CHAPTER I.

THE ITALIANS:

A Novel

BY FRANCES ELLIOT

AUTHOR OF "ROMANCE OF OLD COURT LIFE IN FRANCE," "THE DIARY OF AN IDLE

WOMAN IN ITALY," ETC., ETC.

1875

TO

THE REAL ENRICA,

WITH

THE AUTHOR'S LOVE.

CONTENTS

PART I.

I. LUCCA

II. THE CATHEDRAL OF LUCCA

III. THE THREE WITCHES

IV. THE MARCHESA GUINIGI

V. ENRICA

VI. MARCHESA GUINIGI AT HOME

VII. COUNT MARESCOTTI

VIII. THE CABINET COUNCIL

IX. THE COUNTESS ORSETTI'S BALL

PART II.

I. CALUMNY

II. CHURCH OF SAN FREDIANO

III. THE GUINIGI TOWER

IV. COUNT NOBILI

V. NUMBER FOUR AT THE UNIVERSO HOTEL

VI. A NEW PHILOSOPHY

VII. THE MARCHESA'S PASSION

VIII. ENRICA'S TRIAL

IX. WHAT CAME OF IT

PART III.

I. A LONELY TOWN

II. WHAT SILVESTRO SAYS

III. WHAT CAME OF BURNING THE MARCHESA'S PAPERS

IV. WHAT A PRIEST SHOULD BE

V. "SAY NOT TOO MUCH"

VI. THE CONTRACT

VII. THE CLUB AT LUCCA

VIII. COUNT NOBILI'S THOUGHTS

IX. NERA

PART IV.

I. WAITING AND LONGING

II. A STORM AT THE VILLA

III. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH

IV. FRA PACIFICO AND THE MARCHESA

V. TO BE, OR NOT TO BE?

VI. THE CHURCH AND THE LAW

VII. THE HOUR STRIKES

VIII. FOR THE HONOR OF A NAME

IX. HUSBAND VERSUS WIFE

X. THE LAWYER BAFFLED

XI. FACE TO FACE

XII. OH BELLO!

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

LUCCA.

We are at Lucca. It is the 13th of September, 1870--the anniversary of

the festival of the Volto Santo--a notable day, both in city, suburb,

and province. Lucca dearly loves its festivals--no city more; and of

all the festivals of the year that of the Volto Santo best. Now the

Volto Santo (_Anglicè_, Holy Countenance) is a miraculous crucifix,

which hangs, as may be seen, all by itself in a gorgeous chapel--more

like a pagoda than a chapel, and more like a glorified bird-cage than

either--built expressly for it among the stout Lombard pillars in the

nave of the cathedral. The crucifix is of cedar-wood, very black, and

very ugly, and it was carved by Nicodemus; of this fact no orthodox

Catholic entertains a doubt. But on what authority I cannot tell, nor

why, nor how, the Holy Countenance reached the snug little city of

Lucca, except by flying through the air like the Loretto house, or

springing out of the earth like the Madonna of Feltri. But here it is,

and here it has been for many a long year; and here it will remain

as a miraculous relic, bringing with it blessings and immunities

innumerable to the grateful city.

What a glorious morning it is! The sun rose without a cloud. Now there

is a golden haze hanging over the plain, and glints as of living flame

on the flanks of the mountains. From all sides crowds are pressing

toward Lucca. Before six o'clock every high-road is alive. Down from

the highest mountain-top of Pizzorna, overlooking Florence and its

vine-garlanded campagna, comes the hermit, brown-draped, in hood and

mantle; staff in hand, he trudges along the dusty road. And down,

too, from his native lair among the pigs and the poultry, comes the

black-eyed, black-skinned, matted-haired urchin, who makes mud pies

under the tufted ilex-trees at Ponte a Moriano, and swears at the

hermit.

They come! they come! From mountain-sides bordering the broad road

along the Serchio--mountains dotted with bright homesteads, each

gleaming out of its own cypress-grove, olive-patch, canebrake, and

vine-arbor, under which the children play--they come from solitary

hovels, hung up, as it were, in mid-air, over gloomy ravines, scored

and furrowed with red earth, down which dark torrents dash and spray.

They come! they come! these Tuscan peasants, a trifle too fond of

holiday-keeping, like their betters--but what would you have? The land

is fertile, and corn and wine and oil and rosy flowering almonds grow

almost as of themselves. They come--tens and tens of miles away, from

out the deep shadows of primeval chestnut-woods, clothing the flanks

of rugged Apennines with emerald draperies. They come--through parting

rocks, bordering nameless streams--cool, delicious waters, over which

bend fig, peach, and plum, delicate ferns and unknown flowers. They

come--from hamlets and little burghs, gathered beside lush pastures,

where tiny rivulets trickle over fresh turf and fragrant herbs,

lulling the ear with softest echoes.

They come--dark-eyed mothers and smiling daughters, decked with

gold pins, flapping Leghorn hats, lace veils or snowy handkerchiefs

gathered about their heads, coral beads, and golden crosses as big as

shields, upon their necks--escorted by lover, husband, or father--a

flower behind his ear, a slouch hat on his head, a jacket thrown over

one arm, every man shouldering a red umbrella, although to doubt the

weather to-day is absolute sacrilege!

Carts clatter by every moment, drawn by swift Maremma nags, gay with

brass harness, tinkling bells, and tassels of crimson on reins and

frontlet.

The carts are laden with peasants (nine, perhaps, ranged three

abreast)--treason to the gallant animal that, tossing its little head,

bravely struggles with the cruel load. A priest is stuck in bodkin

among his flock--a priest who leers and jests between pinches of

snuff, and who, save for his seedy black coat, knee-breeches, worsted

stockings, shoe-buckles, clerical hat, and smoothly-shaven chin, is

rougher than a peasant himself.

Riders on Elba ponies, with heavy cloaks (for the early morning, spite

of its glories, is chill), spur by, adding to the dust raised by the

carts.

Genteel flies and hired carriages with two horses, and hood and

foot-board--pass, repass, and out-race each other. These flies and

carriages are crammed with bailiffs from the neighboring villas,

shopkeepers, farmers, and small proprietors. Donkeys, too, there are

in plenty, carrying men bigger than themselves (under protest, be it

observed, for here, as in all countries, your donkey, though marked

for persecution, suffers neither willingly nor in silence). Begging

friars, tanned like red Indians, glide by, hot and grimy (thank

Heaven! not many now, for "New Italy" has sacked most of the convent

rookeries and dispersed the rooks), with wallets on their shoulders,

to carry back such plunder as can be secured, to far-off convents and

lonely churches, folded up tightly in forest fastnesses.

All are hurrying onward with what haste they may, to reach the city

of Lucca, while broad shadows from the tall mountains on either hand

still fall athwart the roads, and cool morning air breathes up from

the rushing Serchio.

The Serchio--a noble river, yet willful as a mountain-torrent--flows

round the embattled walls of Lucca, and falls into the Mediterranean

below Pisa. It is calm now, on this day of the great festival,

sweeping serenely by rocky capes, and rounding into fragrant bays,

where overarching boughs droop and feather. But there is a sullen

look about its current, that tells how wicked it can be, this Serchio,

lashed into madness by winter storms, and the overflowing of the

water-gates above, among the high Apennines--at the Abbetone at San

Marcello, or at windy, ice-bound Pracchia.

How fair are thy banks, O mountain-bordered Serchio! How verdant

with near wood and neighboring forest! How gay with cottage

groups--open-galleried and garlanded with bunches of golden maize and

vine-branches--all laughing in the sun! The wine-shops, too, along the

road, how tempting, with snowy table-cloths spread upon dressers under

shady arbors of lemon--trees; pleasant odors from the fry cooking in

the stove, mixing with the perfume of the waxy flowers! Dear to

the nostrils of the passers-by are these odors. They snuff them

up--onions, fat, and macaroni, with delight. They can scarcely resist

stopping once for all here, instead of waiting for their journey's end

to eat at Lucca.

But the butterflies--and they are many--are wiser in their generation.

The butterflies have a festival of their own to-day. They do not wait

for any city. They are fixed to no spot. They can hold their festival

anywhere under the blue sky, in the broad sunshine.

See how they dance among the flowers! Be it spikes of wild-lavender,

or yellow down within the Canterbury bell, or horn of purple

cyclamens, or calyx of snowy myrtle, the soft bosom of tall lilies or

glowing petals of red cloves--nothing comes amiss to the butterflies.

They are citizens of the world, and can feast wherever fancy leads

them.

Meanwhile, on comes the crowd, nearer and nearer to the city of their

pilgrimage, laughing, singing, talking, smoking. Your Italian peasant

must sleep or smoke, excepting when he plays at _morra_ (one, two,

three, and away!). Then he puts his pipe into his pocket. The

women are conversing in deep voices, in the _patois_ of the various

villages. The men, more silent, search out who is fairest--to lead

her on the way, to kneel beside her at the shrine, and, most prized of

all, to conduct her home. Each village has its belle, each belle her

circle of admirers. Belles and beaux all have their own particular

plan of diversion for the day. For is it not a great day? And is it

not stipulated in many of the marriage contracts among the mountain

tribes that the husband must, under a money penalty, conduct his wife

to the festival of the Holy Countenance once at least in four years?

The programme is this: First, they enter the cathedral, kneel at the

glistening shrine of the black crucifix, kiss its golden slipper, and

hear mass. Then they will grasp such goods as the gods provide them,

in street, _café_, eating-house, or day theatre; make purchases in the

shops and booths, and stroll upon the ramparts. Later, when the sun

sinks westward over the mountains, and the deep canopy of twilight

falls, they will return by the way that they have come, until the

coming year.

* * * * *

Within the city, from before daybreak, church-bells--and Lucca abounds

in belfries fretted tier upon tier, with galleries of delicate marble

colonnettes, all ablaze in the sunshine--have pealed out merrily.

Every church-door, draped with gold tissue and silken stuffs, more

or less splendid, is thrown wide open. Every shop is closed, save

_cafés_, hotels, and tobacco-shops (where, by command of the King of

New Italy, infamous cigars are sold). Eating-tables are spread at the

corners of the streets and under the trees in the piazza, benches are

ranged everywhere where benches can stand. The streets are filling

every moment as fresh multitudes press through the city gates--those

grand old gates, where the marble lions of Lucca keep guard, looking

toward the mountains.

For a carriage to pass anywhere in the streets would be impossible, so

tightly are flapping Leghorn hats, and veils, snowy handkerchiefs, and

red caps and brigand hats, packed together. Bells ring, and there are

waftings of military music borne through the air. Trumpet-calls at the

different barracks answer to each other. Cannons are fired. Each

man, woman, and child shouts, screams, and laughs. All down the dark,

cavernous streets, in the great piazza, at the sindaco's, at college,

at club, public offices, and hotels, at the grand old palaces,

untouched since the middle ages--the glory of the city--at every

house, great and small--flutter gaudy draperies; crimson, amber,

violet, and gold, according to purse and condition, either of richest

brocade, or of Eastern stuffs wrought in gold and needle-work, or--the

family carpet or bed-furniture hung out for show. Banners wave from

every house-top and tower, the Italian tricolor and the Savoy cross,

white, on a red ground; flowers and garlands are wreathed on the

fronts of the stern old walls. If peasants, and shopkeepers, and

monks, priests, beggars, and _hoi polloi_ generally, possess the

pavement, overhead every balcony, gallery, terrace, and casement,

is filled with company, representatives of the historic families of

Lucca, the Manfredi, Possenti, Navascoes, Bernardini, dal Portico,

Bocella, Manzi, da Gia, Orsetti, Ruspoli--feudal names dear to native

ears. The noble marquis, or his excellency the count, lord of broad

acres on the plains, or principalities in the mountains, or of hoarded

wealth at the National Bank--is he not Lucchese also to the backbone?

And does he not delight in the festival as keenly as that half-naked

beggar, who rattles his box for alms, with a broad grin on his dirty

face?

Resplendent are the ladies in the balconies, dressed in their

best--like bands of fluttering ribbon stretched across the

sombre-fronted palaces; aristocratic daughters, and dainty consorts.

They are not chary of their charms. They laugh, fan themselves, lean

over sculptured balustrades, and eye the crowded streets, talking with

lip and fan, eye and gesture.

In the long, narrow street of San Simone, behind the cathedral of San

Martino, stand the two Guinigi Palaces. They are face to face. One is

ditto of the other. Each is in the florid style of Venetian-Gothic,

dating from the beginning of the fourteenth century. Both were built

by Paolo Guinigi, head of the illustrious house of that name, for

forty years general and tyrant of the Republic of Lucca. Both palaces

bear his arms, graven on marble tablets beside the entrance. Both

are of brick, now dulled and mellowed into a reddish white. Both

have walls of enormous thickness. The windows of the upper

stories--quadruple casements divided, Venetian-like, by twisted

pillarettes richly carved--are faced and mullioned with marble.

The lower windows (mere square apertures) are barred with iron. The

arched portals opening to the streets are low, dark, and narrow. The

inner courts gloomy, damp, and prison-like. Brass ornaments, sockets,

rings, and torch-holders of iron, sculptured emblems, crests, and

cognizances in colored marble, are let into the outer walls. In all

else, ornamentation is made subservient to defense. These are city

fortresses rather than ancestral palaces. They were constructed to

resist either attack or siege.

Rising out of the overhanging roof (supported on wooden rafters) of

the largest and most stately of the two palaces, where twenty-three

groups of clustered casements, linked by slender pillars, extend in a

line along a single story--rises a mediaeval tower of defense of

many stories. Each story is pierced by loop-holes for firing into the

street below. On the machicolated summit is a square platform, where

in the course of many peaceful ages a bay-tree has come to grow of a

goodly size. About this bay-tree tangled weeds and tufted grasses

wave in the wind. Below, here and there, patches of blackened moss

or yellow lichen, a branch of mistletoe or a bunch of fern, break

the lines of the mediaeval brickwork. Sprays of wild-ivy cling to the

empty loop-holes, through which the blue sky peeps.

The lesser of the two palaces--the one on the right hand as you ascend

the street of San Simone coming from the cathedral--is more decorated

to-day than any other in Lucca. A heavy sea of Leghorn hats and black

veils, with male accompaniments, is crowded beneath. They stare upward

and murmur with delight. Gold and silver stuffs, satin and taffeta,

striped brocades, and rich embroideries, flutter from the clustered

casement up to the overhanging roof. There are many flags (one with

a coat-of-arms, amber and purple on a gold ground) blazing in

the sunshine. The grim brick façade is festooned with wreaths of

freshly-plucked roses. Before the low-arched entrance on the pavement

there is a carpet of flower-petals fashioned into a monogram, bearing

the letters "M.N." Just within the entrance stands a porter, leaning

on a gold staff, as immovable in aspect as are the mediaeval walls

that close in behind him. A badge or baldric is passed across his

chest; he is otherwise so enveloped with gold-lace, embroidery,

buttons, trencher, and cocked-hat, that the whole inner man is

absorbed, not to say invisible. Beside him, in the livery of the

house, tall valets grin, lounge, and ogle the passers-by (wearers

of Leghorn hats, and veils, and white head-gear generally). This

particular Guinigi Palace belongs to Count Mario Nobili. He bought

it of the Marchesa Guinigi, who lives opposite. Nobili is the richest

young man in Lucca. No one calls upon him for help in vain; but, let

it be added, no one offends him with impunity. When Nobili first came

to Lucca, the old families looked coldly at him, his nobility being

of very recent date. It was bestowed on his father, a successful

banker--some said usurer, some said worse--by the Grand-duke Leopold,

for substantial assistance toward his pet hobby--the magnificent road

that zigzags up the mountain-side to Fiesole from Florence.

But young Nobili soon conquered Lucchese prejudice. Now he is well

received by all--_all_ save the Marchesa Guinigi. She was, and is at

this time, still irreconcilable. Nobili stands in the central window

of his palace. He leans out over the street, a cigar in his mouth.

A servant beside him flings down from time to time some silver

coin among Leghorn hats and the beggars, who scramble for it on the

pavement. Nobili's eyes beam as the populace look up and cheer him:

"Long live Count Nobili! Evviva!" He takes off his hat and bows; more

silver coin comes clattering down on the pavement; there are fresh

evvivas, fresh bows, and more scramblers cover the street. "No one

like Nobili," the people say; "so affable, so open-handed--yes, and so

clever, too, for has he not traveled, and does he not know the world?"

Beside Count Nobili some _jeunesse dorée_ of his own age (sons of the

best houses in Lucca) also lean over the Venetian casements. Like

the liveried giants at the entrance, these laugh, ogle, chaff,

and criticise the wearers of Leghorn hats, black veils, and white

head-gear, freely. They smoke, and drink _liqueurs_ and sherbet, and

crack sugar-plums out of crystal cup on silver plates, set on embossed

trays placed beside them.

The profession of these young men is idleness. They excel in it. Let

us pause for a moment and ask what they do--this _jeunesse dorée_, to

whom the sacred mission is committed of regenerating an heroic people?

They could teach Ovid "the art of love." It comes to them in the air

they breathe. They do not love their neighbor as themselves, but they

love their neighbor's wives. Nothing is holy to them. "All for love,

and the world well lost," is their motto. They can smile in their best

friend's face, weep with him, rejoice with him, eat with him, drink

with him, and--betray him; they do this every day, and do it well.

They can also lie artistically, dressing up imaginary details with

great skill, gamble and sing, swear, and talk scandal. They can lead

a graceful, dissolute, _far niente_ life, loll in carriages, and be

whirled round for hours, say the Florence Cascine, the Roman Pincio,

and the park at Milan--smoking the while, and raising their hats to

the ladies. They can trot a well-broken horse--not too fresh, on a

hard road, and are wonderful in ruining his legs. A very few can

drive what they call a _stage_ (_Anglicè_, drag) with grave and

well-educated wheelers, on a very straight road--such as do this

are looked upon as heroes--shoot a hare sitting, also tom-tits and

sparrows. But they can neither hunt, nor fish, nor row. They are ready

of tongue and easy of offense. They can fight duels (with swords),

generally a harmless exercise. They can dance. They can hold strong

opinions on subjects on which they are crassly ignorant, and yield

neither to fact nor argument where their mediaeval usages are

concerned. All this the golden youths of Young Italy can do, and do it

well.

Yet from such stuff as this are to come the future ministers,

prefects, deputies, financiers, diplomatists, and senators, who are to

regenerate the world's old mistress! Alas, poor Italy!

The Guinigi Palace opposite forms a striking contrast to Count

Nobili's abode. It is as silent as the grave. Every shutter is closed.

The great wooden door to the street is locked; a heavy chain is drawn

across it. The Marchesa Guinigi has strictly commanded that it should

be so. She will have nothing to do with the festival of the Holy

Countenance. She will take no part in it whatever. Indeed, she has

come to Lucca on purpose to see that her orders are obeyed to the very

letter, else that rascal of a secretary might have hung out something

in spite of her. The marchesa, who has been for many years a widow,

and is absolute possessor of the palace and lands, calls herself a

liberal. But she is in practice the most thorough-going aristocrat

alive. In one respect she is a liberal. She despises priests, laughs

at miracles, and detests festivals. "A loss of time, and, if of time,

of money," she says. If the peasants and the people complain of the

taxes, and won't work six days in the week, "Let them starve," says

the marchesa--"let them starve; so much the better!"

In her opinion, the legend of the Holy Countenance is a lie, got up by

priests for money; so she comes into the city from Corellia, and

shuts up her palace, publicly to show her opinion. As far as she is

concerned, she believes neither in St. Nicodemus nor in idleness.

A good deal of this, be it said, _en passant_, is sheer obstinacy. The

marchesa is obstinate to folly, and full of contradictions. Besides,

there is another powerful motive that influences her--she hates Count

Nobili. Not that he has ever done any thing personally to offend her;

of this he is incapable--indeed, he has his own reasons for desiring

passionately to be on good terms with her--but he has, in her opinion,

injured her by purchasing the second Guinigi Palace. That she should

have been obliged to sell one of her ancestral palaces at all is to

her a bitter misfortune; but that any one connected with trade should

possess what had been inherited generation after generation by the

Guinigi, is intolerable.

That a _parvenu_, the son of a banker, should live opposite to her,

that he should abound in money, which he flings about recklessly,

while she can with difficulty eke out the slender rents from the

greatly-reduced patrimony of the Guinigi, is more than she can bear.

His popularity and his liberality (and she cannot come to Lucca

without hearing of both), even that comely young face of his, which

she sees when she passes the club on the way to her afternoon drive

on the ramparts, are dire offenses in her eyes. Whatever Count Nobili

does, she (the Marchesa Guinigi) will do the reverse. He has opened

his house for the festival. Hers shall be closed. She is thoroughly

exceptional, however, in such conduct. Every one in Lucca save

herself, rich and poor, noble and villain, join heart and soul in

the national festival. Every one lays aside on this auspicious day

differences of politics, family feuds, and social animosities. Even

enemies join hands and kneel side by side at the same altar. It is the

mediaeval "God's truce" celebrated in the nineteenth century.

* * * * *

It is now eleven o'clock. A great deal of sausage and garlic, washed

down by new wine and light beer, has been by this time consumed in

eating-shops and on street tables; much coffee, _liqueurs_, cake, and

bonbons, inside the palaces.

Suddenly all the church-bells, which have rung out since daybreak like

mad, stop; only the deep-toned cathedral-bell booms out from its snowy

campanile in half-minute strokes. There is an instant lull, the din

and clatter of the streets cease, the crowd surges, separates, and

disappears, the palace windows and balconies empty themselves,

the street forms are vacant. The procession in honor of the Holy

Countenance is forming; every one has rushed off to the cathedral.

CHAPTER II.

THE CATHEDRAL OF LUCCA.

Martino, the cathedral of Lucca, stands on one side of a small piazza

behind the principal square. At the first glance, its venerable

aspect, vast proportions, and dignity of outline, do not sufficiently

seize upon the imagination; but, as the eye travels over the elaborate

façade, formed by successive galleries supported by truncated pillars,

these galleries in their turn resting on clustered columns of richest

sculpture forming the triple portals--the fine inlaid work, statues,

bass-relief, arabesques of fruit, foliage, and quaint animals--the

dome, and, above all, the campanile--light and airy as a dream,

springing upward on open arches where the sun burns hotly--the eye

comes to understand what a glorious Gothic monument it is.

The three portals are now open. From the lofty atrium raised on broad

marble steps, with painted ceiling and sculptured walls--at one end a

bubbling fountain falling into a marble basin, at the other an arched

gate-way leading into grass-grown cloisters--the vast nave is visible

from end to end. This nave is absolutely empty. Every thing tells of

expectation, of anticipation. The mighty Lombard pillars on either

side--supporting a triforium gallery of circular arches and slender

pillars of marble fretwork, delicate as lace--are wreathed and

twined with red taffetas bound with golden bands. The gallery of the

triforium itself is draped with arras and rich draperies. Each dainty

column is decked with flags and pennons. The aisles and transepts

blaze with gorgeous hangings. Overhead saints, prophets, and martyrs,

standing immovable in the tinted glories of the stained windows,

fling broad patches of purple, emerald, and yellow, upon the intaglio

pavement.

Along the nave (a hedge, as it were, on either side) are hung curtains

of cloth of gold.

The high altar, inclosed by a balustrade of colored marble raised

on steps richly carpeted, glitters with gemmed chalices and crosses.

Behind, countless wax-lights illuminate the rich frescoes of the

tribune. The Chapel of the Holy Countenance (midway up the nave),

inclosed by a gilded net-work, is a dazzling mountain of light flung

from a thousand golden sconces. A black figure as large as life rests

upon the altar. It is stretched upon a cross. The eyes are white

and glassy; the thorn-crowned head leans on one side. The body

is enveloped in a damascened robe spangled with jewels. This robe

descends to the feet, which are cased in shoes of solid gold. The

right foot rests on a sacramental cup glittering with gems. On either

side are angels, with arms extended. One holds a massive sceptre, the

other the silver keys of the city of Lucca.

All waits. The bride, glorious in her garment of needle-work, waits.

The bridegroom waits. The sacramental banquet is spread; the guests

are bidden. All waits the moment when the multitude, already buzzing

without at the western entrance, shall spread themselves over

the mosaic floor, and throng each chapel, altar, gallery, and

transept--when anthems of praise shall peal from the double doors of

the painted organ, and holy rites give a mystic language to the sacred

symbols around.

Meanwhile the procession flashes from street to street. Banners

flutter in the hot mid-day air, tall crucifixes and golden crosses

reach to the upper stories. In the pauses the low hum of the chanted

canticles is caught up here and there along the line--now the

monks--then the canons with a nasal twang--then the laity.

There are the judges, twelve in number, robed in black, scarlet,

and ermine, their broad crimson sashes sweeping the pavement. The

_gonfaloniere_--that ancient title of republican freedom still

remaining--walks behind, attired in antique robes. Next appear the

municipality--wealthy, oily-faced citizens, at this moment much

overcome by the heat. Following these are the Lucchese nobles, walking

two-and-two, in a precedence not prescribed by length of pedigree, but

of age. Next comes the prefect of the city; at his side the general in

command of the garrison of Lucca, escorted by a brilliant staff. Each

bears a tall lighted torch.

The law and the army are closely followed by the church. All are

there, two-and-two--from the youngest deacon to the oldest canon--in

his robe of purple silk edged with gold--wearing a white mitre. The

church is generally corpulent; these dignitaries are no exception.

Amid a cloud of incense walks the archbishop--a tall, stately man,

in the prime of life--under a canopy of crimson silk resting on gold

staves, borne over him by four canons habited in purple. He moves

along, a perfect mass of brocade, lace, and gold--literally aflame

in the sunshine. His mitred head is bent downward; his eyes are half

closed; his lips move. In his hands--which are raised almost level

with his face, and reverently covered by his vestments--he bears a

gemmed vessel containing the Host, to be laid by-and-by on the

altar of the Holy Countenance. All the church-bells are now ringing

furiously. Cannons fire, and military bands drown the low hum of

the chanting. Every head is uncovered--many, specially women, are

prostrate on the stones.

Arrived at the basilica of San Frediano, the procession halts under

the Byzantine mosaic on a gold ground, over the entrance. The entire

chapter is assembled before the open doors. They kneel before the

archbishop carrying the Host. Again there is a halt before the snowy

façade of the church of San Michele, pillared to the summit with

slender columns of Carrara marble--on the topmost pinnacle a colossal

statue of the archangel, in golden bronze, the outstretched wings

glistening against the turquoise sky. Here the same ceremonies are

repeated as at the church of San Frediano. The archbishop halts, the

chanting ceases, the Host is elevated, the assembled priests adore it,

kneeling without the portal.

It is one o'clock before the archbishop is enthroned within the

cathedral. The chapter, robed in red and purple, are ranged behind him

in the tribune at the back of the high altar, the grand old frescoes

hovering over them. The secular dignitaries are seated on benches

below the altar-steps. _Palchi_ (boxes), on either side of the

nave, are filled with Lucchese ladies, dark-haired, dark-eyed,

olive-skinned, backed by the crimson draperies with which the nave is

dressed.

A soft fluttering of fans agitates feathers, lace, and ribbons. Fumes

of incense mix with the scent of strong perfumes. Not the smallest

attention is paid by the ladies to the mass which is celebrating at

the high altar and the altar of the Holy Countenance. Their jeweled

hands hold no missal, their knees are unbent, their lips utter no

prayer. Instead, there are bright glances from lustrous eyes, and

whispered words to favored golden youths (without religion, of

course--what has a golden youth to do with religion?) who have

insinuated themselves within the ladies seats, or lean over, gazing at

them with upturned faces.

Peal after peal of musical thunder rolls from the double organs. It

is caught up by the two orchestras placed in gilt galleries on either

side of the nave. A vocal chorus on this side responds to exquisite

voices on that. Now a flute warbles a luscious solo, then a flageolet.

A grand barytone bursts forth, followed by a tenor soft as the notes

of a nightingale, accompanied by a boy on the violin. Then there is

the crash of many hundred voices, with the muffled roar of two organs.

It is the _Gloria in Excelsis_. As the music rolls down the pillared

nave out into the crowded piazza, where it dies away in harmonious

murmurs, an iron cresset, suspended from the vaulted ceiling of the

nave, filled with a bundle of flax, is fired. The flax blazes for a

moment, then passes away in a shower of glittering sparks that glitter

upon the inlaid floor. _Sic transit gloria mundi_ is the motto. (Now

the lighting of this flax is a special privilege accorded to the

Archbishop of Lucca by the pope, and jealously guarded by him.)

CHAPTER III.

THE THREE WITCHES.

Many carriages wait outside the cathedral, in the shade near the

fountain. The fountain--gushing upward joyously in the beaming

sunshine out of a red-marble basin--is just beyond the atrium,

and visible through the arches on that side. Beyond the fountain,

terminating the piazza, there is a high wall. This wall supports a

broad marble terrace, with heavy balustrades, extending from the

back of a mediaeval palace. Over the wall green vine-branches trail,

sweeping the pavement, like ringlets that have fallen out of curl.

This wall and terrace communicate with the church of San Giovanni, an

ancient Lombard basilica on that side. Under the shadow of the heavy

roof some girls are trying to waltz to the sacred music from the

cathedral. After a few turns they find it difficult, and leave off.

The men in livery, waiting along with the carriages, laugh at them

lazily. The girls retreat, and group themselves on the steps of a

deeply-arched doorway with a bass-relief of the Virgin and angels,

leading into the church, and talk in low voices.

A ragged boy from the Garfagnana, with a tray of plaster heads of

Victor Emmanuel and Garibaldi, has put down his wares, and is turning

wheels upon the pavement, before the servants, for a penny. An old man

pulls out from under his cloak a dancing dog, with crimson collar and

bells, and collects a little crowd under the atrium of the cathedral.

A soldier, touched with compassion, takes a crust from his pocket to

reward the dancing dog, which, overcome by the temptation, drops on

his four legs, runs to him, and devours it, for which delinquency the

old man beats him severely. His yells echo loudly among the pillars,

and drown the rich tide of harmony that ebbs and flows through the

open portals. The beggars have betaken themselves to their accustomed

seats on the marble steps of the cathedral, San Martin of

Tours, parting his cloak--carved in alt-relief, over the central

entrance--looking down upon them encouragingly. These beggars clink

their metal boxes languidly, or sleep, lying flat on the stones.

A group of women have jammed themselves into a corner between the

cathedral and the hospital adjoining it on that side. They are waiting

to see the company pass out. Two of them standing close together are

talking eagerly.

"My gracious! who would have thought that old witch, the Guinigi,"

whispers Carlotta--Carlotta owned a little mercery-shop in a

side-street running by the palace, right under the tower--to her

gossip Brigitta, an occasional customer for cotton and buttons, "who

would have thought that she--gracious! who would have thought she

dared to shut up her palace the day of the festival? Did you see?"

"Yes, I did," answers Brigitta.

"Curses on her!" hisses out Carlotta, showing her black teeth. "Listen

to me, she will have a great misfortune--mark my words--a great

misfortune soon--the stingy old devil!"

Hearing the organ at that instant, Brigitta kneels on the stones, and

crosses herself; then rises and looks at Carlotta. "St. Nicodemus will

have his revenge, never fear."

Carlotta is still speaking. Brigitta shakes her head prophetically,

again looking at Carlotta, whose deep-sunk eyes are fixed upon her.

"Checco says--Checco is a shoemaker, and he knows the daughter of the

man who helps the butler in Casa Guinigi--Checco says she laughs at

the Holy Countenance. Domine Dio! what an infamy!" cries Carlotta, in

a cracked voice, raising her skinny hands and shaking them in the air.

"I hate the Guinigi! I hate her! I spit on her, I curse her!"

There is such venom in Carlotta's looks and in Carlotta's words that

Brigitta suddenly takes her eyes off a man with a red waistcoat whom

she is ogling, but who by no means reciprocates her attention, and

asks Carlotta sharply, "Why she hates the marchesa?"

"Listen," answers Carlotta, holding up her finger. "One day, as I came

out of my little shop, _she_"--and Carlotta points with her thumb

over her shoulder toward the street of San Simone and the Guinigi

Palace--"_she_ was driving along the street in her old Noah's Ark of

a carriage. Alas! I am old and feeble, and the horses came along

quickly. I had no time to get into the little square of San Barnabo,

out of the way; the wheel struck me on the shoulder, I fell down. Yes,

I fell down on the hard pavement, Brigitta." And Carlotta sways her

grizzly head from side to side, and grasps the other's arm so tightly

that Brigitta screams. "Brigitta, the marchesa saw me. She saw me

lying there, but she never stopped nor turned her head. I lay on the

stones, sick and very sore, till a neighbor, Antonio the carpenter,

who works in the little square, a good lad, picked me up and carried

me home."

As she speaks, Carlotta's eyes glitter like a serpent's. She shakes

all over.

"Lord have mercy!" exclaims Brigitta, looking hard at her; "that was

bad!" Carlotta was over eighty; her face was like tanned leather, her

skin loose and shriveled; a handful of gray hair grew on the top of

her head, and was twisted up with a silver pin. Brigitta was also of a

goodly age, but younger than Carlotta, fat and portly, and round as

a barrel. She was pitted by the small-pox, and had but one eye; but,

being a widow, and well-to-do in the world, is not without certain

pretensions. She wears a yellow petticoat and a jacket trimmed with

black lace. In her hair, black and frizzly as a negro's, a rose

is stuck on one side.--The hair had been dressed that morning by a

barber, to whom she paid five francs a month for this adornment.--Some

rows of dirty seed-pearl are fastened round her fat throat; long gold

ear-rings bob in her ears, and in her hand is a bright paper fan, with

which she never ceases fanning herself.

"She's never spent so much as a penny at my shop," Carlotta goes on to

say. "Not a penny. She'd not spare a flask of wine to a beggar

dying at her door. Stuck-up old devil! But she's ruined, ruined with

lawsuits. Ruined, I say. Ha! ha! Her time will come."

Finding Carlotta wearisome, Brigitta's one eye has again wandered off

to the man with the red waistcoat. Carlotta sees this, watching her

out of her deep-set, glassy eyes. Speak Carlotta will, and Brigitta

shall listen, she was determined.

"I could tell you things"--she lowers her voice and speaks into the

other's ear--"things--horrors--about Casa Guinigi!"

Brigitta starts. "Gracious! You frighten me! What things?"

"Ah, things that would make your hair stand on end. It is I who say

it," and Carlotta snaps her fingers and nods.

"_You_ know things, Carlotta? You pretend to know what happens in Casa

Guinigi? Nonsense! You are mad!"

"Am I?" retorts the other. "We shall see. Who wins boasts. I'm not so

mad, anyhow, as the marchesa, who shuts up her palace on the festival,

and offends St. Nicodemus and all the saints and martyrs," and

Carlotta's eyes flash, and her white eyebrows twitch.

"However"--and again she lays her bony hand heavily on Brigitta's fat

arm--"if you don't want to hear what I know about Casa Guinigi, I will

not tell you." Carlotta shuts up her mouth and nods defiantly.

This was not at all what Brigitta desired. If there was any thing to

be told, she would like to hear it.

"Come, come, Carlotta, don't be angry. You may know much more than

I do; you are always in your shop, except on festivals. The door is

open, and you can see into the street of San Simone, up and down. But

speak low; for there are Lisa and Cassandra close behind, and they

will hear. Tell me, Carlotta, what is it?"

Brigitta speaks very coaxingly.

"Yes," replies the old woman, "I can see both the Guinigi palaces from

my door--both the palaces. If the marchesa knew--"

"Go on, go on!" says Brigitta, nudging her. She leans forward to

listen. "Go on. People are coming out of the cathedral."

Carlotta raises her head and grins, showing the few black teeth left

in her mouth. "Are they? Well, answer me. Who lives in the street

there--the street of San Simone--as well as the marchesa? Who has

a fine palace that the marchesa sold him, a palace on which he has

spent--ah! so much, so much? Who keeps open house, and has a French

cook, and fine furniture, and new clothes, and horses in his stable,

and six carriages? Who?--who?" As old Carlotta puts these questions

she sways her body to and fro, and raises her finger to her nose.

"Who is strong, and square, and fair, and smooth?" "Who goes in and

out with a smile on his face? Who?--who?"

"Why, Nobili, of course--Count Nobili. We all know that," answered

Brigitta, impatiently. "That's no news. But what has Nobili to do with

the marchesa?"

"What has he to do with the marchesa? Listen, Madama Brigitta. I will

tell you. Do you know that, of all gentlemen in Lucca, the marchesa

hates Nobili?"

"Well, and what then?"

"She hates him because he is rich and spends his money freely, and

because she--the Guinigi--lives in the same street and sees it. It

turns sour upon her stomach, like milk in a thunder-storm. She hates

him."

"Well, is that all?" interrupts Brigitta.

Carlotta puts up her chin close to Brigitta's face, and clasps her

tightly by the shoulder with both her skinny hands. "That is not all.

The marchesa has her own niece, who lives with her--a doll of a girl,

with a white face--puff! not worth a feather to look at; only a cousin

of the marchesa's husband; but, she's the only one left, all the same.

They are so thin-blooded, the Guinigi, they have come to an end. The

old woman never had a child; she would have starved it."

Carlotta lowers her voice, and speaks into Brigitta's ear. "Nobili

loves the niece. The marchesa would have the carbineers out if she

knew it."

"Oh!" breaks from Brigitta, under her breath. "This is fine! splendid!

Are you sure of this, Carlotta? quite sure?"

"As sure as that I like meat, and only get it on Sundays.--Sure?--I

have seen it with my own eyes. Checco knows the granddaughter of the

man who helps the cook--Nobili pays like a lord, as he is!--He spends

his money, he does!--Nobili writes to the niece, and she answers.

Listen. To-day, the marchesa shut up her palace and put a chain on

the door. But chains can be unloosed, locks broken. Enrica (that's the

niece) at daybreak comes out to the arched gate-way that opens

from the street into the Moorish garden at the farther side of the

palace--she comes out and talks to Nobili for half an hour, under

cover of the ivy that hangs over the wall on that side. Teresa, the

maid, was there too, but she stood behind. Nobili wore a long cloak

that covered him all over; Enrica had a thick veil fastened round

her head and face. They didn't see me, but I watched them from behind

Pietro's house, at the corner of the street opposite. First of all,

Enrica puts her head out of the gate-way. Teresa puts hers out next.

Then Enrica waves her hand toward the palace opposite, a side-door

opens piano, Nobili appears, and watches all round to see that no one

is near--ha! ha! his young eyes didn't spy out my old ones though, for

all that--Nobili appears, I say, then he puts his hand to his heart,

and gives such a look across the street!--Ahi! it makes my old blood

boil to see it. I was pretty once, and liked such looks.--You may

think my eyes are dim, but I can see as far as another."

And the old hag chuckles spitefully, and winks at Brigitta, enjoying

her surprise.

"Madre di Dio!" exclaims this one. "There will be fine work."

"Yes, truly, very fine work. The marchesa shall know it; all Lucca

shall know it too--mark my words, all Lucca! Curses on the Guinigi

root and branch! I will humble them! Curses on them!" mumbles

Carlotta.

"And what did Nobili do?" asks Brigitta.

"Do?--Why, seeing no one, he came across and kissed Enrica's hand; I

saw it. He made as if he would have knelt upon the stones, only she

would not let him. Then they whispered for, as near as I can guess,

half an hour--Teresa standing apart. There was the sound of a cart

then coming along the street, and presto!--Enrica was within the

garden in an instant, the gate was closed, and Nobili disappeared."

Any further talk is now cut short by the approach of Cassandra,

a friend of Brigitta's. Cassandra is a servant in a neighboring

eating-house, a tall, large-boned woman, a colored handkerchief tied

over her head, and much tawdry jewelry about her hands and neck.

"What are you two chattering about?" asks Cassandra sharply. "It seems

entertaining. What's the news? I get paid for news at my shop. Tell me

directly."

"Lotta here was only relating to me all about her grandchild," answers

Brigitta, with a whine.--Brigitta was rather in dread of Cassandra,

whose temper was fierce, and who, being strong, knocked people down

occasionally if they offended her.

"Lotta was telling me, too, that she wants fresh stores for her shop,

but all her money is gone to the grandchild in the hospital, who is

ill, very ill!" and Brigitta sighs and turns up the whites of her

eyes.

"Yes, yes," joins in Carlotta, a dismal look upon her shriveled old

face. "Yes--it is just that. All the money gone to the grandchild,

the son of my Beppo--that's the soldier who is with the king's

army.--Alas! all gone; my money, my son, and all."

Here Carlotta affects to groan and wring her hands despairingly.

The mass was now nearly over; many people were already leaving the

cathedral; but the swell of the organs and the sweet tones of voices

still burst forth from time to time. Festive masses are always

long. It might not seem so to the pretty ladies in the boxes, still

perseveringly fanning themselves, nor to the golden youths who

were diverting them; but the prospect of dinner and a siesta was a

temptation stronger than the older portion of the congregation could

resist. By twos and threes they slipped out.

This is the moment for the three women to use their eyes and their

tongues--very softly indeed--for they were now elbowed by some of the

best people in Lucca--but to use them.

"There's Baldassare, the chemist's son," whispers Brigitta, who was

using her one eye diligently.

