continues:

"I am glad to hear it, Signora Marchesa." The sindaco further observes, "That he hopes for the illustrious lady's indulgence and good-will."

His smile has faded now; his voice trembles. If his skin were not so yellow, he would be white all over, for the marchesa's looks are not encouraging. The sindaco dreads a summons to the High Court of Barga, where the provincial prisons are—with which he may be soon better acquainted, he fears.

In reply, the marchesa—who perfectly understands all this in a general way—scowls, and fixes her rigid eyes upon him.

"Signore Sindaco, I cannot stop to listen to any grievance now; I will promise no indulgence. I must pay my bills. You must pay me, Signore Sindaco; that is but fair."

The poor little snuffy mayor bows a dolorous acquiescence. He is hopeless, but polite—like a true Italian, who would thank the hangman as he fastens the rope round his neck. But the marchesa's words strike terror into all who hear them. All owe her long arrears of rent, and much besides. Why—oh! why—did the cruel lady come to Corellia?

Having announced her intentions in a clear, metallic voice, the marchesa draws her head back into the coach.

"Send Silvestro to me," she adds, addressing the sindaco. "Silvestro will inform me of all I want to know." (Silvestro is her steward.)

"Is the noble young Lady Enrica unwell?" asks the persevering sindaco, gazing earnestly through the window.

He knows his doom. He has nothing to hope from the marchesa's clemency, so he may as well gratify his burning curiosity by a question about the much-beloved Enrica, who must certainly have been ill-used by her aunt to keep so much out of sight.

"The people of Corellia would also offer their respectful homage to her," bravely adds Mr. Sindaco, tempting his fate. "The Lady Enrica is much esteemed here in the town."

As he speaks the sindaco gazes in wonder at the muffled figure in the corner. Can this be she? Why does she not move forward and answer?—and show her pretty face, and approve the people's greeting?

"My niece has a headache; leave her alone," answers the marchesa, curtly. "Do not speak to her, Mr. Sindaco. She will visit Corellia another day; meanwhile, adieu."

The marchesa waves her hand majestically, and signs for him to retire. This the sindaco does with an inward groan at the thought of what is coming on him.

Poor Enrica, feeling as if a curse were on her, cutting her off from all her former life, shrinks back deeper into the corner of the carriage, draws the black veil closer about her face, and sobs aloud. The marchesa turns her head away. The driver cracks his long whip over the steaming horses, which move feebly forward with a jerk. Thus the coach slowly traverses the whole length of the piazza, the wheels rumbling themselves into silence out in a long street leading to another gate on the farther side of the town.

Not another word more is said that night among the townsfolk; but there is not a man at Corellia who does not curse the marchesa in his heart. Ser Giacomo, the notary, folds up his newspaper in dead silence, puts it into his pocket, and departs. The lights in the dark cafe, which burn sometimes all day when it is cloudy, are extinguished. The domino-players disappear. Oreste and Pilade shut up their shop despondingly. The baker Pietro comes out no more to cool at the door. Anyway, there must be bakers, he reflects, to bake the bread; so Pietro retreats, comforted, to his oven, and works frantically all night. He is safe, Pietro hopes, though he has paid no rent for two whole years, and has sold some of the corn which ought to have gone to the marchesa.

Meanwhile the heavy carriage, with its huge leather hood and double rumble, swaying dangerously to and fro, descends a steep and rugged road embowered in forest, leading to a narrow ledge upon the summit of a line of cliffs. On the very edge of these cliffs, formed of a dark-red basaltic stone, the marchesa's villa stands. A deep, dark precipice drops down beneath. Opposite is a range of mountains, fair and forest-spread on the lower flanks, rising above into wild crags, and broken, blackened peaks, that mock the soft blue radiance of the evening sky.



CHAPTER II.

WHAT SILVESTRO SAYS.