"Mercy! That new coat was never cut in Lucca. They need sell many

drugs at papa-chemist's to pay for Baldassare's clothes. Why, he's

combed and scented like a spice-tree. He's a good-looking fellow;

the great ladies like him." This was said with a knock-me-down air by

Cassandra. "He dines at our place every day. It's a pleasure to see

his black curls and smell his scented handkerchief."

A cluster of listeners had now gathered round Cassandra, who,

conscious of an audience, thought it worth her while to hold forth.

Shaking out the folds of her gown, she leaned her back against the

wall, and pointed with a finger on which were some trumpery rings.

Cassandra knew everybody, and was determined to make those about her

aware of it. "That's young Count Orsetti and his mamma; they give a

grand ball to-night." (Cassandra is standing on tiptoe now, the better

to observe those who pass.) "There she goes to her carriage. Ahi! how

grand! The coachman and the valet with gold-lace and silk stockings.

I would fast for a week to ride once in such a carriage. Oh! I would

give any thing to splash the mud in people's faces. She's a fine

woman--the Orsetti. Observe her light hair. Madonna mia! What a

train of silk! Twelve shillings a yard--not a penny less. She's got a

cavaliere still.--He! he! a cavaliere!"

Carlotta grins, and winks her wicked old eyes. "She wants to marry

her son to Teresa Ottolini. He's a poor silly little fellow; but

rich--very rich."

"Who's that fat man in a brown coat?" asks Brigitta. "He's like a

maggot in a fresh nut!"

"That's my master--a fine-made man," answers Cassandra, frowning and

pinching in her lips, with an affronted air, "Take care what you say

about my master, Brigitta; I shall allow no observations."

Brigitta turns aside, puts her tongue in her cheek, and glances

maliciously at Carlotta, who nods.

"How do you know how your master is made, Cassandra mia?" asks

Brigitta, looking round, with a short laugh.

"Because I have eyes in my head," replies Cassandra, defiantly. "My

master, the padrone of the Pelican Hotel, is not a man one sees every

day in the week!"

A tall priest now appears from within the church, coming down the

nave, in company with a rosy-faced old gentleman, who, although using

a stick, walks briskly and firmly. He has a calm and pleasant face,

and his hair, which lies in neat little curls upon his forehead, is

as white as snow. One moment the rosy old gentleman talks eagerly

with the priest; the next he sinks upon his knees on the pavement,

and murmurs prayers at a side altar. He does this so abruptly that

the tall priest stumbles over him. There are many apologies, and many

bows. Then the old gentleman rises, dusts his clothes carefully with

a white handkerchief, and walks on, talking eagerly as before. Both

he and the priest bend low to the high altar, dip their fingers in the

holy-water, cross themselves, bend again to the altar, turning right

and left--before leaving the cathedral.

"That's Fra Pacifico," cries Carlotta, greatly excited--"Fra Pacifico,

the Marchesa Guinigi's chaplain. He's come down from Corellia for the

festival."--Carlotta is proud to show that she knows somebody, as well

as Cassandra. "When he is in Lucca, Fra Pacifico passes my shop every

morning to say mass in the marchesa's private chapel. He knows all her

sins."

"And the old gentleman with him," puts in Cassandra, twitching her

hook nose, "is old Trenta--Cesare Trenta, the cavaliere. Bless his

dear old face! The duke loved him well. He was chamberlain at the

palace. He's a gentleman all over, is Cavaliere Trenta. There--there.

Look!"--and she points eagerly--"that's the Red count, Count

Marescotti, the republican."

Cassandra lowers her voice, afraid to be overheard, and fixes her eyes

on a man whose every feature and gesture proclaimed him an aristocrat.

Excited by the grandeur of the service, Marescotti's usually pale face

is suffused with color; his large black eyes shine with inner lights.

Looking neither to the right nor to the left, he walks through the

atrium, straight down the marble steps, into the piazza. As he passes

the three women they draw back against the wall. There is a dignity

about Marescotti that involuntarily awes them.

"That's the man for the people!"--Cassandra still speaks under her

breath.--"He'll give us a republic yet."

Following close on Count Marescotti comes Count Nobili. There are ease

and conscious strength and freedom in his every movement. He pauses

for a moment on the uppermost step under the central arch of the

atrium and gazes round. The sun strikes upon his fresh-complexioned

face and lights up his fair hair and restless eyes.--It is clear

to see no care has yet troubled that curly head of his.--Nobili

is closely followed by a lady of mature age, dark, thin, and

sharp-featured. She has a glass in her eye, with which she peers at

every thing and everybody. This is the Marchesa Boccarini. She is

followed by her three daughters; two of them of no special attraction,

but the youngest, Nera, dark and strikingly handsome. These three

young ladies, all matrimonially inclined, but Nera specially, had

carefully watched the instant when Nobili left his seat. Then they had

followed him closely. It was intended that he should escort them home.

Nera has already decided what she will say to him touching the Orsetti

ball that evening and the cotillon, which she means to dance with

him if she can. But Nobili, with whom they come up under the portico,

merely responds to their salutation with a low bow, raises his hat,

and stands aside to make way for them. He does not even offer to hand

them to their carriage. They pass, and are gone.

As Count Nobili descends the three steps into the piazza, he is

conscious that all eyes are fixed upon him; that every head is

uncovered. He pauses, casts his eyes round at the upturned faces,

raises his hat and smiles, then puts his hand into his pocket, and

takes out a gold-piece, which he gives to the nearest beggar. The

beggar, seizing the gold-piece, blesses him, and hopes that "Heaven

will render to him according to his merits." Other beggars, from every

corner, are about to rush upon him; but Nobili deftly escapes from

these as he had escaped from the Marchesa Boccarini and her daughters,

and is gone.

"A lucky face," mumbles old Carlotta, working her under lip, as she

fixes her bleared eyes on him--"a lucky face! He will choose the

winning number in the lottery, and the evil eye will never harm him."

The music had now ceased. The mass was over. The vast congregation

poured through the triple doors into the piazza, and mingled with

the outer crowd. For a while both waved to and fro, like billows on

a rolling sea, then settled down into one compact current, which,

flowing onward, divided and dispersed itself through the openings into

the various streets abutting on the piazza.

Last of all, Carlotta, Brigitta, and Cassandra, leave their corner.

They are speedily engulfed in the shadows of a neighboring alley, and

are seen no more.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MARCHESA GUINIGI.

The stern and repulsive aspect of the exterior of the Marchesa

Guinigi's palace belied the antique magnificence within.

Turning to the right under an archway from the damp, moss-grown court

over which the tower throws a perpetual shadow, a broad staircase,

closed by a door of open ironwork, leads to the first story (the

_piano nobile_). Here an anteroom, with Etruscan urns and fragments

of mediaeval sculpture let into the walls, gives access to a great

_sala_, or hall, where Paolo Guinigi entertained the citizens and

magnates of Lucca with sumptuous hospitality.

The vaulted ceiling, divided into compartments by heavy panels, is

profusely gilt, and painted in fresco by Venetian masters; but the

gold is dulled by age, and the frescoes are but dingy patches of what

once was color. The walls, ornamented with Flemish tapestry, represent

the Seven Labors of Hercules--the bright colors all faded out

and blurred like the frescoes. Above, on the surface of polished

walnut-wood, between the tapestry and the ceiling, are hung suits of

mail, helmets, shields, swords, lances, and tattered banners.

Every separate piece has its history. Each lance, in the hand of some

mediaeval hero of the name, has transfixed a foe, every sword has been

dyed in the life-blood of a Ghibelline.

At the four corners of the hall are four doorways corresponding

to each other. Before each doorway hang curtains of Genoa velvet,

embroidered in gold with the Guinigi arms surmounted by a princely

coronet. Time has mellowed these once crimson curtains to dingy red.

From the hall, entered by these four doors, open out endless suites

of rooms, enriched with the spoils of war and the splendor of feudal

times. Not a chair, not a table, has been renewed, or even shifted

from its place, since the fourteenth century, when Paolo Guinigi

reigned absolute in Lucca.

On first entering, it is difficult to distinguish any thing in the

half-light. The narrow Gothic casements of the whole floor are closed,

both those toward the street and those facing inward upon the inner

court. The outer wooden shutters are also closely fastened. The

marchesa would consider it a sacrilege to allow light or even outer

air to penetrate in these rooms, sacred to the memory of her great

ancestors.

First in order after the great hall is a long gallery paneled with

dark marble. It has a painted ceiling, and a mosaic floor. Statues and

antique busts, presented by the emperor to Paolo Guinigi, are ranged

on either side. This gallery leads through various antechambers to

the retiring-room, where, in feudal times, the consort of the reigning

lord presided when the noble dames of Lucca visited her on state

occasions--a victory gained over the Pisans or Florentines--the

conquest of a rebellious city, Pistoia perhaps--the birth of a son;

or--the anniversary of national festivals. Pale-blue satin stuffs and

delicate brocades, crossed with what was once glittering threads of

gold, cover the walls. Rows of Venetian-glass chandeliers, tinted

in every shade of loveliest color, fashioned into colored knots,

pendants, and flowers, hang from the painted rafters. Mirrors, set

in ponderous frames of old Florentine gilding, dimly reflect every

object; narrow, high-backed chairs and carved wooden benches,

sculptured mosaic tables and ponderous sideboards covered with choice

pottery from Gubbio and Savona, and Lucca della Robbia ware. Sunk

in recesses there are dark cupboards filled with mediaeval salvers,

goblets, and flagons, gold dishes, and plates, and vessels of filigree

and silver. Ivory carvings hang on the walls beside dingy pictures,

or are ranged on tables of Sicilian agate and Oriental jasper. Against

the walls are also placed cabinets and caskets of carved walnut-wood

and ebony inlaid with lapis-lazuli, jasper, and precious stones; also

long, narrow coffers, richly carved, within which the _corredo_, or

_trousseau_, of rich brides who had matched with a Guinigi, was laid.

Beyond the retiring-room is the presence-chamber. On a dais, raised

on three broad steps, stands a chair of state, surmounted by a

dark-velvet canopy. Above appear the Guinigi arms, worked in gold and

black, tarnished now, as is the glory of the illustrious house they

represent. Overhead are suspended two cardinal's hats, dropping to

pieces with moth and mildew. On the wall opposite the dais, between

two ranges of narrow Venetian windows, looking into the court-yard,

hangs the historic portrait of Castruccio Castracani degli Antimelli,

the Napoleon of the middle ages, whose rapid conquests raised Lucca to

a sovereign state.

The name of the great Castruccio (whose mother was a Guinigi) is

the glory of the house, his portrait more precious than any other

possession.

A gleam of ruddy light strikes through a crevice in a red curtain

opposite; it falls full upon the chair of state. That chair is

not empty; a tall, dark figure is seated there. It is the Marchesa

Guinigi. She is so thin and pale and motionless, she might pass for a

ghost herself, haunting the ghosts of her ancestors!

It is her custom twice a year, on the anniversary of the birth and

death of Castruccio Castracani--to-day is the anniversary of

his death--to unlock the door leading from the hall into these

state-apartments, and to remain here alone for many hours. The key is

always about her person, attached to her girdle. No other foot but her

own is ever permitted to tread these floors.

She sits in the half-light, lost in thought as in a dream. Her head is

raised, her arms are extended over the sides of the antique chair; her

long, white hands hang down listlessly. Her eyes wander vaguely along

the floor; gradually they raise themselves to the portrait of her

great ancestor opposite. How well she knows every line and feature of

that stern but heroic countenance, every dark curl upon that classic

head, wreathed with ivy-leaves; that full, expressive eye,

aquiline nose, open nostril, and chiseled lip; every fold in that

ermine-bordered mantle--a present from the emperor, after the victory

of Altopasso, and the triumph of the Ghibellines! Looking into the

calmness of that impressive face, in the mystery of the darkened

presence-chamber, she can forget that the greatness of her house is

fallen, the broad lands sold or mortgaged, the treasures granted

by the state lavished, one even of the ancestral palaces sold; nay,

worse, not only sold, but desecrated by commerce in the person of

Count Nobili.

Seated there, on the seigneurial chair, under the regal canopy, she

can forget all this. For a few short hours she can live again in the

splendor of the past--the past, when a Guinigi was the equal of kings,

his word more absolute than law, his frown more terrible than death!

Before the marchesa is a square table of dark marble, on which in old

time was laid the sword of state (a special insignia of office),

borne before the Lord of Lucca in public processions, embassies, and

tournaments. This table is now covered with small piled-up heaps of

gold and silver coin (the gold much less in quantity than the silver).

There are a few jewels, and some diamond pendants in antique settings,

a diamond necklace, crosses, medals, and orders, and a few uncut gems

and antique intaglios.

The marchesa takes up each object and examines it. She counts the

gold-pieces, putting them back again one by one in rows, by tens and

twenties. She handles the crisp bank-notes. She does this over and

over again so slowly and so carefully, it would seem, as if she

expected the money to grow under her fingers. She has placed all in

order before her--the jewels on one side, the money and the notes on

the other. As she moves them to and fro on the smooth marble with the

points of her long fingers, she shakes her head and sighs. Then she

touches a secret spring, and a drawer opens from under the table. Into

this drawer she deposits all that lies before her, her fingers still

clinging to the gold.

After a while she rises, and casting a parting glance at the portrait

of Castruccio--among all her ancestors Castruccio was the object of

her special reverence--she moves leisurely onward through the various

apartments lying beyond the presence-chamber.

The doors, draped with heavy tapestry curtains, are all open. It is a

long, gloomy suite of rooms, where the sun never shines, looking into

the inner court.

The marchesa's steps are noiseless, her countenance grave and pale.

Here and there she pauses to gaze into the face of a picture, or to

brush off the dust from some object specially dear to her. She pauses,

minutely observing every thing around her.

There is a dark closet, with a carved wooden cornice and open raftered

roof, the walls covered with stamped leather. Here the family councils

assembled. Next comes a long, narrow, low-roofed gallery, where row

after row of portraits and pictures illustrate the defunct Guinigi. In

that centre panel hangs Francesco dei Guinigi, who, for courtesy and

riches, surpassed all others in Lucca. (Francesco was the first to

note the valor of his young cousin Castruccio, to whom he taught the

art of war.) Near him hangs the portrait of Ridolfo, who triumphantly

defeated Uguccione della Faggiola, the tyrant of Pisa, under the

very walls of that city. Farther on, at the top of the room, is the

likeness of the great Paolo himself--a dark, olive-skinned man, with

a hard-lipped mouth, and resolute eyes, clad in a complete suit of

gold-embossed armor. By Paolo's side appears Battista, who followed

the Crusades, and entered Jerusalem with Godfrey de Bouillon; also

Gianni, grand-master of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John--the

golden rose presented to him by the pope in the corner of the picture.

After the gallery come the armory and the chapel. Beyond at the end

of the vaulted passage, lighted from above, there is a closed door of

dark walnut-wood.

When the marchesa enters this vaulted passage, her firm, quick step

falters. As she approaches the door, she is visibly agitated. Her hand

trembles as she places it on the heavy outside lock. The lock yields;

the door opens with a creak. She draws aside a heavy curtain, then

stands motionless.

There is such a mist of dust, such a blackness of shadow, that

at first nothing is visible. Gradually, as the daylight faintly

penetrates by the open door, the shadows form themselves into definite

shapes.

Within a deep alcove, inclosed by a balustrade, stands a bed--its

gilt cornice reaching to the ceiling, heavily curtained. This is the

nuptial-chamber of the Guinigi. Within that alcove, and in that bed,

generation after generation have seen the light. Not to be born in the

nuptial-chamber, and in that bed within the ancestral palace, is not

to be a true Guinigi.

The marchesa has taken a step or two forward into the room. There,

wrapped in the shadows, she stands still and trembles. A terrible look

has come into her face--sorrow, and longing, and remorse. The history

of her whole life rises up before her.

"Is the end, then, come?" she asks herself--"and with me?"

From pale she had turned ashy. The long shadows from the dark curtains

stretch out and engulf her. She feels their dark touch, like a visible

presence of evil, she shivers all over. The cold damp air of the chill

room comes to her like wafts of deadly poison. She cannot breathe; a

convulsive tremor passes over her.

She totters to the door, and leans for support against the side. Yet

she will not go; she forces herself to remain. To stand here, in this

room, before that bed, is her penance. To stand here like a criminal!

Ah, God! is she not childless? Why has she (and her hands are

clinched, and her breath comes thick), why has she been stricken with

barrenness?

"Why, why?" she asks herself now, as she has asked herself year after

year, each year with a fresh agony. Until she came, a son had never

failed under that roof. Why was she condemned to be alone? She had

done nothing to deserve it. Had she not been a blameless wife? Why,

why was she so punished? Her haughty spirit stirs within her.

"God is unjust," she mutters, half aloud. "God is my enemy."

As the impious words fall from her lips they ring round the dark bed,

and die away among the black draperies. The echo of her own voice

fills her with dread. She rushes out. The door closes heavily after

her.

Once removed from that fatal chamber, with its death-like shadows, she

gradually collects herself. She has so long fortified herself against

all sign of outward emotion, she has so hardened herself in an inner

life of secret remorse, this is easy--at least to outward appearance.

The calm, frigid look natural to her face returns. Her eyes have again

their dark sparkle. Not a trace remains to tell what her self-imposed

penance has cost her.

Again she is the proud marchesa, the mistress of the feudal palace and

all its glorious memories.--Yes; and she casts her eyes round where

she stands, back again in the retiring-room. Yes--all is yet her own.

True, she is impoverished--worse, she is laden with debt, harassed by

creditors. The lands that are left are heavily mortgaged; the money

received from Count Nobili, as the price of the palace, already spent

in law. The hoard she has just counted--her savings--destined to dower

her niece Enrica, in whose marriage lies the sole remaining hope of

the preservation of the name (and that depending on the will of a

husband, who may, or may not, add the name of Guinigi to his own) is

most slender. She has been able to add nothing to it during these last

years--not a farthing. But there is one consolation. While she lives,

all is safe from spoliation. While she lives, no creditor lives bold

enough to pass that threshold. While she lives--and then?

Further she forbids her thoughts to wander. She will not admit, even

to herself, that there is danger--that even, during her own life, she

may be forced to sell what is dearer to her than life--the palace and

the heirlooms!

Meanwhile the consciousness of wealth is pleasant to her. She opens

the cupboards in the wall, and handles the precious vessels of

Venetian glass, the silver plates and golden flagons, the jeweled

cups; she examines the ancient bronzes and ivory carvings; unlocks the

caskets and the inlaid cabinets, and turns over the gold guipure lace,

the rich mediaeval embroideries, the christening-robes--these she

flings quickly by--and the silver ornaments. She uncloses the carved

coffers, and passes through her long fingers the wedding garments of

brides turned to dust centuries ago--the silver veils, bridal crowns,

and quaintly-cut robes of taffetas and brocade, once white, now turned

to dingy yellow. She assures herself that all is in its place.

As she moves to and fro she catches sight of herself reflected in one

of the many mirrors encased in what were once gorgeous frames hanging

on the wall. She stops and fixes her keen black eyes upon her own worn

face. "I am not old," she says aloud, "only fifty-five this year. I

may live many years yet. Much may happen before I die! Cesare Trenta

says I am ruined"--as she speaks, she turns her face toward the

streaks of light that penetrate the shutters.--"Not yet, not ruined

yet. Who knows? I may live to redeem all. Cesare said I was ruined

after that last suit with the chapter. He is a fool! The money was

well spent. I would do it again. While I live the name of Guinigi

shall be honored." She pauses, as if listening to the sound of her own

voice. Then her thoughts glance off to the future. "Who knows? Enrica

shall marry; that may set all right. She shall have all--all!" And she

turns and gazes earnestly through the open doors of the stately rooms

on either hand. "Enrica shall marry; marry as I please. She must have

no will in the matter."

She stops suddenly, remembering certain indications of quiet self-well

which she thinks she has already detected in her niece.

"If not"--(the mere supposition that her plans should be

thwarted--thwarted by her niece, Enrica--a child, a tool--brought up

almost upon her charity--rouses in her a tempest of passion; her face

darkens, her eyes flash; she clinches her fist with sudden vehemence,

she shakes it in the air)--"if not--let her die!" Her shrill voice

wakes the echoes. "Let her die!" resounds faintly through the gilded

rooms.

At this moment the cathedral-clock strikes four. This is the first

sound that has reached the marchesa from the outer world since she has

entered these rooms. It rouses her from the thralldom of her thoughts.

It recalls her to the outer world. Four o'clock! Then she has been

shut up for five hours! She must go at once, or she may be missed by

her household. If she is missed, she may be followed--watched. Casting

a searching look round, to assure herself that all is in its place,

she takes from her girdle the key she always wears, and lets herself

out into the great hall. She relocks the door, drawing the velvet

curtains carefully over it. With greater caution she unfastens the

other door (the entrance) on the staircase. Peeping through the

curtains, she assures herself that no one is on the stairs. Then

she softly recloses it, and rapidly ascends the stairs to the second

story.

That day six months, on the anniversary of Castruccio's birth, which

falls in the month of March, she will return again to the state-rooms.

No one has ever accompanied her on these strange vigils. Only her

friend, the Cavaliere Trenta, knows that she goes there. Even to him

she rarely alludes to it. It is her own secret. Her inner life is with

the past. Her thoughts rest with the dead. It is the living who are

but shadows.

CHAPTER V.

ENRICA.

The marchesa was in a very bad humor. Not only did she stay at home

all the day of the festival of the Holy Countenance by reason of the

solemn anniversary which occurred at that time, but she shut herself

up the following day also. When the old servant (old inside and out)

in his shabby livery, who acted as butler, crept into her room,

and asked at what time "the eccellenza would take her airing on the

ramparts"--the usual drive of the Lucchese ladies--when they not only

drive, but draw up under the plane-trees, gossip, and eat sweetmeats

and ices--she had answered, in a tone she would have used to a

decrepit dog who troubled her, "Shut the door and begone!"

She had been snappish to Enrica. She had twitted her with wanting to

go to the Orsetti ball, although Enrica had never been to any ball or

any assembly whatever in her life, and no word had been spoken about

it. Enrica never did speak; she had been disciplined into silence.

Enrica, as has been said, was the marchesa's niece, and lived with

her. She was the only child of her sister, who died when she was

born. This sister (herself, as well as the marchesa, _born_ Guinigi

Ruscellai) had also married a Guinigi, a distant cousin of the

marchesa's husband, belonging to a third branch of the family, settled

at Mantua. Of this collateral branch, all had died out. Antonio

Guinigi, of Mantua, Enrica's father, in the prime of life, was killed

in a duel, resulting from one of those small social affronts that

so frequently do provoke duels in Italy. (I knew a certain T---- who

called out a certain G---- because G---- had said T----'s rooms were

not properly carpeted.) Generally these encounters with swords are

as trifling in their results as in their origin. But the duel in

question, fought by Antonio Guinigi, was unfortunately not so. He died

on the spot. Enrica, when two years old, was an orphan. Thus it came

that she had known no home but the home of her aunt. The marchesa had

never shown her any particular kindness. She had ordered her servants

to take care of her. That was all. Scarcely ever had she kissed her;

never passed her hand among the sunny curls that fell upon the quiet

child's face and neck. The marchesa, in fact, had not so much as

noticed her childish beauty and enticing ways.

Enrica had grown up accustomed to bear with her aunt's haughty,

ungracious manners and capricious temper. She scarcely knew that there

was any thing to bear. She had been left to herself as long as she

could remember any thing. A peasant--Teresa, her foster-mother--had

come with her from Mantua, and from Teresa alone she received such

affection as she had ever known. A mere animal affection, however,

which lost its value as she grew into womanhood.

Thus it was that Enrica came to accept the marchesa's rough tongue,

her arrogance, and her caprices, as a normal state of existence. She

never complained. If she suffered, it was in silence. To reason with

the marchesa, much more dispute with her, was worse than useless. She

was not accustomed to be talked to, certainly not by her niece. It

only exasperated her and fixed her more doggedly in whatever purpose

she might have in hand. But there was a certain stern sense of justice

about her when left to herself--if only the demon of her family pride

were not aroused, then she was inexorable--that would sometimes come

to the rescue. Yet, under all the tyranny of this neutral life which

circumstances had imposed on her, Enrica, unknown to herself--for

how should she, who knew so little, know herself?--grew up to have a

strong will. She might be bent, but she would never break. In this she

resembled the marchesa. Gentle, loving, and outwardly submissive,

she was yet passively determined. Even the marchesa came to be dimly

conscious of this, although she considered it as utterly unimportant,

otherwise than to punish and to repress.

Shut up within the dreary palace at Lucca, or in the mountain solitude

of Corellia, Enrica yearned for freedom. She was like a young bird,

full-fledged and strong, that longs to leave the parent-nest--to

stretch its stout wings on the warm air--to soar upward into the

light!

Now the light had come to Enrica. It came when she first saw Count

Nobili. It shone in her eyes, it dazzled her, it intoxicated her. On

that day a new world opened before her--a fair and pleasant world,

light with the dawn of love--a world as different as golden summer

to the winter of her home. How she gloried in Nobili! How she loved

him!--his comely looks, his kindling smile (like sunshine everywhere),

his lordly ways, his triumphant prosperity! He had come to her, she

knew not how. She had never sought him. He had come--come like fate.

She never asked herself if it was wrong or right to love him. How

could she help it? Was he not born to be loved? Was he not her own--a

thousand times her own--as he told her--"forever?" She believed in

him as she believed in God. She neither knew nor cared whither she was

drifting, so that it was with him! She was as one sailing with a fair

wind on an endless sea--a sea full of sunlight--sailing she knew

not where! Think no evil of her, I pray you. She was not wicked nor

deceitful--only ignorant, with such ignorance as made the angels fall.

As yet Nobili and Enrica had only met in such manner as has been told

by old Carlotta to her gossip Brigitta. Letters, glances, sighs,

had passed across the street, from palace to palace at the Venetian

casements--under the darkly-ivied archway of the Moorish garden--at

the cathedral in the gray evening light, or in the earliest glow of

summer mornings--and this, so seldom! Every time they had met Nobili

implored Enrica, passionately, to escape from the thralldom of her

life, implored her to become his wife. With his pleading eyes fixed

upon her, he asked her "why she should sacrifice him to the senseless

pride of her aunt? He whose whole life was hers?"

But Enrica shrank from compliance, with a secret sense that she had

no right to do what he asked; no right to marry without her aunt's

consent. Her love was her own to give. She had thought it all out

for herself, pacing up and down under the cool marble arcades of the

Moorish garden, the splash of the fountain in her ears--Teresa had

told her the same--her love was her own to give. What had her aunt

done for her, her sister's child, but feed and clothe her? Indeed,

as Teresa said, the marchesa had done but little else. Enrica was

as unconscious as Teresa of those marriage schemes of her aunt which

centred in herself. Had she known what was reserved for her, she would

better have understood the marchesa's nature; then she might have

acted differently. But heretofore there had been no question of her

marriage. Although she was seventeen, she had always been treated as a

mere child. She scarcely dared to speak in her aunt's presence, or to

address a question to her. Her love, then, she thought, was her own to

bestow; but more?--No, no even to Nobili. He urged, he entreated, he

reproached her, but in vain. He implored her to inform the marchesa

of their engagement. (Nobili could not offer to do this himself; the

marchesa would have refused to admit him within her door.) But Enrica

would not consent to do even this. She knew her aunt too well to trust

her with her secret. She knew that she was both subtle, and, where her

own plans were concerned, or her will thwarted, treacherous also.

Enrica had been taught not only to obey the marchesa implicitly, but

never to dispute her will. Hitherto she had had no will but hers.

How, then, could she all at once shake off the feeling of awe, almost

terror, with which her aunt inspired her? Besides, was not the very

sound of Nobili's name abhorrent to her? Why the marchesa should

abhor him or his name, Enrica could not tell. It was a mystery to her

altogether beyond her small experience of life. But it was so. No, she

would say nothing; that was safest. The marchesa, if displeased, was

quite capable of carrying her away from Lucca to Corellia--perhaps

leaving her there alone in the mountains. She might even shut her up

in a convent for life!--Then she should die!

No, she would say nothing.

CHAPTER VI.

MARCHESA GUINIGI AT HOME.

The marchesa was, as I have said, in a very bad humor. She had by no

means recovered from what she conceived to be the affront put upon her

by the brilliant display made by Count Nobili, at the festival of the

Holy Countenance, nor, indeed, from the festival itself.

She had had the satisfaction of shutting up her palace, it is true;

but she was not quite sure if this had impressed the public mind of

Lucca as she had intended. She felt painful doubts as to whether the

splendors opposite had not so entirely engrossed public attention that

no eye was left to observe any thing else--at least, in that street.

It was possible, she thought, that another year it might be wiser not

to shut up her palace at all, but so far to overcome her feelings as

to exhibit the superb hangings, the banners, the damask, and cloth of

gold, used in the mediaeval festivals and processions, and thus outdo

the modern tinsel of Count Nobili.

Besides the festival, and Count Nobili's audacity, the marchesa had a

further cause for ill-humor. No one had come on that evening to play

her usual game of whist. Even Trenta had deserted her. She had said

to herself that when she--the Marchesa Guinigi--"received," no other

company, no other engagement whatever, ought to interfere with the

honor that her company conferred. These were valid causes of ill-humor

to any lady of the marchesa's humor.

She was seated now in the sitting-room of her own particular suite,

one of three small and rather stuffy rooms, on the second floor. These

rooms consisted of an anteroom, covered with a cretonne paper of blue

and brown, a carpetless floor, a table, and some common, straw chairs

placed against the wall. From the anteroom two doors led into two

bedrooms, one on either side. Another door, opposite the entrance,

opened into the sitting-room.

All the windows this way faced toward the garden, the wall of which

ran parallel to the palace and to the street. The marchesa's room

had flaunting green walls with a red border; the ceiling was gaudily

painted with angels, flowers, and festoons. Some colored prints hung

on the walls--a portrait of the Empress Eugénie on horseback, in a

Spanish dress, and four glaring views of Vesuvius in full eruption. A

divan, covered with well-worn chintz, ran round two sides of the

room. Between the ranges of the graceful casements stood a marble

console-table, with a mirror in a black frame. An open card-table

was placed near the marchesa. On the table there was a pack of not

over-clean cards, some markers, and a pair of candles (the candles

still unlighted, for the days are long, and it is only six o'clock).

There was not a single ornament in the whole room, nor any object

whatever on which the eye could rest with pleasure. White-cotton

curtains concealed the delicate tracery and the interlacing columns of

the Venetian windows. Beneath lay the Moorish garden, entered from

the street by an arched gate-way, over which long trails of ivy hung.

Beautiful in itself, the Moorish garden was an incongruous appendage

to a Gothic palace. One of the Guinigi, commanding for the Emperor

Charles V. in Spain, saw Granada and the Alhambra. On his return to

Lucca, he built this architectural plaisance on a bare plot of ground,

used for jousts and tilting. That is its history. There it has been

since. It is small--a city garden--belted inside by a pointed arcade

of black-and-white marble.

In the centre is a fountain. The glistening waters shoot upward

refreshingly in the warm evening air, to fall back on the heads of

four marble lions, supporting a marble basin. Fine white gravel covers

the ground, broken by statues and vases, and tufts of flowering shrubs

growing luxuriantly under the shelter of the arcade--many-colored

altheas, flaming pomegranates, graceful pepper-trees with bright,

beady seeds, and magnolias, as stalwart as oaks, hanging over the

fountain.

The strong perfume of the magnolia-blossoms, still white upon

the boughs, is wafted upward to the open window of the marchesa's

sitting-room; the sun is low, and the shadows of the pointed arches

double themselves upon the ground. Shadows, too, high up the horizon,

penetrate into the room, and strike across the variegated scagliola

floor, and upon a table in the centre, on which a silver tray is

placed, with glasses of lemonade. Round the table are ranged chairs of

tarnished gilding, and a small settee with spindle-legs.

In her present phase of life, the squalor of these rooms is congenial

to the marchesa. Hitherto reckless of expense, especially in law, she

has all at once grown parsimonious to excess. As to the effect this

change may produce on others, and whether this mode of life is in

keeping with the stately palace she inhabits, the marchesa does not

care in the least; it pleases her, that is enough. All her life she

has been quite clear on two points--her belief in herself, and her

belief in the name she bears.

The marchesa leans back on a high-backed chair and frowns. To frown is

so habitual to her that the wrinkles on her forehead and between her

eyebrows are prematurely deepened. She has a long, sallow face, a

straight nose, keen black eyes, a high forehead, and a thin-lipped

mouth. She is upright, and well made; and the folds of her plain black

dress hang about her tall figure with a certain dignity. Her dark

hair, now sprinkled with white, is fully dressed, the bands combed low

on her forehead. She wears no ornament, except the golden cross of a

_chanoinesse._

As she leans back on her high-backed chair she silently observes her

niece, seated near the open window, knitting.

"If she had been my child!" was the marchesa's thought. "Why was I

denied a child?" And she sighed.

The rays of the setting sun dance among the ripples of Enrica's blond

hair, and light up the dazzling whiteness of her skin. Seen thus in

profile, although her features are regular, and her expression full

of sweetness, it is rather the promise than the perfection of actual

beauty--the rose-bud--by-and-by to expand into the perfect flower.

There was a knock at the door, and a ruddy old face looked in. It

is the Cavaliere Trenta, in his official blue coat and gold buttons,

nankeen inexpressibles, a broad-brimmed white hat and a gold-headed

cane in his hand. Whatever speck of dust might have had the audacity

to venture to settle itself upon any part of the cavaliere's official

blue coat, must at once have hidden its diminished head after peeping

at the cavaliere's beaming countenance, so scrubbed and shiny, the

white hair so symmetrically arranged upon his forehead in little

curls--his whole appearance so neat and trim.

"Is it permitted to enter?" he asked, smiling blandly at the marchesa,

as, leaning upon his stick, he made her a ceremonious bow.

"Yes, Cesarino, yes, you may enter," she replied, stiffly. "I cannot

very well send you away now--but you deserve it."

"Why, most distinguished lady?" again asked Trenta, submissively,

closing the door, and advancing to where she sat. He bent down his

head and kissed her hand, then smiled at Enrica. "What have I done?"

"Done? You know you never came last night at all. I missed my game of

whist. I do not sleep well without it."

"But, marchesa," pleaded Trenta, in the gentlest voice, "I am

desolated, as you can conceive--desolated; but what could I do?

Yesterday was the festival of the Holy Countenance, that solemn

anniversary that brings prosperity to our dear city!" And the

cavaliere cast up his mild blue eyes, and crossed himself upon the

breast. "I was most of the day in the cathedral. Such a service!

Better music than last year. In the evening I had promised to arrange

the cotillon at Countess Orsetti's ball. As chamberlain to his late

highness the Duke of Lucca, it is expected of me to organize every

thing. One can leave nothing to that animal Baldassare--he has no

head, no system; he dances well, but like a machine. The ball was

magnificent--a great success," he continued, speaking rapidly, for

he saw that a storm was gathering on the marchesa's brow, by the

deepening of the wrinkles between her eyes. "A great success. I took a

few turns myself with Teresa Ottolini--tra la la la la," and he swayed

his head and shoulders to and fro as he hummed a waltz-tune.

"_You_!" exclaimed the marchesa, staring at him with a look of

contempt--"_you_!"

"Yes. Why not? I am as young as ever, dear marchesa--eighty, the prime

of life!"

"The festival of the Holy Countenance and the cotillon!" cried the

marchesa, with great indignation. "Tell me nothing about the Orsetti

ball. I won't listen to it. Good Heavens!" she continued, reddening,

"I am thirty years younger than you are, but I left off dancing

fifteen years ago. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Cesarino!"

Cesarino only smiled at her benignantly in reply. She had called him

a fool so often! He seated himself beside her without speaking. He had

come prepared to entertain her with an account of every detail of the

ball; but seeing the temper she was in, he deemed it more prudent to

be silent--to be silent specially about Count Nobili. The mention of

his name would, he knew, put her in a fury, so, being a prudent man,

and a courtier, he entirely dropped the subject of the ball. Yet

Trenta was a privileged person. He never voluntarily contradicted the

marchesa, but when occasion arose he always spoke his mind, fearless

of consequences. As he and the marchesa disagreed on almost every

possible subject, disputes often arose between them; but, thanks to

Trenta's pliant temper and perfect good-breeding, they were always

amicably settled.

"Count Marescotti and Baldassare are outside," continued Trenta,

looking at her inquiringly, as the marchesa had not spoken. "They are

waiting to know if the illustrious lady receives this evening, and if

she will permit them to join her usual whist-party."

"Marescotti!--where may he come from?--the clouds, perhaps--or the

last balloon?" asked the marchesa, looking up.

"From Rome; he arrived two days ago. He is no longer so erratic. Will

you allow him to join us?"

"I shall certainly play my rubber if I am permitted," answered the

marchesa, drawing herself up.

This was intended as a sarcastic reminder of the disregard shown to

her by the cavaliere the evening before; but the sarcasm was quite

thrown away upon Trenta; he was very simple and straightforward.

"The marchesa has only to command me," was his polite reply. "I wonder

Marescotti and Baldassare are not here already," he added, looking

toward the door. "I left them both in the street; they were to follow

me up-stairs immediately."

"Ah!" said the marchesa, smiling sarcastically, "Count Marescotti is

not to be trusted. He is a genius--he may be back on his way to Rome

by this time."

"No, no," answered Trenta, rising and walking toward the door, which

he opened and held in his hand, while he kept his eyes fixed on the

staircase; "Marescotti is disgusted with Rome--with the Parliament,

with the Government--with every thing. He abuses the municipality

because a secret republican committee which he headed, in

correspondence with Paris, has been discovered by the police and

denounced. He had to escape in disguise."

"Well, well, I rejoice to hear it!" broke in the marchesa. "It is a

good Government; let him find a better. Why has he come to Lucca? We

want no _sans-culottes_ here."

"Marescotti declares," continued the cavaliere, "that even now Rome is

still in bondage, and sunk in superstition. He calls it superstition.

He would like to shut up all the churches. He believes in nothing

but poetry and Red republicans. Any kind of Christian belief he calls

superstition."

"Marescotti is quite right," said the marchesa, angrily; she was

determined to contradict the cavaliere. "You are a bigot, Trenta--an

old bigot. You believe every thing a priest tells you. A fine

exhibition we had yesterday of what that comes to! The Holy

Countenance! Do you think any educated person in Lucca believes in

the Holy Countenance? I do not. It is only an excuse for idleness--for

idleness, I say. Priests love idleness; they go into the Church

because they are too idle to work." She raised her voice, and

looked defiantly at Trenta, who stood before her the picture of meek

endurance--holding the door-handle. "I hope I shall live to see all

festivals abolished. Why didn't the Government do it altogether when

they were about it?--no convents, no monks, no holidays, except on

Sunday! Make the people work--work for their bread! We should have

fewer taxes, and no beggars."

Trenta's benignant face had gradually assumed as severe an aspect as

it was capable of bearing. He pointed to Enrica, of whom he had up to

this time taken no notice beyond a friendly smile--the marchesa did

not like Enrica to be noticed--now he pointed to her, and shook his

head deprecatingly. Could he have read Enrica's thoughts, he need have

feared no contamination to her from the marchesa; her thoughts were

far away--she had not listened to a single word.

"Dio Santo!" he exclaimed at last, clasping his hands together and

speaking low, so as not to be overheard by Enrica--"that I should live

to hear a Guinigi talk so! Do you forget, marchesa, that it was under

the banner of the blessed Holy Countenance (_Vulturum di Lucca_),

miraculously cast on the shores of the Ligurian Sea, that your

great ancestor Castruccio Castracani degli Antimelli overcame the

Florentines at Alto Passo?"

"The banner didn't help him, nor St. Nicodemus either--I affirm

that," answered she, angrily. Her temper was rising. "I will not be

contradicted, cavaliere--don't attempt it. I never allow it. Even my

husband never contradicted me--and he was a Guinigi. Is the city to

go mad, eat, drink, and hang out old curtains because the priests

bid them? Did _you_ see Nobili's house?" She asked this question

so eagerly, she suddenly forgot her anger in the desire she felt to

relate her injuries. "A Guinigi palace dressed out like a booth at a

fair!--What a scandal! This comes of usury and banking. He will be a

deputy soon. Will no one tell him he is a presumptuous young idiot?"

she cried, with a burst of sudden rage, remembering the crowds that

filled the streets, and the admiration and display excited. Then,

turning round and looking Trenta full in the face, she added

spitefully, "You may worship painted dolls, and kiss black crucifixes,

if you like: I would not give them house-room."

"Mercy!" cried poor Trenta, putting his hands to his ears. "For pity's

sake--the palace _will_ fall about your ears! Remember your niece is

present."

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

work.

"Ha! ha!" was all the reply vouchsafed by the marchesa, followed by

a scornful laugh. "I shall say what I please in my own house. Poor

Cesarino! You are very ignorant. I pity you!"

But Trenta was not there--he had rushed down-stairs as quickly as his

old legs and his stick would carry him, and was out of hearing. At the

mention of Nobili's name Enrica looked stealthily from under her long

eyelashes, and turned very white. The sharp eyes of her aunt might

have detected it had she been less engrossed by her passage of arms

with the cavaliere.

"Ha! ha!" she repeated, grimly laughing to herself. "He is gone! Poor

old soul! But I am going to have my rubber for all that.--Ring the

bell, Enrica. He must come back. Trenta takes too much upon himself;

he is always interfering."

As Enrica rose to obey her aunt, the sound of feet was heard in the

anteroom. The marchesa made a sign to her to reseat herself, which she

did in the same place as before, behind the thick cotton curtains of

the Venetian casement.

CHAPTER VII.

COUNT MARESCOTTI.

Count Marescotti, the Red count (the marchesa had said _sans-culotte_;

Trenta had spoken of him as an atheist), was, unhappily, something

of all this, but he was much more. He was a poet, an orator, and a

patriot. Nature had gifted him with qualities for each vocation. He

had a rich, melodious voice, with soft inflections; large dark eyes,

that kindled with the impress of every emotion; finely-cut features,

and a pale, bloodless face, that tells of a passionate nature. His

manners were gracious, and he had a commanding presence. He was born

to be a leader among men. Not only did he converse with ease and

readiness on every conceivable topic--not only did strophe after

strophe of musical verse flow from his lips with the facility of

an _improvisatore_, but he possessed the supreme art of moving the

multitude by an eloquence born of his own impassioned soul. While that

suave voice rung in men's ears, it was impossible not to be convinced

by his arguments. As a patriot, he worshiped Italy. His fervid

imagination reveled in her natural beauties--art, music, history,

poetry. He worshiped Italy, and he devoted his whole life to what he

conceived to be her good.

Marescotti was no atheist; he was a religious reformer, sincerely and

profoundly pious, and conscientious to the point of honor. Indeed, his

conscience was so sensitive, that he had been known to confess two

and three times on the same day. The cavaliere called him an atheist

because he was a believer in Savonarola, and because he positively

refused to bind himself to any priestly dogma, or special form

of worship whatever. But he had never renounced the creed of his

ancestors. The precepts of Savonarola did, indeed, afford him infinite

consolation; they were to him a _via media_ between Protestant

latitude and dogmatic belief.

The republican simplicity, stern morals, and sweeping reforms both in

Church and state preached by Savonarola (reforms, indeed, as radical

as were consistent with Catholicism), were the objects of his special

reverence. Savonarola had died at the stake for practising and for

teaching them; Marescotti declared, with characteristic enthusiasm,

that he was ready to do likewise. Wrong or right, he believed that, if

Savonarola had lived in the nineteenth century, he would have acted

as he himself had done. In the same manner, although an avowed

republican, he was no _sans-culotte._ His strong sense of personal

independence and of freedom, political and religious, caused him to

revolt against what he conceived tyranny or coercion of any kind. Even

constitutional monarchy was not sufficiently free for him. A king and

a court, the royal prerogative of ministers, patent places, pensions,

favors, the unacknowledged influence of a reigning house--represented

to his mind a modified system of tyranny--therefore of corruption.

Constant appeals to the sovereign people, a form of government

where the few yielded to the many, and the rich divided their riches

voluntarily with the poor--was in theory what he advocated.

Yet with these lofty views, these grand aspirations, with unbounded

faith, and unbounded energy and generosity, Marescotti achieved

nothing. He wanted the power of concentration, of bringing his

energies to bear on any one particular object. His mind was like an

old cabinet, crowded with artistic rubbish--gems and rarities, jewels

of price and pearls of the purest water, hidden among faded flowers;

old letters, locks of hair, daggers, tinsel reliquaries, crosses, and

modern grimcracks--all that was incongruous, piled together pell-mell

in hopeless confusion.

His countrymen, singularly timid and conventional, and always

unwilling to admit new ideas upon any subject unless imperatively

forced upon them, did not understand him. They did not appreciate

either his originality or the real strength of his character. He

differed from them and their mediaeval usages--therefore he must

be wrong. He was called eccentric by his friends, a lunatic by his

enemies. He was neither. But he lived much alone; he had dreamed

rather than reflected, and he had planned instead of acting.

"Count Marescotti," said the marchesa, holding out her hand, "I salute

you.--Baldassare, you are welcome."

The intonation of her voice, the change in her manner, gave the exact

degree of consideration proper to accord to the head of an ancient

Roman family, and the dandy son of a Lucca chemist. And, lest it

should be thought strange that the Marchesa Guinigi should admit

Baldassare at all to her presence, I must explain that Baldassare

was a _protégé_, almost a double, of the cavaliere, who insisted upon

taking him wherever he went. If you received the cavaliere, you must,

perforce, receive Baldassare also. No one could explain why this was

so. They were continually quarreling, yet they were always together.

Their intimacy had been the subject of many jokes and some gossip; but

the character of the cavaliere was immaculate, and Baldassare's mother

(now dead) had never lived at Lucca. Trenta, when spoken to on the

subject of his partiality, said he was "educating him" to fill his

place as master of the ceremonies in Lucchese society. Except when

specially bullied by the cavaliere--who greatly enjoyed tormenting him

in public--Baldassare was inoffensive and useful.

Now he pressed forward to the front.

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

you."

The marchesa turned a surprised and distant gaze upon him; but

Baldassare was not to be discouraged. He had that tough skin of true

vulgarity which is impervious to any thing but downright hard blows.

"Allow me to make my excuses," he continued. "The cavaliere here

has been scolding me all the way up-stairs for not bringing Count

Marescotti sooner to you. I could not."

Marescotti bowed an acquiescence.

"While we were standing in the street, waiting to know if the

noble lady received, an old beggar, known in Lucca as the Hermit of

Pizzorna, come down from the mountains for the festival, passed by."

"Yes, it was a providence," broke in the count--"a real hermit, not

one of those fat friars, with shaven crowns, we have in Rome, but a

genuine recluse, a man whose life is one long act of practical piety."

When Marescotti had entered, he seemed only the calm, high-bred

gentleman; now, as he spoke, his eye sparkled, and his pale cheeks

flushed.

"Yes, I addressed the hermit," he continued, and he raised his fine

head and crossed his hands on his breast as if he were still before

him. "I kissed his bare feet, road-stained with errands of charity.

'My father,' I said to him, 'bless me'--"

"Not only so," interrupted Baldassare, "but, would you believe it,

madame, the count cast himself down on the dusty street to receive his

blessing!"

"And why not?" asked the count, looking at him severely. "It came to

me like a voice from heaven. The hermit is a holy man. Would I were

like him! I have heard of him for thirty years past. Winter after

winter, among those savage mountains, in roaring winds, in sweeping

storms, in frost and snow, and water-floods, he has assisted hundreds,

who, but for him, must infallibly have perished. What courage! what

devotion! It is a poem." Marescotti spoke hurriedly and in a low

voice. "Yes, I craved his blessing. I kissed his hands, his feet.

I would have kissed the ground on which he stood." As he proceeded,

Marescotti grew more and more abstracted. All that he described was

passing like a vision before him. "Those venerable hands--yes, I

kissed them."

"How much money did you leave in them, count?" asked the marchesa,

with a sneer.

"Great is the mercy of God!" ejaculated the count, earnestly,

not heeding her. "Sinner as I am, the touch of those hands--that

blessing--purified me. I feel it."

"Incredible! Well," cried Baldassare, "the price of that blessing will

keep the good man in bread and meat for a year. Let the old beggar go

to the devil, count, his own way. He must soon appear there, anyhow.

A good-for-nothing old cheat! His blessing, indeed! I can get you a

dozen begging friars who will bless you all day for a few farthings."

The count's brow darkened.

"Baldassare," said he, very gravely, "you are young, and, like your

age, inconsiderate. I request that, in my presence, you speak with

becoming respect of this holy man."

"Per Bacco!" exclaimed the cavaliere, advancing from where he had

been standing behind the marchesa's chair, and patting Baldassare

patronizingly on the shoulder, "I never heard you talk so much before

at one time, Baldassare. Now, you had better have held your tongue,

and listened to Count Marescotti. Leading the cotillon last night has

turned your head. Take my advice, however--an old man's advice--stick

to your dancing. You understand that. Every man has his _forte_--yours

is the ballroom."

Baldassare smiled complaisantly at this allusion to the swiftness of

his heels.

"Out of the ballroom," continued Trenta, eying him with quiet scorn,

"I advise caution--great caution. Out of the ballroom you are capable

of any imbecility."

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

reproachfully.

"You have deserved this reproof, young man," said the marchesa,

harshly. "Learn your place in addressing the Count Marescotti."

That the son of a shopkeeper should presume to dispute in her presence

with a Roman noble, was a thing so unsuitable that, even in her own

house, she must put it down authoritatively. She had never liked

Baldassare--never wanted to receive him, now she resolved never to see

him again; but, as she feared that Trenta would continue to bring him,

under pretext of making up her whist-table, she did not say so.

The medical Adonis was forced to swallow his rage, but his cheeks

tingled. He dared not quarrel either with the marchesa, Trenta, or

the count, by whose joint support alone he could hope to plant himself

firmly in the realms of Lucchese fashionable life--a life which he

felt was his element. Utterly disconcerted, however, he turned down

his eyes, and stared at his boots, which were highly glazed, then

glanced up at his own face (as faultless and impassive as a Greek

mask) in a mirror opposite, hastily arranged his hair, and finally

collapsed into silence and a corner.

At this moment Count Marescotti became suddenly aware of Enrica's

presence. She was, as I have said, sitting in the same place by

the casement, concealed by the curtain, her head bent down over her

knitting. She had only looked up once when Nobili's name had been

mentioned. No one had noticed her. It was not the usage of Casa

Guinigi to notice Enrica. Enrica was not the marchesa's daughter;

therefore, except in marriage, she was not entitled to enjoy

the honors of the house. She was never permitted to take part in

conversation.

Marescotti, who had not seen her since she was fourteen, now bounded

across the room to where she sat, overshadowed by the curtain, bowed

to her formally, then touched the tips of her fingers with his lips.

Enrica raised her eyes. And what eyes they were!--large, melancholy,

brooding, of no certain color, changing as she spoke, as the summer

sky changes the color of the sea. They were more gray than blue, yet

they were blue, with long, dark eyelashes that swept upon her cheeks.

As she looked up and smiled, there was an expression of the most

perfect innocence in her face. It was like a flower that opens its

bosom frankly to the sun.

Marescotti's artistic nature was deeply stirred. He gazed at her in

silence for some minutes; he was seeking in his own mind in what type

of womanhood he should place her. Suddenly an idea struck him.--She

was the living image of the young Madonna--the young Madonna before

the visit of the archangel--pale, meditative, pathetic, but with no

shadow of the future upon her face. Marescotti was so engrossed by

this idea that he remained motionless before her. Each one present

observed his emotion, the marchesa specially; she frowned her

disapproval.

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

"Signorina," said the count, at length breaking silence, "permit me to

offer my excuses for not having sooner perceived you. Will you forgive

me?"

"Mio Dio!" muttered the marchesa to herself, "he will turn the child's

head with his fine phrases."

"I have nothing to forgive, count," answered Enrica simply. She spoke

low. Her voice matched the expression of her face; there was a natural

tone of plaintiveness in it.

"When I last saw you," continued the count, standing as if spellbound

before her, "you were only a child. Now," and his kindling eyes

riveted themselves upon her, "you are a woman. Like the magic rose

that was the guerdon of the Troubadours, you have passed in an hour

from leaf to bud, from bud to fairest flower. You were, of course, at

the Orsetti ball last night?" He asked this question, trying to rouse

himself. "What ball in Lucca would be complete without you?"

"I was not there," answered Enrica, blushing deeply and glancing

timidly at the marchesa, who, with a scowl on her face, was fanning

herself violently.

"Not there!" ejaculated Marescotti, with wonder.--"Why, marchesa, is

it not barbarous to shut up your beautiful niece? Is it because you

deem her too precious to be gazed upon? If so, you are right."

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

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

knitting.

It was a golden sunset. The sun was sinking behind the delicate

arcades of the Moorish garden, and spreading broad patches of rosy

light upon the marble. The shrubs, with their bright flowers, were set

against a tawny orange sky. The air was full of light--the last gleams

of parting day. The splash of the fountain upon the lion's heads was

heard in the silence, the heavy perfume of the magnolia-flowers stole

in wafts through the sculptured casements, creeping upward in the soft

evening air.

Still, motionless before Enrica, Marescotti was rapidly falling into a

poetic rapture. The marchesa broke the awkward silence.

"Enrica is a child," she said, dryly. "She knows nothing about balls.

She has never been to one. Pray do not put such ideas into her head,

count," she added, looking at him angrily.

"But, marchesa, your niece is no child--she is a lovely woman,"

insisted the count, his eyes still riveted upon her. The marchesa did

not consider it necessary to answer him.

Meanwhile the cavaliere, who had returned to his seat near her, had

watched the moment when no one was looking that way, had given her a

significant glance, and placed his finger warningly upon his lip.

Not understanding what he meant by this action, the marchesa was at

first inclined to resent it as a liberty, and to rebuke him; but she

thought better of it, and only glanced at him haughtily.

It was not the first time she had found it to her advantage to accept

Trenta's hints. Trenta was a man of the world, and he had his eyes

open. What he meant, however, she could not even guess.

Meanwhile the count had drawn a chair beside Enrica.

"Yes, yes, the Orsetti ball," he said, absently, passing his hand

through the masses of black curls that rested upon his forehead.

He was following out, in his own mind, the notion of addressing an

ode to her in the character of the young Madonna--the uninstructed

Madonna--without that look of pensive suffering painters put into her

eyes.

The Madonna figured prominently in Marescotti's creed, spite of his

belief in the stern precepts of Savonarola--the plastic creed of an

artist, made up of heavenly eyes, ravishing forms, melodious sounds,

rich color, sweeping rhythms, moonlight, and violent emotions.

"I was not there myself--no, or I should have been aware you had

not honored the Countess Orsetti with your presence. But in the

morning--that glorious mass in the old cathedral--you were there?"

Enrica answered that she had not left the house all day, at which the

count raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

"That mass," he continued, "in celebration of a local miracle

(respectable from its antiquity), has haunted me ever since. The

gloomy splendor of the venerable cathedral overwhelmed me; the happy

faces that met me on every side, the spontaneous rejoicing of the

whole population, touched me deeply. I longed to make them free. They

deserve freedom; they shall have it!" A dark fire glistened in his

eye. "I have been lost in day-dreams ever since; I must give them

utterance." And he gazed steadfastly at Enrica.--"I have not left my

room, marchesa, ever since"--at last Marescotti left Enrica's side,

and approached the marchesa--"until an hour ago, when Baldassare"--and

the count bowed to Adonis, still seated sulky in a corner--"came

and carried me off in the hope that you would permit me to join your

rubber. Had I known"--he added, in a lower voice, bending his head

toward Enrica. Then he stopped, suddenly aware that every one was

listening to all he said (a fact which he had been far too much

absorbed to notice previously), colored, and retreated to the sofa

with the spindle-legs.

"Per Bacco!" whispered the cavaliere to the marchesa, sitting near her

on the other side; "I am convinced poor Marescotti has never touched

a morsel of food since that mass--I am certain of it. He always lives

upon a poetical diet, poor devil!--rose-leaves and the beauties of

Nature, with a warm dish now and then in the way of a _ragoût_ of

conspiracy. God help him! he's a greater lunatic than ever." This was

spoken aside into the marchesa's ear. "If you have a soul of pity,

marchesa, order him a chicken before we begin playing, or he will

faint upon the floor." The marchesa smiled.

"I don't like impressionable people at all," she responded, in the

same tone of voice. "In my opinion, feelings should be concealed, not

exhibited." And she sighed, recalling her own silent vigils on the

floor beneath, unknown to all save the cavaliere.

"But--a thousand pardons!" cried Marescotti, gradually waking up to

some social energy, "I have been talking only of myself! Talking of

myself in your presence, ladies!--What can we do to amuse your niece,

marchesa? Lucca is horribly dull. If she is to go neither to festivals

nor to balls, it will not be possible for her to exist here."

"It will be quite possible," answered the marchesa, greatly displeased

at the turn the conversation was taking. "Quite possible, if I choose

it. Enrica will exist where I please. You forget she has lived here

for seventeen years. You see she has not died of it. She stays at home

by my order, count."

Enrica cast a pleading look at her aunt, as if to say, "Can I help all

this?" As for Count Marescotti, he was far too much engrossed with his

own thoughts to be aware that he was treading on delicate ground.

"But, marchesa," he urged, "you can't really keep your niece any

longer shut up like the fairy princess in the tower. Let me be

permitted to act the part of the fairy prince and liberate her."

Again he had turned, and again his glowing eyes fixed themselves on

Enrica, who had withdrawn as much as possible behind the curtains. Her

cheeks were dyed with blushes. She shrank from the count's too ardent

glances, as though those glances were an involuntary treason to

Nobili.

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

"Will you trust your niece with Cavaliere Trenta, and permit me to

accompany them on some little excursion in the city, to make up for

the loss of the cathedral and the ball?"

The marchesa, who found the count decidedly troublesome, not to say

impertinent, had opened her lips to give an unqualified negative, but

another glance from Trenta checked her.

"An excellent idea," put in the cavaliere, before she could

speak. "With _me_, marchesa--with _me_" he added, looking at her

deprecatingly.

Trenta loved Enrica better than any thing in the world, but carefully

concealed it, the better to serve her with her aunt.

"As for me, I am ready for any thing." And, to show his agility, he

rose, and, with the help of his stick, made a _glissade_ on the floor.

Baldassare laughed out loud from the corner. It gratified his wounded

vanity to see his elder ridiculous.

Marescotti, greatly alarmed, started forward and offered his arm, in

order to lead the cavaliere back to his seat, but Trenta indignantly

refused his assistance. The marchesa shook her head.

"Calm yourself," she said, looking at him compassionately. "Calm

yourself, Cesarino, I should not like you to have a fit in my house."

"Fit!--chè chè?" cried Trenta, angrily. "Not while I am in the

presence of the young and fair," he added, recovering himself. "It is

that which has kept me alive all this time. No, marchesa, I refuse

to sit down again. I refuse to sit down, or to take a hand at your

rubber, until something is settled."

This was addressed to the marchesa, who had caught him by the tails of

his immaculate blue coat and forced him into a seat beside her.

"_Vive la bagatelle_! Where shall we go? You cannot refuse the count,"

he added, giving the marchesa a meaning look. "What shall we do? Let

us all propose something. Let me see. I propose to improve Enrica's

mind. She is young--the young have need of improvement. I propose to

take her to the church of San Frediano and to show her the ancient

fresco representing the discovery of the Holy Countenance; also

the Trenta chapel, containing the tombs of my family. I will try to

explain to her their names and history.--What do you say to this, my

child?"

And the cavaliere turned to Enrica, who, little accustomed to be

noticed at all, much less to occupy the whole conversation, looked

supplicatingly at her aunt. She would gladly have run out of the room

if she had dared.

"No, no," exclaimed the irrepressible Baldassare, from the corner.

"Never! What a ghastly idea! Tombs and a mouldy old church! You may

find satisfaction, Signore Trenta, in the contemplation of your tomb,

but the signorina is not eighty, nor am I, nor is the count. I propose

that after being shut up so many years the Guinigi Palace be thrown

open, and a ball given on the first floor in honor of the signorina.

There should be a band from Florence and presents from Paris for the

cotillon. What do you say to _that_, Signora Marchesa?" asked the

misguided young man, with unconscious self-satisfaction.

If a mine had sprung under the marchesa's feet, she could not have

been more horrified. What she would have said to Baldassare is

difficult to guess, but fortunately for him, while she was struggling

for words in which she could suitably express her sense of his

presumption, Trenta, seeing what was coming, was beforehand.

"Be silent, Baldassare," he exclaimed, "or, per Dio, I will never

bring you here again."

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

"I propose that we shall show the signorina something that will amuse

her." He thought for a moment. "Have you ever ascended the old tower

of this palace?" he asked.

Enrica shook her head.

"Then I propose the Guinigi Tower--the stairs are rather rickety, but

they are not unsafe. I was there the last time I visited Lucca. The

view over the Apennines is superb. Will you trust yourself to us,

signorina?"

Enrica raised her head and looked at him hesitatingly, glanced at

her aunt, then looked at him again. Until the marchesa had spoken she

dared not reply. She longed to go. If she ascended the tower, might

she not see Nobili? She had not set her eyes on him for a whole week.

Marescotti saw her hesitation, but he misunderstood the cause. He

returned her look with an ardent glance. Where was the young Madonna

leading him? He did not stop to inquire, but surrendered himself to

the enchantment of her presence.

"Is my proposal accepted?" Count Marescotti inquired, anxiously

turning toward the marchesa, who sat listening to them with a

deeply-offended air.

"And mine too?" put in the cavaliere. "Both can be combined. I should

so much like to show Enrica the tombs of the Trenta. We have been a

famous family in our time. Do not refuse us, marchesa."

All this was entirely out of the habits of Casa Guinigi. Hitherto

Enrica had been kept in absolute subjection. If she were present no

one spoke to her, or noticed her. Now all this was to be changed,

because Count Marescotti had come up from Rome. Enrica was not only to

be gazed at and flattered, but to engross attention.

The marchesa showed evident tokens of serious displeasure. Had Count

Marescotti not been present, she would assuredly have expressed this

displeasure in very strong language. In all matters connected with her

niece, with her household, and with the management of her own affairs,

she could not tolerate remark, much less interference. Every kind of

interference was offensive to her. She believed in herself, as I have

said, blindly: never, up to that time, had that belief been shaken.

All this discussion was, to her mind, worse than interference--it was

absolute revolution. She inwardly resolved to shut up her house and

go into the country, rather than submit to it. She eyed the count, who

stood waiting for an answer, as if he were an enemy, and scowled at

the excellent Trenta.

Enrica, too, had fixed her eyes upon her beseechingly; Enrica

evidently wanted to go. The marchesa had already opened her lips to

give an abrupt refusal, when she felt a warning hand laid upon her

arm. Again she was shaken in her purpose of refusal. She rose, and

approached the card-table.

"I shall take time to consider," she replied to the inquiring eyes

awaiting her reply.

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

She was debating with herself what Trenta could possibly mean by his

extraordinary conduct, _twice_ repeated.

"You had better retire now," she said to Enrica, with an expression of

hostility her niece knew too well. "You have listened to quite enough

folly for one night. Men are flatterers."

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

mean."

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

reach it.

"All good angels guard you!" he whispered, with a tender voice, into

her ear, as, greatly confused, she passed by him, into the anteroom.

"May you find all men as true as I! Per Dio! she is the living

image of the young Madonna!" he added, half aloud, gazing after her.

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

A match was now produced out of Trenta's pocket. The candles were

lighted, and the casements closed. The party then sat down to whist.

The marchesa was always specially irritable when at cards. The

previous conversation had not improved her temper. Moreover, the count

was her partner, and a worse one could hardly be conceived. Twice

he did not even take up the cards dealt to him, but sat immovable,

staring at the print of the Empress Eugénie in the Spanish dress on

the green wall opposite. Called to order peremptorily by the marchesa,

he took up his cards, shuffled them, then laid them down again on

the table, his eyes wandering off to the chair hitherto occupied by

Enrica.

This was intolerable. The marchesa showed him that she thought so. He

apologized. He did take up his cards, and for a few deals attended

to the game. Again becoming abstracted, he forgot what were trumps,

losing thereby several tricks. Finally, he revoked. Both the marchesa

and the cavaliere rebuked him very sharply. Again he apologized, tried

to collect his thoughts, but still played abominably.

Meanwhile, Trenta and Baldassare kept up a perpetual wrangle. The

cavaliere was cool, sardonic, smiling, and provoking--Baldassare hot

and flushed with a concentration of rage he dared not express.

The cavaliere, thanks to his court education, was an admirable

whist-player. His frequent observations to his young friend were

excellent as instruction, but were conveyed in somewhat contemptuous

language. Baldassare, having been told by the cavaliere that playing

a good hand at whist was as necessary to his future social success as

dancing, was much chagrined.

Poor Baldassare!--his life was a continual conflict--a sacrifice to

his love of fine company. It might be doubted if he would not

have been infinitely happier in the atmosphere of the paternal

establishment, weighing out drugs, in shabby clothes, behind the

counter, than he was now, snubbed and affronted, and barely tolerated.

After this the marchesa and Trenta became partners; but matters did

not improve. A violent altercation ensued as to who led a certain

crucial card, which decided the game. Once seated at the whist-table,

the cavaliere was a real autocrat. _There_ he did not affect even to

submit to the marchesa. Now, provoked beyond endurance, he plainly

told her "she never had played a good game, and, what was more,

that she never would--she was too impetuous." Upon hearing this the

marchesa threw down her cards in a rage, and rose from the table.

Trenta rose also. With an imperturbable countenance he offered her his

arm, to lead her back to her seat.

The marchesa, extremely irate at what he had said, pushed him rudely

to one side and reseated herself.

Baldassare and Marescotti rose also. The count, having continued

persistently absent up to the last, was utterly unconscious of the

little fracas that had taken place between the marchesa and the

cavaliere, and the consequent sudden conclusion of the game. He had

seen her rise, and it was a great relief to him. He had been debating

in his own mind whether he should adopt the Dante rhyme for his ode to

the young Madonna, or make it in strophes. He inclined to the latter

treatment as more picturesque, and therefore more suitable to the

subject.

"May I," said he, suddenly roused to what was passing about him, and

advancing with a gracious smile upon his mobile face, lit up by the

pleasant musings of the whist-table--pleasant to him, but assuredly

not pleasant to his partner--"may I hope, marchesa, that you will

acquiesce in our little plan for to-morrow?"

The marchesa had come by this time to look on the count as a bore, of

whom she was anxious to rid herself. She was so anxious, indeed, to

rid herself of him that she actually assented.

"My niece, Signore Conte," she said, stiffly, "shall be ready with

her gouvernante and the Cavaliere Trenta, at eleven o'clock to-morrow.

Now--good-night!"

Marescotti took the hint, bowed, and departed arm-in-arm with

Baldassare.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE CABINET COUNCIL.

When the count and Baldassare had left the room, Cavaliere Trenta made

no motion to follow them. On the contrary, he leaned back in the chair

on which he was seated, and nursed his leg with the nankeen trouser

meditatively. The expression of his face showed that his thoughts were

busy with some project he desired to communicate. Until he had done so

in his own way, and at his own time, he would continue to sit where he

was. It was this imperturbable self-possession and good-humor combined

which gave him so much influence over the irascible marchesa. They

were as iron to fire, only the iron was never heated.

The marchesa, deeply resenting his remarks upon her whist playing,

tapped her foot impatiently on the floor, fanned herself, and glowered

at him out of the darkness which the single pair of candles did not

dispel. As he still made no motion to go, she took out her watch,

looked at it, and, with an exclamation of surprise, rose. Quite

useless. Trenta did not stir.

"Marchesa," he said at last, abruptly, raising his head and looking at

her, "do me the favor to sit down. Spare me a few moments before you

retire."

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

usual hour."

"Marchesa--one moment. I permitted myself the liberty of an old friend

just now--to check your speech to Count Marescotti."

"Yes," said she, drawing up her long throat, and throwing back her

head, an action habitual to her when displeased, "you did so. I did

not understand it. We have been acquainted quite long enough for you

to know I do not like interference."

"Pardon me, noble lady"--(Trenta spoke very meekly--to soothe her

now was absolutely necessary)--"pardon me, for the sake of my good

intentions."

"And pray what _were_ your good intentions, cavaliere?" she asked, in

a mocking tone, reseating herself. Her curiosity was rapidly getting

the better of her resentment.

As she asked the question, the cavaliere left off nursing his leg with

the nankeen trouser, rose, drew his chair closer to hers, then sat

down again. The light from the single pair of candles was very dim,

and scarcely extended beyond the card-table. Both their heads were

therefore in shadow, but the marchesa's eyes gleamed nevertheless, as

she waited for Trenta's explanation.

"Did you observe nothing this evening, my friend?" he

asked--"_nothing_?" His manner was unusually excited.

"No," she answered, thoughtfully. She had been so exclusively occupied

with the slights put upon herself that every thing else had escaped

her. "I observed nothing except the impertinence of Count Marescotti,

and the audacity--the--"

"Stop, marchesa," interrupted Trenta, holding up his hand. "We will

talk of all that another time. If Count Marescotti and Baldassare have

offended you, you can decline to receive them. You observed

nothing, you say? I did." He leaned forward, and spoke with

emphasis--"Marescotti is in love with Enrica."

The marchesa started violently and raised herself bolt upright.

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

"Only a child in your eyes, Signora Marchesa," rejoined Trenta,

warmly. (He had warmed with his own convictions, his benevolent heart

was deeply interested in Enrica. He had known her since she had first

come to Casa Guinigi, a baby; from his soul he pitied her.) "In the

eyes of the world Enrica is not only a woman, but promises to be a

very lovely one. She is seventeen years old, and marriageable. Young

ladies of her name and position must have fortunes, or they do not

marry well. If they do, it is a chance--quite a chance. Under these

circumstances, it would be cruel to deprive her of so suitable an

alliance as Count Marescotti. Now, allow me to ask you, seriously, how

would this marriage suit you?"

"Not at all," replied the marchesa, curtly. "The count is a

republican. I hate republicans. The Guinigi have always been

Ghibelline, and loyal. I dislike him, too, personally. I was about to

desire you never to bring him here again. Contact with low people has

spoiled him. His manners are detestable."

"But, marchesa, che vuole?" Trenta shrugged his shoulders. "He belongs

to one of the oldest families in Rome; he is well off, handsome (he

reminds me of your ancestor, Castruccio Castracani); a wife might

improve him." The marchesa shook her head.

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

"Permit me," resumed Trenta, "without entering into details which, as

a friend, you have confided to me, I must remind you that your affairs

are seriously embarrassed."

The marchesa winced; she guessed what was coming. She knew that she

could not deny it.

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

you."

"I fought for the ancient privileges of the Guinigi!" burst out the

marchesa, imperiously. "I would do it again."

"I do not in the least doubt you would do it again, exalted lady,"

responded Trenta, with a quiet smile. "Indeed, I feel assured of it.

I merely state the fact. You have sacrificed large sums of money. You

have lost every suit. The costs have been enormous. Your income is

greatly reduced. Enrica is therefore portionless."

"No, no, not altogether." The marchesa moved nervously in her chair,

carefully avoiding meeting Trenta's steely blue eyes. "I have saved

money, Cesarino--I have indeed," she repeated. The marchesa was

becoming quite affable. "I cannot touch the heirlooms. But Enrica will

have a small portion."

"Well, well," replied Trenta. "But it is impossible you can have saved

much since the termination of that last long suit with the chapter

about your right to the second bench in the nave of the cathedral, the

bench awarded to Count Nobili when he bought the palace. The expense

was too great, and the trial too recent."

She made no reply.

"Then there was that other affair with the municipality about the

right of flying the flag from the Guinigi Tower. I do not mention

small affairs, such as disputes with your late steward at Corellia,

trials at Barga, nor litigation here at Lucca on a small scale. My

dear marchesa, you have found the law an expensive pastime." The

cavaliere's round eyes twinkled as he said this. "Enrica is therefore

virtually portionless. The choice lies between a husband who will wed

her for herself, or a convent. If I understand your views, a convent

would not suit you. Besides, you would not surely voluntarily condemn

a girl, without vocation, and brought up beside you, to the seclusion

of a convent?"

"But Enrica is a child--I tell you she is too young to think about

marriage, cavaliere."

The marchesa spoke with anger. She would stave off as long as possible

the principal question--that of marriage. Sudden proposals,

too, emanating from others, always nettled her; it narrowed her

prerogative.

"Besides," objected the marchesa, still fencing with the real

question, "who can answer for Count Marescotti? He is so capricious!

Supposing he likes Enrica to-day, he may change before to-morrow. Do

you really think he can care enough about Enrica to marry her? Her

name would be nothing to him."

"I think he does care for her," replied Trenta, reflectively; "but

that can be ascertained. Enrica is a fit consort for a far greater man

than Count Marescotti. Not that he, as you say, would care about her

name. Remember, she will be your heiress--that is something."

"Yes, yes, my heiress," answered the marchesa, vaguely; for the

dreadful question rose up in her mind, "What would Enrica have to

inherit?"

That very day she had received a most insolent letter from a creditor.

Under the influence of the painful thoughts, she turned her head aside

and said nothing. One of her hands was raised over her eyes to shade

them from the candles; the other rested on her dark dress.

If a marriage were really in question, what could be more serious?

Was not Enrica's marriage to raise up heirs to the Guinigi--heirs to

inherit the palace and the heirlooms? If--the marchesa banished the

thought, but it would return, and haunt her like a spectre--if not the

palace, then at least the name--the historic name, revered throughout

Italy? Nothing could deprive Enrica of the name--that name was in

itself a dower. That Enrica should possess both name and palace, with

a husband of her--the marchesa's--own choosing, had been her dream,

but it had been a far-off dream--a dream to be realized in the course

of years.

Taken thus aback, the proposal made by Trenta appeared to her hurried

and premature--totally wanting in the dignified and well-considered

action that should mark the conduct of the great. Besides, if an

immediate marriage were arranged between Count Marescotti and Enrica,

only a part of her plan could be realized. Enrica was, indeed,

now almost portionless; there would be no time to pile up those

gold-pieces, or to swell those rustling sheaves of notes that she

had--in imagination--accumulated.

"Portionless!" the marchesa repeated to herself, half aloud. "What a

humiliation!--my own niece!"

It will be observed that all this time the marchesa had never

considered what Enrica's feeling might be. She was to obey her--that

was all.

But in this the marchesa was not to blame. She undoubtedly carried

her idea of Enrica's subserviency too far; but custom was on her side.

Marriages among persons of high rank are "arranged" in Italy--arranged

by families or by priests, acting as go-betweens. The lady leaves the

convent, and her marriage is arranged. She is unconscious that she has

a heart--she only discovers that unruly member afterward. To love a

husband is unnecessary; there are so many "golden youths" to choose

from. And the husband has his pastime too. Cosi fan tutti! It is a

round game!

All this time the cavaliere had never taken his eyes off his friend.

To a certain extent he understood what was passing in her mind. A

portionless niece would reveal her poverty.

"A good marriage is a good thing," he suggested, as a safe general

remark, after having waited in vain for some response.

"In all I do," the marchesa answered, loftily, "I must first consider

what is due to the dignity of my position." Trenta bowed.

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

"No feeling _whatever_ but that will influence me _now_, or

hereafter--nothing." She dwelt upon the last word defiantly, as the

final expression of her mind. Spite of this defiance, there was,

however, a certain hesitation in her manner which did not escape the

cavaliere. As she spoke, she looked hard at him, and touched his arm

to arouse his attention.

Trenta, who knew her so well, perfectly interpreted her meaning. His

ruddy cheeks flushed crimson; his kindly eyes kindled; he felt sure

that his advice would be accepted. She was yielding, but he must

be most cautious not to let his satisfaction appear. So strangely

contradictory was the marchesa that, although nothing could possibly

be more advantageous to her own schemes than this marriage, she might,

if indiscreetly pressed, veer round, and, in spite of her interest,

refuse to listen to another syllable on the subject.

All this kept the cavaliere silent. Receiving no answer, she looked

suspiciously at him, then grasped his arm tightly.

"And you, cavaliere--how long have you been so deeply interested in

Enrica? What is she to you? Her future can only signify to you as far

as it affects myself."

She waited for a reply. What was the cavaliere to answer? He loved

Enrica dearly, but he dared not say so, lest he should offend the

marchesa. He feared that if he spoke he should assuredly say too much.

Well as he knew her, the marchesa's egotism horrified him.

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

The marchesa caught at the name.

"Enrica?--yes. From the time of my husband's death I have sacrificed

my life to the duties imposed on me by my position. So must Enrica. No

personal feeling for her shall bias me in the least."

Her eyes were fixed on those of Trenta. She paused again, and passed

her white hand slowly one over the other. The cavaliere looked down;

he durst not meet her glance, lest she should read his thoughts.

Thinking of Enrica at that moment, he absolutely hated her!

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

as she put the question.

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

unloosed.

"I will tell you, Signora Marchesa, plainly what I would advise you

to do," was his answer. "Let Enrica marry Marescotti. Put the whole

matter into my hands, if you have sufficient confidence in me."

"Remember, Trenta, the humiliation!"

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

"The humiliation involved in the confession that my niece is almost

portionless." The words seemed to choke her. "She will inherit all I

have to leave," and she glanced significantly at the cavaliere; "but

that is--you understand me?--uncertain."

"Bagatella!--that will be all right," he rejoined, with alacrity. "The

idea of money will not sway Marescotti in the least. He is wealthy--a

fine fellow. Have no fear of that. Leave it all to me, Enrica, and

Marescotti. I am an old courtier. Many a royal marriage has passed

through my hands. Per Bacco--though no one but the duke knew

it--through my hands! You may trust me, marchesa."

There was a proud consciousness of the past in the old man's face. He

showed such perfect confidence in himself that he imparted the same

confidence to the marchesa.

"I would trust no one else, Cesarino," she said, rising from her

chair. "But be cautious; bind me to nothing until we meet again. I

must hear all that passes between you and the count, then judge for

myself."

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

submissively.

How he dreaded betraying his secret exultation! To emancipate

Enrica from her miserable life by an honorable marriage, was, to his

benevolent heart, infinite happiness!

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

"Good-night, Cesarino--a rivederci!"

So they parted.

CHAPTER IX.

THE COUNTESS ORSETTI'S BALL.

The ball at Casa Orsetti was much canvassed in Lucca. Hospitality is

by no means a cardinal virtue in Italy. Even in the greatest houses,

the bread and salt of the Arab is not offered to you--or, if offered

at all, appears in the shape of such dangerously acid lemonade or

such weak tea, it is best avoided. Every year there are dances at the

Casino dei Nobili, during the Carnival, and there are veglioni, or

balls, at the theatre, where ladies go masked and in dominoes, but

do not dance; but these annual dissipations are paid for by ticket.

A general reception, therefore, including dancing, supper, and

champagne, _gratis_, was an event.

The Orsetti Palace, a huge square edifice of reddish-gray stone, with

overtopping roof, four tiers of lofty windows, and a broad arched

entrance, or portone, with dark-green doors, stands in the street

of San Michele. You pass it, going from the railway-station to the

city-gate (where the Lucchese lions keep guard), and the road leads

onward to the peaked mountains over Spezia.

On the evening of the ball the entire street of San Michele was hung

with Chinese lanterns, arranged in festoons. Opposite the entrance

shone a gigantic star of gas. The palace itself was a blaze of

light. As the night was warm, every window was thrown open;

chandeliers--scintillating like jeweled fountains--hung from the

ceilings; wax-lights innumerable, in gilded sconces, were grouped upon

the walls; crimson-silk curtains cast a ruddy glare across the street,

and the sound of harps and violins floated through the night air. The

crowd of beggars and idlers, generally gathered in the street, saw so

much that they might be considered to "assist," in an independent

but festive capacity, at the entertainment from outside. Matches were

hawked about for the convenience of the male portion of this

extempore assembly, and fruit in baskets was on sale for the women.

"Cigars--cigars of quality!"--"Good fruit--ripe fruit!" were cries

audible even in the ballroom; and a fine aroma of coarse tobacco

mounted rapidly upward to the illuminated windows.

Within the archway groups of servants were ranged in the Orsetti

livery. Also a magnificent personage, not to be classed with any of

the other domestics, wearing a silver chain with a key passed across

his breast. The personage called a major-domo, in the discharge of

his duty, divested the ladies of their shawls, and arranged their

draperies.

All this was witnessed with much glee by the plebs outside--the men

smoking, the women eating and talking. As the guests arrived in rapid

succession, the plebs pressed more and more forward, until at last

some of the boldest stood within the threshold. The giants in

livery not only tolerated this, but might be said to observe them

individually with favor--seeing how much of their admiration was

bestowed on themselves and their fine clothes. The major-domo also,

with amiable condescension, affected not to notice them--no, not even

when one tall fellow, a butcher, with eyes as black as sloes, a pipe

in his mouth, and a coarse cloak wrapped round him, took off his

hat to the Princess Cardeneff, as she passed by him glittering with

diamonds, and cried in her face, "Oh! bella, bella!"

When the major-domo had performed those mysteries intrusted to him,

attendant giants threw open folding doors at the farther end of the

court, and the bright visions disappeared into a long gallery on the

ground-floor, painted in brilliant frescoes, to the reception-room.

The suite of rooms on the ground-floor are the summer apartments,

specially arranged for air and coolness. Rustic chairs stand against

walls painted with fruit and flowers, the stems and leaves represented

as growing out of the floor, as at Pompeii. The whole saloon is like

a _parterre_. Settees, sofas, and cozy Paris chairs covered with rich

satins, are placed under arbors of light-gilt trellis-work, wreathed

with exquisite creepers in full flower. Palms, orange and lemon trees,

flowering cacti, and large-leaved cane-plants, are grouped about;

consoles and marble tables, covered with the loveliest cut flowers.