Silvestro, the steward, is a man "full of conscience," as people say, deeply sensible of his responsibilities, and more in dread of the marchesa than of the Church. It is this dread that makes him so emaciated—hesitate when he speaks, and bend his back and shoulders into a constant cringe. But for this dread, Silvestro would forgive the poor people more. He sees such pinching misery every day—lives in it—suffers from it; how can he ask those for money who have none? It is like forcing blood out of a stone. He is not the man to do it. Silvestro lives at hand; he hears the rattle of the hail that burns the grapes up to a cinder—the terrible din of the thunder before the forked lightning strikes the cattle; he sees with his own eyes the griping want of bread in the savage winter-time; his own eyes behold the little lambs, dead of hunger, lying by the road-side. Worse still, he sees other lambs—human lambs with Christian souls—fade and pine and shrink into a little grave, from failing of mother's milk, dried up for want of proper food. He sees, too, the aged die before God calls them, failing through lack of nourishment—a little wine, perhaps, or a mouthful of soup; the young and strong grow old with ceaseless striving. Poor Silvestro! he sees too much. He cannot be severe. He is born merciful. Silvestro is honest as the day, but he hides things from the marchesa; he is honest, but he cannot—no, he cannot—grind and vex the poor, as she would have him do. Yet she has no one to take his place in that God-forgotten town—so they pull on, man and mistress—a truly ill-matched pair—pull on, year after year. It is a weary life for him when the great lady comes up for her villeggiatura—Silvestro, divided, cleft in twain, so to say, as he is, between his awe and respect for the marchesa and her will, and his terrible sympathy for all suffering creatures, man or beast.

As to the marchesa, she despises Silvestro too profoundly to notice his changing moods. It is not her habit to look for any thing but obedience—absolute obedience—from those beneath her. A thousand times she has told herself such a fool would ruin her; but, up to this present time, she has borne with him, partly from convenience, and partly because she fears to get a rogue in his place. She does not guess how carefully Silvestro has hid the truth from her; she would not give him credit for the power of concealing any thing.

The sindaco having sent a boy up to Silvestro's house with the marchesa's message, "that he is to attend her," the steward comes hurrying down through the terraces cut in the steep ground behind the villa—broad, stately terraces, with balustrades, and big empty vases, and statues, and grand old lemon-trees set about. Great flights of marble steps cross and recross, rest on a marble stage, and then recross again. Here and there a pointed cypress-tree towers upward like a green pyramid in a desert of azure sky. Bright-leaved autumn flowers lie in masses on the rich brown earth, and dainty streamlets come rushing downward in little sculptured troughs.

What a dismal sigh Silvestro gave when he got the marchesa's message, and knew that she had arrived! How he wrung his hands and looked hopelessly upward to heaven with vacant, colorless eyes, the big heat-drops gathering on his bald, wrinkled forehead! He has so much to tell her!—It must be told too; he can hide the truth no longer. She will be sure to ask to see the accounts. Alas! alas! what will his mistress say? For a moment Silvestro gazes wistfully at the mountains all around with a vacant stare. Oh, that the mountains would cover him! Anyway, there are caves and holes, he thinks, where the marchesa's wrath would never reach him; caves and holes where he might live hidden for years, cared for by those who love him. Shall he flee, and never see his mistress's dark, dreadful eyes again? Folly!

Silvestro rouses himself. He resolves to meet his fate like a man, whatever that may be. He will not forsake his duty.—So Silvestro comes hurrying down by the terraces, upon which the shadows fall, to the house—a gray mediaeval tower, machicolated and turreted—the only remains of a strong fortress that in feudal times guarded these passes from Modena into Tuscany. To this gray tower is attached a large modern dwelling—a villa—painted of a dull-yellow color, with an overlapping roof, the walls pierced full of windows. The tower, villa, and the line of cliffs on which they stand, face east and west; on one side the forest and Corellia crowning a rocky height, on the other side mountains, with a deep abyss at the foot of the cliffs, yawning between. It is the marchesa's pleasure to inhabit the old tower rather than the pleasant villa, with its big windows and large, cheerful rooms.

Being tall and spare, Silvestro stoops under the low, arched doorway, heavily clamped with iron and nails, leading into the tower; then he mounts very slowly a winding stair of stone to the second story. The sound of his footsteps brings a whole pack of dogs rushing out upon the gravel.