Near the door, in the first of these floral saloons where sweet scents

made the air heavy, stands the Countess Orsetti. Although she had

certainly passed that great female climacteric, forty, a stately

presence, white skin, abundant hair, and good features treated

artistically, gave her still a certain claim to matronly beauty. She

greets each guest with compliments and phrases which would have been

deemed excessive out of Italy. Here in Lucca, where she met most of

her guests every day, these compliments and phrases were not only

excessive, but wearisome and out of place. Yet such is the custom of

the country, and to such fulsome flattery do the language and common

usage lend themselves. Countess Orsetti, therefore, is not responsible

for this absurdity.

Her son is beside her. He is short, stout, and smiling, with a

hesitating manner, and a habit of referring every thing to his

magnificent mamma. Away from his mamma, he is frank, talkative, and

amusing. It is to be hoped that he will marry soon, and escape from

the leading-strings. If he marries Teresa Ottolini--and it is said

such a result is certain--no palace in Lucca would be big enough to

hold Teresa and the countess-mother at one time.

Group after group enters, bows to the countess, and passes on among

the flowers: the Countess Navascoes (with her lord), pale, statuesque,

dark-eyed, raven-haired--a type of Italian womanhood; Marchesa

Manzi--born of the noble house of Buoncampagni--looking as if she

had walked out of a picture by Titian; the Da Gia, separated from

her husband--a little habit, this, of Italian ladies, consequent upon

intimacy with the _jeunesse dorée_, who prefer the wives of their best

friends to all other women--it saves trouble, and a "golden youth"

is essentially idle. This little habit, moreover, of separation from

husbands does not damage the lady in the least; no one inquires what

has happened, or who is in the wrong. Society receives and pets her

just the same, and, quite impartial, receives and pets the husband

also.--Luisa Bernardini, a glowing little countess, as plump as an

ortolan, dimpling with smiles, an ugly old husband at her side--comes

next. It is whispered, unless the ugly old husband is blind as well

as deaf, they will be separated, too, very shortly. Young Civilla,

a "golden youth," is so very pressing. He could live with Luisa

at Naples--a cheap place. They might have gone on for years as a

triangular household--but for Civilla's carelessness. Civilla would

always put out old Bernardini about the dinner. (Civilla dined at

Bernardini's house every day, as he would at a _café_.) Now, old

Bernardini did not care a button that his little wife had a lover; it

would not have been _en règle_ if she had not--nor did he care that

his wife's lover should dine with him every day--not a bit--but old

Bernardini is a gourmand, and he does care to be kept waiting for his

dinner. He has lately confided to a friend, that he should be sorry

to cause a scandal, but that he must separate from his wife if Civilla

will not reform in the matter of the dinner-hour. "He is getting old,"

Bernardini says, "and his digestion suffers." No man keeps a French

cook to be kept waiting for his dinner.

Luisa, who looks the picture of innocence, wears an unexceptionable

pink dress, with a train that bodes ill-luck, and many apologies, to

her partners. A long train is Luisa's little game. (Spite of Civilla,

she has many other little games.) Fragments of the train fly about the

room all the evening, and admirers take care that she shall see

these picked up, fervently kissed, and stowed away as relics in

breast-pockets. One enthusiast pinned his fragment to his shoulder,

like an order--a knight of San Luisa, he called himself.

Teresa Ottolini, with her mother, has just arrived. Being single,

Teresa either is, or affects to be, excessively steady; no one would

marry her if she were not--not even the good-natured Orsetti. Your

Italian husband _in futuro_ will pardon nothing in his wife that

may be--not even that her dress should be conspicuous, much less

her manners. Neither is it expedient that she should be seen much

in society. That dangerous phalanx of "golden youth" are ever on the

watch, "gentlemen sportsmen," to a man; their sport, woman. If she

goes out much these "golden youth" might compromise her. Less than

a breath upon a maiden's name is social death. That name must not be

coupled with any man's--not coupled even in lightest parlance. So the

lady waits, waits until she has a husband--it is more piquant to be

a naughty wife than a fast miss--then she makes her choice--one, or

a dozen--it is a matter of taste. Danger is added to vice; and that

element of intrigue dear to the Italian soul, both male and female.

The _jeunesse dorée_ delight in mild danger--a duel with swords,

not pistols, with a foolish husband. Why cannot he grin and bear

it?--others do.

But to return to Teresa. She is courtesying very low to the Countess

Orsetti. Although it is well known that these ladies hate each other,

Countess Orsetti receives Teresa with a special welcome, kisses her

on both cheeks, addresses more compliments to her, and makes her more

courtesies than to any one else. How beautiful she is, the Ottolini,

with those white flowers twisted into the braids of her chestnut

hair!--those large, lazy eyes, too--like sleeping volcanoes!--Count

Orsetti thinks her beautiful, clearly; for, under the full battery of

his mother's glances, he advances to meet her, blushing like a girl.

He presses Teresa's hand, and whispers in her ear that "she must

not forget her promise about the cotillon. He has lived upon it ever

since." Her reply has apparently satisfied him, for the honest fellow

breaks out all over into smiles and bows and amorous glances. Then

she passes on, the fair Teresa, like a queen, followed by looks of

unmistakable admiration--much more unmistakable looks of admiration

than would be permitted elsewhere; but we are in Italy, where men are

born artists and have artistic feelings.

The men, as a rule, are neither as distinguished looking nor as well

dressed as the women. The type of the Lucchese nobleman is dark,

short, and commonplace--rustic is the word.

There is the usual crowding in doorways, and appropriation of seats

whence arrivals can be seen and criticised. But there is no line

of melancholy young girls wanting partners. The gentlemen decidedly

predominate, and all the ladies, except Teresa Ottolini and the

Boccarini, are married.

The Marchesa Boccarini had already arrived, accompanied by her three

daughters. They are seated near the door leading from the first

saloon, where Countess Orsetti is stationed. In front of them is

a group of flowering plants and palm-trees. Madame Boccarini peers

through the leaves, glass in eye. As a general scans the advance

of the enemy's troops from behind an ambush, calculates what their

probable movements will be, and how he can foil them--either by open

attack or feigned retreat, skirmish or manoeuvre--so Madame Boccarini

scans the various arrivals between the dark-green foliage.

To her every young and pretty woman is a rival to her daughters; if

a rival, an enemy--if an enemy, to be annihilated if possible, or at

least disabled, and driven ignominiously from the field.

It is well known that the Boccarini girls are poor. They will have no

portions--every one understands that. The Boccarini girls must marry

as they can; no priest will interest himself in their espousals. It

was this that made Nera so attractive. She was perfectly natural and

unconventionally bold--"like an English mees," it was said--with

looks of horror. (The Americans have much to answer for; they have

emancipated young ladies; all their sins, and our own to boot, we have

to answer for abroad.)

The Boccarini were in reality so poor that it was no uncommon thing

for them to remain at home because they could not afford to buy new

dresses in which to display themselves. (Poor Madame Boccarini felt

this far more than the girls did themselves.) To be seen more than

thrice in the same dress is impossible. Lucca is so small, every one's

clothes are known. There was no throwing dust in the eyes of dear

female friends in this particular.

On the present occasion the Boccarini girls had made great efforts to

produce a brilliant result. Madame Boccarini had told her daughters

that they must expect no fresh dresses for six months at least, so

great had been the outlay. Nera, on hearing this, had tossed her

stately head, and had inwardly resolved that before six months she

would marry--and that, dress or no dress, she would go wherever she

had a chance of meeting Count Nobili. Her mother tacitly concurred in

these views, as far as Count Nobili was concerned, but said nothing.

A Belgravian mother who frankly drills her daughter and points out,

_viva voce_, when to advance and when to retreat, and to whom the

honors of war are to be accorded--is an article not yet imported into

classic Italy with the current Anglomania.

Beside Nera sat Prince Ruspoli, a young Roman of great wealth. Ruspoli

aspired to lead the fashion, but not even Poole could well tailor him.

(Ruspoli was called _poule mouillée_.) Nature had not intended it.

His tall, gaunt figure, long arms, and thin legs, rendered him

artistically unavailable. The music has just sounded from a large

saloon at the end of the suite, and Prince Ruspoli has offered his arm

to Nera for the first waltz. If Count Nobili had arrived, she would

have refused Ruspoli, even on the chance of losing the dance; but he

had not come. Her sisters, who are older, and less attractive than

herself, had as yet found no partners; but they were habitually

resigned and amiable, and submitted with perfect meekness to be

obliterated by Nera.

A knot of young men have now formed near the door of the

dancing-saloon. They are eagerly discussing the cotillon, the final

dance of the evening. Count Orsetti had left his mother's side and

joined them.

The cotillon is a matter of grave consideration--the very gravest.

Indeed it was very seldom these young heads considered any thing

so grave. On the success of the cotillon depends the success of the

evening. All the "presents" had come from Paris. Some of the figures

were new and required consultation.

"I mean to dance with Teresa Ottolini," announced Count Orsetti,

timidly--he could not name Teresa without reddening. "We arranged it

together a month ago."

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

This engagement was said to have begun some years back, and to be very

enthralling. No one objected, least of all the husband, who worshiped

at the shrine of the blooming Bernardini when she quarreled with

Civilla. A lady of fashion has a choice of lovers, as she has a choice

of dresses--for all emergencies.

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

"Per Bacco--hear the music!" cried Malatesta. "What a delicious waltz!

I want to dance. Let's settle it at once. Who's to lead?"

"Oh! Baldassare, of course," replied Franchi, a sallow, languid young

man, who looked as if he had been raised in a hot-house, and had lost

all his color. "Nobody else would take the trouble. Who is he to dance

with?"

"Let him see who will have him. I shall not interfere. He'll dance

for both, anyhow," answered Orsetti, laughing. "No one competes with

Adonis."

"Where is he?"

"Oh! dancing, of course," returned Orsetti. "Don't you see him

twirling round like a teetotum, with Marchesa Amici 'of the

swan-neck?'" And he pointed to a pair who were waltzing with

such precision that they never by a single step broke the

circle--Baldassare gallantly receiving the charge of any free lancers

who flung themselves in their path.

Baldassare is much elated at being permitted to dance with "the

swan-neck," a little faded now, but once a noted beauty. The swan-neck

is a famous lady. Ill-natured persons might have added an awkward

syllable to _famous._ She had been very dear to a great Russian

magnate who lived in a villa lined with malachite, and loaded her

with gifts. But as the marquis, her husband, was always with her and

invariably spoke of his wife as an angel, where was the harm? Now the

Russian magnate was dead, and the Marchesa Amici had retired to Lucca,

to enjoy the spoils along with her discreet and complaisant marquis.

"How that young fellow does push himself!" observes the cynical

Franchi. "Dancing with the Amici--such a great lady! Nothing is sacred

to him."

"I wish Nobili were come." It was Orsetti who spoke now. "I should

have liked him to lead instead of Baldassare. Adonis is getting

forward. He wants keeping in order. Will no one else lead? I cannot,

in my own house."

"Oh! but you would mortally offend poor Trenta if you did not let

Baldassare lead. The women will keep him in order," was the immediate

reply of a young man who had not yet spoken. "The cavaliere must

marshal the dancers, and Baldassare must lead, or the old man would

break his heart."

"I wish Nobili were here all the same," replied Orsetti. "If he does

not come soon, we must select his partner for him. Whom is he to

have?"

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

general titter.

"I don't think Nobili cares a straw about Nera," put in the languid

Franchi, drawling out his words. "I have heard quite another story

about Nobili. Give Nera to Ruspoli. He seems about to take her for

life. I wish him joy!" with a sneer. "Ruspoli likes English manners.

Nera won't get Nobili, my word upon _that_--there are too many stories

about her."

But these remarks at the moment passed unnoticed. No one asked what

Franchi had heard, all being intent about the cotillon and the choice

of partners.

"Well," burst out Orsetti, no longer able to resist the music (the

waltz had been turned into a galop), "I am sure I don't care if Nobili

or Ruspoli likes Nera. I shall not try to cut them out."

"No, no, not you, Orsetti! We know your taste does not lie in that

quarter. Yours is the domestic style, chaste and frigid!" cried

Malatesta, with a sardonic smile. There was a laugh. Malatesta was

so bad, even according to the code of the "golden youths," that he

compromised any lady by his attentions. Orsetti blushed crimson.

"Pardon me," he replied, much confused, "I must go; my partner is

looking daggers at me. Call up old Trenta and tell him what he has

to do." Orsetti rushes off to the next room, where Teresa Ottolini is

waiting for him, with a look of gentle reproach in her sleepy eyes,

where lies the hidden fire.

Meanwhile Cavaliere Trenta's white head, immaculate blue coat and gold

buttons--to which coat were attached several orders--had been seen

hovering about from chair to chair through the rooms. He attached

himself specially to elderly ladies, his contemporaries. To these he

repeated the identical high-flown compliments he had addressed to

them thirty years before, in the court circle of the Duke of

Lucca--compliments such as elderly ladies love, though conscious all

the time of their absurd inappropriateness.

Like the dried-up rose-bud of one's youth, religiously preserved as a

relic, there is a faint flavor of youth and pleasure about them,

sweet still, as a remembrance of the past. "Always beautiful, always

amiable!" murmured the cavaliere, like a rhyme, a placid smile upon

his rosy face.

Summoned to the cabinet council held near the door, Trenta becomes

intensely interested. He weighs each detail, he decides every point

with the gravity of a judge: how the new figures are to be danced, and

with whom Baldassare is to lead--no one else could do it. He himself

would marshal the dances.

The double orchestra now play as if they were trying to drown each

other. Half a dozen rooms are full of dancers. The matrons, and older

men, have subsided into whist up-stairs. All the ladies have found

partners; there is not a single wall-flower.

Nothing could exceed the stately propriety of the ball. It was a grand

and stately gathering. Nobody but Nera Boccarini was natural. "To

save appearances" is the social law. "Do what you like, but save

appearances." A dignified hypocrisy none disobey. These men and women,

with the historic names, dare not show each other what they are. There

was no flirting, no romping, no loud laughter; not a loud word--no

telltale glances, no sitting in corners. It was a pose throughout. Men

bowed ceremoniously, and addressed as strangers ladies with whom they

spent every evening. Husbands devoted themselves to wives whom they

never saw but in public. Innocence _may_ betray itself, _seems_ to

betray itself--guilt never. Guilt is cautious.

At this moment Count Nobili entered. He was received with lofty

courtesy by the countess. Her manner implied a gentle protest. Count

Nobili was a banker's son; his mother was not--_née_--any thing. Still

he was welcome. She graciously bent her head, on which a tiara of

diamonds glittered--in acknowledgment of his compliments on the

brilliancy of her ball.

Nobili's address was frank and manly. There was an ease and freedom

about him that contrasted favorably with the effeminate appearance

and affected manners of the _jeunesse dorée_. His voice, too, was a

pleasant voice, and gave a value to all he said. A sunny smile lighted

up his fair-complexioned face, the face old Carlotta had called

"lucky."

"You are very late," the countess had said, with the slightest tone

of annoyance in her voice--fanning herself languidly as she spoke. "My

son has been looking for you."

"It has been my loss, Signora Contessa," replied Nobili, bowing.

"Pardon me. I was delayed. With your permission, I will find your

son." He bowed again, then walked on into the dancing-rooms beyond.

Nobili had come late. "Why should he go at all?" he had asked himself,

sighing, as he sat at home, smoking a solitary cigar. "What was the

Orsetti ball, or any other ball, to him, when Enrica was not there?"

Nevertheless, he did dress, and he did go, telling himself, however,

that he was simply fulfilling a social duty by so doing. Now that he

is here, standing in the ballroom, the incense of the flowers in his

nostrils, the music thrilling in his ear--now that flashing eyes,

flushed cheeks, graceful forms palpitating with the fury of the

dance--and hands with clasping fingers, are turned toward him--does he

still feel regretful--sad? Not in the least.

No sooner had he arrived than he found himself the object of a species

of ovation. This put him into the highest possible spirits. It was

most gratifying. He could not possibly do less than return these

salutations with the same warmth with which they were offered.

Not that Count Nobili acknowledged any inferiority to those among whom

he moved as an equal. Count Nobili held that, in New Italy, every

man is a gentleman who is well educated and well mannered. As to the

language the Marchesa Guinigi used about him, he shook with laughter

whenever it was mentioned.

So it fell out that, before he had arrived many minutes, the

remembrance of Enrica died out, and Nobili flung himself into the

spirit of the ball with all the ardor of his nature.

"Why did you come so late, Nobili?" asked Orsetti, turning his head,

and speaking in the pause of a waltz with Luisa Bernardini. "You must

go at once and talk to Trenta about the cotillon."

"Well, Nobili, you gave us a splendid entertainment for the festival,"

said Franchi. "Per Dio! there were no women to trouble us."

"No women!" exclaimed Civilla--"that was the only fault. Divine

woman!--Otherwise it was superb. Who has been ill-treating you,

Franchi, to make you so savage?"

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

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

distract me."

"Never saw such a reception in Lucca," said Count Malatesta; "never

drank such wine. Go on, caro mio, go on, and prosper. We will all

support you, but we cannot imitate you."

Nobili, passing on quickly, nearly ran over Cavaliere Trenta. He was

in the act of making a profound obeisance, as he handed an ice to one

of his contemporaries.

"Ah, youth! youth!" exclaimed poor Trenta, softly, with difficulty

recovering his equilibrium by the help of his stick.--"Never mind,

Count Nobili, don't apologize; I can bear any thing from a young

man who celebrates the festival of the Holy Countenance with such

magnificence. Per Bacco! you are the best Lucchese in Lucca. I have

seen nothing like it since the duke left. My son, it was worthy of the

palace you inhabit."

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

Trenta again!

"You gratify me exceedingly, cavaliere," replied Nobili, really

pleased at the old man's praise. "I desire, as far as I can, to become

Lucchese at heart. Why should not the festivals of New Italy exceed

those of the old days? At least, I shall do my best that it be so."

"Eh? eh?" replied Trenta, rubbing his nose with a doubtful expression;

"difficult--very difficult. In the old days, my young friend, society

was a system. Each sovereign was the centre of a permanent court

circle. There were many sovereigns and many circles--many purses,

too, to pay the expenses of each circle. Now it is all hap-hazard; no

money, no court, no king."

"No king?" exclaimed Nobili, with surprise.

"I beg pardon, count," answered the urbane Trenta, remembering

Nobili's liberal politics--"I mean no society. Society, as a system,

has ceased to exist in Italy. But we must think of the cotillon. It

is now twelve o'clock. There will be supper. Then we must soon begin.

You, count, are to dance with Nera Boccarini. You came so late we were

obliged to arrange it for you."

Nobili colored crimson.

"Does the lady--does Nera Boccarini know this?" he asked, and as he

asked his color heightened.

"Well, I cannot tell you, but I presume she does. Count Orsetti will

have told her. The cotillon was settled early. You have no objection

to dance with her, I presume?"

"None--none in the world. Why should I?" replied Nobili, hastily (now

the color of his cheeks had grown crimson). "Only--only I might

not have selected her." The cavaliere looked up at him with evident

surprise. "Am I obliged to dance the cotillon at all, cavaliere?"

added Nobili, more and more confused. "Can't I sit out?"

"Oh, impossible--simply impossible!" cried Trenta, authoritatively.

"Every couple is arranged. Not a man could fill your place; the whole

thing would be a failure."

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

"Now go, and find your partner," said Trenta, not heeding this little

speech. "I am about to have the chairs arranged. Go and find your

partner."

"Now what could make Nobili object to dance with Nera Boccarini?"

Trenta asked himself, when Nobili was gone, striking his stick loudly

on the floor, as a sign for the music to cease.

There was an instant silence. The gentlemen handed the ladies to a

long gallery, the last of the suite of the rooms on the ground-floor.

Here a buffet was arranged. The musicians also were refreshed with

good wine and liquors, before the arduous labors of the cotillon

commenced. No brilliant cotillon ends before 8 A.M.; then there is

breakfast and driving home by daylight at ten o'clock.

Nobili, his cheeks still tingling, felt that the moment had come

when he must seek his partner. It would be difficult to define the

contending feelings that made him reluctant to do so. Nera Boccarini

had taken no pains to conceal how much she liked him. This was

flattering; perhaps he felt it was too flattering. There was a

determination about Nera, a power of eye and tongue, an exuberance of

sensuous youth, that repelled while it allured him. It was like new

wine, luscious to the taste, but strong and heavy. New wine is very

intoxicating. Nobili loved Enrica. At that moment every woman that

did not in some subtile way remind him of her, was distasteful to him.

Now, it was not possible to find two women more utterly different,

more perfect contrasts, than the dreamy, reserved, tender Enrica--so

seldom seen, so little known--and the joyous, outspoken Nera--to be

met with at every mass, every _fête_, in the shops, on the Corso, on

the ramparts.

Now, Nera, who had been dancing much with Prince Ruspoli, had heard

from him that Nobili was selected as her partner in the cotillon.

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

eye.

Nera had laughed gayly.

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

This question was accompanied by a most inviting glance. Prince

Ruspoli met her glance, but said nothing. (Nera greatly preferred

Nobili, but it is well to have two strings to one's bow, and Ruspoli

was a prince with a princely revenue.)

When Nobili appeared, Prince Ruspoli, who had handed Nera to a seat

near a window, bowed to her and retired.

"To the devil with Nobili!" was Prince Ruspoli's thought, as he

resigned her. "I do like that girl--she is so English!" and Ruspoli

glanced at Poole's dress-clothes, which fitted him so badly, and

remembered with satisfaction certain balls in London, and certain

water-parties at Maidenhead (Ruspoli had been much in England),

where he had committed the most awful solecisms, according to Italian

etiquette, with frank, merry-hearted girls, whose buoyant spirits were

contagious.

Nobili's eyes fell instinctively to the ground as he approached Nera.

The rosy shadow of the red-silk curtains behind her fell upon her

face, bosom, and arms, with a ruddy glow.

"I am to have the honor of dancing the cotillon with you, I believe?"

he said, still looking down.

"Yes, I believe so," she responded--"at least so I am told; but you

have not asked me yet. Perhaps you would prefer some one else. I

confess _I_ am satisfied."

As she spoke, Nera riveted her full black eyes upon Nobili. If he

only would look up, she would read his thoughts, and tell him her

own thoughts also. But Nobili did not look up; he felt her gaze,

nevertheless; it thrilled him through and through.

At this moment, the melody of a voluptuous waltz, the opening of the

cotillon, burst from the orchestra with an _entrain_ that might have

moved an anchorite. As the sounds struck upon his ear, Nobili grew

dizzy under the magnetism of those unseen eyes. His cheeks flushed

suddenly, and the blood stirred itself tumultuously in his veins.

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

himself.

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

music.

"Count Nobili, you have not answered me," insisted Nera. She had not

moved. "You are very absent this evening. Do you _wish_ to dance with

me? Tell me."

She dwelt upon the words. Her voice was low and very pleading. Nobili

had not yet spoken.

"I ask you again," she said.

This time her voice sounded most enticing. She touched his arm, too,

laying her soft fingers upon it, and gazed up into his face. Still no

answer.

"Will you not speak to me, Nobili?" She leaned forward, and grasped

his arm convulsively. "Nobili, tell me, I implore you, what have I

done to offend you?"

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

He looked up; their eyes met. There was a fire in hers that was

contagious. His heart gave a great bound. Pressing within his own the

hand that still rested so lovingly upon his arm, Nobili gave a rapid

glance round. The room was empty; they were standing alone near the

window, concealed by the ample curtains. Now the red shadow fell upon

them both--

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

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

upon her lips.

* * * * *

Hours have passed; one intoxicating waltz-measure has been exchanged

for another, that falls upon the ear as enthralling as the last. Not

an instant had the dances ceased. The Cavaliere Trenta, his round

face beaming with smiles, is seated in an arm-chair at the top of the

largest ballroom. He keeps time with his foot. Now and then he raps

loudly with his stick on the floor and calls out the changes of the

figures. Baldassare and Luisa Bernardini lead with the grace and

precision of practised dancers.

"Brava! brava! a thousand times! Brava!" calls out the cavaliere

from his arm-chair, clapping his hands. "You did that beautifully,

marchesa!"--This was addressed to the swan's-neck, who had circled

round, conducted by her partner, selecting such gentlemen as she

pleased, and grouping them in one spot, in order to form a _bouquet_.

"You couldn't have done it better if you had been taught in

Paris.--Forward! forward!" to a timid couple, to whom the intricacies

of the figure were evidently distracting. "Belle donne! belle donne!

Victory to the brave! Fear nothing.--Orsetti, keep the circle down

there; you are out of your place. You will never form the _bouquet_ if

you don't--Louder! louder!" to the musicians, holding up his stick

at them like a marshal's bâton--"loud as they advance--then

piano--diminuendo--pia-nis-si-mo--as they retreat. That sort of

thing gives picturesqueness--light and shade, like a picture. Hi! hi!

Malatesta! The devil! You are spoiling every thing! Didn't I tell you

to present the flowers to your partner? So--so. The flowers--they are

there." Trenta pointed to a table. He struggled to rise to fetch the

bouquets himself. Malatesta was too quick for him, however.

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

etc., etc.

Thanks to the energy of the cavaliere, and the agility of

Baldassare--who, it is admitted on all hands, had never distinguished

himself so much as on this occasion--all the difficulties of the new

figures have been triumphantly surmounted. Gentlemen had become spokes

of a gigantic wheel that whirled round a lady seated on a chair in

the centre of the room. They had been named as roots, trees, and even

vegetables; they had answered to such names, seeking corresponding

weeds as their partners. At a clap of the cavaliere's hands they had

dashed off wildly, waltzing. Gentlemen had worn paper nightcaps, put

on masks, and been led about blindfold. They had crept under chairs,

waved flags from tables, thrown up colored balls, and unraveled

puzzles--all to the rhythm of the waltz-measure babbling on like a

summer brooklet under the sun, through emerald meadows.

And now the exciting moment of the ribbons is come--the moment

when the best presents are to be produced--the ribbons--a sheaf of

rainbow-colors, fastened into a strong golden ring, which ring is to

be held by a single lady, each gentleman grasping (as best he can) a

single ribbon. As long as the lady seated on the chair in the centre

pleases, the gentlemen are to gyrate round her. When she drops the

ring holding the sheaf of ribbons, the Cavaliere Trenta is to clap his

hands, and each gentleman is instantly to select that lady who wears

a rosette corresponding in color to his ribbon--the lady in the chair

being claimed by her partner.

Nobili has placed Nera Boccarini on the chair in the centre. (Ever

since the flavor of that fervid kiss has rested on his lips, Nobili

has been lost in a delicious dream. "Why should not he and Nera

dance on--on--on--forever?--Into indefinite space, if possible--only

together?" He asks himself this question vaguely, as she rests within

his arms--as he drinks in the subtile perfume of the red roses bound

in her glossy hair.)

Nera is triumphant. Nobili is her own! As she sits in that chair

when he has placed her, she is positively radiant. Love has given

an unknown tenderness to her eyes, a more delicate brilliancy to her

cheeks, a softness, almost a languor, to her movements. (Look out,

acknowledged _belle_ of Lucca--look out, Teresa Ottolini--here is

a dangerous rival to your supremacy! If Nobili loves Nera as Nera

believes he does--Nera will ripen quickly into yet more transcendent

beauty.)

Now Nobili has left Nera, seated in the chair. He is distributing

the various ribbons among the dancers. As there are over a hundred

couples, and there is some murmuring and struggling to secure certain

ladies, who match certain ribbons, this is difficult, and takes time.

See--it is done; again Nobili retires behind Nera's chair, to wait the

moment when he shall claim her himself.

How the men drag at the ribbons, whirling round and round,

hand-in-hand!--Nera's small hand can scarcely hold them--the men

whirling round every instant faster--tumbling over each other, indeed;

each moment the ribbons are dragged harder. Nera laughs; she sways

from side to side, her arms extended. Faster and more furiously the

men whirl round--like runaway horses now, bearing dead upon the reins.

The strain is too great, Nera lets fall the ring. The cavaliere claps

his hands. Each gentleman rushes toward the lady wearing a rosette

matching his ribbon. Nera rises. Already she is encircled by Nobili's

arm. He draws her to him; she makes one step forward. Nera is a bold,

firm dancer, but, unknown to her, the ribbons in falling have become

entangled about her feet; she, is bound, she cannot stir; she gives

a little scream. Nobili, startled, suddenly loosens his hold upon her

waist. Nera totters, extends her arms, then falls heavily backward,

her head striking on the _parquet_ floor. There is a cry of horror.

Every dancer stops. They gather round her where she lies. Her face is

turned upward, her eyes are set and glassy, her cheeks are ashen.

"Holy Virgin!" cries Nobili, in a voice of anguish, "I have killed

her!" He casts himself on the floor beside her--he raises her in his

strong arms. "Air, air!--give her air, or she will die!" he cries.

Putting every one aside, he carries Nera to the nearest window, he

lays her tenderly on a sofa. It is the very spot where he had kissed

her--under the fiery shadow of the red curtain. Alas! Nobili is

sobered now from the passion of that moment. The glamour has departed

with the light of Nera's eyes. He is ashamed of himself; but there

is a swelling at his heart, nevertheless--an impulse of infinite

compassion toward the girl who lies senseless before him--her beauty,

her undisguised love for him, plead powerfully for her. Does he love

her?

The Countess Boccarini and Nera's sisters are by her side. The poor

mother at first is speechless; she can only chafe her child's cold

hands, and kiss her white lips.

"Nera, Nera," at last she whispers, "Nera, speak to me--speak to

me--one word--only one word!"

But, alas! there is no sign of animation--to all appearance Nera is

dead. Nobili, convinced that he alone is responsible, and too much

agitated to care what he does, kneels beside her, and places his hand

upon her heart.

"She lives! she lives!" he cries--"her heart beats! Thank God, I have

not killed her!"

This leap from death to life is too much for him; he staggers to his

feet, falls into a chair, and sobs aloud. Nera's eyelids tremble; she

opens her eyes, her lips move.

"Nera, my child, my darling, speak to me!" cries Madame Boccarini.

"Tell me that you can hear me."

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

cushion.

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

At the sound of her voice Nobili starts up; he brushes away the tears

that still roll down his cheeks. Again he lifts Nera tenderly in his

arms. For that night Nera belongs to him; no one else shall touch her.

He bears her down-stairs to a carriage. Then he disappears into the

darkness of the night.

No one will leave the ball until there is some report of Nera's

condition from the doctor who has been summoned. The gay groups sit

around the glittering ballroom, and whisper to each other. The "golden

youth" offer bets as to Nera's recovery; the ladies, who are jealous,

back freely against it. In half an hour, however, Countess Orsetti is

able to announce that "Nera Boccarini is better, and that, beyond the

shock, it is hoped that she is not seriously hurt."

"You see, Malatesta, I was right," drawls out the languid Franchi as

he descends the stairs. "You will believe me another time. You know

I told you and Orsetti that Nera Boccarini and Nobili understood each

other. He's desperately in love with her."

"I don't believe it, all the same," answers Malatesta, shaking his

head. "A man can't half kill a girl and show no compunction--specially

not Nobili--the best-hearted fellow breathing. Nobili is just the man

to feel such an accident as that dreadfully. How splendid Nera looked

to-night! She quite cut out the Ottolini." Malatesta spoke with

enthusiasm; he had a practised eye for woman's fine points. "Here,

Adonis--I beg your pardon--Baldassare, I mean--where are you going?"

"Home," replies the Greek mask.

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

admirably."

Baldassare smiles, and shows two rows of faultless teeth.

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

and all our set."

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

PART II.

CHAPTER I.

CALUMNY.

Baldassare was, of course, invited by the cavaliere to join the

proposed expedition to the tombs of the Trenta and to the Guinigi

Tower. Half an hour before the time appointed he appeared at the

Palazzo Trenta. The cavaliere was ready, and they went out into the

street together.

"If you have not been asleep since the ball, Baldassare--which is

probable--perhaps you can tell me how Nera Boccarini is this morning?"

"She is quite well, I understand," answered Adonis, with an air of

great mystery, as he smoothed his scented beard. "She is only a little

shaken."

"By Jove!" exclaimed the cavaliere. "Never was I present at any thing

like that! A love-scene in public! Once, indeed, I remember, on one

occasion, when her highness Paulina threw herself into the arms of his

serene highness--"

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

He dreaded a long tirade from the old chamberlain on the subject

of his court reminiscences; besides, Baldassare was bursting with a

startling piece of intelligence as yet evidently unknown to Trenta.

"News!--no," answered the cavaliere, contemptuously. "I dare say it is

some lie. You have, I am sorry to say, Baldassare, all the faults of a

person new to society; you believe every thing."

Baldassare eyed the cavaliere defiantly; but he pulled at his curled

mustache in silence.

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

attentively.

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

dying to tell me!"

"Not at all, cavaliere," replied Baldassare, with assumed

indifference; "only I must say that I believe you are the only person

in Lucca who has not heard it."

"Heard what?" demanded Trenta, angrily.

Baldassare knew the cavaliere's weak point; he delighted to tease him.

Trenta considered himself, and was generally considered by others, as

a universal news-monger; it was a habit that had remained to him

from his former life at court. From the time of Polonius downward a

court-chamberlain has always been a news-monger.

"Heard? Why, the news--the great news," Baldassare spoke in the

same jeering tone. He drew himself up, affecting to look over the

cavaliere's head as he bent on his stick before him.

"Go on," retorted the cavaliere, doggedly.

"How strange you have not heard any thing!" Trenta now looked so

enraged, Baldassare thought it was time to leave off bantering him.

"Well, then, cavaliere, since you really appear to be ignorant, I will

tell you. After you left the Orsetti ball, Malatesta asked me and the

other young men of their set to supper at the Universo Hotel."

"Mercy on us!" ejaculated the cavaliere, who was now thoroughly

irritated, "you consider yourself one of _their set_, do you? I

congratulate you, young man. This is news to me."

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

their set."

The cavaliere shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

"We talked of the accident," continued Baldassare, affecting not to

notice his sneers, "and we talked of Nobili. Many said, as you

do, that Nobili is in love with Nera Boccarini, and that he would

certainly marry her. Malatesta laughed, as is his way, then he swore

a little. Nobili would do no such thing, he declared, he would

answer for it. He had it on the best authority, he said, that of an

eye-witness." (Ah, cruel old Carlotta, you have made good your threat

of vengeance!) "An eye-witness had said that Nobili was in love

with some one else--some one who wrote to him; that they had been

watched--that he met some one secretly, and that by-and-by all the

city would know it, and that there would be a great scandal."

"And who may the lady be?" asked the cavaliere carelessly, raising

his head as he put the question, with a sardonic glance at Baldassare.

"Not that I believe one word Malatesta says. He is a young coxcomb,

and you, Baldassare, are a parrot, and repeat what you hear. Per

Bacco! if there had been any thing serious, I should have known it

long ago. Who is the lady?" Spite of himself, however, his blue eyes

sparkled with curiosity.

"The marchesa's niece, Enrica Guinigi."

"What!" roared out the cavaliere, striking his stick so violently on

the ground that the sound echoed through the solitary street. "Enrica

Guinigi, whom I see every day! What a lie!--what a base lie! How dare

Malatesta--the beast--say so? I will chastise him myself!--with my own

hand, old as I am, I will chastise him! Enrica Guinigi!"

Baldassare shrugged his shoulders and made a grimace. This incensed

the cavaliere more violently.

"Now, listen to me, Baldassare Lena," shouted the cavaliere,

advancing, and putting his fist almost into his face. "Your father is

a chemist; and keeps a shop. He is not a doctor, though you call

him so. If ever you presume again to repeat scandals such as

this--scandals, I say, involving the reputation of noble ladies, my

friends--ladies into whose houses I have introduced you, there shall

be no more question of your being of their '_set_.' I will take care

that you never enter one of their doors again. By the body of my holy

ancestor, San Riccardo, I will disgrace you--publicly disgrace you!"

Trenta's rosy face had grown purple, his lips worked convulsively. He

raised his stick, and flourished it in the air, as if about to make it

descend like a truncheon on Baldassare's shoulders. Adonis drew back a

step or two, following with his eyes the cavaliere's movements. He

was quite unmoved by his threats. Not a day passed that Trenta did not

threaten him with his eternal displeasure. Adonis was used to it, and

bore it patiently. He bore it because he could not help it. Although

by no means overburdened with brains, he was conscious that as yet he

was not sufficiently established in society to stand alone. Still,

he had too high an opinion of his personal beauty, fine clothes, and

general merits, to believe that the ladies of Lucca would permit of

his banishment by any arbitrary decree of the cavaliere.

"You had better find out the truth, cavaliere," he muttered, keeping

well out of the range of Trenta's stick, "before you put yourself in

such a passion."

"Domine Dio! that they should dare to utter such abominations!"

ejaculated the cavaliere. "Why, Enrica lives the life of a nun! I

doubt if she has ever seen Nobili--certainly she has never spoken to

him. Let Malatesta, and the young scoundrels at the club, attack

the married women. They can defend themselves. But, to calumniate an

innocent girl!--it is horrible!--it is unmanly! His highness the Duke

of Lucca would have banished the wretch forthwith. Ah! Italy is going

to the devil!--Now, Baldassare," he continued, turning round and

glaring upon Adonis, who still retreated cautiously before him, "I

have a great mind to send you home. We are about to meet the young

lady herself. You are not worthy to be in her company."

"I only repeated what Malatesta told me," urged Baldassare,

plaintively, looking very blank. "I am not answerable for him. Go and

quarrel with Malatesta, if you like, but leave me alone. You asked me

a question, and I answered you. That is all."

Baldassare had dressed himself with great care; his hair was

exquisitely curled for the occasion. He had nothing to do all day, and

the prospect of returning home was most depressing.

"You are not answerable for being born a fool!" was the rejoinder. "I

grant that. Who told Malatesta?" asked the cavaliere, turning sharply

toward Baldassare.

"He said he had heard it in many quarters. He insisted on having heard

it from one who had seen them together."

(Old Carlotta, sitting in her shop-door at the corner of the street of

San Simone, like an evil spider in its web, could have answered that

question.)

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

the street.

"Baldassare," he said, addressing him more calmly, "this is a wicked

calumny. The marchesa must not hear it. Upon reflection, I shall not

notice it. Malatesta is a chattering fool--an ape! I dare say he was

tipsy when he said it. But, as you value my protection, swear to

me not to repeat one word of all this. If you hear it mentioned,

contradict it--flatly contradict it, on my authority--the authority

of the Marchesa Guinigi's oldest friend. Nobili will marry Nera

Boccarini, and there will be an end of it; and Enrica--yes,

Baldassare," continued the cavaliere, with an air of immense

dignity--"yes, to prove to you how ridiculous this report is, Enrica

is about to marry also. I am at this very time authorized by the

family to arrange an alliance with--"

"I guess!" burst out Baldassare, reddening with delight at being

intrusted with so choice a piece of news--"with Count Marescotti!"

Trenta gave a conscious smile, and nodded. This was done with a

certain reserve, but still graciously. "To be sure; it was easy to see

how much he admired her, but I did not know that the lady--"

"Oh, yes, the lady is all right--she will agree," rejoined Trenta.

"She knows no one else; she will obey her aunt's commands and my

wishes."

"I am delighted!" cried Baldassare. "Why, there will be a ball at

Palazzo Guinigi--a ball, after all!"

"But the marchesa must never hear this scandal about Nobili," added

Trenta, suddenly relapsing into gravity. "She hates him so much, it

might give her a fit. Have a care, Baldassare--have a care, or you may

yet incur my severest displeasure."

"I am sure I don't want the marchesa or any one else to know it,"

replied Baldassare, greatly reassured as to the manner in which he

would pass his day by the change in Trenta's manner. "I would not

annoy her or injure the signorina for all the world. I am sure you

know that, cavaliere. No word shall pass my lips, I promise you."

"Good! good!" responded Trenta, now quite pacified (it was not in

Trenta's nature to be angry long). Now he moved forward, and as he did

so he took Baldassare's arm, in token of forgiveness. "No names must

be mentioned," he continued, tripping along--"mind, no names; but I

authorize you, on my authority, if you hear this abominable nonsense

repeated--I authorize you to say that you have it from me--that Enrica

Guinigi is to be married, _and not to Nobili_. He! he! That will

surprise them--those chattering young blackguards at the club."

Thus, once more on the most amiable terms, the cavaliere and

Baldassare proceeded leisurely arm-in-arm toward the street of San

Simone.

CHAPTER II.

CHURCH OF SAN FREDIANO.

Count Marescotti was walking rapidly up and down in the shade before

the Guinigi Palace when the cavaliere and Baldassare appeared. He was

so absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not perceive them.

"I must speak to him as soon as possible about Enrica," was Trenta's

thought on seeing him. "With this report going about, there is not an

hour to lose."

"You have kept your appointment punctually, count," he said, laying

his hand on Marescotti's shoulder.

"Punctual, my dear cavaliere? I never missed an appointment in my life

when made with a lady. I was up long before daylight, looking over

some books I have with me, in order to be able the better to describe

any object of interest to the Signorina Enrica."

"An opportunity for you, my boy," said Trenta, nodding his head

roguishly at Baldassare. "You will have a lesson in Lucchese history.

Of course, you know nothing about it."

"Every man has his forte," observed the count, good-naturedly, seeing

Baldassare's embarrassment at having his ignorance exposed. (The

cavaliere never could leave poor Adonis alone.) "We all know your

forte is the ballroom; there you beat us all."

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

to me."

Leaving the count and Baldassare standing together in the street,

the cavaliere knocked at the door of the Guinigi Palace. When it was

opened he entered the gloomy court. Within he found Enrica and Teresa

awaiting his arrival.

At the sight of her whom he so much loved, and of whom he had just

heard what he conceived to be such an atrocious calumny, the cavaliere

was quite overcome. Tears gathered in his eyes; he could hardly reply

to her when she addressed him.

"My Enrica," he said at last, taking her by the hand and imprinting a

kiss upon her forehead, "you are a good child. Heaven bless you, and

keep you always as you are!" A conscious blush overspread Enrica's

face.

"If he knew all, would he say this?" she asked herself; and her pretty

head with the soft curls dropped involuntarily.

Enrica was very simply attired, but the flowing lines of her graceful

figure were not to be disguised by any mere accident of dress. A black

veil, fastened upon her hair like a mantilla (a style much affected

by the Lucca ladies), fell in thick folds upon her shoulders, and

partially shaded her face.

Teresa stood by her young mistress, prepared to follow her. Trenta

perceived this. He did not like Teresa. If she went with them, the

whole conversation might be repeated in Casa Guinigi. This, with

Count Marescotti in the company, would be--to say the least of

it--inconvenient.

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

signorina."

"But--Signore Cavaliere"--and Teresa, feeling the affront, colored

scarlet--"the marchesa's positive orders were, I was not to leave the

signorina."

"Never mind," answered the cavaliere, authoritatively, "I will take

that on myself. You can retire."

Teresa, swelling with anger, remained in the court. The cavaliere

offered his arm to Enrica. She turned and addressed a few words to the

exasperated Teresa; then, led by Trenta, she passed into the street.

Upon the threshold, Count Marescotti met them.

"This is indeed an honor," he said, addressing Enrica--his face

beamed, and he bowed to the ground. "I trembled lest the marchesa

should have forbidden your coming."

"So did I," answered Enrica, frankly. "I am so glad. I fear that my

aunt is not altogether pleased; but she has said nothing, and I came."

She spoke with such eagerness, she saw that the count was surprised.

This made her blush. At any other time such an expedition as that they

were about to make would have been delightful to her for its own sake,

Enrica was so shut up within the palace, except on the rare occasions

when she accompanied Teresa to mass, or took a formal drive on the

ramparts at sundown with her aunt. But now she was full of anxiety

about Nobili. They had not met for a week--he had not written to her

even. Should she see him in the street? Should she see him from the

top of the tower? Perhaps he was at home at that very moment watching

her. She gave a furtive glance upward at the stern old palace before

her. The thick walls of sun-dried bricks looked cruel; the massive

Venetian casements mocked her. The outer blinds shut out all hope.

Alas! there was not a chink anywhere. Even the great doors were

closed.

"Ah! if Teresa could have warned him that I was coming!"--and she gave

a great sigh. "If he only knew that I was here, standing in the very

street! Oh, for one glimpse of his dear, bright face!"

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

façade.

Meanwhile the cavaliere and Baldassare were engaged in a violent

altercation. Baldassare had proposed walking to the church of San

Frediano, which, in consideration of the cavaliere's wishes, they were

to visit first. "No one would think of driving such a short distance,"

he insisted. "The sun was not hot, and the streets were all in shade."

The cavaliere retorted that "it was too hot for any lady to walk,"

swung his stick menacingly in the air, called Baldassare "an

imbecile," and peremptorily ordered him to call a _fiacre_. Baldassare

turned scarlet in the face, and rudely refused to move.

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

like a gentleman."

This was spoken as he hurled what he intended to be a tremendous

glance of indignation at the cavaliere. It produced no effect

whatever. With an exasperating smile, the cavaliere again desired

Baldassare to do as he was bid, or else to go home. The count

interposed, a _fiacre_ was called, in which they all seated

themselves.

* * * * *

San Frediano, a basilica in the Lombard style, is the most ancient

church in Lucca. The mid-day sun now flashed full upon the front, and

lighted up the wondrous colors of a mosaic on a gold ground, over the

entrance. At one corner of the building a marble campanile, formed by

successive tiers of delicate arcades, springs upward into the azure

sky. Flocks of gray pigeons circled about the upper gallery (where

hang the bells), or rested, cooing softly in the warm air, upon the

sculptured cornice bordering the white arches. It was a quiet scene

of tranquil beauty, significant of repose in life and of peace in

death--the church, with its wide portals, offering an everlasting home

to all who sought shelter within its walls.

The cavaliere was so impatient to do the honors that he actually

jumped unaided from the carriage.

"This, dear Enrica, is my parish church," he said, as he handed her

out, pointing upward to the richly-tinted pile, which the suns of

many centuries had dyed of a golden hue. "I know every stone in the

building. From a child I have played in this piazza, under these

venerable walls. My earliest prayers were said at the altar of the

Sacrament within. Here I confessed my youthful sins. Here I received

my first communion. Here I hope to lay my bones, when it shall please

God to call me."

Trenta spoke with a tranquil smile. It was clear neither life nor

death had any terrors for him. "The very pigeons know me," he added,

placidly. He looked up to the campanile, gave a peculiar whistle, and,

putting his hand into his pocket, threw down some grains of corn

upon the pavement. The pigeons, whirling round in many circles (the

sunlight flashing upon their burnished breasts, and upon the soft gray

and purple feathers of their wings), gradually--in little groups of

twos and threes--flew down, and finally settled themselves in a knot

upon the pavement, to peck up the corn.

"Good, pious old man, how I honor you!" ejaculated Count Marescotti,

fervently, as he watched the timid gray-coated pigeons gathering

round the cavaliere's feet, as he stood apart from the rest, serenely

smiling as he fed them. "May thy placid spirit be unruffled in time

and in eternity!"

The interior of the church, in the Longobardic style, is bare almost

to plainness. On entering, the eye ranges through a long broad nave

with rounded arches, the arches surmounted by narrow windows; these

dividing arches, supported on single columns with monumental capitals,

forming two dark and rather narrow aisles. The high altar is raised on

three broad steps. Here burn a few lights, dimmed into solitary specks

by the brightness of the sun. The walls on either side of the aisles

are broken by various chapels. These lie in deep shadow. The roof,

formed of open rafters, bearing marks of having once been elaborately

gilded, is now but a mass of blackened timbers. The floor is of brick,

save where oft-recurring sepulchral slabs are cut into the surface.

These slabs, of black-and-white marble, or of alabaster stained

and worn from its native whiteness into a dingy brown, are almost

obliterated by the many footsteps which have come and gone upon them

for so many centuries. Not a single name remains to record whom they

commemorate. Dimly seen under a covering of dirt and dust deposited by

the living, lie the records of these unknown dead: here a black lion

rampant on a white shield; there a coat-of-arms on an escutcheon, with

the fragment of a princely coronet; beyond, a life-sized monk, his

shadowy head resting on a cushion--a matron with her robes soberly

gathered about her feet, her hands crossed on her bosom--a bishop,

under a painted canopy, mitre on head and staff in hand--a warrior,

grimly helmeted, carrying his drawn sword in his hand. Who are these?

Whence came they? None can tell.

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

stopped.

"On this stone," he said, his smiling countenance suddenly grown

solemn--"on this very stone, where you see the remains of a

mosaic"--and he pointed to some morsels of color still visible,

crossing himself as he did so--"a notable miracle was performed.

Before I relate it, let us adore the goodness of the Blessed Virgin,

from whom all good gifts come."

Cavaliere Trenta was on his knees before he had done speaking; again

he fervently crossed himself, reciting the "Maria Santissima." Enrica

bowed her head, and timidly knelt beside him; Baldassare bent his

knees, but, remembering that his trousers were new, and that they

might take an adverse crease that could never be ironed out, he did

not allow himself to touch the floor; then, with open eyes and ears,

he rose and stood waiting for the cavaliere to proceed. Baldassare

was uneducated and superstitious. The latter quality recommended him

strongly to Trenta. He was always ready to believe every word the

cavaliere uttered with unquestioning faith. At the mention of a church

legend Count Marescotti turned away with an expression of disgust, and

leaned against a pillar, his eyes fixed on Enrica.

The cavaliere, having risen from his knees, and carefully dusted

himself with a snowy pocket-handkerchief, took Enrica by the hand, and

placed her in such a position that the sunshine, striking through the

windows of the nave, fell full upon the monumental stone before them.

"My Enrica," he said, in a subdued voice, "and you, Baldassare"--he

motioned to him to approach nearer--"you are both young. Listen to me.

Lay to heart what an old man tells you. Such a miracle as I am about

to relate must touch even the count's hard heart."

He glanced round at Marescotti, but it was evident he was chagrined by

what he saw. Marescotti neither heard him, nor even affected to do

so. Trenta's voice in the great church was weak and piping--indistinct

even to those beside him. Finding the count unavailable either

for instruction or reproof, the cavaliere shook his head, and his

countenance fell. Then he turned his mild blue eyes upon Enrica,

leaned upon his stick, and commenced:

"In the sixth century, the flagstones in this portion of the nave were

raised for the burial of a distinguished lady, a member of the Manzi

family; but oh! stupendous prodigy!"--the cavaliere cast up his eyes

to heaven, and clasped his dimpled hands--"no sooner had the coffin

been lowered into the vault prepared for it, than the corpse of the

lady of the Manzi family sat upright in the open bier, put aside the

flowers and wreaths piled upon her, and uttered these memorable and

never-to-be-forgotten words: 'Bury me elsewhere; here lies the body of

San Frediano.'"

Baldassare, who had grown very pale, now shuddered visibly, and

contemplated the cavaliere with awe.

"Stupendous!" he muttered--"prodigious!--Indeed!"

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

"Yes, yes, you may well say prodigious," responded Trenta, bowing his

white head; then, looking round triumphantly: "It was prodigious,

but a prodigy, remember, vouched for by the chronicles of the Church.

(Chronicles of the Church are much more to be trusted than any thing

else, much more than Evangelists, who were not bishops, and therefore

had no authority--we all know that.) No sooner, my friends, had the

corpse of the lady of the Manzi family spoken, as I have said, than

diligent search was made by those assembled in the church, when

lo!--within the open vault the remains of the adorable San Frediano

were discovered in excellent preservation. I need not say that, having

died in the odor of sanctity, the most fragrant perfume filled the

church, and penetrated even to the adjacent streets. Several sick

persons were healed by merely inhaling it. One man, whose arm had been

shot off at the shoulder-joint many years before, found his limb

come again in an instant, by merely touching the blessed relic." The

cavaliere paused to take breath. No one had spoken.--"Have you heard

the miracle of the glorious San Frediano?" asked Trenta, a little

timidly, raising his voice to its utmost pitch as he addressed Count

Marescotti.

"No, I have not, cavaliere; but, if I had, it would not alter my

opinion. I do not believe in mediaeval miracles." As he spoke, Count

Marescotti turned round from the steps of a side-altar, whither he had

wandered to look at a picture. "I did not hear one word you said, my

dear cavaliere, but I am acquainted with the supposed miracles of San

Frediano. They are entirely without evidence, and in no way shake my

conclusions as to the utter worthlessness of such legends. In this

I agree with the Protestants," he continued, "rather than with that

inspired teacher, Savonarola. The Protestants, spite of so-called

'ecclesiastical authority,' persist in denying them. With the

Protestants, I hold that the entire machinery of modern miracles is

false and unprofitable. With the Apostles miraculous power ended."

"Marescotti!" ejaculated the poor cavaliere, aghast at the effect his

appeal had produced, "for God's sake, don't, don't! before Enrica--and

in a church, too!"

"I believe with Savonarola in other miracles," continued the count, in

a louder tone, addressing himself directly to Enrica, on whom he gazed

with a tender expression--he was far too much engrossed with her and

with the subject to heed Trenta's feeble remonstrance--"I believe in

the mystic essence of soul to soul--I believe in the reappearance of

the disembodied spirit to its kindred affinity still on earth--still

clothed with a fleshly garment. I believe in those magnetic influences

that circle like an atmosphere about certain purified and special

natures, binding them together in a closely-locked embrace, an embrace

that neither time, distance, nor even death itself, can weaken or

sever!"

He paused for an instant; a dark fire lit up his eyes, which were

still bent on Enrica.

"All this I believe--life would be intolerable to me without such

convictions. At the same time, I am ready to grant that all cannot

accept my views. These are mysteries to be approached without

prejudice--mysteries that must be received absolutely without

prejudice of religion, country, or race; received as the aesthetic

instinct within us teaches. Who," he added, and as he spoke he

stood erect on the steps of the altar, his arms outstretched in the

eagerness of argument, his grand face all aglow with enthusiasm--"who

can decide? It is faith that convinces--faith that vivifies--faith

that transforms--faith that links us to the hierarchy of angels! To

believe--to act on our belief, even if that belief be false--that is

true religion. A merciful Deity will accept our imperfect sacrifice.

Are we not all believers in Christ? Away with creeds and churches,

with formularies and doctrines, with painted walls and golden altars,

with stoled priests, infallible popes, and temporal hierarchies! What

are these vain distinctions, if we love God? Let the whole world

unite to believe in the Redeemer. Then we shall all be brothers--you,

I--all, brothers--joined within the holy circle of one universal

family--of one universal worship!"

Count Marescotti ceased speaking, but his impassioned words still

echoed through the empty aisles. His eyes had wandered from Enrica;

they were now fixed on high. His countenance glowed with rapture.

Wrapped in the visions his imagination had called forth, he descended

from the altar, and slowly approached the silent group gathered beside

the monumental stone.

Enrica had eagerly drunk in every word the count had uttered. He

seemed to speak the language of her secret musings; to interpret the

hidden mysteries of her young heart. She, at least, believed in the

affinity of kindred spirits. What but that had linked her to Nobili?

Oh, to live in such a union!

Trenta had become very grave.

"You are a visionary," he said, addressing the count, who now stood

beside them. "I am sorry for you. Such a consummation as you desire

is impossible. Your faith has no foundation. It is a creation of the

brain. The Catholic Church stands upon a rock. It permits no change,

it accepts no compromise, it admits no errors. The authority given to

St. Peter by Jesus Christ himself, with the spiritual keys, can alone

open the gates of heaven. All without are damned. Good intentions

are nothing. Private interpretation, believe me, is of the devil.

Obedience to the Holy Father, and the intercession of the saints, can

alone save your soul. Submit yourself to the teaching of our mother

Church, my dear count. Submit yourself--you have my prayers." Trenta

watched Marescotti with a fixed gaze of such solemn earnestness, it

seemed as though he anticipated that the blessed San Frediano himself

might appear, and then and there miraculously convert him. "Submit

yourself," he repeated, raising his arm and pointing to the altar,

"then you will be blessed."

No miraculous interposition, however, was destined to crown the poor

cavaliere's strenuous efforts to convert the heretical count; but,

long before he had finished, the sound of his voice had recalled

Count Marescotti to himself. He remembered that the old chamberlain

belonged, in years at least, if not in belief, to the past. He blamed

himself for his thoughtlessness in having said a syllable that could

give him pain. The mystic disciple of Savonarola became in an instant

the polished gentleman.

"A thousand pardons, my dear Trenta," he said, passing his hand over

his forehead, and putting back the dark, disordered hair that hung

upon his brow--"a thousand pardons!--I am quite ashamed of myself. We

are here, as I now remember, to examine the tombs of your ancestors

in the chapel of the Trenta. I have delayed you too long. Shall we

proceed?"

Trenta, glad to escape from the possibility of any further discussion

with the count, whose religious views were to him nothing but the

ravings of a mischievous maniac, at once turned into the side-aisle,

and, with ceremonious politeness, conducted Enrica toward the chapel

of the Trenta.

The chapel, divided by gates of gilt bronze from the line of the other

altars bordering the aisles, forms a deep recess near the high

altar. The walls are inlaid by what had once been brilliantly-colored

marbles, in squares of red, green, and yellow; but time and damp had

dulled them into a sombre hue. Above, a heavy circular cornice joins

a dome-shaped roof, clothed with frescoes, through which the light

descends through a central lantern. Painted figures of prophets stand

erect within the four spandrils, and beneath, breaking the marble

walls, four snow-white statues of the Evangelists fill lofty niches of

gray-tinted stone. Opposite the gilded gates of entrance which

Trenta had unlocked, a black sarcophagus projects from the wall. This

sarcophagus is surmounted by a carved head. Many other monuments break

the marble walls; some very ancient, others of more recent shape

and construction. The floor, too, is almost entirely overlaid by

tombstones, but, like those in the nave, they are greatly defaced,

and the inscriptions are for the most part illegible. Over the altar

a blackened painting represents "San Riccardo of the Trenta" battling

with the infidels before Jerusalem.

"Here," said the cavaliere, standing in the centre under the dome,

"is the chapel of the Trenta. Here I, Cesare Trenta, fourteenth in

succession from Gaultiero Trenta--who commanded a regiment at the

battle of Marignano against the French under Francis I.--hope to lay

my bones. The altar, as you see, is sanctified by the possession of

an ancestral picture, deemed miraculous." He bowed to the earth as he

spoke, in which example he was followed by Enrica and Baldassare. "San

Riccardo was the companion-in-arms of Godfrey de Bouillon. His bones

lie under the altar. Upon his return from the crusades he died in our

palace. We still show the very room. His body is quite entire within

that tomb. I have seen it myself when a boy."

Even the count did not venture to raise any doubt as to the

authenticity of the patron saint of the Trenta family. The cavaliere

himself was on his knees; rosary in hand, he was devoutly offering up

his innocent prayers to the ashes of an imaginary saint. After many

crossings, bowings, and touchings of the tomb (always kissing the

fingers that had been in contact with the sanctified stone), he arose,

smiling.

"And now," said the count, turning toward Enrica, "I will ask leave to

show you another tomb, which may, possibly, interest you more than

the sepulchre of the respected Trenta." As he spoke he led her to the

opposite aisle, toward a sarcophagus of black marble placed under an

arch, on which was inscribed, in gilt letters, the name "Castruccio

Castracani degli Antimelli," and the date "1328." "Had our Castruccio

moved in a larger sphere," said the count, addressing the little group

that had now gathered about him, "he would have won a name as great as

that of Alexander of Macedon. Like Alexander, he died in the flower of

his age, in the height of his fame. Had he lived, he would have

been King of Italy, and Lucca would have become the capital of the

peninsula. Chaste, sober, and merciful--brave without rashness,

and prudent without fear--Castruccio won all hearts. Lucca at least

appreciated her hero. Proud alike of his personal qualities, and of

those warlike exploits with which Italy already rang, she unanimously

elected him dictator. When this signal honor was conferred upon him,"

continued the count, addressing himself again specially to Enrica,

who listened, her large dreamy eyes fixed upon him, "Castruccio was

absent, engaged in one of those perpetual campaigns against Florence

which occupied so large a portion of his short life. At that very

moment he was encamped on the heights of San Miniato, preparing to

besiege the hated rival of our city--broken and reduced by the recent

victory he had gained over her at Altopasso. At Altopasso he had

defeated and humiliated Florence. Now he had planted our flag under

her very walls. Upon the arrival of the ambassadors sent by the

Lucchese Republic--one of whom was a Guinigi--"

"There was a Trenta, too, among them; Antonio Trenta, a knight of St.

John," put in the cavaliere, gently, unwilling to interrupt the count,

but finding it impossible to resist the temptation of identifying

his family with his country's triumphs. The count acknowledged the

omission with a courteous bow.

"Upon the arrival of the ambassadors," he resumed, "announcing the

honor conferred upon him, Castruccio instantly left his camp, and

returned with all haste to Lucca. The dignity accorded to Castruccio

exalted him above all external demonstration, but he understood

that his native city longed to behold, and to surround with personal

applause, the person of her idol. In the piazza without this church,

the very centre of Lucca, the heart, as it were, whence all the veins

and arteries of our municipal body flow, Castruccio was received

with all the pomp of a Roman triumph. Ah! cavaliere"--and the count's

lustrous eyes rested on Trenta, who was devouring every word he

uttered with silent delight--"those were proud days for Lucca!"

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

listen."

"Thirty thousand Florentine prisoners followed Castruccio to Lucca.

His soldiers were laden with booty. They drove before them innumerable

herds of cattle; strings of wagons, filled with the spoils of a

victorious campaign, blocked the causeways. Last of all appeared,

rumbling on its ancient wheels, the carroccio, or state-car of

the Florentine Republic, bearing their captured flags lowered, and

trailing in the dust. Castruccio--whose sole representatives are the

Marchesa Guinigi and yourself, signorina--Castruccio followed. He

was seated in a triumphal chariot, drawn by eight milk-white horses.

Banners fluttered around him. A golden crown of victory was suspended

above his head. He was arrayed in a flowing mantle of purple, over a

suit of burnished armor. His brows were bound by a wreath of golden

laurel. In his right hand he carried a jeweled sceptre. Upon his

knees lay his victorious sword unsheathed. Never was manly beauty more

transcendent. His lofty stature and majestic bearing fulfilled the

expectation of a hero. How can I describe his features? They are known

to all of you by that famous picture (the only likeness of him extant)

belonging to the Marchesa Guinigi, placed in the presence-chamber of

her palace."

"Yes, yes," burst forth Trenta, no longer able to control his

enthusiasm. "Old as I am, when I think of those days, it makes me

young again. Alas! what a change! Now we have lost not only

our independence, but our very identity. Our sovereign is

gone--banished--our state broken up. We are but the slaves of a

monster called the kingdom of Italy, ruled by Piedmontese barbarians!"

"Hush!--hush!" whispered the irrepressible Baldassare. "Pray do not

interrupt the count." Even the stolid Adonis was moved.

"The daughters of the noblest houses of Lucca," continued Marescotti,

"strewed flowers in Castruccio's path. The magistrates and nobles

received him on their knees. Young as he was, with one voice they

saluted him 'Father of his Country!'"

The count paused. He bowed his head toward the sarcophagus before

which they were gathered, in a mute tribute of reverence. After a few

minutes of rapt silence he resumed:

"When the multitude heard that name, ten thousand thousand voices

echoed it. 'Father of his Country!' resounded to the summits of the

surrounding Apennines. The mountain-tops tossed it to and fro--the

caves thundered it--the very heavens bore it aloft to distant

hemispheres! Our great soldier, overcome by such overwhelming marks

of affection, expressed in every look and gesture how deeply he

was moved. Before leaving the piazza, Castruccio was joined by his

relative, young Paolo Guinigi!--after his decease to become dictator,

and Lord of Lucca. Amid the clash of arms, the braying of trumpets,

and the applause of thousands, they cordially embraced. They were fast

friends as well as cousins. Our Castruccio was of a type incapable

of jealousy. Paolo was a patriot--that was enough. Together they

proceeded to the cathedral of San Martino. At the porch Castruccio was

received by the archbishop and the assembled clergy. He was placed

in a chair of carved ivory, and carried in triumph up the nave to

the chapel of the Holy Countenance. Here he descended, and, while he

prostrated himself before the miraculous image, hymns and songs of

praise burst from the choir."

"Such, Signorina Enrica," said the count, turning toward her, "is

a brief outline of the scene that passed within this city of Lucca,

before that tomb held the illustrious dust it now contains."

"Bravo, bravo, count!" exclaimed the mercurial Trenta, in a delighted

tone. (He was ready to forgive all the count's transgressions, in the

fervor of the moment.) "That is how I love to hear you talk. Now you

do yourself justice. Gesù mio! how seldom it is given to a man to be

so eloquent! How can he bring himself to employ such gifts against the

infallible Church?" This last remark was addressed to Enrica in a tone

too low to be overheard.

"And now," said the old chamberlain, always on the lookout to marshal

every one as he had marshaled every one at court--"now we will leave

the church, and proceed to the Guinigi Tower."

CHAPTER III.

THE GUINIGI TOWER.

Count Marescotti, by reason of too much imagination, and Baldassare,

by reason of too little, were both oblivious; consequently the key and

the porter were neither of them forthcoming when the party arrived

at the door of the tower, which opened from a side-street behind and

apart from the palace. Both the count and Baldassare ran off to find

the man, leaving Trenta alone with Enrica.

"Ahi!" exclaimed the cavaliere, looking after them with a comical

smile, "this youth of New Italy! They have no more brains than a pin.

When I was young, and every city had its own ruler and its own court,

I should not have escorted a lady and kept her waiting outside in the

sun. Bah! those were not the manners of my day. At the court of the

Duke of Lucca ladies were treated like divinities, but now the young

men don't know how to kiss a woman's hand."

Receiving no answer, Trenta looked hard at Enrica. He was struck by

her absent expression. There was a far-away look on her face he had

never noticed on it before.

"Enrica," he said, taking both her hands within his own, "I fear you

are not amused. These subjects are too grave to interest you. What are

you thinking about?"

An anxious look came into her eyes, and she glanced hastily round, as

if to assure herself that no one was near.

"Oh! I am thinking of such strange things!" She stopped and hesitated,

seeing the cavaliere's glance of surprise. "I should like to tell you

all, dear cavaliere--I would give the world to tell you--"

Again she stopped.

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

mind."

Before she could reply, the count and Baldassare reappeared,

accompanied by the porter of the Guinigi Palace and the keys.

"Are you sure you would rather not return home again, Enrica? You have

only to turn the corner, remember," asked Trenta, looking at her with

anxious affection.

"No, no," she answered, greatly confused; "please say nothing--not

now--another time. I should like to ascend the tower; let us go on."

The cavaliere was greatly puzzled. It was plain there was something on

her mind. What could it be? How fortunate, he told himself, if she had

taken a liking to Marescotti, and desired to confess it! This would

make all easy. When he had spoken to the count, he would contrive to

see her alone, and insist upon knowing if it were so.

The door was now opened, and the porter led the way, followed by the

count and Baldassare. Trenta came next, Enrica last. They ascended

stair after stair almost in darkness. After having mounted a

considerable height, the porter unlocked a small door that barred

their farther advance. Above appeared the blackened walls of the

hollow tower, broken by the loop-holes already mentioned, through

which the ardent sunshine slanted. Before them was a wooden stair,

crossing from angle to angle up to a dizzy height, with no other

support but a frail banister; this even was broken in places. The

count and Enrica both entreated the cavaliere to remain below.

Marescotti ventured to allude to his great age--a subject he himself

continually, as has been seen, mentioned, but which he generally much

resented when alluded to by others.

Trenta listened with perfect gravity and politeness, but, when the

count had done speaking, he placed his foot firmly on the first stair,

and began to ascend after the porter. The others were obliged to

follow. At the last flight several loose planks shook ominously

under their feet; but Trenta, assisted by his stick, stepped on

perseveringly. He also insisted on helping Enrica, who was next to

him, and who by this time was both giddy and frightened. At length a

trap-door, at the top of the tower, was reached and unbarred by

the attendant. Without, covered with grass, is a square platform,

protected by a machicolated parapet of turreted stone-work. In the

centre rises a cluster of ancient bay-trees, fresh and luxuriant,

spite of the wind and storms of centuries.

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

"How beautiful!" he exclaimed, throwing back his head and drawing in

the warm air. "See how the sun of New Italy lights up the old city!

Cathedral, palace, church, gallery, roof, tower, all ablaze at our

feet! Speak, tell me, is it not wonderful?" and he turned to Enrica,

who, anxiously turning from side to side, was trying to discover where

she could best overlook the street of San Simone and Nobili's palace.

Addressed by Marescotti, she started and stopped short.

"Never, never," he continued, becoming greatly excited, "shall I

forget this meeting!--here with you--the golden-haired daughter of

this ancient house!"

"I!" exclaimed Enrica. "O count, what a mistake! I have no house, no

home. I live on the charity of my aunt."

"That makes no difference in your descent, fair Guinigi. Charity!

charity! Who would not shower down oceans of charity to possess such

a treasure?" He leaned his back against the parapet, and bent his

eyes with fervent admiration on her. "It is only in verse that I can

celebrate her," he muttered, "prose is too cold for her warm coloring.

The Madonna--the uninstructed Madonna--before the archangel's visit--"

"But, count," said Enrica timidly (his vehemence and strange glances

made her feel very shy), "will you tell me the names of the beautiful

mountains around? I have seen so little--I am so ignorant."

"I will, I will," replied Marescotti, speaking rapidly, his glowing

eyes raising themselves from her face to look out over the distance;

"but, in mercy, grant me a few moments to collect myself. Remember I

am a poet; imagination is my world; the unreal my home; the Muses my

sisters. I live there above, in the golden clouds"--and he turned and

pointed to a crest of glittering vapor sailing across the intense blue

of the sky. Then, with his hand pressed on his brow, he began to pace

rapidly up and down the narrow platform.

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

the tower.

"He! he!" said Trenta, and he gave a little laugh and nudged

Baldassare. "Do you see the count? He is fairly off. Marescotti is too

poetical for this world. Unpractical, poor fellow--very unpractical.

The fit is on him now. Look at him, Baldassare; see how he stares

about, and clinches his fist. I hope he will not leap over the parapet

in his ecstasy."

"Ha! ha!" responded Baldassare, who with eyes wide open, and hands

thrust into his pockets, leaned back beside Trenta against the wall.

"Ha, ha!--I must laugh," Baldassare whispered into his ear--"I cannot

help it--look how the count's lips are moving. He is in the most

extraordinary excitement."

"It's all very fine," rejoined Trenta, "but I wonder he does not

frighten Enrica. There she stands, quite still. I can't see her face,

but she seems to like it. It's all very fine," he repeated, nodding

his white head reflectively. "Republicans, communists, orators, poets,

heretics--all the plagues of hell! Dio buono! give me a little plain

common-sense--plain common-sense, and a paternal government. As to

Marescotti, these new-fangled notions will turn his brain; he'll end

in a mad-house. I don't believe he is quite in his senses at this very

minute. Look! look! What strides he is taking up and down! For the

love of Heaven, my boy, run and fasten the trap-door tight! He

may fall through! He's not safe! I swear it, by all the saints!"

Baldassare, shaking with suppressed laughter, secured the trap-door.

"I must say you are a little hard on the count," Baldassare said.

"Why, he's only composing. I know his way. Trust me, it's a sonnet. He

is composing a sonnet addressed perhaps to the signorina. He admires

her very much."

Trenta smiled, and mentally determined, for the second time, to take

the earliest opportunity of speaking to Count Marescotti before the

ridiculous reports circulating in Lucca reached him.

"Per Bacco!" he replied, "when the count is as old as I am, he

will have learned that quiet is the greatest luxury a man can

enjoy--especially in Italy, where the climate is hot and fevers

frequent."

How long the count would have continued in the clouds, it is

impossible to say, had he not been suddenly brought down to earth--or,

at least, the earth on the top of the tower--by something that

suddenly struck his gaze.

Enrica, who had strained her eyes in vain to discover some trace of

Nobili in the narrow street below, or in the garden behind his palace,

had now thrown herself on the grass under the overhanging branches of

the glossy bay-trees. These inclosed her as in a bower. Her colorless

face rested upon her hand, her eyes were turned toward the ground,

and her long blond hair fell in a tangled mass below the folds of her

veil, upon her white dress. The count stood transfixed before her.

"Move not, sweet vision!" he cried. "Be ever so! That innocent face

shaded by the classic bay; that white robe rustling with the thrill of

womanly affinities; those fair locks floating like an aureole in the

breeze thy breath has softly perfumed! Rest there enthroned--the world

thy backguard, the sky thy canopy! Stay, let me crown thee!"

As he spoke he hastily plucked some sprays of bay, which he twisted

into a wreath. He approached Enrica, who had remained quite still,

and, kneeling at her feet, placed the wreath upon her head.

"Enrica Guinigi"--the count spoke so softly that neither Trenta nor

Baldassare could catch the words--"there is something in your beauty

too ethereal for this world."

Enrica, covered with blushes, tried to rise, but he held out his hands

imploringly for her to remain.

"Suffer me to speak to you. Yours is a face of one easily moved to

love--to love and to suffer," he added, strange lights coming into his

eyes as he gazed at her.

Enrica listened to him in painful silence; his words sounded

prophetic.

"To love and to suffer; but, loving once"--again the count was

speaking, and his voice enchained her by its sweetness--"to love

forever. Where shall the man be found pure enough to dare to accept

such love as you can bestow? By Heavens!" he added, and his voice fell

to a whisper, and his black eyes seemed to penetrate into her very

soul, "you love already. I read it in the depths of those heavenly

eyes, in the shadow that already darkens that soft brow, in the

dreamy, languid air that robs you of your youth. You love--is it

possible that you love--?"

He stopped before the question was finished--before the name was

uttered. A spasm, as if wrung from him by sharp bodily pain, passed

over his features as he asked this question, never destined to be

answered. No one but Enrica had heard it. An indescribable terror

seized her; from pale she grew deadly white; her eyelids dropped, her

lips trembled. Tears gathered in Marescotti's eyes as he gazed at her,

but he dared not complete the question.

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

She said this so faintly that the sound came to him like a whisper

from the rustling bay-leaves.

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

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

doubt him?

"I have cause to suffer," she replied with a sigh, not venturing to

meet his eyes--"to suffer and to wait. But my aunt--"

She said no more; her head fell on her bosom, her arms dropped to her

side, she sighed deeply.

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

After this, he, too, was silent. Rising from his knees, he leaned

against the trunk of the bay-tree and contemplated her steadfastly.

There was a strange mixture of passion and of curiosity in his mobile

face. If she would not tell him, could he not rend her secret from

her?

Trenta, seated at the opposite side of the platform, observed them as

they stood side by side, half concealed by the foliage--observed them

with benign satisfaction. It was all as it should be; his mission

would be easy. It was clear they understood each other. He believed at

that very moment Enrica was receiving the confession of Marescotti's

love; the confusion of her looks was conclusive. The cavaliere's whole

endeavor was, at that moment, to keep Baldassare quiet; he rejoiced

to see that he was gently yielding to the influence of the heat, and

nodding at his side.

"Count," said Enrica, looking up and endeavoring to break a silence

which had become painful, "if I have inspired you with any interest--"

She hesitated.

"_If_ you have inspired me?" ejaculated Marescotti, reproachfully, not

moving his eyes off her.

"I can hardly believe it," she added; "but, if it be so, speak to me

in the voice of poetry. Tell me your thoughts."

"Yes," exclaimed the count, clasping his hands; "I have been longing

to do so ever since I first saw you. Will you permit it? If so, give

me paper and pencil, that I may write."

Enrica had neither. Rising from the ground, she crossed over to where

Trenta sat, apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the roofs of

his native city. Fortunately, after diving into various pockets, he

found a pencil and the fly-leaf of a letter. Marescotti took them and

retreated to the farther end of the tower; Enrica leaned against the

wall beside the cavaliere.

In a few minutes the count joined them; he returned the pencil with a

bow to the cavaliere. The sonnet was already written on the fly-leaf

of the letter.

"Oh!" cried Enrica, "give me that paper, I know it will tell me my

fate. Give it to me. Count, do not refuse me." Her look, her manner,

was eager--imploring. As the count drew back, she endeavored to seize

the paper from his hand. But Marescotti, holding the paper above

his head, in one moment had crushed it in his fingers, and, rushing

forward, he flung it over the battlements.

"It is not worthy of you!" he exclaimed, with excitement; "it is

worthy neither of you nor of me! No, no," and he leaned over the

tower, and watched the paper as it floated downward in the still air.

"Let it perish."

"Oh! why have you destroyed it?" cried Enrica, greatly distressed.

"That paper would have told me all I want to know. How cruel! how

unkind!"

But there was no help for it. No lamentation could bring the paper

back again. The sonnet was gone. Marescotti had sacrificed the man to

the poet. His artistic sense had conquered.

"Excuse me, dear signorina," he pleaded, "the composition was

imperfect. It was too hurried. With your permission, on my return,

I will address some other verses to you, more appropriate--more

polished."

"Ah! they will not be like those. They will not tell me what I want

to know. They cannot come from your very soul like those. The power to

divine is gone from you." Enrica could hardly restrain her tears.

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

it unconsciously."

"Indeed, count, you did very wrong," put in the cavaliere; "one

understands you wrote _in furore_--so much the better," and Trenta

gave a sly wink, which was entirely lost on Marescotti. "But time

is getting on. When are we to have that oration on the history and

beauties of Lucca that we came up to hear? Had you not better begin?"

The count was engaged at that moment in plucking a sprig of bay for

himself and for the cavaliere to wear, as he said, "in memoriam." "I

am ready," he replied. "It is a subject that I love."

"Let us begin with the mountains; they are the nearest to God." As

he pronounced that name, the count raised his eyes reverently, and

uncovered his head. Enrica had placed herself on his right hand, but

all interest had died out of her face. She only listened mechanically.

(Yes, the mountains, the glorious mountains! There they were--before,

behind, in front; range upon range--peak upon peak, like breakers on

a restless sea! Mountains of every shade, of every shape, of every

height. Already their mighty tops were flecked with the glow of the

western sunbeams; already pink and purple mists had gathered upon

their sides, filling the valleys with mystery!)

"There," said the count, pointing in the direction of the winding

river Serchio, "is La Panga, the loftiest Apennine in Central Italy.

The peaked summits of those other mountains more to the right are the

marble-bosomed range of Carrara. One might believe them at this time

covered with a mantle of snow, but for the ardent sun, the deep green

of the belting plains, and the luxuriance of the forests. Yonder steep

chestnut-clothed height that terminates the valley opening before us

is Bargilio, a mountain fortress of the Panciatici over the Baths of

Lucca."

Marescotti paused to take breath. Enrica's eyes languidly followed the

direction of his hand. The cavaliere, standing on his other side, was

adjusting his spectacles, the better to distinguish the distance.

"To the south," continued the count, pointing with his finger--"in the

centre of that rich vine-trellised Campagna, lies Pescia, a garden

of luscious fruits. Beyond, nestling in the hollows of the Apennines,

shutting in the plain of that side, is ancient Lombard-walled

Pistoja--the key to the passes of Northern Italy. Farther on, nearer

Florence, rise the heights of Monte Catni, crowned as with a diadem

by a small burgh untouched since the middle ages. Nearer at hand,

glittering like steel in the sunshine, is the lake of Bientina. You

can see its low, marshy shores fringed by beauteous woodlands, but

without a single dwelling."

Enrica, in a fit of abstraction, leaned over the parapet. Her eyes

were riveted upon the city beneath. Marescotti followed her eyes.

"Yes," said he, "there is Lucca;" and as he spoke he glanced

inquiringly at her, and the tones of his clear, melodious voice grew

soft and tender. "Lucca the Industrious, bound within her line of

ancient walls and fortifications. Great names and great deeds are

connected with Lucca. Here, tradition says, Julius Caesar ruled as

proconsul. How often may the sandals of his feet have trod these

narrow streets--his purple robes swept the dust of our piazza! Here he

may have officiated as high-priest at our altars--dictated laws from

our palaces! It was after the conquest of the Nervii (most savage

among the Gaulish tribes) that Julius Caesar is said to have first

come to Lucca. Pompey and Crassus met him here. It was at this

time that Domitius--Caesar's enemy, then a candidate for the

consulship--boasted that he would ruin him. But Caesar, seizing the

opportune moment of his recent victories over the Gauls, and his

meeting with Pompey--formed the bold plan of grasping universal power

by means of his deadliest enemies. These enemies, rather than see the

supreme power vested in each other, united to advance him. The first

triumvirate was the consequence of the meeting. Ages pass by.

The Roman Empire dissolves. Barbarians invade Italy. Lucca is an

independent state--not long to remain so, however, for the Countess

Matilda, daughter of Duke Bonifazio, is born within her walls. At

Lucca Countess Matilda holds her court. By her counsels, assistance,

and the rich legacy of her patrimonial dominions, she founds the

temporal power of the papacy. To Lucca came, in the fifteenth century,

Charles VIII. of France, presumptuous enough to attempt the conquest

of Naples; also that mighty dissembler, Charles V. to meet the

reigning pontiff Paul III. in our cathedral of San Martino. But more

precious far to me than the traditions of the shadowy pomp of defunct

tyrants is the remembrance that Lucca was the Geneva of Italy--that

these streets beneath us resounded to the public teaching of the

Reformation! Such progress, indeed, had the reformers made, that it

was publicly debated in the city council, 'If Lucca should declare

herself Protestant--'"

"Per Bacco! a disgraceful fact in our history!" burst out Trenta, a

look of horror in his round blue eyes. "Hide it, hide it, count! For

the love of Heaven! You do not expect me to rejoice at this? Pray,

when you mention it, add that the Protestants were obliged to flee for

their lives, and that Lucca purified itself by abject submission to

the Holy Father."

"Yes; and what came of that?" cried the count, raising his voice,

a sudden flush of anger mounting over his face. "The Church--your

Catholic and Apostolic Church--established the Inquisition. The

Inquisition condemned to the flames the greatest prophet and teacher

since the apostles--Savonarola!"

Trenta, knowing how deeply Marescotti's feelings were engaged in

the subject of Savonarola, was too courteous to desire any further

discussion. But at the same time he was determined, if possible, to

hear no more of what was to him neither more nor less than blasphemy.