(On the gravel before the house there is a fountain springing up out of a marble basin full of gold-fish. Pots are set round the edge with the sweetest-smelling flowers—tuberoses, heliotropes, and gardenias.) The dogs, barking loudly, run round the basin and upset some of the pots. One noble mastiff, with long white hair and strong straight limbs—the leader of the pack—pursues Silvestro up the dark, tiring stairs. When the mastiff has reached him and smelt at him he stands still, wags his tail, and thrusts his nose into Silvestro's hand.

"Poor Argo!" says the steward, meekly. "Don't bark at me; I cannot bear it now."

Argo gives a friendly sniff, and leaves him.

At a door on the right, Silvestro stops short, to collect his thoughts and his breath. He has not seen his mistress for a year. His soul sinks at the thought of what he must tell her now. "Can she punish me?" he asks himself, vaguely. Perhaps. He must bear it if she does. He has done all he can. Consoled by this reflection, he knocks. A well-known voice answers, "Come in." Silvestro's clammy hand is on the lock—a worm-eaten door creaks on its hinges—he enters.

The marchesa nods to Silvestro without speaking. She is seated before a high desk of carved walnut-wood, facing the door. The desk is covered with papers. A file of papers is in her hand; others lie upon her lap. All round there are cupboards, shelves, and drawers, piled with papers and documents, most of them yellow with age. These consist of old leases, contracts, copies of various lawsuits with her tenants, appeals to Barga, mortgages, accounts. The room is low, and rounded to the shape of the tower. Naked joists and rafters of black wood support the ceiling. The light comes in through some loop-holes, high up, cut in the thickness of the wall. Some tall, high-backed chairs, covered with strips of faded satin, stand near the chimney. A wooden bedstead, without curtains, is partly concealed behind a painted screen, covered with gods and goddesses, much consumed and discolored from the damp. As the room had felt a little chilly from want of use, a large fire of unbarked wood had been kindled. The fire blazes fiercely on the flat stones within an open hearth, unguarded by a grate.

Having nodded to Silvestro, the marchesa takes no further notice of him. From time to time she flings a loose paper from those lying before her—over her shoulder toward the fire, which is at her back. Of these papers some reach the fire; others, but half consumed, fall back upon the floor. The flames of the wood-fire leap out and seize the papers—now one by one—now as they lie in little heaps. The flames leap up; the burning papers crumple along the floor, in little streaks of fire, catching others that lie, still farther on in the room, still unconsumed. Ere these papers have sunk into ashes, a fresh supply, thrown over her shoulder by the marchesa, have caught the flames. All the space behind her chair is covered with smouldering papers. A stack of wood, placed near to replenish the fire, has caught, and is smouldering also. The fire, too, on the hearth is burning fiercely; it crackles up the wide open chimney in a mass of smoke and sparks.

The marchesa is far too much absorbed to notice this. Silvestro, standing near the door—the high desk and the marchesa's tall figure between him and the hearth—does not perceive it either. Still the marchesa bends over her papers, reading some and throwing others over her shoulders into the flames behind.

Silvestro, who had grown hot and cold twenty times in a minute, standing before her, his book under his arm—thinking she had forgotten him—addresses her at last.

"How does madama feel?" Silvestro asks most humbly, turning his lack-lustre eyes upon her, "Well," is the marchesa's brief reply. She signs to him to lay his book upon her desk. She takes it in her hand. She turns over the pages, following line after line with the tip of her long, white forefinger.

"There seems very little, Silvestro," she says, running her eyes up and down each page as she turns it slowly over. Her brow knits until her dark eyebrows almost meet—"very little. Has the corn brought in so small a sum, and the olives, and the grapes?"

"Madama," begins Silvestro, and he bends his head and shoulders, and squeezes his skinny hands together, in a desperate effort to obliterate himself altogether, if possible, in the face of such mishaps—"madama will condescend to remember the late spring frosts. There is no corn anywhere. Upon the lowlands the frost was most severe; in April, too, when the grain was forward. The olives bore a little last season, but Corellia is a cold place—too cold for olives; the trees, too, are very old. This year there will be no crop at all. As for the grapes—"

"Accidente to the grapes!" interrupts the marchesa, reddening. "The grapes always fail. Every thing fails under you."