"Do you know how long we have been up here, count?" he asked, taking

out his watch. "Enrica must return. I hope you won't detain us," he

said, with a pitiful look at the count, who seemed preparing for

an oration in honor of the mediaeval martyr. "I have already got

a violent rheumatism in my shoulder.--Here, Baldassare, open the

trap-door, and let us go down.--Where is Baldassare?--Baldassare!

Where are you, imbecile? Baldassare, I say! Why, diamine! Where can

the boy be? He's not been privately practising his last new step

behind the bay-trees, and taken a false one over the parapet?"

The small space was easily searched. Baldassare was discovered

sketched at full length and fast asleep under a bench on the other

side of the bay-trees.

"Ah, wretch!" grumbled the old chamberlain, "if you sleep like this

you will outlive me, who mean to flourish for the next hundred

years. He's always asleep, except when dancing," he added indignantly

appealing to Marescotti. "Look at him. There's beauty without

expression. Doesn't he inspire you? Endymion who has overslept himself

and missed Diana--Narcissus overcome by the sight of his own beauty."

After being called, pushed, and pinched, by the cavaliere, Baldassare

at last opened his eyes in great bewilderment--stretched himself,

yawned, then, suddenly clapping his hand to his side, looked fiercely

at Trenta. Trenta was shaking with laughter.

"Mille diavoli!" cried Baldassare, rubbing himself vigorously, "how

dare you pinch me so, cavaliere? I shall be black and blue. Why should

not I sleep? Nobody spoke to me."

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

count, smiling.

"Dio buono! what is history to me? I hate it!--I-tell you what,

cavaliere, you have hurt me very much." And Baldassare passed his hand

carefully down his side. "The next time I go to sleep in your company,

I'll trouble you to keep your fingers to yourself. You have rapped me

like a drum."

Trenta watched the various phases of Baldassare's wrath with the

greatest amusement. The descent having been safely accomplished, the

whole party landed in the street. Count Marescotti, who came last,

advanced to take leave of Enrica. At this moment an olive-skinned,

black-eyed girl rose out of the shadow of a neighboring wall, and,

lowering a basket from her head, filled with fruit--tawny figs, ruddy

peaches, purple grapes, and russet-skinned medlars, shielded from

the heat by a covering of freshly-picked vine-leaves--offered it to

Enrica. Our Adonis, still sulky and sore from the pinches inflicted by

the mischievous fingers of the cavaliere, waved the girl rudely away.

"Fruit! Chè! Begone! our servants have better. Such fruit as that is

not good enough for us; it is full of worms."

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

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

As she bent her head to replace the basket, Marescotti, who had

listened to Baldassare with evident disgust, raised the basket in his

arms, and with the utmost care poised it on the coil of her dark hair.

"Beautiful peasant," he said, "I salute you. This is for your mother,"

and he placed some notes in her hand.

The girl thanked him, coloring as red as the peaches in her basket,

then, hastily turning the corner of the street, disappeared.

"A perfect Pomona! I make a point of honoring beauty whenever I find

it," exclaimed the count, looking after her. He cast a reproving

glance at Baldassare, who stood with his eyes wide open. "The Greeks

worshiped beauty--I agree with them. Beauty is divine. What say you?

Were not the Greeks right?"

The words were addressed to Baldassare--the sense and the direction of

his eyes pointed to Enrica.

"Yes; beauty," replied Baldassare, smoothing his glossy mustache, and

trying to look very wise (he was not in the least conscious of the

covert rebuke administered by Marescotti)--"beauty is very refreshing,

but I must say I prefer it in the upper classes. For my part, I like

beauty that can dance--wooden shoes are not to my taste."

"Ah! canaglia!" muttered the cavaliere, "there is no teaching you. You

will never be a gentleman."

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

"Count"--and the old chamberlain, utterly disregarding the dismay of

poor Adonis, who never clearly understood what he had done to deserve

such severity, now addressed himself to Marescotti--"will you be

visible to-morrow after breakfast? If so, I shall have the honor of

calling on you."

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

Enrica stood apart. She had not spoken one word since the

disappearance of the sonnet--that sonnet which would have told her

of her future; for had not Marescotti, by some occult power, read

her secret? Alas! too, was she not about to reenter her gloomy home

without catching so much as a glimpse of Nobili? Count Marescotti had

no opportunity of saying a word to Enrica that was not audible to all.

He did venture to ask her if she would be present next evening, if

he joined the marchesa's rubber? Before she could reply, Trenta had

hastily answered for her, that "he would settle all that with the

count when they met in the morning." So, standing in the street,

they parted. Count Marescotti sought in vain for one last glance from

Enrica. When he turned round to look for Baldassare, Baldassare had

disappeared.

CHAPTER IV.

COUNT NOBILI.

When Nobili rushed home through the dark streets from the Countess

Orsetti's ball, he shut himself up in his own particular room, threw

himself on a divan, and tried to collect his thoughts. At first he was

only conscious of one overwhelming feeling--a feeling of intense joy

that Nera Boccarina was alive. The unspeakable horror he had felt, as

she lay stretched out on the floor before him, had stupefied him. If

she had died?--As the horrible question rose up within him, his blood

froze in his veins. But she was not dead--nay, if the report of Madame

Orsetti was to be trusted, she was in no danger of dying.

"Thank God!--thank God!" Then, as the quiet of the night and the

solitude of his own room gradually restored his scattered senses,

Nobili recalled her, not only in the moment of danger, as she lay

death-like, motionless, but as she stood before him lit up by the

rosy shadow of the silken curtains. Was it an enchantment? Had he

been under a spell? Was Nera fiend or angel? As he asked himself these

questions, again her wondrous eyes shone upon him like stars; again

the rhythm of that fatal waltz struck upon his ears soft and liquid

as the fall of oars upon the smooth bosom of an inland lake, bathed in

the mellow light of sunset.

What had he done? He had kissed her--her lips had clung to his; her

fingers had linked themselves in his grasp; her eyes--ah!--those eyes

had told him that she loved him. Loved him!--why not?

And Enrica!--the thought of Enrica pierced through him like the stab

of a knife. Nobili sprang to his feet, pressed both hands to his

bosom, then sank down again, utterly bewildered. Enrica!--He had

forgotten her! He, Nobili, was it possible? Forgotten her!--A pale

plaintive face rose up before him, with soft, pleading eyes. There was

the little head, with its tangled meshes of yellow curls, the slight

girlish figure, the little feet. "Enrica! my Enrica!" he cried aloud,

so palpable did her presence seem--"I love you, I love you only!"

He dashed, as it were, Nera's image from him. She had tempted

him--tempted him with all the fullness of her beauty, tempted him--and

he had yielded! On a sudden it came over him. Yes, she had tempted

him. She had followed him--pursued him rather. Wherever he went, there

Nera was before him. He recalled it all. And how he had avoided her

with the avoidance of an instinct! He clinched his fists as he thought

of it. What devil had possessed him to fall headlong into the snare?

What was Nera--or any other woman--to him now? If he had been obliged

to dance with her, why had he yielded to her?

"I will never speak to her again," was his instant resolve. But the

next moment he remembered that he had been indirectly the cause of an

accident which might have been fatal. He must see her once more if

she were visible--or, if not, he must see her mother. Common humanity

demanded this. Then he would set eyes on her no more. He had almost

come to hate her, for the spell she had thrown over him.

But for Enrica he would have left Lucca altogether for a time. What

had passed that evening would be the subject of general gossip. He

remembered with shame--and as he did so the blood rushed over his face

and brow--how openly he had displayed his admiration. He remembered

the hot glances he had cast upon Nera. He remembered how he had leaned

entranced over her chair; how he had pressed her to him in the fury of

that wild waltz, her white arms entwined round him--the fragrance

of the red roses she wore in her hair mounting to his brain! At the

moment he had been too much entranced to observe what was passing

about him. Now he recalled glances and muttered words. The savage

look Ruspoli had cast on him, when he led her up to him in one of the

figures of the cotillon; how Malatesta had grinned at him--how Orsetti

had whispered "Bravo!" in his ear. Might not some rumor of all this

reach Enrica?--through Trenta, perhaps, or that chattering fool,

Baldassare? If they spoke of the accident, they would surely connect

his name with that of Nera. Would they say he was in love with her? He

grew cold as he thought of it.

Neither could Nobili conceal from himself how probable it was that

the Marchesa Guinigi should come to some knowledge of his clandestine

interviews with her niece. It had been necessary to trust many

persons. Spite of heavy bribes, one of these might at any moment

betray them. He might be followed and watched, spite of his

precautions. Their letters might be intercepted. Should any thing

happen, what a situation for Enrica! She was too trusting and too

inexperienced fully to appreciate the danger; but Nobili understood

it, and trembled for her. Something must, he felt, be done at once.

Enrica must be prepared for any thing that might happen. He must write

to her--write this very night to her.

And then came the question--what should he say to her? Then Nobili

felt, and felt keenly, how much he had compromised himself. Hitherto

his love for Enrica, and Enrica's love for him, had been so full, so

entire, that every thought was hers. Now there was a name he must hide

from her, an hour of his life she must never know.

Nobili rose from the divan on which he had been lying, lighted some

candles, and, sitting down at a table, took a pen in his hand. But the

pen did not help him. He tore it between his teeth, he leaned his head

upon his hand, he stared at the blank paper before him. What should

he say to her? was the question he asked himself. After all, should

he confess all his weakness, and implore her forgiveness? or should he

take the chance of her hearing nothing?

After much thought and many struggles with his pen, he decided he

would say nothing. But write he would; write he must. Full of remorse

for what had passed, he longed to assure her of his love. He yearned

to cast himself for pardon at her feet; to feast his eyes upon the

sweetness of her fair face; to fill his ears with the sound of her

soft voice; to watch her heavenly eyes gathering upon him with the

gleam of incipient passion.

How pure she was! How peerless, how different from all other women!

How different from Nera! dark-eyed, flashing, tempting Nera!--Nera, so

sensual in her ripe and dazzling beauty. At that moment of remorse and

repentance he would have likened her to an alluring fiend, Enrica to

an angel! Yes, he would write; he would say something decisive. This

point settled, Nobili put down the pen, struck a match, and lit a

cigar. A cigar would calm him, and help him to think.

His position, even as he understood it, was sufficiently difficult.

How much more, had he known all that lay behind! He had entered life a

mere boy at his father's death, with some true friends; his wealth

had created him a host of followers. His frank, loyal disposition, his

generosity, his lavish hospitality, his winning manners, had insured

him general popularity. Not one, even of those who envied him, could

deny that he was the best fellow in Lucca. Women adored him, or said

so, which came to the same thing, for he believed them. Many had

proved, with more than words, that they did so. In a word, he had been

_fêted_, followed, and caressed, as long as he could remember. Now the

incense of flattery floating continually in the air which he breathed

had done its work. He was not actually spoiled but he had grown

arrogant; vain of his person and of his wealth. He was vain, but not

yet frivolous; he was insolent, but not yet heartless. At his age,

impressions come from without, rather than from within. Nobili was

extremely impressionable; he also, as has been seen, wanted resolution

to resist temptation. As yet, he had not developed the firmness and

steadfastness that really belonged to his character.

But spite of foibles, spite of weakness--foibles and weakness were

but part of the young blood within him--Nobili possessed, especially

toward women, that rare union of courage, tenderness, and fortitude,

we call chivalry; he forgot himself in others. He did this as the most

natural thing in the world--he did it because he could not help it.

He was capable of doing a great wrong--he was also capable of a great

repentance. His great wealth had hitherto enabled him to indulge every

fancy. With this power of wealth, unknown almost to himself, a spirit

of conquest had grown upon him. He resolved to overcome whatever

opposed itself to him. Nobili was constantly assured by those ready

flatterers who lived upon him--those toadies who, like a mildew,

dim and deface the virtues of the rich--that "he could do what he

pleased."

With the presumption of youth he believed this, and he acted on it,

especially in regard to women. He was of an age and temperament to

feel his pulse quicken at the sight of every pretty woman he met, even

if he should meet a dozen in the day. Until lately, however, he had

cared for no one. He had trifled, dangled, ogled. He had plucked the

fair fruit where it hung freely on the branch, and he had turned away

heart-whole. He knew that there was not a young lady in Lucca who

would not accept him as her suitor--joyfully accept him, if he

asked her. Not a father, let his name be as old as the Crusades, his

escutcheon decorated with "the golden rose," or the heraldic ermine of

the emperors, who would not welcome him as a son-in-law.

The Marchesa Guinigi alone had persistently repulsed him. He had heard

and laughed at the outrageous words she had spoken. He knew what a

struggle it had cost her to sell the second Guinigi Palace at all. He

knew that of all men she had least desired to sell it to him. For that

special reason he had resolved to possess it. He had bought it, so to

say, in spite of her, at the price of gold.

Yet, although Nobili laughed with his friends at the marchesa's

outrageous words, in reality they greatly nettled him. By constant

repetition they came even to rankle. At last he grew--unconfessed, of

course--so aggravated by them that a secret longing for revenge rose

up within him. She had thrown down the gauntlet, why should he not

pick it up? The marchesa, he knew, had a niece, why should he not

marry the niece, in defiance of the aunt?

No sooner was this idea conceived than he determined, if he married at

all (marriage to a young man leading his dissipated life is a serious

step), that, of all living women, the marchesa's niece should be his

wife. All this time he had never seen Enrica. Yes, he would marry the

niece, to spite the marchesa. Marry--she, the marchesa, should see

a Guinigi head his board; a Guinigi seated at his hearth; worse than

all, a Guinigi mother of his children!

All this he kept closely locked within his own breast. As the marchesa

had intimated to him, at the time he bought the palace, that she would

never permit him to cross her threshold, he was debarred from taking

the usual social steps to accomplish his resolve. Not that he in the

least desired to see her, save for that overbearing disposition which

impelled him to combat all opposition. With great difficulty, and

after having expended various sums in bribes among the ill-paid

servants of the marchesa, he had learned the habits of her household.

Enrica, he found, had a servant, formerly her nurse, who never left

her. Teresa, this servant, was cautiously approached. She was informed

that Count Nobili was distractedly in love with the signorina, and

addressed himself to her for help. Teresa, ignorant, well-meaning,

and brimming over with that mere animal fondness for her foster-child

uneducated women share with brute creatures, was proud of becoming the

medium of what she considered an advantageous marriage for Enrica. The

secluded life she led, the selfish indifference with which her aunt

treated her, had long moved Teresa's passionate southern nature to a

high pitch of indignation. Up to this time no man had been permitted

to enter Casa Guinigi, save those who formed the marchesa's

whist-party.

"How, then," reasoned Teresa, shrewdly, "was the signorina to marry at

all? Surely it was right to help her to a husband. Here was one, rich,

handsome, and devoted, one who would give the eyes out of his head for

the signorina." Was such an opportunity to be lost? Certainly not.

So Teresa took Nobili's bribes (bribes are as common in Italy as in

the East), putting them to fructify in the National Bank with an easy

conscience. Was she not emancipating her foster-child from that old

devil, her aunt? Had she not seen Nobili himself when he sent for

her?--seen him, face to face, inside his palace glittering like

paradise? And had he not given her his word, with his hand upon his

heart (also given her a pair of solid gold ear-rings, which she wore

on Sundays), that to marry Enrica was the one hope of his life? Seeing

all this, Teresa was, as I have said, perfectly satisfied.

When Nobili had done all this, impelled by mixed feelings of wounded

pride, obstinacy, and defiance, he had never, let it be noted, seen

Enrica. But after a meeting had been arranged by Teresa one morning at

early mass in the cathedral, near a dark and unfrequented altar in the

transept--an arrangement, be it observed, unknown to Enrica--all his

feelings changed. From the moment he saw her he loved her with all

the fervor of his ardent nature; from that moment he knew that he had

never loved before. The mystery of their stolen meetings, the sweet

flavor of this forbidden fruit--and what man does not love forbidden

fruit better than labeled pleasures?--the innocent frankness with

which Enrica confessed her love, her unbounded faith in him--all

served to heighten his passion. He gloried--he reveled in her

confidence. Never, never, he swore a thousand times, should she have

cause to repent it. In the possession of Enrica's love, all other

desires, aims, ambitions, had--up to the night of the Orsetti

ball--vanished. Up to that night, for her sake, he had grown solitary,

silent--nay, even patient and subtle. He had clean forgotten his

feud with the Marchesa Guinigi, or only remembered it as a possible

obstacle to his union with Enrica; otherwise the marchesa was

absolutely indifferent to him. Up to the night of the Orsetti ball the

whole world was indifferent to him. But now!--

Nobili, sitting very still, his face shaded by his hand, had finished

his cigar. While smoking it he had decided what he would say to

Enrica. Again he took up his pen. This time he dropped it in the ink,

and wrote as follows:

AMORE: I have treasured all the love you gave me when last we met.

I know that love witnesses for me also in your own heart. Beyond all

earthly things you are dear to me. Come to me, O my Enrica--come to

me; never let us part. I must have you, you only. I must gaze upon

you hour by hour; I must hang upon that dear voice. I must feel that

angel-presence ever beside me. When will you meet me? I implore you to

answer. After our next meeting I am resolved to claim you, by force

or by free-will, to be my wife. To wait longer, O my Enrica, is

good neither for you nor for me. My love! my love! you must be

mine--mine--mine! Come to me--come quickly. Your adoring.

"MARIO NOBILI."

CHAPTER V.

NUMBER FOUR AT THE UNIVERSO HOTEL.

Cesare Trenta is dressed with unusual care. His linen is spotless;

his white hair, as fine as silk, is carefully combed; his chin is well

shaven. He wears a glossy white hat, and carries his gold-headed cane

in his hand. Not that he condescends to use that cane as he mounts the

marble staircase of the Universo Hotel (once the Palazzo Buffero)

a little stiffly, on his way to keep his appointment with Count

Marescotti; oh, no--although the cavaliere is well past eighty, he

intends to live much longer; he reserves that cane, therefore, to

assist him in his old age. Now he does not want it.

It is quite clear that Trenta is come on a mission of great

importance; his sleek air, and the solemnly official expression of

his plump rosy face, say so. His glassy blue eyes are without their

pleasant twinkle, and his lips, tightly drawn over his teeth, lack

their usual benignant smile. Even his fat white hand dimples itself

on the top of his cane, so tightly does he clutch it. He has learned

below that Count Marescotti lives at No. 4 on the second story; at

the door of No. 4 he raps softly. A voice from within asks, "Who is

there?"

"I," replies Trenta, and he enters.

The count, who is seated at a table near the window, rises. His tall

figure is enveloped in a dark dressing-gown, that folds about him like

a toga. He has all the aspect of a man roused out of deep thought;

his black hair stands straight up in disordered curls all over his

head--he had evidently been digging both his hands into it--his eyes

are wild and abstracted. Taken as he is now, unawares, that expression

of mingled sternness and sweetness in which he so much resembles

Castruccio Castracani is very striking. From the manner he fixes his

eyes upon Trenta it is clear he does not at once recognize him. The

cavaliere returns his stare with a look of blank dismay.

"Oh, carissimo!" the count exclaims at last, his countenance changing

to its usual expression--he holds out both hands to grasp those of

the cavaliere--"how I rejoice to see you! Excuse my absence; I had

forgotten our appointment at the moment. That book"--and he points to

an open volume lying on a table covered with letters, manuscripts, and

piles of printed sheets tossed together in wild confusion--"that book

must plead my excuse; it has riveted me. The wrongs of persecuted

Italy are so eloquently pleaded! Have you read it, my dear cavaliere?

If not, allow me to present you with a copy."

Trenta made a motion with his hand, as if putting both the book and

the subject from him with a certain disgust: he shakes his head.

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

curtly.

The poor cavaliere feels that this is a bad beginning; but he quickly

consoles himself--he was of a hopeful temperament, and saw life

serenely and altogether in rose-color--by remembering that the count

is habitually absent, also that he habitually uses strong language,

and that he had probably not been so absorbed by the wrongs of Italy

as he pretends.

"I fear you have forgotten our appointment, count," recommences the

cavaliere, finding that Marescotti is silent, and that his eyes have

wandered off to the pages of the open book.

"Not at all, not at all, my dear Trenta. On the contrary, had you not

come, I was about to send for you. I have a very important matter to

communicate to you."

The cavaliere's face now breaks out all over into smiles. "Send for

me," he repeats to himself. "Good, good! I understand." He seats

himself with great deliberation in a large, well-stuffed arm-chair,

near the table, at which Marescotti still continues standing. He

places his cane across his knees, folds his hands together, then looks

up in the other's face.

"Yes, yes, my dear count," he answers aloud, "we have much to say to

each other--much to say on a most interesting subject." And he gives

the count what he intends to be a very meaning glance.

"Interesting!" exclaims the count, his whole countenance lighting

up--"enthralling, overwhelming!--a matter to me of life or death!"

As he speaks he turns aside, and begins to stride up and down the

room, as was his wont when much moved.

"He! he! my dear count, pray be calm." And Trenta gives a little

laugh, and feebly winks. "We hope it is a matter of _life_, not of

_death_--no--not of _death_, surely."

"Of death," replied the count, solemnly, and his mobile eyes flash

out, and a dark frown gathers on his brow--"of death, I repeat. Do you

take me for a trifler? I stake my life on the die."

Trenta felt considerably puzzled. Before he begins, he is anxious to

assure himself that the nature of his errand had at least distinctly

dawned upon the count's mind, if it had not (as he hoped) been fully

understood by him. Should he let Marescotti speak first; or should he,

Trenta, address him formally? In order to decide, he again scans the

count's face closely. But, after doing so, he is obliged to confess

that Marescotti is impenetrable. Now he no longer strode up and down

the room, but he has seated himself opposite the cavaliere, and again

his speaking eyes have wandered off toward the book which he has

been reading. It is evident he is mentally resuming the same train of

thought Trenta's entrance had interrupted. Trenta feels therefore that

he must begin. He has prepared himself for some transcendentalism

on the subject of marriage; but with a man who is so much in love as

Count Marescotti, and who was about to send for him and to tell him

so, there can be no great difficulty; nor can it matter much who opens

the conversation. The cavaliere takes a spotless handkerchief from his

pocket, uses it, replaces it, then coughs.

"Count," he begins, in a tone of conscious importance, "when I

proposed this meeting, it was to make you a proposal calculated to

exercise the utmost influence over your future life, and--the life of

another," he adds, in a lower tone. "You appear to have anticipated me

by desiring to send for me. You are, of course, aware of my errand?"

As he asks this question, there is, spite of himself, a slight tremor

in his voice, and the usual ruddiness of his cheeks pales a little.

"How very mysterious!" exclaims the count, throwing himself back in

his chair. "You look like a benevolent conspirator, cavaliere! Surely,

my dear old friend, you are not about to change your opinions, and to

become a disciple of freedom?"

"Change my opinions! At my age, count!--Chè, chè!"--Trenta waves his

hand impatiently. "When a man arrives at my age, he does not change

his opinions--no, count, no; it is, if you will permit me to say so,

it is yourself in whom the change is to be wrought--yourself only--"

The count, who is still leaning back in his chair in an attitude of

polite attention, starts violently, sits straight upright, and fixes

his eyes upon Trenta.

"What do you mean, cavaliere? After a life devoted to my country, you

cannot imagine I should change? The very idea is offensive to me."

"No, no, my dear count, you misapprehend me," rejoins Trenta,

soothingly. (He perceived the mistake into which the word "change"

had led Count Marescotti, and dreaded exciting his too susceptible

feelings.) "It is no change of that kind I allude to; the change I

mean is in the nature of a reward for the life of sacrifice you have

led--a reward, a consolation to your fervid spirit. It is to bring

you into an atmosphere of peace, happiness, and love. To reconcile you

perhaps, as a son, erring, but repentant, with that Holy Mother Church

to which you still belong. This is the change I am come to offer you."

As the cavaliere proceeds, the count's expressive eyes follow every

word he utters with a look of amazement. He is about to reply, but

Trenta places his finger on his lips.

"Let me continue," he says, smiling blandly. "When I have done, you

shall answer. In one word, count, it is marriage I am come to propose

to you."

The count suddenly rises from his seat, then he hurriedly reseats

himself. A look of pain comes into his face.

"Permit me to proceed," urges the cavaliere, watching him anxiously.

"I presume you mean to marry?"

Marescotti was silent. Trenta's naturally piping voice grows shriller

as he proceeds, from a certain sense of agitation.

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

to you, Count Marescotti."

"And who may the lady be?" asks the count, drawing back with a sudden

air of reserve. "Who is it that would consent to leave home and

friends, perhaps country, to share the lot of a fugitive patriot?"

"Come, come, count, this will not do," answers Trenta, smiling, a

certain twinkle returning to his blue eyes. "You are a perfectly free

agent. If you are a fugitive, it is because you like change. You bear

a great name--you are rich, singularly handsome--an ardent admirer of

beauty in art and Nature. Now, ardor on one side excites ardor on the

other."

While he is speaking, Trenta had mentally decided that Marescotti

was the most impracticable man he had ever encountered in the various

phases of his court career.

"A fugitive," he repeats, almost with a sneer. "No, no, count, this

will not do with me." The cavaliere pauses and clears his throat.

"You have not yet answered me," says the count, speaking low, a

certain suppressed eagerness penetrating the assumed indifference of

his manner. "Who is the lady?"

"Who is the lady?" echoes the cavaliere. "Did you not tell me just

now you were about to send for me?" Trenta speaks fast, a flush

overspreads his cheeks. "Who is the lady?--You astonish me! Per Bacco!

There can be but one lady in question between you and me--that lady is

Enrica Guinigi." His voice drops. There is a dead silence.

"That the marriage is suitable in all respects," Trenta continues,

reassured by the silence--"I need not tell you; else I, Cesare Trenta,

would not be here as the ambassador."

Again the stout little cavaliere stops to take breath, under evident

agitation; then he draws himself up, and turns his face toward the

count. As Trenta proceeds, Marescotti's brow is overclouded with

thought--a haggard expression now spreads over his features. His eyes

are turned downward on the floor, else the cavaliere might have

seen that their brilliancy is dimmed by rising tears. With his elbow

resting on the arm of the chair on which he sits, the count passes his

other hand from time to time slowly to and fro across his forehead,

pushing back the disordered curls that fall upon it.

"To restore and to continue an illustrious race--to unite yourself

with a lovely girl just bursting into womanhood." Trenta's voice

quivers as he says this. "Ah! lovely indeed, in mind as well as body,"

he adds, half aloud. "This is a privilege you, Count Marescotti, can

appreciate above all other men. That you do appreciate it you have

already made evident. There is no need for me to speak about Enrica

herself; you have already judged her. You have, before my eyes,

approached her with the looks and the language of passionate

admiration. It is not given to all men to be so fascinating. I have

seen it with delight. I love her"--his voice broke and shook with

emotion--"I love her as if she were my own child."

All the enthusiasm of which the old chamberlain is capable passes into

his face as he speaks of Enrica. At that moment he really did look as

young as he was continually telling every one that he felt.

"Count Marescotti," he continues, a solemn tone in his voice as he

slowly pronounces the words, raising his head at the same time, and

gazing fixedly into the other's face--Count Marescotti, "I am come

here to propose a marriage between you and Enrica Guinigi. The

marchesa empowers me to say that she constitutes Enrica her sole

heiress, not only of the great Guinigi name, but of the remaining

Guinigi palace, with the portrait of our Castruccio, the heirlooms,

the castle of Corellia, and lands of--"

"Stop, stop, my dear Trenta!" cries the count, holding up both

his hands in remonstrance; "you overwhelm me. I require no such

inducements; they horrify me. Enrica Guinigi is sufficient in

herself--so bright a jewel requires no golden settings."

At these words the cavaliere beams all over. He rubs his fat hands

together, then gently claps them.

"Bravo!--bravo, count! I see you appreciate her. Per Dio! you make me

feel young again! I never was so happy in my life! I should like

to dance! I will dance by-and-by at the wedding. We will open the

state-rooms. There is not a grander suite in all Italy. It is superb.

I will dance a quadrille with the marchesa. Bagatella! I shall insist

on it. I will execute a solo in the figure of the _pastorelle_. I will

show Baldassare and all the young men the finish of the old style.

People did steps then--they did not jump like wild horses--nor knock

each other down. No--then dancing was practised as a fine art."

Suddenly the brisk old cavaliere stops. The expression of Marescotti's

large, earnest eyes, fixed on him wonderingly, recalls him to himself.

"Excuse me, my dear friend; when you are my age, you will better

understand an old man's feelings. We are losing time. Now get your

hat, and come with me at once to Casa Guinigi; the marchesa expects

you. We will settle the day of the betrothal.--My sweet Enrica, how I

long to see you!"

While he is speaking Trenta rises and strikes his cane on the ground

with a triumphant air; then he holds out both his hands toward the

count.

"Shake hands with me, my dear Marescotti. I congratulate you--with my

whole soul I congratulate you! She will be your salvation, the dear,

blue-eyed little angel?"

In the tumult of his excitement Trenta had taken every thing for

granted. His thoughts had flown off to Enrica. His benevolent

heart throbbed with joy at the thought of her emancipation from

the thralldom of her home. A vision of the dark-haired, pale-faced

Marescotti, and the little blond head, with its shower of golden

curls, kneeling together before the altar in the sunshine, danced

before his eyes. Marescotti would become a, Christian--a firm pillar

of the Church; he would rear up children who would worship God and the

Holy Father; he would restore the glory of the Guinigi!

From this roseate dream the poor cavaliere was abruptly roused. His

outstretched hand had not been taken by Marescotti. It dropped to

his side. Trenta looked up sharply. His countenance suddenly fell; a

purple flush covered it from chin to forehead, penetrating even the

very roots of his snowy hair. His cane dropped with a loud thud, and

rolled away along the uncarpeted floor. He thrust both his hands into

his pockets, and stood motionless, with his eyes wide open, like a man

stunned.

"Dio buono!--Dio buono!" he muttered, "the man is mad!--the man is

mad!" Then, after a few minutes of absolute silence, he asked, in a

husky voice, "Marescotti, what does this mean?"

The count had turned away toward the window. At the sound of the

cavaliere's husky voice, he moved and faced him. In the space of a

few moments he had greatly changed. Suddenly he had grown worn and

weary-looking. His eyes were sunk into his head; dark circles had

formed round them. His bloodless cheeks, transparent with the pallor

of perfect health, were blanched; the corners of his mouth worked

convulsively.

"Does the lady--does Enrica Guinigi know of this proposal?" he asked,

in a voice so sad that the cavaliere's indignation against him cooled

considerably.

"Good God!" exclaimed Trenta, "such a question is an insult to me and

to my errand. Can you imagine that I, all my life chamberlain to his

highness the Duke of Lucca, am capable of compromising a lady?"

"Thank God!" ejaculated the count, emphatically, clasping his hands

together, and raising his eyes--"thank God! Forgive me for asking."

His whole voice and manner had changed as rapidly as his aspect. There

was a sense of suffering, a quiet resignation about him, so utterly

unlike his usual excitable manner that Trenta was puzzled beyond

expression--so puzzled, indeed, that he was speechless. Besides, a

veteran in etiquette, he felt that it was to himself an explanation

was due. Marescotti had been about to send for him. Now he was there,

Marescotti had heard his proposal, it was for Marescotti to answer.

That the count felt this also was apparent. There was something solemn

in his manner as he turned away from the window and slowly advanced

toward the cavaliere. Trenta was still standing immovable on the same

spot where he had muttered in the first moment of amazement, "He is

mad!"

"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 parenthèse_,

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 Café 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 _café_, 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 _café_, 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.)

When Silvestro was gone, a haggard look came over the marchesa's pale

face. One by one she turned over the leaves of the rental lying before

her, glanced at them, then laid the book down upon the desk. She

leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and fell into a fit of

musing--the burning papers on the hearth, and those also smouldering

on the floor, lighting up every grain in the wood-work of the

cupboards at her back.

This was ruin--absolute ruin! The broad lands that spread wellnigh for

forty miles in the mountains and along the river Serchio--the feudal

tower in which she sat, over which still floated, on festivals, the

banner of the Guinigi (crosses of gold on a red field--borne at

the Crusades); the stately palace at Lucca--its precious

heirlooms--strangers must have it all!

She had so fortified herself against all signs of outward emotion,

other than she chose to show, that even in solitude she was composed;

but the veins swelled in her forehead, and she turned very white. Yet

there had been a way. "Enrica"--her name escaped the marchesa's thin

lips unwittingly. "Enrica."--The sound of her own voice startled

her. (Enrica was now alone, shut up by her aunt's order in her

little chamber on the third floor over her own. On their arrival, the

marchesa had sternly dismissed her without a word.)

"Enrica."--With that name rose up within her a thousand conflicting

thoughts. She had severed herself from Enrica. But for Cavaliere

Trenta she would have driven her from the palace. She had not cared

whether Enrica lived or died--indeed, she had wished her dead. Yet

Enrica could save the land--the palace--make the great name live! Had

she but known all this at Lucca! Was it too late? Trenta had urged the

marriage with Count Nobili. But Trenta urged every marriage. Could she

consent to such a marriage? Own herself ruined--wrong?--Feel Nobili's

foot upon her neck?--Impossible! Her obstinacy was so great, that she

could not bring herself to yield, though all that made life dear was

slipping from her grasp.

Yes--yes, it was too late.--The thing was done. She must stand to

her own words. Tortures would not have wrung it from her--but in the

solitude of that bare room the marchesa felt she had gone too far.

The landmark of her life, her pride, broke down; her stout heart

failed--tears stood in her dark eyes.

At this moment the report of a gun was heard ringing out from the

mountains opposite. It echoed along the cliffs and died away into

the abyss below. The marchesa was instantly leaning out of the lowest

loop-hole, and calling in a loud voice, "Adamo--Adamo--Angelo, where

are you?" (Adamo and Pipa his wife, and Angelo their son, were her

attendants.)

Adamo, a stout, big-limbed man, bull-necked--with large lazy eyes and

a black beard as thick as horse-hair, a rifle slung by a leather strap

across his chest, answered out of the shrubs--now blackening in the

twilight: "I am here, padrona, command me."

"Adamo, who is shooting on my land?"

"Padrona, I do not know."

"Where is Angelo?"

"Here am I," answered a childish voice, and a ragged, loose-limbed

lad--a shock of chestnut hair, out of which the sun had taken all

the color, hanging over his face, from which his merry eyes

twinkle--leaped out on the gravel.

"You do not know, Adamo? What does this mean? You ought to know. I am

but just come back, and there are strangers about already with guns.

Is this the way you serve me, Adamo?--and I pay you a crown a month.

You idle vagabond!"

"Padrona," spoke Adamo in a deep voice--"I am here alone--this boy

helps me but little."

"Alone, Adamo! you dare to say alone, and you have the dogs? Hear how

they bark--they have heard the shot too--good dogs, good dogs, they

are left me--alone.--Argo is stronger than three men; Argo knocks over

any one, and he is trained to follow on the scent like a bloodhound.

Adamo, you are an idiot!" Adamo hung his head, either in shame or

rage, but he dared not reply.

"Now take the dogs out with you instantly--you hear, Adamo? Argo, and

Ponto the bull-dog, and Tuzzi and the others. Take them and go down at

once to the bottom of the cliffs. Search among the rocks everywhere.

Creep along the vines-terraces, and through the olive-grounds. Be sure

when you go down below the cliffs to search the mouth of the chasm.

Go at once. Set the dogs on all you find. Argo will pin them. He is a

brave dog. With Argo you are stronger than any one you will meet. If

you catch any men, take them at once to the municipality. Wretches,

they deserve it!--poaching in my woods! Listen--before you go, tell

Pipa to come to me soon."

Pipa's footsteps came clattering up the stairs to the marchesa's room.

The light of the lamp she carried--for it was already dark within

the tower--caught the spray of the fountain outside as she passed the

narrow slits that served for windows.

"Pipa," said the marchesa, as she stood before her in the doorway, a

broad smile on her merry brown face, "set that lamp on the desk here

before me. So--that will do. Now go up-stairs and tell the Signorina

Enrica that I bid her 'Good-night,' and that I will see her to-morrow

morning after breakfast. Then you may go to bed, Pipa. I am busy,

and shall sit up late." Pipa curtsied in silence, and closed the

marchesa's door.

CHAPTER III.

WHAT CAME OF BURNING THE MARCHESA'S PAPERS.

Midnight had struck from the church-clock at Corellia. The strokes

seemed to come slower by night than day, and sounded hollower. Hours

ago the last light had gone out. The moon had set behind the cleft

summits of La Pagna. Distant thunder had died away among the rocks.

The night was close and still. The villa lay in deep shadow, but the

outline of the turrets of the tower were clearly marked against the

starry sky. All slept, or seemed to sleep.

A thin blue vapor curls out from the marchesa's casement. This vapor,

at first light as a fog-drift, winds itself upward, and settles into a

cloud, that hovers in the air. Each moment the cloud rises higher

and higher. Now it has grown into a lurid canopy, that overhangs the

tower. A sudden glow from an arched loop-hole on the second story

shows every bar of iron across it. This is caught up below in a broad

flash across the basin of the fountain. Within there is a crackling

as of dry leaves--a clinging, heavy smell of heated air. Another and

another flame curls round the narrow loop-hole, twisting upward on the

solid wall.

At this instant there is a low growl, as from a kicked dog. A door

below is banged-to and locked. Then steps are heard upon the gravel.

It is Adamo. He had returned, as the marchesa bade him, and has come

to tell her he has searched everywhere--down even to the reeds by the

river Serchio (where he had discharged his gun at a water-hen), but

had found no one, though all the way the dogs had sniffed and whined.

Adamo catches sight of the crimson glare reflected upon the fountain.

He looks up at the tower--he sees the flames. A look of horror comes

into his round black eyes. Then, with a twitch, settling his gun

firmly upon his shoulder, he rushes to the unlocked door and flings it

wide open.

"Pipa! Wife! Angelo!" Adamo shouts down the stone passage connecting

the tower with the villa where they slept. "Wake up! The tower is on

fire! Fire! Fire!"

As Adam opened his mouth, the rush of hot air, pent upon the winding

stair, drawn downward by the draught from the open door, catches

his breath. He staggers against the wall. Then the strong man shook

himself together--again he shouts, "Pipa! Pipa! rise!"

Without waiting for an answer, putting his hand over his mouth, Adamo

charges up the stone stairs--up to the marchesa's door. Her room is on

fire.

"I must save her! I must save her! I will think of Pipa and the

children afterward."

Each step Adamo takes upward, the heat grows fiercer, the smoke that

pours down denser. Twice he had slipped and almost fallen, but he

battles bravely with the heat and blinding smoke, and keeps his

footing.

Now Adamo is on the landing of the first floor--Adamo blinded, his

head reeling--but lifting his strong limbs, and firm broad feet, he

struggles upward. He has reached the marchesa's door. The place is

marked by a chink of fire underneath. Adamo passes his hand over the

panel; it is unconsumed, the fire drawing the other way out by the

window.

"O God! if the door is bolted! I shall drop if I am not quick."

Adamo's fingers were on the lock. "The door is bolted! Blessed Virgin,

help me!"

He unslings his unloaded gun--he had forgotten it till then--and,

tightly seizing it in his strong hands, he flings the butt end against

the lock. The wood is old, the bolt is loose.

"Holy Jesus! It yields! It opens!"

Overcome by the rush of fiery air, again Adamo staggers. As he lifts

his hands to raise the hair, which, moist from heat, clings to his

forehead, his fingers strike against a medal of the Virgin he wore

round his naked throat.

"Mother of God, help me!" A desperate courage seizes him; he rushes

in--all before him swims in a red mist. "Help me, Madonna!" comes to

his parched lips. "O God, where is the marchesa?"

A puff of wind from the open door for an instant raised the smoke

and sparks; in that instant Adamo sees a dark heap lying on the floor

close to the door. It is the marchesa. "Is she dead or alive?" He

cannot stop to tell. He raises her. She lay within his arms. Her dark

dress, though not consumed, strikes hot against his chest. Not an

instant is to be lost. The fresh rush of air up the stairs has fanned

the flames. Every moment they are rising higher. They redden on the

dark rafters of the ceiling. The sparks fly about in dazzling clouds.

Adamo is on the threshold. Outside it is now so dark that, spite of

danger, he has to pause and feel his way downward, or he might dash

his precious burden against the walls. In that pause a piercing

cry from above strikes upon his ear, but in the crackling of the

increasing flames and a fresh torrent of smoke and burning sparks

that burst out from the room, Adamo's brain--always of the dullest--is

deadened. He forgets that cry. All his thought is to save his

mistress. Even Pipa and Angelo and little Gigi are forgotten.

Ere he reaches the level of the first story, the alarm-bell over his

head clangs out a goodly peal. A bound of joy within his honest heart

gives him fresh courage.

"It is the Madonna! When I touched her image, I knew that she would

help me. Pipa has heard me. Pipa has pulled the bell. She is safe! And

Angelo--and little Gigi, safe! safe! Brave Pipa! How I love her!"

Before a watch could tick twenty seconds, and while Adamo's foot was

still on the last round of the winding stair, the church-bells of

Corellia clash out in answer to the alarm-bell.

Now Adamo has reached the outer door. He stands beneath the stars. His

face and hands are black, his hair is singed; his woolen clothes are

hot and burn upon him. The cool night air makes his skin smart with

pain. Already Pipa's arms are round him. Angelo, too, has caught him

by the legs, then leaps into the air with a wild hoot. Bewildered Pipa

cannot speak. No more can Adamo; but Pipa's clinging arms say more

than words. Tenderly Adamo lays the marchesa down beside the fountain.

He totters on a step or two, feeling suddenly giddy and strangely

weak. He stands still. The strain had been too much for the simple

soul, who led a quiet life with Pipa and the children. Tears rise in

his big black eyes. Greatly ashamed, and wondering what has come to

him, he sinks upon the ground. Pipa, watching him, again flings her

arms about him; but Adamo gave her a glance so fierce, as he points to

the marchesa lying helpless upon the ground, it sent her quickly from

him. With a smothered sob Pipa turns away to help her.

(Ah! cruel Pipa, and is your heart so full that you have forgotten

Enrica, left helpless in the tower?--Yet so it was. Enrica is

forgotten. Cruel, cruel Pipa! And stupid Adamo, whose head turns round

so fast he must hold on by a tree not to fall again.)

Silvestro and Fra Pacifico now rushed out of the darkness; Fra

Pacifico aroused out of his first sleep. He had not seen the marchesa

since her arrival. He did not know whether Enrica had come with her

from Lucca or not. Seeing Pipa busy about the fountain, the women,

thought Fra Pacifico, were safe; so Fra Pacifico strode off on his

strong legs to see what could be done to quench the fire, and save,

if possible, the more combustible villa. Surely the villa must be

consumed! The smoke now darkened the heavens. The flames belted the

thick tower-walls as with a burning girdle. Showers of sparks and

flames rose out from each aperture with sudden bursts, revealing every

detail on the gray old walls; moss and lichen, a trail of ivy that

had forced itself upward, long grass that floated in the hot air; a

crevice under the battlements where a bird had built its nest. Then

a swirl of smoke swooped down and smothered all, while overhead the

mighty company of constellations looked calmly down in their cold

brightness!

A crowd of men now came running down from Corellia, roused by the

church-bells. Pietro, the baker, still hard at work, was the first to

hear the bell, to dash into the street, and shout, "Help! help! Fire!

fire! At the villa!"

Oreste and Pilade heard him. They came tumbling out. Ser Giacomo

roused the sindaco--who in his turn woke his clerk; but when Mr.

Sindaco was fairly off down the hill, this much-injured and very weary

youth turned back and went to bed.

Some bore lighted torches, others copper buckets. Pietro, the butcher,

brought the municipal ladder. These men promptly formed a line down

the hill, to carry the water from the willful mountain-stream that

fed the town fountain. Fra Pacifico took the lead. (He had heard the

alarm, and had rung the church-bells himself.) No one cared for the

marchesa; but a burning house was a fine sight, and where Fra Pacifico

went all Corellia followed. Adamo, recovered now, was soon upon the

ladder, receiving the buckets from below. Pipa beside the fountain

watched the marchesa, sprinkling water on her face. "Surely her

eyelids faintly quiver!" thinks Pipa.--Pipa watched the marchesa

speechless--watched her as birth and death are only watched!

The marchesa's eyes had quivered; now they slowly unclose. Pipa, who,

next to the Virgin and the saints, worshiped her mistress--laughed

wildly--sobbed--then laughed again--kissed her hand, her

forehead--then pressed her in her arms. Supported by Pipa, the

marchesa sat up--she turned, and then she saw the mountains of smoke

bursting from the tower, forming into great clouds that rose over the

tree-tops, and shut out the stars. The marchesa glanced quickly round

with her keen, black eyes--she glanced as one searching for some thing

she cannot find; then her lips parted, and one word fell faintly from

them: "Enrica!"

Pipa caught the half-uttered name, she echoed it with a scream.

"Ahi! The signorina! The Signorina Enrica!"

Pipa shouted to Adamo on the ladder.

"Adamo! Adamo! where is the signorina?"

Adamo's heart sank at her voice. On the instant he recalled that cry

he had heard upon the stairs.

"Where did you see her last?" Adamo shouted back to Pipa out of the

din--his big stupid eyes looking down upon her face. "Up-stairs?"

Pipa nodded. She could not speak, it was too horrible.

"Santo Dio! I did not know it!" He struck upon his breast. "Assassin!

I have killed her! Assassin! Beast! what have I done?"

Again the air rang with Pipa's shrill cries. The Corellia men, who

with eager hands pass the buckets down the hill, stop, and stare, and

wonder. Fra Pacifico, who had eyes and ears for every one, turned, and

ran forward to where Pipa sat wringing her hands upon the ground, the

marchesa leaning against her.

"Is Enrica in the tower?" asked Fra Pacifico.

"Yes, yes!" the marchesa answered feebly. "You must save her!"

"Then follow me!" shouted the priest, swinging his strong arms above

his head.

Adamo leaped from the ladder. Others--they were among the very

poorest--stepped out and joined him and the priest; but at the very

entrance they were met and buffeted by such a gust of fiery wind, such

sparks and choking smoke, that they all fell back aghast. Fra Pacifico

alone stood unmoved, his tall, burly figure dark against the glare. At

this instant a man wrapped in a cloak rushed out of the wood, crossed

the red circle reflected from the fire, and dashed into the archway.

"Stop him! stop him!" shouted Adamo from behind.

"You go to certain death!" cried Fra Pacifico, laying his hand upon

him.

"I am prepared to die," the other answered, and pushed by him.

Twice he essayed to mount the stairs. Twice he was driven back before

them all. See! He has covered his head with his cloak. He has set his

foot firmly upon the stone steps. Up, up he mounts--now he is gone!

Without there was a breathless silence. "Who is he?--Can he save

her?"--Words were not spoken, but every eye asked this question. The

men without are brave, ready to face danger in dark alley--by stream

or river--or on the mountain-side. Danger is pastime to them, but each

one feels in his own heart he is glad not to go. Fra Pacifico stands

motionless, a sad stern look upon his swarthy face. For the first time

in his life he has not been foremost in danger!

By this time, Fra Pacifico thinks, unless choked, the stranger must be

near the upper story.

The marchesa has now risen. She stands upright, her eyes riveted on

the tower. She knows there is a door that opens from the top of the

winding stair, on the highest story, next Enrica's room, a door out on

the battlements. Will the stranger see it? O God! will he see

it?--or is the smoke too thick?--or has he fainted ere he reached

so high?--or, if he has reached her, is Enrica dead? How heavy

the moments pass--weighted with life or death! Look, look! Surely

something moves between the turrets of the tower! Yes, something

moves. It rises--a muffled form between the turrets--the figure of a

man wrapped in a cloak--on the near side out of the smoke and flames.

Yes--it is the stranger--Enrica in his arms! All is clearly seen,

cut as it were against a crimson background. A shout rises from every

living man--a deep, full shout as out of bursting hearts that vent

themselves. Out of the shout the words ring out--"The steps!--the

steps!--There--to the right--cut in the battlements! The steps!--the

steps!--close by the flagstaff! Pass the steps down to the lower roof

of the villa" (The wind set on the other side, drawing the fire that

way. The villa was not touched.)

The stranger heard and bowed his head. He has found the steps--he has

reached the lower roof of the villa--he is safe!

No one below had moved. The hands by which the water was passed

were now laid upon the ladder. It was shifted over to the other side

against the villa walls. Adamo and Fra Pacifico stand upon the lower

rungs, to steady it. The stranger throws his cloak below, the better

to descend.

"Who is he?" That strong, well-knit frame, those square shoulders,

that curly chestnut hair, the pleasant smile upon his glowing face,

proclaim him. It is Count Nobili! He has lands along the Serchio,

between Barga and Corellia, and was well known as a keen sportsman.

"Bravo! bravo! Evviva! Count Nobili--evviva!" Caps were tossed into

the air, hands were wildly clapped, friendly arms are stretched out to

bear him up when he descends. Adamo is wildly excited; Adamo wants

to mount the ladder to help. The others pull him back. Fra Pacifico

stands ready to receive Enrica, a baffled look on his face. It is the

first time Fra Pacifico has stood by and seen another do his work.

See, Count Nobili is on the ladder, Enrica in his arms! As his feet

touch the ground, again the people shout: "Bravo! Count Nobili!

Evviva!" Their hot southern blood is roused by the sight of such noble

daring. The people press upon him--they fold him in their arms--they

kiss his hands, his cheeks, even his very feet.

Nobili's eyes flash. He, too, forgets all else, and, with a glance

that thrills Enrica from head to foot, he kisses her before them all.

The men circle round him. They shout louder than before.

As the crowd parted, the dark figure of the marchesa, standing near

the fountain, was disclosed. Before she had time to stir, Count Nobili

had led Enrica to her. He knelt upon the ground, and, kissing Enrica's

hand, placed it within her own. Then he rose, and, with that grace

natural to him, bowed and stood aside, waiting for her to speak.

The marchesa neither moved nor did she speak. When she felt the warm

touch of Enrica's hand within her own, it seemed to rouse her. She

drew her toward her and kissed her with more love than she had ever

shown before.

"I thank you, Count Nobili," she said, in a strange, cold voice. Even

at that moment she could not bring herself to look him in the face.

"You have saved my niece's life."

"Madame," replied Nobili, his sweet-toned voice trembling, "I have

saved my own. Had Enrica perished, I should not have lived."

In these few words the chivalric nature of the man spoke out. The

marchesa waved her hand. She was stately even now. Nobili understood

her gesture, and, stung to the very soul, he drew back.

"Permit me," he said, haughtily, before he turned away, "to add my

help to those who are laboring to save your house."

The marchesa bowed her head in acquiescence; then, with unsteady

steps, she moved backward and seated herself upon the ground.

Pipa, meanwhile, had flung her arms about Enrica, with such an energy

that she pinned her to the spot. Pipa pressed her hands about Enrica,

feeling every limb; Pipa turned Enrica's white face up ward to the

blaze; she stroked her long, fair hair that fell like a mantle round

her.

"Blessed Mother!" she sobbed, drawing her coarse fingers through the

matted curls, "not a hair singed! Oh, the noble count! Oh, how I love

him--"

"No, dear Pipa," Enrica answered, softly, "I am not hurt--only

frightened. The fire had but just reached the door when he came. He

was just in time."

"To think we had forgotten her!" murmured Pipa, still holding her

tightly.

"Who remembered me first?" asked Enrica, eagerly.

"The marchesa, signorina, the marchesa. She remembered you. The

marchesa was brought down by Adamo. Your name was the first word she

uttered."

Enrica's blue eyes glistened. In an instant she had disengaged herself

from Pipa, and was kneeling at the marchesa's feet.

"Dear aunt, forgive me. Now that I am saved, forgive me! You must

forgive me, and forgive him, too!"

These last words came faint and low. The marchesa put her finger on

her lip.

"Not now, Enrica, not now. To-morrow we will speak."

Meanwhile Count Nobili, Fra Pacifico, and the Corellia men, strove

what human strength could do to put the fire out. Even the

sindaco, forgetting the threats about his rent, labored hard and

willingly--only Silvestro did nothing. Silvestro seemed stunned; he

sat upon the ground staring, and crying like a child.

To save the rooms within the tower was impossible. Every plank of wood

was burning. The ceilings had fallen in; only the blackened walls and

stone stairs remained. The villa was untouched--the wind, setting the

other way, and the thick walls of the tower, had saved it.

Now every hand that could be spared was turned to bring beds from the

steward's for the marchesa and Enrica. They had gone into Pipa's

room until the villa was made ready. Pipa told Adamo, and he told the

others, that the marchesa had not seen the burning papers, and the

lighted pile of wood, until the flames rose high behind her back. She

had rushed forward, and fallen.

When all was over, Count Nobili was carried up the hill back to

Corellia, in triumph, on the shoulders of Pietro the baker, and

Oreste, the strongest of the brothers. Every soul of the poor

townsfolk--women as well as men who had not gone down to help--had

risen, and was out. They had put lights into their windows. They

crowded the doorways. The market-place was full, and the church-porch.

The fame of Nobili's courage had already reached them. All bless him

as he passes--bless him louder when Nobili, all aglow with happiness,

empties his pockets of all the coin he has, and promises more

to-morrow. At this the women lay hold of him, and dance round him. It

was long before he was released. At last Fra Pacifico carried him off,

almost by force, to sleep at the curato.

CHAPTER IV.

WHAT A PRIEST SHOULD BE.

Fra Pacifico was a dark, burly man, with a large, weather-beaten

face, kind gray eyes under a pair of shaggy eyebrows, a resolute nose,

large, full-lipped mouth, and a clean-shaven double chin, that rested

comfortably upon his priestly stock. He was no longer young, but he

had a frame like iron, and in his time he had possessed a force of

arm and muscle enough to fell an ox. His strength and daring were

acknowledged by all the mountain-folks from Corellia to Barga, hardy

fellows, and judges of what a man can do. Moreover, Fra Pacifico

was more than six feet high--and who does not respect a man of such

inches? In fair fight he had killed his man--a brigand chief--who

prowled about the mountains toward Carrara. His band had fled and

never returned.

Fra Pacifico had stood with his strong feet planted on the earth,

over the edge of a rocky precipice--by which the high-road passed--and

seized a furious horse dragging a cart holding six poor souls

below. Fra Pacifico had found a shepherd of Corellia--one of his

flock--struck down by fever on a rocky peak some twenty miles distant,

and he had carried him on his back, and laid him on his bed at home.

Every one had some story to tell of his prowess, coolness, and manly

daring. When he walked along the streets, the ragged children--as

black with sun and dirt as unfledged ravens--sidled up to him, and,

looking up into his gray eyes, ran between his firm-set legs, plucked

him by the cassock, and felt in his pockets for an apple or a cake.

Then the children held him tight until he had raised them up and

kissed them.

Spite of the labors of the previous night (no one had worked harder),

Fra Pacifico had risen with daybreak. His office accustomed him to

little sleep. There was no time by day or night that he could call his

own. If any one was stricken with sickness in the night, or suddenly

seized for death in those pale hours when the day hovers, half-born,

over the slumbering earth, Fra Pacifico must rise and wake his

acolyte, the baker's boy, who, going late to bed, was hard to rouse.

Along with him he must grope up and down slippery steps, and along

dark alleys, bearing the Host under a red umbrella, until he had

placed it within the dying lips. If a baby was weakly, or born before

its time, and, having given one look at this sorrowful world, was

about to lose its eyes on it forever, Fra Pacifico must run out at any

moment to christen it.

There was no doctor at Corellia, the people were too poor; so Fra

Pacifico was called upon to do a doctor's duty. He must draw the teeth

of such as needed it; bind up cuts and sores; set limbs; and give

such simple drugs as he knew the nature of. He must draw up papers for

those who could not afford to pay the notary; write letters for

those who could only make a cross; hear and conceal every secret that

reached him in the confessional or on the death-bed. He must be

at hand at any hour in the twenty-four--ready to counsel, soothe,

command, and reprimand; to bless, to curse, and, if need be, to

strike, when his righteous anger rose; to fetch and carry for all,

and, poor himself, to give out of his scanty store. These were his

priestly duties.

Fra Pacifico lived at the back of the old Lombard church of Santa

Barbara, in a house overlooking a damp square, overgrown with moss

and weeds. Between the tower where the bells hung, and the body of the

church, an open loggia (balcony), roofed with wood and tiles, rested

on slender pillars. In the loggia, Fra Pacifico, when at leisure,

would sit and rest and read his breviary; sometimes smoke a solitary

pipe--stretching out his shapely legs in the luxury of doing nothing.

Behind the loggia were the priest's four rooms, bare even for the

bareness of that squalid place. He kept no servant, but it was counted

an honor to serve him, and the mothers of Corellia came by turns to

cook and wash for him.

Fra Pacifico, as I have said, had risen at daybreak. Now he is

searching to find a messenger to send to Lucca, as the marchesa had

desired, to summon Cavaliere Trenta. That done, he takes a key out of

his pocket and unlocks the church-door. Here, kneeling at the altar,

he celebrates a private mass of thanksgiving for the marchesa and

Enrica. Then, with long strides, he descends the hill to see what is

doing at the villa.

CHAPTER V.

"SAY NOT TOO MUCH."

The sun was streaming on mountain and forest before Count Nobili woke

from a deep sleep. As he cast his drowsy eyes around upon the homely

little room, the coarsely-painted frescoes on the walls--the gaudy

cups and plates arranged in a cupboard opposite the bed--and on a wax

Gesù Bambino, placed in state upon the mantel-piece, surrounded by a

flock of blue sheep, browsing on purple grass, he could not at first

remember where he was. The noises from the square below--the clink of

the donkey's hoofs upon the pavement as they struggled up the steep

alley laden with charcoal; the screams of children--the clamor of

women's voices moving to and fro with their wooden shoes--and the boom

of the church-bells sounding overhead for morning mass--came to him as

in a dream.

As he raised his hand to push back the hair which fell over his

eyes, a sharp twitch of pain--for his hands were scorched and

blistered--brought all that had happened vividly before him. A warmth

of joy and love glowed at his heart. He had saved Enrica's life.

Henceforth that life was his. From that day they would never part.

From that day, forgetting all others, he would live for her alone.

He must see her instantly--if possible, before his enemy, her aunt,

had risen--see Enrica, and speak to her, alone. Oh, the luxury of

that! How he longed to feast his eyes upon the softness of her beauty!

To fill his ears with the music of her voice! To touch her little

hand, and scent the fragrance of her breath upon his cheek! There was

no thought within Nobili but love and loyalty. At that moment Enrica

was the only woman in the world whom he loved, or ever could love!

He dressed himself in haste, opened the door, and stepped out into

the loggia. Not finding Fra Pacifico there, or in the other rooms, he

passed down the stone steps into the little square, threading his way

beyond as he best could, through the tortuous little alleys toward the

gate. Most of the men had already gone to work; but such as lingered,

or whose business kept them at home, rose as he passed, and bared

their heads to him. The mothers and the girls stared at him and

smiled; troops of children followed at his heels through the town,

until he reached the gate.

Without, the holiness of Nature was around. The morning air blew upon

him crisp and clear. The sky, blue as a turquoise, was unbroken by a

cloud. The trees were bathed in gold. The chain of Apennines rose up

before him in lines of dreamy loveliness, like another world, midway

toward heaven. A passing shower veiled the massive summits toward

Massa and Carrara, but the broad valley of the Serchio, mapped out in

smallest details, lay serenely luminous below. Beyond the gate there

was no certain road. It broke into little tracts and rocky paths

terracing downward. Following these, streams ran bubbling, sparkling

like gems as they dashed against the stones. No shadows rested upon

the grass, cooled by the dew and carpeted by flowers. The woods danced

in the October sunshine. Painted butterflies and gnats circled in the

warm air; green lizards gamboled among the rocks that cut the

turf. Flocks of autumn birds swooped round in rapid flight. Some

freshly-shorn sheep, led by a ragged child, cropped the short herbage

fragrant with strong herbs. A bristly pig carrying a bell about his

neck, ran wildly up and down the grassy slope in search of chestnuts.

Through this sylvan wilderness Nobili came stepping downward by the

little paths, like a young god full of strength and love!

The villa lay beneath him; the blackened ruins of the tower rose over

the chestnut-tops. These blackened ruins showed him which way to go.

As he set his foot upon the topmost terrace of the garden, his heart

beat fast.

Enrica would be there, he knew it. Enrica would be waiting for him.

Could Nobili yearn so fondly for Enrica and she not know it? Could the

mystic bond that knit them together, from the first moment they had

met, leave her unconscious of his presence? No; that subtile charm

that draws lovers together, and breathes from heart to heart the

sacred fire, had warned her. She was standing there--there, beneath

him, under the shadow of a flowery thicket. Enrica was leaning against

the trunk of a magnolia-tree, the shining leaves framing her in a rich

canopy, through which a glint of sunshine pierced, falling upon her

light hair and the white dress she wore.

Nobili paused to look at her. Miser-like, he would pause to gloat upon

his treasure! How well a golden glory would become that sunny head!

She only wanted wings, he thought, to make an angel of her. Enrica's

face was bent. Her thoughts, far away, were lost in a delicious world,

neither earth nor heaven--a world with Nobili! What mysteries were

there, what unknown joys, or sharper pains perchance, she neither knew

nor cared. She would share all with him! In a moment the place she

stood on was darkened. Something stood between her and the sun. She

looked up and gave a little cry, then stood motionless, the color

going and coming upon her cheek. One bound, and Nobili was beside her.

He strained her to him with a passion that robbed him of all words.

Scarcely knowing what he did, he grasped the tangled meshes of her

silken hair and covered them with kisses. Then he raised her soft face

in his hand, and gazed upon it long and fervently.

Enrica's plaintive eyes melted as they met his. She quivered in his

embrace. Her whole soul went out to him as she lay within his arms. He

bent his head--their trembling lips clung together in one long kiss.

Then the little golden head drooped upon his breast, and nestled

there, as if at last at home. Never before had Enrica's dainty form

yielded beneath his touch. Before, he had but clasped her little hand,

or pressed her dress, or stolen a hasty kiss on those truant locks

of hers. Now Enrica was his own, his very own. The blood shot up like

fire over his face. His eyes devoured her. As she lay encircled in his

arms, a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks. She turned away her face,

and feebly tried to loosen herself from him. Nobili only pressed her

closer. He would not let her go.

"Do not turn from me, Enrica," he softly murmured. "Would you rob me

of the rapture of my first embrace?"

There was a passionate tremor in his voice that re vibrated within her

from head to foot. Her flushed cheek grew pale as she listened.

"Heavens! how I have longed for you! How I have longed for you sitting

at home! And you so near!"

"And I have longed for you," whispered Enrica, blushing again

redder than summer roses.--Enrica was too simple to dissemble.--"O

Nobili!"--and she raised her dreamy eyes upward to his, then dropped

them again before the fire of his glance--"you cannot tell how lonely

I have been. Oh! I have suffered so much; I thought I should have

died."

"My own Enrica, that is gone and past. Now we shall never part. I have

won you for my wife. Even the marchesa must own this. Last night the

old life died out as the smoke from that old tower. To-day you have

waked to a new life with me."

Again Nobili's arms stole round her; again he sealed the sacrament of

love with a fervid kiss.

Enrica trembled from head to foot--a scared look came over her. The

rush of passionate joy, coming upon the terrors of the past night, was

more than she could bear. Nobili watched the change.

"Forgive me, love," he said, "I will be calmer. Lay your dear head

against me. We will sit together here--under the trees."

"Yes," said Enrica in a faltering voice; "I have so much to say."

Then, suddenly recalling the blessing of his presence, a smile stole

about her bloodless lips. She gave a happy sigh. "Yes, Nobili--we can

talk now without fear. But I can talk only of you. I have no thought

but you. I never dreamed of such happiness as this! O Nobili!" And she

hid her face in the strong arm entwined about her.

"Speak to me, Enrica; I will listen to you forever."

Enrica clasped his hand, looked at it, sighed, pressed it between both

of hers, sighed again, then raised it to her lips.

"Dear hand," she said, "how it is burnt! But for this hand, I should

be nothing now but a little heap of ashes in the tower. Nobili"--her

tone suddenly changed--"Nobili, I will try to love life now that you

have given it to me." Her voice rang out like music, and her telltale

eyes caught his, with a glance as passionate as his own. "Count

Marescotti," she said, absently, as giving utterance to a passing

thought--"Count Marescotti told me, only a week ago, that I was born

to be unhappy. He said he read it in my eyes. I believed him then--not

now--not now."

Why, she could not have explained, but, as the count's name passed

her lips, Enrica was sorry she had mentioned it. Nobili noted this. He

gave an imperceptible start, and drew back a little from her.

"Do you know Count Marescotti?" Enrica asked him, timidly.

"I know him by sight," was Nobili's reply. "He is a mad fellow--a

republican. Why does he come to Lucca?"

Enrica shook her head.

"I do not know," she answered, still confused.

"Where did you meet him, Enrica?"

She blushed, and dropped her eyes. As she gave him no answer, he asked

another question, gazing down upon her earnestly:

"How did Count Marescotti come to know what your eyes said?"

As Nobili spoke, his voice sounded changed. He waited for an answer

with a look as if he had been wronged. Enrica's answer did not come

immediately. She felt frightened.

"Oh! why," she thought, "had she mentioned Marescotti's name?" Nobili

was angry with her--she was sure he was angry with her.

"I met him at my aunt's one evening," she said at last, gathering

courage as she stole her little hand into one of his, and knit her

fingers tightly within his own. "We went up into the Guinigi Tower

together. There were dear old Trenta and Baldassare Lena with us."

"Indeed!" replied Nobili, coldly. "I did not know that the Marchesa

Guinigi ever received young men."

As Nobili said this he fixed his eyes upon Enrica's face. What could

he read there but assurance of the perfect innocence within? Yet

the name of Count Marescotti had grated upon his ear like a discord

clashing among sweet sounds. He shook the feeling off, however, for

the time. Again he was her gracious lover.

"Tell me, love," he said, drawing Enrica to him, "did you hear my

signal last night?--the shot I fired below, out of the woods?"

"Yes, I heard a shot. Something told me it must be you. I thought I

should have died when I heard my aunt order Adamo to unloose those

dreadful dogs. How did you escape them?"

"The cunning beasts! They were upon my track. How I did it in the

darkness I cannot tell, but I managed to scramble down the cliff and

to reach the opposite mountain. The chasm was then between us. So the

dogs lost the scent upon the rocks, and missed me. I left Lucca almost

as soon as you. Trenta told me that the marchesa had brought you here

because you would not give me up. Dear heart, how I grieved that I had

brought suffering on you!"

He seized her hand and pressed it to his lips, then continued:

"As long as it was day, I prowled about under the cliffs in the shadow

of the chasm. I watched the stars come out. There was one star that

shone brightly above the tower; to me that star was you, Enrica. I

could have knelt to it."

"Dear Nobili!" murmured Enrica, softly.

"As I waited there, I saw a great red vapor gather over the

battlements. The alarm-bell sounded. I climbed up through the wood,

where the rocks are lower, and watched among the shrubs. I saw the

marchesa carried out in Adamo's arms. I heard your name, dear love,

passed from mouth to mouth. I looked around--you were not there. I

understood it all; I rushed to save you."

Again Nobili wound his arms round Enrica and drew her to him with

passionate ardor. The thought of Count Marescotti had faded out like a

bad dream at daylight.

Enrica's blue eyes dimmed with tears.

"Oh, do not weep, Enrica!" he cried. "Let the past go, love. Did the

marchesa think that bolts and bars, and Adamo, and watch-dogs, would

keep Nobili from you?" He gave a merry laugh. "I shall not leave

Corellia until we are affianced. Fra Pacifico knows it--I told him so

last night. Cavaliere Trenta is expected to-day from Lucca. Both will

speak to your aunt. One may have done so already, for what I know,

for Fra Pacifico had left his house before I rose. He must be here. Is

this a time to weep, Enrica?" he asked her tenderly. How comely Nobili

looked! What life and joy sparkled in his bright eyes!

"I am very foolish--I hope you will forgive me," was Enrica's answer,

spoken a little sadly. Her confidence in herself was shaken, since

Count Marescotti's name had jarred between them. "Let us walk a little

in the shade."

"Yes. Lean on me, dearest; the morning is delicious. But remember,

Enrica, I will have smiles--nothing but smiles."

As Nobili bore her up on his strong arm, pacing up and down among the

flowering trees that, bowing in the light breeze, shed gaudy petals at

their feet--Nobili looked so strong, and resolute, and bold--his eyes

had such a power in them as he gazed down proudly upon her--that

the tears which trembled upon Enrica's eyelids disappeared. Nobili's

strength came to her as her own strength. She, who had been so crushed

and wounded, brought so near to death, needed this to raise her up to

life. And now it came--came as she gazed at him.

Yes, she would live--live a new life with him. And Nobili had done

it--done it unconsciously, as the sun unfolds the bosom of the rose,

and from the delicate bud creates the perfect flower.

Something Nobili understood of what was passing within her, but not

all. He had yet to learn the treasures of faith and love shut up in

the bosom of that silent girl--to learn how much she loved him--only

_him_. (A new lesson for one who had trifled with so many, and given

and taken such facile oaths!)

Neither spoke, but wandered up and down in vague delight.

Why was it that at this moment Nobili's thoughts strayed to Lucca, and

to Nera Boccarini?--Nera rose before him, glowing and velvet-eyed,

as on that night she had so tempted him. He drove her image from him.

Nera was dead to him. Dead?--Fool!--And did he think that any thing

can die? Do not our very thoughts rise up and haunt us in some subtile

consequence of after-life? Nothing dies--nothing is isolated. Each act

of daily intercourse--the merest trifle, as the gravest issue--makes

up the chain of life. Link by link that chain draws on, weighted with

good or ill, and clings about us to the very grave.

Thinking of Nera, Nobili's color changed--a dark look clouded his

ready smile. Enrica asked, "What pains you?"

"Nothing, love, nothing," Nobili answered vaguely, "only I fear I am

not worthy of you."

Enrica raised her eyes to his. Such a depth of tenderness and purity

beamed from them, that Nobili asked himself with shame, how he could

have forgotten her. With this blue-eyed angel by his side it seemed

impossible, and yet--

Pressing Enrica's hand more tightly, he placed it fondly on his own.

"So small, so true," he murmured, gazing at it as it lay on his broad

palm.

"Yes, Nobili, true to death," she answered, with a sigh.

Still holding her hand, "Enrica," he said, solemnly, "I swear to love

you and no other, while I live. God is my witness!"

As he lifted up his head in the earnestness with which he spoke, the

sunshine, streaming downward, shone full upon his face.

Enrica trembled. "Oh! do not say too much," she cried, gazing up at

him entranced.

With that sun-ray upon his face, Nobili seemed to her, at that moment,

more than mortal!

"Angel!" exclaimed Count Nobili, wrought up to sudden passion, "can

you doubt me?"

Before Enrica could reply, a snake, warmed by the hot sun, curled

upward from the terraced wall behind them, where it had basked, and

glided swiftly between them. Nobili's heel was on it; in an instant

he had crushed its head. But there between them lay the quivering

reptile, its speckled scales catching the light. Enrica shrieked and

started back.

"O God! what an evil omen!" She said no more, only her shifting color

and uneasy eyes told what she felt.

"An evil omen, love!" and Nobili brushed away the snake with his foot

into the underwood, and laughed. "Not so. It is an omen that I shall

crush all who would part us. That is how I read it."

Enrica shook her head. That snake crawling between them was the first

warning to her that she was still on earth. Till then it had seemed to

her that Nobili's presence must be like paradise. Now for a moment a

terrible doubt crept over her. Could happiness be sad? It must be so,

for now she could not tell whether she was sad or happy.

"Oh! do not say too much, dear Nobili," she repeated almost to

herself, "or--" Her voice dropped. She looked toward the spot where

the snake had fallen, and shuddered.

Nobili did not then reply, but, taking Enrica by the hand, he led her

up a flight of steps to a higher terrace, where a cypress avenue threw

long shadows across the marble pavement.

"You are mine," he whispered, "mine--as by a miracle!"

There was such rapture in his voice that heaven came down into her

heart, and every doubt was stilled.

At this moment Fra Pacifico's towering figure appeared ascending a

lower flight of steps toward them, coming from the house. He trod with

that firm, grand step churchmen have in common with actors--only the

stage upon which each treads is different. Behind Fra Pacifico was

the short, plump figure and the white hat of Cavaliere Trenta (a dwarf

beside the priest), his rosy face rosier than ever from the rapid

drive from Lucca. Trenta's kind eyes twinkled under his white eyebrows

as he spied Enrica above, standing side by side with Nobili. How

different the dear child looked from that last time he had seen her at

Lucca!

Enrica flew down the steps to meet him. She threw her arms round his

neck. Count Nobili followed her; he shook hands with the cavaliere and

Fra Pacifico.

"His reverence and I thought we should find you two together," said

Cavaliere Trenta, with a chuckle. "Count Nobili, I wish you joy."

His voice faltered a little, and a spotless handkerchief was drawn

out and called into service. Nobili reddened, then bowed with formal

courtesy.

"It is all come right, I see."--Trenta gave a sly glance from one to

the other, though the tears were in his eyes.--"I shall live to open

the marriage-ball on the first floor of the palace yet. Bagatella! I

would have tried to give the dear child to you myself, had I known how

much she loved you--but you have taken her. Well, well--possession is

better than gift."

"She gave herself to me, cavaliere. Last night's work only made the

gift public," was Nobili's reply.

There was a tone of triumph in Nobili's voice as he said this. He

stooped and pressed his lips to Enrica's hand. Enrica stood by with

downcast eyes--a spray of pink oleander swaying from the terrace-wall

in the light breeze above her head, for background.

The old cavaliere nodded his head, round which the little curls set

faultlessly under his white hat.

"My dear Count Nobili, permit me to offer my advice. You must settle

this matter at once--at once, I say;" and Trenta struck his stick upon

the marble balustrade for greater emphasis.

"I quite agree with you," put in Fra Pacifico in his deep voice. "The

impression made by your courage last night must not be lost by delay.

I never saw an act of greater daring. Had you not come, I should have

tried to save Enrica, but I am past my prime; I should have failed."

"You cannot count on the marchesa's gratitude," continued Trenta; "an

excellent lady, and my oldest friend, but proud and capricious. You

must take her like the wind when it blows--ha! ha! like the wind. I am

come here to help you both."

"Cavaliere," said Nobili, turning toward him (his vagrant eyes had

wandered off to Enrica, so charming, with the pink oleander and its

dark-green leaves waving above her blond head), "do me the favor to

ask the Marchesa Guinigi at what hour she will admit me to sign the

marriage-contract. I have pressing business that calls me back to

Lucca to-day."

"So soon, dear Nobili?" a soft voice whispered at his ear, "so soon?"

And then there was a sigh. Surely her paradise was very brief! Enrica

had thought in her simplicity that, once met, they two never should

part again, but spend the live-long days together side by side among

the woods, lingering by flowing streams; or in the rich shade of

purple vine-bowers; or in mossy caves, shaded by tall ferns, hid on

the mountain-side, and let time and the world roll by. This was the

life she dreamed of. Could any grief be there?

"Yes, love," Nobili answered to her question. "I must return to Lucca

to-night. I started on the instant, as the cavaliere knows. Before I

go, however, all must be settled about our marriage, and the contract

signed. I will take no denial."

Nobili spoke with the determination that was in him. Enrica's heart

gave a bound. "The contract!" She had never thought of that. "The

contract and the marriage!"--"Both close at hand!--Then the life she

dreamed of must come true in very earnest!"

The cavaliere looked doubtingly at Fra Pacifico. Fra Pacifico shrugged

his big shoulders, looked back again at Cavaliere Trenta, and smiled

rather grimly. There was always a sense of suppressed power, moral and

physical, about Fra Pacifico. In conversation he had a way of leaving

the burden of small talk to others, and of reserving himself for

special occasions; but when he spoke he must be listened to.

"Quick work, my dear count," was all the priest said to Nobili in

answer. "Do you think you can insure the marchesa's consent?" Now he

addressed the cavaliere.

"Oh, my friend will be reasonable, no doubt. After last night,

she must consent." The cavaliere was always ready to put the best

construction upon every thing. "If she raises any obstacles, I think I

shall be able to remove them."

"Consent!" cried Nobili, fiercely echoing back the word, "she must

consent--she will be mad to refuse."

"Well--well--we shall see.--You, Count Nobili, have done all to make

it sure. The terms of the contract (I have heard of them from Fra

Pacifico) are princely." A look from Count Nobili stopped Trenta from

saying more.

"Now, Enrica," and the cavaliere turned and took her arm, "come in and

give me some breakfast. An old man of eighty must eat, if he means to

dance at weddings."

"You, Nobili, must come with me," said Fra Pacifico, laying his hand

on the count's shoulder. "We will wait the cavaliere's summons to

return here over a bottle of the marchesa's best vintage, and a cutlet

cooked by Maria. She is my best cook; I have one for every day in the

week."

So they parted--Trenta with Enrica descending flight after flight

of steps, leading from terrace to terrace, down to the villa; Nobili

mounting upward to the forest with Fra Pacifico toward Corellia, to

await the marchesa's answer.

CHAPTER VI.

THE CONTRACT.

Fra Pacifico, with Adamo and Pipa, had labored ever since-daybreak

to arrange the rooms at the villa before the marchesa rose. Pipa had

freely used the broom and many pails of water. All the windows were

thrown open, and clouds of invisible incense from the flowers without

sweetened the fusty rooms.

The villa had not been inhabited for nearly fifty years. It was

scantily provided with furniture, but there were chairs and tables

and beds, and all the rough necessaries of life. To make all straight,

whole generations of beetles had been swept away; and patriarchal

spiders, which clung tenaciously to the damp spots on the walls. A

scorpion or two had been found, which, firmly resisting to quit the

chinks where they had grown and multiplied, had died by decapitation.

Fra Pacifico would not have owned it, but he had discovered and killed

a nest of black adders that lay concealed, curled up in a curtain.

He had with his own hands, in the early morning, carefully fashioned

the spacious sala on the ground-floor to the marchesa's liking. A huge

sofa, with a faded amber cover, had been drawn out of a recess, and

so placed that the light should fall at her back.--She objected to the

sunshine, with true Italian perverseness. Some arm-chairs, once gilt,

and still bearing a coronet, were placed in a semicircle opposite. The

windows of the sala, and two glass doors of the same size and make,

looked east and west; toward the terraces and the garden on one side,

and over the cliffs and the chasm to the opposite mountains on the

other. The walls were broken by doors of varnished pine-wood. These

doors led, on the right, to the chapel, Enrica's bedroom, and many

empty apartments; on the left, to the marchesa's suite of rooms, the

offices, and the stone corridor which communicated with the now ruined

tower. High up on the walls of the sala, two large and roughly-painted

frescoes decorated the empty spaces. A Dutch seaport on one side, with

sloping roofs and tall gables, bordering a broad river, upon which

ships sailed vaguely away into a yellow haze. (Not more vaguely

sailing, perhaps, than many human ships, with life-sails set to

catch the wind of fortune--ships which never make more way than

these painted emblems!) Opposite, a hunting-party of the olden time

picnicked in a forest-glade; a brown and red palace in the background,

in front lords and ladies lounging on the grass--bundles of

satin, velvet, powder, ribbons, feathers, shoulder-knots, ruffles,

long-tailed coats, and trains.

A door to the left opened. There was a sound of voices talking.

"My honored marchesa," the cavaliere was heard to say in his most

dulcet tones, "in the state of your affairs, you cannot refuse. Why

then delay? The day is passing by; Count Nobili is impatient. Let me

implore you to lose no more time."

While he was speaking the marchesa entered the sala, passing close

under the fresco of the vaguely-sailing ships upon the wall.--Can the

marchesa tell whither she is drifting more than these?--She glanced

round approvingly, then seated herself upon the sofa. Trenta

obsequiously placed a footstool at her feet, a cushion at her back.

Even the tempered light, which had been carefully prepared for her by

closing the outer wooden shutters, could not conceal how sallow and

worn she looked, nor the black circles that had gathered round her

eyes. Her dark dress hung about her as if she had suddenly grown thin;

her white hands fell listlessly at her side. The marchesa knew that

she must consent to Count Nobili's conditions. She knew she must

consent this very day. But such a struggle as this knowledge cost her,

coming so close upon the agitation of the previous night, was more

than even her iron nerves could bear. As she leaned back upon the

sofa, shading her eyes with her hand, as was her habit, she felt she

could not frame the words with which to answer the cavaliere, were it

to save her life.

As for the cavaliere, who had seated himself opposite, his plump

little person was so engulfed in an arm-chair, that nothing but

his snowy head was visible. This he waved up and down reflectively,

rattled his stick upon the floor, and glanced indignantly from time to

time at the marchesa. Why would she not answer him?

Meanwhile a little color had risen upon her cheeks. She forced herself

to sit erect, arranged the folds of her dark dress, then, in a kind of

stately silence, seemed to lend herself to listen to what Trenta might

have to urge, as though it concerned her as little as that rose-leaf

which comes floating in from the open door and drops at her feet.

"Well, marchesa, well--what is your answer?" asked Trenta, much

nettled at her assumed indifference. "Remember that Count Nobili and

Fra Pacifico have been waiting for some hours."

"Let Nobili wait," answered the marchesa, a sudden glare darting into

her dark eyes; "he is born to wait for such as I."

"Still"--Trenta was both tired and angry, but he dared not show it;

only he rattled his stick louder on the floor, and from time to time

aimed a savage blow with it against the carved legs of a neighboring

table--"still, why do the thing ungraciously? The count's offers are

magnificent. Surely in the face of absolute ruin--Fra Pacifico assures

me--"

"Let Fra Pacifico mind his own business," was the marchesa's answer.

"Nobili saved Enrica's life last night; that cannot be denied."

"Yes--last night, last night; and I am to be forced and fettered

because I set myself on fire! I wish I had perished, and Enrica too!"

A gesture of horror from the cavaliere recalled the marchesa to a

sense of what she had uttered.

"And do you deem it nothing, Cesare Trenta, after a life spent in

building up the ancient name I bear, that I should be brought to sign

a marriage-contract with a peddler's son?" She trembled with passion.

"Yet it must be done," answered Trenta.