Silvestro shrinks back in terror at the sound of her harsh voice. Oh, that those purple mountains around would cover him! The moment of her wrath is come. What will she say to him?

"I wish I had not an acre of vineyard," the marchesa continues. "Disease, or hail, or drought, or rain, it is always the same—the grapes always fail."

"The peasants are starving, madama," Silvestro takes courage to say, but his voice is low and muffled.

"They have chestnuts," she answers quickly, "let them live on chestnuts."

Silvestro starts violently. He draws back a step or two nearer the door.

"Let the gracious madama consider, many have not even a patch of chestnuts. There is great misery, madama—indeed, there is great misery." Silvestro goes on to say. He must speak now or never. "Madama"—and he holds up his bony hands—"you will have no rent at all from the peasants. They must be kept all the winter."

"Silvestro, you are a fool," cries the marchesa, eying him contemptuously, as she would a troublesome child—"a fool; pray how am I to keep the peasants, and pay the taxes? I must live."

"Doubtless, excellent madama." Silvestro was infinitely relieved at the calmness with which the marchesa received his announcement. He could not have believed it. He feels most grateful to her. "But, if madama will speak with Fra Pacifico, he will tell her how bitter the distress must be this winter. The Town Council"—Silvestro, deceived by her apparent calmness, has made a mistake in naming the Town Council. It is too late. The words have been spoken. Knowing his mistress's temper, Silvestro imperceptibly glides toward the door as he mentions that body—"The Town Council has decreed—" His words die away in his throat at her aspect.

"Santo dei Santi!" she screams, boiling over with rage, "I forbid you to talk to me of the Town Council!"

Silvestro's hand is upon the lock to insure escape.

"Madama—consider," pleads Silvestro, wellnigh desperate. "The Town Council might appeal to Barga," Silvestro almost whispers now.

"Let them—let them; it is just what I should like. Let them appeal. I will fight them at law, and beat them in full court—the ruffians!" She gives a short, scornful laugh. "Yes, we will fight it out at Barga."

Suddenly the marchesa stops. Her eyes have now reached the balance-sheet on the last page. She draws a long breath.

"Why, there is nothing!" she exclaims, placing her forefinger on the total, then raising her head and fixing her eyes on Silvestro—"nothing!"

Silvestro shrinks, as it were, into himself. He silently bows his head in terrified acquiescence.

"A thousand francs! How am I to live on a thousand francs!"

Silvestro shakes from head to foot. One hand slides from the lock; he joins it to the other, clasps them both together, and sways himself to and fro as a man in bodily anguish.

At the sight of the balance-sheet a kind of horror has come over the marchesa. So intense is this feeling, she absolutely forgets to abuse Silvestro. All she desires is to get rid of him before she has betrayed her alarm.

"I shall call a council," she says, collecting herself; "I shall take the chair. I shall find funds to meet these wants. Give the sindaco and Ser Giacomo notice of this, Silvestro, immediately."

The steward stares at his mistress in mute amazement. He inclines his head, and turns to go; better ask her no questions and escape.

"Silvestro!"—the marchesa calls after him imperiously—"come here." (She is resolved that he, a menial, shall see no change in her.) "At this season the woods are full of game. I will have no poachers, mind. Let notices be posted up at the town-gate and at the church-door—do you hear? No one shall carry a gun within my woods."

Silvestro's lips form to two single words, and these come very faint: "The poor!" Then he holds himself together, terrified.

"The poor!" retorts the marchesa, defiantly—"the poor! For shame, Silvestro! They shall not overrun my woods and break through my vineyards—they shall not! You hear?" Her shrill voice rings round the low room, "No poachers—no trespassers, remember that; I shall tell Adamo the same. Now go, and, as you pass, tell Fra Pacifico I want him to-morrow." ("He must help me with Enrica," was her thought.)