"Must be done! Must be done! I would rather die! Mark my words,

Cesare. No good will come of this marriage. That young man is weak and

dissolute. He is mad with wealth, and the vulgar influence that

comes with wealth. As a man, he is unworthy of my niece, who, I must

confess, has the temper of an angel."

"I believe that you are wrong, marchesa; Count Nobili is much beloved

in Lucca. Fra Pacifico has known him from boyhood. He praises him

greatly. I also like him."

"Like him!--Yes, Cesare, you are such an easy fool you like every one.

First Marescotti, then Nobili. Marescotti was a gentleman, but this

fellow--" She left the sentence incomplete. "Remember my words--you

are deceived in him."

"At all events," retorted the cavaliere, "it is too late to discuss

these matters now. Time presses. Enrica loves him. He insists on

marrying her. You have no money, and cannot give her a portion. My

respected marchesa, I have often ventured to represent to you what

those lawsuits would entail! Per Bacco! There must be an end of all

things--may I call them in?"

The poor old chamberlain was completely exhausted. He had spent four

hours in reasoning with his friend. The marchesa turned her head

away and shuddered; she could not bring herself to speak the word of

bidding. The cavaliere accepted this silence for consent. He struggled

out of the ponderous arm-chair, and went out into the garden. There

(leaning over the balustrade of the lowest terrace, under the

willful branches of a big nonia-tree, weighted with fronds of scarlet

trumpet-flowers, that hung out lazily from the wall, to which the

stem was nailed) Cavaliere Trenta found Count Nobili and Fra Pacifico

awaiting the marchesa's summons. Behind them, at a respectful

distance, stood Ser Giacomo, the notary from Corellia. Streamlets pure

as crystal ran bubbling down beside them in marble runnels; statues

of gods and goddesses balanced each other, on pedestals, at the angles

where the steps turned. In front, on the gravel, a pair of peacocks

strutted, spreading their gaudy tails in the sunshine.

As the four men entered the sala, they seemed to bring the evening

shadows with them. These suddenly slanted across the floor like

pointed arrows, darkening the places where the sun had shone. Was it

fancy, or did the sparkling fountain at the door, as it fell backward

into the marble basin, murmur with a sound like human sighs?

Count Nobili walked first. He was grave and pale. Having made a formal

obeisance to the marchesa, his quick eye traveled round in search of

Enrica. Not finding her, it settled again upon her aunt. As Nobili

entered, she raised her smooth, snake-like head, and met his gaze in

silence. She had scarcely bowed, in recognition of his salute. Now,

with the slightest possible inclination of her head, she signed to him

to take his place on one of the chairs before her.

Fra Pacifico, his full, broad face perfectly unmoved, and Cavaliere

Trenta, who watched the scene nervously with troubled, twinkling eyes,

placed themselves on either side of Count Nobili. Ser Giacomo had

already slipped round behind the sofa, and seated himself at a table

placed against the wall, the marriage-contract spread out before

him. There was an awkward pause. Then Count Nobili rose, and, in that

sweet-toned voice which had fallen like a charm on many a woman's ear,

addressed the marchesa.

"Marchesa Guinigi, hereditary Governess of Lucca, and Countess of

the Garfagnana, I am come to ask in marriage the hand of your niece,

Enrica Guinigi. I desire no portion with her. The lady herself is a

portion more than enough for me."

As Nobili ceased speaking, the ruddy color shot across his brow and

cheeks, and his eyes glistened. His generous nature spoke in those few

words.

"Count Nobili," replied the marchesa, carefully avoiding his eye,

which eagerly sought hers--"am I correct in addressing you as Count

Nobili?--Pardon me if I am wrong." Here she paused, and affected to

hesitate. "Do you bear any other name? I am really quite ignorant of

the new titles."

This question was asked with outward courtesy, but there was such a

twang of scorn in the marchesa's tone, such an expression of contempt

upon her lip, that the old chamberlain trembled on his chair. Even at

this last moment it was possible that her infernal pride might scatter

every thing to the winds.

"Call me Mario Nobili--that will do," answered the count, reddening to

the roots of his chestnut curls.

The marchesa inclined her head, and smiled a sarcastic smile, as if

rejoicing to acquaint herself with a fact before unknown. Then she

resumed:

"Mario Nobili--you saved my niece's life last night. I am advised that

I cannot refuse you her hand in marriage, although--"

Such a black frown clouded Nobili's countenance under the sting of her

covert insults that Trenta hastily interposed.

"Permit me to remind you, Marchesa Guinigi, that, subject to your

approval, the conditions of the marriage have been already arranged

by me and Fra Pacifico, before you consented to meet Count Nobili. The

present interview is purely formal. We are met in order to sign the

marriage-contract. The notary, I see, is ready. The contract lies

before him. May I be permitted to call in the lady?"

"One moment, Cavaliere Trenta," interposed Nobili, who was still

standing, holding up his hand to stop him--"one moment. I must request

permission to repeat myself the terms of the contract to the Marchesa

Guinigi before I presume to receive the honor of her assent."

It was now the marchesa's turn to be discomfited. This was the avowal

of an open bargain between Count Nobili and herself. A common exchange

of value for value; such as low creatures barter for with each other

in the exchange. She felt this, and hated Nobili more keenly for

having had the wit to wound her.

"I bind myself, immediately on the signing of the contract, to

discharge every mortgage, debt, and incumbrance on these feudal lands

of Corellia in the Garfagnana; also any debts in and about the Guinigi

Palace and lands, within and without the walls of Lucca. I take upon

myself every incumbrance," Nobili repeated emphatically, raising his

voice. "My purpose is fully noted in that contract, hastily drawn up

at my desire. I also bestow on the marchesa's niece the Guinigi Palace

I bought at Lucca--to the marchesa's niece, Enrica Guinigi, and her

heirs forever; also a dowry of fifty thousand francs a year, should

she survive me."

What is it about gold that invests its possessor with such instant

power? Is knowledge power?--or does gold weigh more than brains? I

think so. Gold-pieces and Genius weighed in scales would send poor

Genius kicking!

From the moment Count Nobili had made apparent the wealth which

he possessed, he was master of the situation. The marchesa's quick

perception told her so. While he was accepting all her debts, with the

superb indifference of a millionaire, she grew cold all over.

"Tell the notary," she said, endeavoring to maintain her usual haughty

manner, "to put down that, at my death, I bequeath to my niece all of

which I die possessed--the palace at Lucca, and the heirlooms,

plate, jewels, armor, and the picture of my great ancestor Castruccio

Castracani, to be kept hanging in the place where it now is, opposite

the seigneurial throne in the presence-chamber."

Here she paused. The hasty scratch of Ser Giacomo's pen was heard upon

the parchment. Spite of her efforts to control her feelings, an ashy

pallor spread over the marchesa's face. She grasped her two hands

together so tightly that the finger-tips grew crimson; a nervous

quiver shook her from head to foot. Cavaliere Trenta, who read the

marchesa like a book, watched her in perfect agony. What was going to

happen? Would she faint?

"I also bequeath," continued the marchesa, rising from her seat with

solemn action, and speaking in a low, hushed voice, her eyes fixed on

the floor--"I also bequeath the great Guinigi name and our ancestral

honors to my niece--to bear them after my death, together with her

husband, then to pass to her eldest child. And may that great name be

honored!"

The marchesa reseated herself, raised her thin white hands, and threw

up her eyes to heaven. The sacrifice was made!

"May I call in the lady?" again asked the cavaliere, addressing no one

in particular.

"I will fetch her in," replied Fra Pacifico, rising from his chair.

"She is my spiritual daughter."

No one moved while Fra Pacifico was absent. Ser Giacomo, the notary,

dressed in his Sunday suit of black, remained, pen in hand, staring

at the wall. Never in his humble life had he formed one of such a

distinguished company. All his life Ser Giacomo had heard of the

Marchesa Guinigi as a most awful lady. If Fra Pacifico had not caught

him within his little office near the _café_, rather than have faced

her, Ser Giacomo would have run away.

The door opened, and Enrica stood upon the threshold. There was an

air of innocent triumph about her. She had bound a blue ribbon in her

golden curls, and placed a rose in the band that encircled her slight

waist. Enrica was, in truth, but a common mortal, but she looked so

fresh, and bright, and young, with such tender, trusting eyes--there

was such an aureole of purity about her, she might have passed for a

virgin saint.

As he caught sight of Enrica, the moody expression on Count Nobili's

face changed, and broke into a smile. In her presence he forgot the

marchesa. Was not such a prize worthy of any battle? What did

it signify to him if Enrica were called Guinigi? And as to those

tumbledown palaces and heirlooms--what of them? He could buy scores

of old palaces any day if he chose. Quickly he stepped forward to meet

her as she entered. Fra Pacifico rose, and with great solemnity signed

them both with a thrice-repeated cross, then he placed Enrica's hand

in Nobili's. The count raised it to his lips, and kissed it fervently.

"My Enrica," he whispered, "this is a glorious day!"

"Oh, it is heavenly!" she answered back, softly.

The marchesa's white face darkened as she looked at Enrica. How dared

Enrica be so happy? But she repressed the reproaches that rose to

her lips, though her heart swelled to bursting, and the veins in her

forehead distended with rage.

"Can Enrica be of my flesh and blood?" exclaimed the marchesa in a low

voice to the cavaliere who now stood at her side. "Fool! she believes

in her lover! It is a horrible sacrifice! Mark my words--a horrible

sacrifice!"

Nobili and Enrica had taken their places behind the notary. The

slanting shadows from the open door struck upon them with deeper

gloom, and the low murmur of the fountain seemed now to form itself

into a moan.

"Do I sign here?" asked Count Nobili.

Ser Giacomo trembled like a leaf.

"Yes, excellency, you sign here," he stammered, pointing to the

precise spot; but Ser Giacomo looked so terrified that Nobili,

forgetting where he was, laughed out loud and turned to Enrica, who

laughed also.

"Stop that unseemly mirth," called out the marchesa from the sofa;

"it is most indecent. Let the act that buries a great name at least be

conducted with decorum."

"That great name shall not die," spoke the deep voice of Fra Pacifico

from the background; "I call a blessing upon it, and upon the present

act. The name shall live. When we are dead and rotting in our

graves, a race shall rise from them"--and he pointed to Nobili and

Enrica--"that shall recall the great legends of the past among the

citizens of Lucca."

Fearful of what the marchesa might be moved to reply (even the

marchesa, however, had a certain dread of Fra Pacifico when he assumed

the dignity of his priestly office), Trenta hurried forward and

offered his arm to lead her to the table. She rose slowly to her feet,

and cast her eyes round at the group of happy faces about her; all

happy save the poor notary, on whose forehead the big drops of sweat

were standing.

"Come, my daughter," said Fra Pacifico, advancing, "fear not to

sign the marriage-contract. Think of the blessings it will bring to

hundreds of miserable peasants, who are suffering from your want of

means to help them!"

"Fra Pacifico," exclaimed the marchesa, scarcely able to control

herself, "I respect your office, but this is still my house, and I

order you to be silent. Where am I to sign?"--she addressed herself to

Ser Giacomo.

"Here, madame," answered the almost inaudible voice of the notary.

The marchesa took the pen, and in a large, firm hand wrote her full

name and titles. She took a malicious pleasure in spreading them out

over the page.

Enrica signed her name, in delicate little letters, after her aunt's.

Count Nobili had already affixed his signature. Cavaliere Trenta and

the priest were the witnesses.

"There is one request I would make, marchesa," Nobili said, addressing

her. "I shall await in Lucca the exact day you may please to name;

but, madame"--and with a lover's ardor strong within him, he advanced

nearer to where the marchesa stood, and raised his hand as if to touch

her--"I beg you not to keep me waiting long."

The marchesa drew back, and contemplated him with a haughty stare.

His manner and his request were both alike offensive to her. She would

have Count Nobili to understand that she would admit no shadow of

familiarity; that her will had been forced, but that in all else she

regarded him with the same animosity as before.

Nobili had understood her action and her meaning. "Devil!" he muttered

between his clinched teeth. He hated himself for having been betrayed

into the smallest warmth. With a flashing eye he turned from the

marchesa to Enrica, and whispered in her ear, "My only love, this is

more than I can bear!"

Enrica had heard nothing. She had been lost in happy thoughts. In her

mind a vision was passing. She was in the close street of San Simone,

within its deep shadows that fell so early in the afternoon. Before

her stood the two grim palaces, the cavernous doorways and the

sculptured arms of the Guinigi displayed on both: one, her old home;

the other, that was to be her home. She saw herself go in here, cross

the pillared court and mount upward. It was neither day nor night, but

all shone with crystal brightness. Then Nobili's voice came to her,

and she roused herself.

"My love," he repeated, "I must go--I must go! I cannot trust myself a

moment longer with--"

What he had on his lips need not be written. "That lady," he added,

hastily correcting himself, and he pointed to the marchesa, who, led

by the cavaliere, had reseated herself upon the sofa, looking defiance

at everybody.

"I have borne it all for your sake, Enrica." As Nobili spoke, he led

her aside to one of the windows. "Now, good-by," and his eyes gathered

upon her with passionate fondness; "think of me day and night."

Enrica had not uttered a single word since she first entered, except

to Nobili. When he spoke of parting, her head dropped on her breast. A

dread--a horror came suddenly upon her. "O Nobili, why must we part?"

"Scarcely to part," he answered, pressing her hand--"only for a few

days; then always to be together."

Enrica tried to withdraw her hand from his, but he held it firmly.

Then she turned away her head, and big tears rolled down her cheeks.

When at last Nobili tore himself from her, Enrica followed him to the

door, and, regardless of her aunt's furious glances, she kissed her

hand, and waved it after him. There was a world of love in the action.

Spite of his indignation, Count Nobili did not fail duly to make his

salutation to the marchesa.

The cavaliere and Fra Pacifico followed him out. Twilight now darkened

the garden. The fragrance of the flowers was oppressive in the still

air. A star or two had come out, and twinkled faintly on the broad

expanse of deep-blue sky. The fountain murmured hollow in the silence

of coming night.

"Good-by," said Cavaliere Trenta to Nobili, in his thin voice.

"I deeply regret the marchesa's rudeness. She is unhinged--quite

unhinged; but her heart is excellent, believe me, most excellent."

"Do not talk of the marchesa," exclaimed Nobili, as he rapidly

ascended flight after flight of the terraces. "Let me forget her, or I

shall never return to Corellia. Dio Sagrato!" and Nobili clinched his

fist. "The marchesa is the most cursed thing God ever created!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE CLUB AT LUCCA.

The piazza at Lucca is surrounded by four avenues of plane-trees. In

the centre stands the colossal statue of a Bourbon with disheveled

hair, a cornucopia at her feet. Facing the west is the ducal palace,

a spacious modern building, in which the sovereigns of Lucca kept a

splendid court. Here Cesare Trenta had flourished. Opposite the palace

is the Hotel of the Universo, where, as we know, Count Marescotti

lodged at No. 4, on the second story. Midway in the piazza a deep

and narrow street dives into the body of the city--a street of many

colors, with houses red, gray, brown, and tawny, mellowed and tempered

by the hand of Time into rich tints that melt into warm shadows. In

the background rise domes, and towers, and mediaeval church-fronts,

galleried and fretted with arches, pillars, and statues. Here a

golden mosaic blazes in the sun, yonder a brazen San Michele with

outstretched arms rises against the sky; and, scattered up and down,

many a grand old palace-roof uprears its venerable front, with open

pillared belvedere, adorned with ancient frescoes. A dull, sleepy old

city, Lucca, but full of beauty!

On the opposite side of the piazza, behind the plane-trees, stand two

separate buildings, of no particular pretension, other than that both

are of marble. One is the theatre, the other is the club. About the

club there is some attempt at ornamentation. A wide portico, raised

on broad steps, runs along the entire front, supported by Corinthian

columns. Under this portico there are orange-trees in green stands,

rows of chairs, and tables laid with white table-cloths, plates, and

napkins, ready for an _al-fresco_ meal.

It is five o'clock in the afternoon of a splendid day early in

October--the next day, in fact, after the contract was signed at

Corellia. The hour for the drive upon the ramparts at Lucca is not

till six. This, therefore, is the favorite moment for a lounge at the

club. The portico is dotted with black coats and hats. Baldassare lay

asleep between two chairs. He had arranged himself so as not to crease

a pair of new trousers--all'Inglese--not that any Englishman would

have worn such garments--they were too conspicuous; but his tailor

tells him they are English, and Baldassare willingly believes him.

Baldassare is not a member, but he was admitted to the club by the

influence of his patron, the old chamberlain; not without protest,

however, with the paternal shop close by. Being there, Baldassare

stands his ground in a sullen, silent way. He has much jewelry about

him, and wears many showy rings. Trenta says publicly that these rings

are false; but Trenta is not at the club to-day.

Lolling back in a chair near Baldassare, with his short legs crossed,

and his thumbs stuck into the arm-holes of his coat, is Count Orsetti,

smiling, fat, and innocuous. His mother has not yet decided when he is

to speak the irrevocable words to Teresa Ottolini. Orsetti is far too

dutiful a son to do so before she gives him permission. His mother

might change her mind at the last moment; then Orsetti would change

his mind, too, and burn incense on other altars. Orsetti has a

meerschaum between his teeth, from which he is puffing out columns of

smoke. With his head thrown back, he is watching it as it curls upward

into the vaulted portico. The languid young man, Orazio Franchi,

supported by a stick, is at this moment ascending the steps. To

see him drag one leg after the other, one would think his days were

numbered. Not at all. Franchi is strong and healthy, but he cultivates

languor as an accomplishment. Everybody at Lucca is idle, but

nobody is languid, so Franchi has thought fit to adopt that line of

distinction. His thin, lanky arms, stooping figure, and a head set on

a long neck that droops upon his chest, as well as a certain indolent

grace, suit the _rôle_. When Franchi had mounted the steps he stood

still, heaved an audible sigh of infinite relief, then he sank into a

chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. Count Malatesta, who was near,

leaning against the wall behind, took his cigar from his mouth and

laughed.

"Sù!--Via!--A little courage to bear the burden of a weary life. What

has tired you, Orazio?"

"I have walked from the gate here," answered Orazio, without unclosing

his eyes.

"Go on, go on," is Malatesta's reply, "nothing like perseverance. You

will lose the use of your limbs in time. It is this cursed air. Per

Bacco! it will infect me. Why, oh! why, my penates, was I born at

Lucca? It is the dullest place. No one ever draws a knife, or fights a

duel, or runs away with his neighbor's wife. Why don't they? It would

be excitement. Cospetto! we marry, and are given in marriage, and

breed like pigeons in our own holes.--Come, Franchi, have you no news?

Wake up, man! You are full of wickedness, spite of your laziness."

Franchi opened his eyes, stretched himself, then yawned, and leaned

his head upon his arm that rested on one of the small tables near.

"News?--oh!--ah! There is plenty of news, but I am too tired to tell

it."

"News! and I not know it!" cried Count Malatesta.

Several others spoke, then all gathered round Franchi. Count Malatesta

slapped Franchi on the back.

"Come, my Trojan, speak. I insist upon it," said Orsetti, rising.

Franchi looked up at him. There was a French cook at Palazzo Orsetti.

No one had such Chateau Lafitte. Orazio is far from insensible to

these blessings.

"Well, listen. Old Sansovino has returned to his villa at Riparata.

His wife is with him."

"His wife?" shouted Orsetti. "Chè, chè! Any woman but his wife, and

I'll believe you. Why, she has lived for the last fifteen years

with Duke Bartolo at Venice. Sansovino did not mind the duke, but he

charged her with forgery. You remember? About her dower. There was a

lawsuit, I think. No, no--not his wife."

"Yes, his wife," answered Franchi, crossing his arms with great

deliberation. "The Countess Sansovino was received by her attached

husband with bouquets, and a band of music. She drove up to the

front-door in gala--in a four-in-hand, _à la Daumont_. All the

tenantry were in waiting--her children too (each by a different

father)--to receive her. It was most touching. Old Sansovino did it

very well, they tell me. He clasped her to his heart, and melted into

tears like a _père noble_"

"O Bello!" exclaimed Orsetti, "if old Sansovino cried, it must have

been with shame. After this, I will believe any thing."

"The Countess Sansovino is very rich," a voice remarked from the

background.

"Well, if she forges, I suppose so," another answered.

"O Marriage! large are the folds of thy ample mantle!" cried Count

Malatesta. "Who shall say we are not free in Italy? Now, why do they

not do this kind of thing in Lucca? Will any one tell me?--I want to

know."

There was a general laugh. "Well, they may possibly do worse," said

Franchi, languidly.

"What do you mean?" asked Malatesta, sharply. "Is there more scandal?"

Franchi nodded. A crowd collected round him.

"How the devil, Franchi, do you know so much? Out with it! You must

tell us."

"Give me time!--give me time!" was Franchi's answer. He raised his

head, and eyed them all with a look of feigned surprise. "Is it

possible no one has heard it?"

He was answered by a general protest that nothing had been heard.

"Nobody knows what has happened at the Universo?" Franchi asked with

unusual energy.

"No, no!" burst forth from Malatesta and Orsetti. "No, no!" sounded

from behind.

"That is quite possible," continued Orazio, with a cynical smile. "To

tell you the truth, I did not think you had heard it. It only happened

half an hour ago."

"What happened?" asked Count Orsetti.

"A secret commission has been sent from Rome." There was a breathless

silence. "The government is alarmed. A secret commission to examine

Count Marescotti's papers, and to imprison him."

"That's his uncle's doing--the Jesuit!" cried Malatesta. "This is the

second time. Marescotti will be shut up for life."

"Did they catch him?" asked Orsetti.

"No; he got out of an upper window, and escaped across the roof. He

had taken all the upper floor of the Universo for his accomplices, who

were expected from Paris."

"Honor to Lucca!" Malatesta put in. "We are progressing."

"He's gone," continued Orazio, falling back exhausted on his chair,

"but his papers--" Here Franchi thought it right to pause and faintly

wink. "I'll tell you the rest when I have smoked a cigar. Give me a

light."

"No, no, you must smoke afterward," said Orsetti, rapping him smartly

on the back. "Go on--what about Marescotti's papers?"

"Compromising--very," murmured Franchi, feebly, leaning back out of

the range of Orsetti's arm.

"The Red count was a communist, we all know," observed Malatesta.

"_Mon cher_! he was a poet also," responded Orazio. Orazio's languor

never interfered with his love of scandal. "When any lady struck his

fancy, Marescotti made a sonnet--a damaging practice. These sonnets

are a diary of his life. The police were much diverted, I assure

you, and so was I. I was in the hotel; I gave them the key to all the

ladies."

"You might have done better than waste your fine energies in making

ladies names public town-talk," said Orsetti, frowning.

"Well, that's a matter of opinion," replied Orazio, with a certain

calm insolence peculiar to him. "I have no ladylove in Lucca."

"Delicious!" broke in Malatesta, brightening up all over. "Don't

quarrel over a choice bone.--Who is compromised the most? I'll have

her name placarded. Some one must make a row."

"Enrica Guinigi is the most compromised," answered Orazio, striking

a match to light his cigar. "Marescotti celebrates her as the young

Madonna before the archangel Gabriel visited her. Ha! ha!"

Malatesta gave a low whistle.

"Enrica Guinigi! Is not that the marchesa's niece?" asked Orsetti; "a

pretty, fair-faced girl I see driving with her aunt on the ramparts

sometimes?"

"The same," answered Malatesta. "But what, in the name of all the

devils, could Marescotti know of her? No one has ever spoken to her."

Baldassare now leaned forward and listened; the name of Enrica woke

him from his sleep. He hardly dared to join the circle formed round

Franchi, for Franchi always snubbed him, and called him "Young

Galipots," when Trenta was absent.

"Perhaps Marescotti was the archangel Gabriel himself," said

Malatesta, with a leer.

"But answer my question," insisted Orsetti, who, as an avowed suitor

of Lucca maidens had their honor and good name at heart. "Don't be

a fool, but tell me what you know. This idle story, involving the

reputation of a young girl, is shameful. I protest against it!"

"Do you?" sneered Orazio, leaning back, and pulling at his sandy

mustache. "That is because you know nothing about it. This _Sainte

Vierge_ has already been much talked about--first, with Nobili, who

lives opposite--when _ma tante_ was sleeping. Then she spent a day

with several men upon the Guinigi Tower, an elegant retirement among

the crows. After that old Trenta offered her formally in marriage to

Marescotti."

"What!--After the Guinigi Tower?" put in Malatesta. "Of course

Marescotti refused her?"

"'Refused her, of course, with thanks.' So says the sonnet." Orazio

went on to say all this in a calm, tranquil way, casting the bread

of scandal on social waters as he puffed at his cigar. "It is very

prettily rhymed--the sonnet--I have read it. The young Madonna is

warmly painted. _Now, why did Marescotti refuse to marry her?_ That is

what I want to know." And Franchi looked round upon his audience with

a glance of gratified malice.

"Even in Lucca!--even in Lucca!" Malatesta clapped his hands

and chuckled until he almost choked. "Laus Veneri!--the mighty

goddess!--She has reared an altar even here in this benighted city. I

was a skeptic, but a Paphian miracle has converted me. I must drink a

punch in honor of the great goddess."

Here Baldassare rose and leaned over from behind.

"I went up the Guinigi Tower with the party," he ventured to say.

"There were four of us. The Cavaliere Trenta told me in the street

just before that it was all right, and that the lady had agreed to

marry Count Marescotti. There can be no secret about it now that every

one knows it. Count Marescotti raved so about the Signorina Enrica,

that he nearly jumped over the parapet."

"Better for her if you had helped him over," muttered Orazio, with a

sarcastic stare. "The sonnet would not then have been written."

But Baldassare, conscious that he had intelligence that would make

him welcome, stood his ground. "You do not seem to know what has

happened," he continued.

"More news!" cried Malatesta. "Gracious heavens! Wave after wave it

comes!--a mighty sea. I hear the distant roar--it dashes high!--It

breaks!--Speak, oh, speak, Adonis!"

"The Marchesa Guinigi has left Lucca suddenly."

"Who cares? Do you, Pietrino?" asked Franchi of Orsetti, with a

contemptuous glance at Baldassare.

"Let him speak," cried Malatesta; "Baldassare is an oracle."

"The marchesa left Lucca suddenly," persisted Baldassare, not daring

to notice Orsetti's insolence. "She took her niece with her."

"Have it cried about the streets," interrupted Orazio, opening his

eyes.

"Yesterday morning an express came down for Cavaliere Trenta. The

ancient tower of Corellia has been entirely burnt. The marchesa was

rescued."

"And the niece--is the niece gone to glory on the funeral-pyre?"

"No," answered Baldassare, helplessly, settling his stupid eyes on

Orazio, whose thrusts he could not parry. "She was saved by Count

Nobili, who was accidentally shooting on the mountains near."

"Oh, bah!" cried Malatesta, with a knowing grin; "I never believe in

accidents. There is a ruling power. That power is love--love--love."

"The cavaliere is not yet returned."

"This is a strange story," said Orsetti, gravely. "Nobili too, and

Marescotti. She must be a lively damsel. What will Nera Boccarini say

to her truant knight, who rescues maidens _accidentally_ on distant

mountains? What had Nobili to do in the Garfagnana?"

"Ask him," lisped Orazio; "it will save more talking. I wish Nobili

joy of his bargain," he added, turning to Malatesta.

"I wonder that he cares to take up with Marescotti's leavings."

"Here's Ruspoli, crossing the square. Perhaps he can throw some light

on this strange story," said Orsetti.

Prince Ruspoli, still at Lucca, is on a visit to some relatives. He

is, as I have said, decidedly horsey, and is much looked up to by the

"golden youths," his companions, in consequence. As a gentleman rider

at races and steeple-chases, as a hunter on the Roman Campagna, and

the driver of a "stage" on the Corso, Ruspoli is unrivaled. He breeds

racers, and he has an English stud-groom, who has taught him to speak

English with a drawl, enlivened by stable-slang. He is slim, fair, and

singularly awkward, and of a uniform pale yellow--yellow complexion,

yellow hair, and yellow eyebrows. Poole's clothes never fit him, and

he walks, as he dances, with his legs far apart, as if a horse

were under him. He carries a hunting-whip in his hand spite of the

month--October (these little anomalies are undetected in New Italy,

where there is so much to learn). Prince Ruspoli swings round this

whip as he mounts the steps of the club. The others, who are watching

his approach, are secretly devoured with envy.

"Wall, Pietrino--wall, Beppo," said Ruspoli, shaking hands with

Orsetti and Malatesta, and nodding to Orazio, out of whose sails he

took the wind by force of stolid indifference (Baldassare he ignored,

or mistook him for a waiter, if he saw him at all), "you are all

discussing the news, of course. Lucca's lively to-day. You'll all

do in time, even to steeple-chases. We must run one down on the low

grounds in the spring. Dick, my English groom, is always plaguing me

about it."

Then Prince Ruspoli pulled himself together with a jerk, as a man does

stiff from the saddle, laid his hunting-whip upon a table, stuffed his

hands into his pockets, and looked round.

"What news have you heard?" asked Beppo Malatesta. "There's such a

lot."

"Wall, the news I have heard is, that Count Nobili is engaged to marry

the Marchesa Guinigi's little niece. Dear little thing, they say--like

an English '_mees_'--fair, with red hair."

"Is that your style of beauty?" lisped Orazio, looking hard at him.

But Ruspoli did not notice him.

"But that's not half," cried Malatesta. "You are an innocent, Ruspoli.

Let me baptize you with scandal."

"Don't, don't, I hate scandal," said Ruspoli, taking one of his hands

out of his pocket for a moment, and holding it up in remonstrance.

"There is nothing but scandal in these small Italian towns. Take to

hunting, that's the cure. Nobili is to marry the little girl, that's

certain. He's to pay off all the marchesa's debts, that's certain too.

He's rich, she's poor. He wants blood, she has got it."

"I do not believe in this marriage," said Orazio, measuring Prince

Ruspoli as he stood erect, his slits of eyes without a shadow of

expression. "You remember the ballroom, prince? And the Boccarini

family grouped--and Nobili crying in a corner? Nobili will marry the

Boccarini. She is a stunner."

After Orazio had ventured this observation about Nera Boccarini,

Prince Ruspoli brought his small, steely eyes to bear upon him with a

fixed stare.

Orazio affected total unconsciousness, but he quailed inwardly. The

others silently watched Ruspoli. He took up his hunting-whip and

whirled it in the air dangerously near Orazio's head, eying him all

the while as a dog eyes a rat he means to crunch between his teeth.

"Whoever says that Count Nobili will marry the Boccarini, is a liar!"

Prince Ruspoli spoke with perfect composure, still whirling his whip.

"I shall be happy to explain my reason anywhere, out of the city, on

the shortest notice."

Orazio started up. "Prince Ruspoli, do you call me a liar?"

"I beg your pardon," replied Ruspoli, quite unmoved, making Orazio a

mock bow. "Did you say whom Count Nobili would marry? If you did, will

you favor me by repeating it?"

"I only report town-talk," Franchi answered, sullenly. "I am not

answerable for town-talk."

Ruspoli was a dead-shot; Orazio only fought with swords.

"Then I am satisfied," replied Ruspoli, quiet defiance in his look and

tone. "I accuse you, Signore Orazio Franchi, of nothing. I only warn

you."

"I don't see why we should quarrel about Nobili's marriage. He will

be here himself presently, to explain which of the ladies he prefers,"

observed the peaceable Orsetti.

"I don't know which lady Count Nobili prefers," retorted Ruspoli,

doggedly. "But I tell you the name of the lady he is to marry. It is

Enrica Guinigi."

"Why, there is Count Nobili!" cried Baldassare, quite loud--"there,

under the plane-trees."

"Bravo, Adonis!" cried Beppo; "your eyes are as sharp as your feet are

swift."

Nobili crossed the square; he was coming toward the club. Every face

was turned toward him. He had come down to Lucca like one maddened

by the breath of love. All along the road he had felt drunk with

happiness. To him love was everywhere--in the deep gloom of the

mountain-forests, in the flowing river, diamonded with light under the

pale moonbeams; in the splendor of the starry sky, in midnight dreams

of bliss, and in the awakening of glorious morning. The two old

palaces were full of love--the Moorish garden; the magnolias that

overtopped the wall, and the soft, creamy perfume that wafted from

them; the very street through which he should lead her home; every one

he saw; all he said, thought, or did--it was all love and Enrica!

Now, having with lover's haste made good progress with all he had

to do, Nobili has come down to the club to meet his friends, and to

receive their congratulations. Every hand is stretched out toward him.

Even Ruspoli, spite of obvious jealousy, liked him. Nobili's face

is lit up with its sunniest smile. Having shaken hands with him, an

ominous silence ensues. Orsetti and Malatesta suddenly find that their

cigars want relighting, and turn aside. Orazio seats himself at a

distance, and scowls at Prince Ruspoli. Nobili gives a quick glance

round. An instant tells him that something is wrong.

Prince Ruspoli breaks the awkward silence. He walks up, looks at

Nobili with immovable gravity, then slaps him on the shoulder.

"I congratulate you, Nobili. I hear you are to marry the Marchesa

Guinigi's niece."

"Balduccio, I thank you. Within a week I hope to bring her home to

Lucca. There will then be but one Guinigi home in the two palaces. The

marchesa makes her heiress of all she possesses."

Prince Ruspoli is satisfied. Now he will back Count Nobili to any

odds. He will name his next foal Mario Nobili.

Again Nobili glances round; this time there is the shadow of a frown

upon his smooth brow. Orsetti feels that he must speak.

"Have you known the lady long?" Orsetti asks, with an embarrassment

foreign to him.

"Yes, and no," answers Nobili, reddening, and scanning the veiled

expression on Orsetti's face with intense curiosity. "But the

matter has been brought to a crisis by the accidental burning of the

marchesa's house at Corellia. I was present--I saved her niece."

"I thought it was rather sudden," says Orazio, from behind, in a tone

full of suggestion. "We were in doubt, before you came, to whom the

lady was engaged."

Nobili starts.

"What do you mean?" he asks, hastily.

The color has left his cheeks; his blue eyes grow dark.

"There has been some foolish gossip from persons who know nothing,"

Orsetti answers, advancing to the front. "About some engagement with

another gentleman, whom she had accepted--"

"Nonsense! Don't listen to him, my good fellow," breaks in Ruspoli.

"These lads have nothing to do but to breed scandal. They would

slander the Virgin; not for wickedness, but for idleness. I mean to

make them hunt. Hunting is the cure."

Nobili stands as if turned to stone.

"But I must listen," replies Nobili, fiercely, fire flaming in his

eyes. "This lady's honor is my own. Who has dared to couple her name

with any other man? Orsetti--Ruspoli"--and he turns to them in great

excitement--"you are my friends. What does this mean?"

"Nothing," said Orsetti, trying to smile, but not succeeding. "I hear,

Nobili, you have behaved with extraordinary generosity," he adds,

fencing the question.

"Yes, by Jove!" adds Prince Ruspoli. Ruspoli was leaning up against

a pillar, watching Orazio as he would a mischievous cur. "A most

suitable marriage. Not that I care a button for blood, except in

horses."

Nobili has not moved, but, as each speaks, his eye shifts rapidly from

one to the other. His face from pale grows livid, and there is a throb

about his temples that sounds in his ears like a thousand hammers.

"Orsetti," Nobili says, sternly, "I address myself to you. You are the

oldest here. You are the first man I knew after I came to Lucca. You

are all concealing something from me. I entreat you, Orsetti, as man

to man, tell me whose name has been coupled with that of my affianced

wife? That it is a lie I know beforehand--a base and palpable lie! She

has been reared at home in perfect solitude."

Nobili spoke with passionate vehemence. The hot blood rushed over his

face and neck, and tingled to his very fingers. Now he glances from

man to man in an appeal defiant, yet pleading, pitiful to behold.

Every face grows grave.

Orsetti is the first to reply.

"I feel deeply for you, Nobili. We all love you."

"Yes, all," responded Malatesta and Ruspoli, speaking together.

"You must not attach too much importance to idle gossip," says

Orsetti.

"No, no," cried Ruspoli, "don't. I will stand by you, Nobili. I know

the lady by sight--a little English beau"

"Scandal! Who is the man? By God, I'll have his blood within this very

hour!"

Nobili is now wrought up beyond all endurance.

"You can't," says Orazio Franchi, tapping his heel upon the marble

pavement. "He's gone."

"Gone! I'll follow him to hell!" roars Nobili "Who is he?"

"Possibly he may find his own way there in time," answers Orazio, with

a sneer. He rises so as to increase the distance between himself and

Prince Ruspoli. "But as yet the wretch crawls on mother earth."

"Silence, Orazio!" shouts Ruspoli, "or you may go there yourself

quicker than Marescotti."

"Marescotti! Is that the name?" cries Nobili, with a hungry eye, that

seems to thirst for vengeance. "Who is Marescotti?"

"This is some horrid fiction," Nobili mutters to himself. Stay!--Where

had he heard that name lately? He gnawed his fingers until the blood

came, and a crimson drop fell upon the marble floor. Suddenly an

icy chill rose at his heart. He could not breathe. He sank into a

chair--then rose again, and stood before Orsetti with a face out of

which ten years of youth had fled. Yes, Marescotti--that is the very

man Enrica had mentioned to him under the trees at Corellia. Each

letter of it blazes in fire before his eyes. Yes--she had said

Marescotti had read her eyes. "O God!" and Nobili groans aloud, and

buries his face within his hands.

"You take this too much to heart, my dear Mario," Count Orsetti said;

"indeed you do, else I would not say so. Remember there is nothing

proved. Be careful," Orsetti whispered in the other's ear, glancing

round. Every eye was riveted on Nobili.

Orsetti felt that Nobili had forgotten the public place and the others

present--such as Count Malatesta, Orazio Franchi, and Baldassare, who,

though they had not spoken, had devoured every word.

"It is nothing but a sonnet found among Marescotti's papers." Orsetti

now was speaking. "Marescotti has fled from the police. Nothing but a

sonnet addressed to the lady--a poet's day-dream--untrue of course."

"Will no one tell me what the sonnet said?" demanded Nobili. He had

mastered himself for the moment.

"Stuff, stuff!" cried Ruspoli. "Every pretty woman has heaps of

sonnets and admirers. It is a brevet of beauty. After all this row, it

was only an offer of marriage made to Count Marescotti and refused by

him. Probably the lady never knew it."

"Oh, yes, she did, she accepted him," sounded from behind. It was

Baldassare, whose vanity was piqued because no one had referred to him

for information.

"Accepted! Refused by Count Marescotti!" Nobili caught and repeated

the words in a voice so strange, it sounded like the echo from a

vault.

"Wall! by Jove! It's five o'clock!" exclaimed Prince Ruspoli, looking

at his watch. "My dear fellow," he said, addressing Nobili, "I have an

appointment on the ramparts; will you go with me?" He passed his arm

through that of Nobili. It was a painful scene, which Ruspoli desired

to end. Nobili shook his head. He was so stunned and dazed he could

not speak.

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

Malatesta drew Nobili a little apart. "Don't think too much of this,

Nobili. It will all blow over and be forgotten in a month. Take your

wife a trip to Paris or London. We shall hear no more of it, believe

me. Good-by."

"Count Nobili," called out Franchi, from the other end of the portico,

making a languid bow, "after all that I have heard, I congratulate you

on your marriage most sincerely."

Nobili did not hear him. All were gone. He was alone with Ruspoli. His

head had dropped upon his breast. There was the shadow of a tear in

Prince Ruspoli's steely eye. It was not enough to be brushed off, for

it absorbed itself and came to nothing, but it was there nevertheless.

"Wall, Mario," he said, apparently unmoved, "it seems to me the club

is made too hot to hold you. Come home."

Nobili nodded. He was so weak he had to hang heavily on Prince

Ruspoli's arm as they crossed the piazza. Prince Ruspoli did not leave

him until he saw him safe to his own door.

"You will judge what is right to do," were Ruspoli's last words. "But

do not be guided by those young scamps. They live in mischief. If you

love the girl, marry her--that is my advice."

CHAPTER VIII.

COUNT NOBILI'S THOUGHTS.

I have seen a valley canopied by a sky of blue and opaline, girt in

by wooded heights, on which the sun poured down in mid-day splendor.

A broad river sparkled downward, giving back ray for ray. The forest

glowed without a shadow. Each little detail of leaf or stone, even a

blade of grass, was turned to flame. The corn lay smooth and golden.

The grapes and olives hung safe upon the branch. The flax--a goodly

crop--reached to the trees. The peasants labored in the rich brown

soil, singing to the oxen. The women sat spinning beside their doors.

A little maid led out her snowy lamb to graze among the woods, and

children played at "morra" beside the river, which ran at peace,

lapping the silver sand.

A cloud gathers behind the mountains--yonder, where they come

interlacing down, narrowing the valley. It is a little cloud, no one

observes it; yet it gathers and spreads and blackens, until the sky is

veiled. The sun grows pale. A greenish light steals over the earth. In

the still air there is a sudden freshness. The tall canes growing in

the brakes among the vineyards rustle as if shaken by a spectral

hand. The white-leaved aspens quiver. An icy wind sweeps down the

mountain-sides. A flash of lightning shoots across the sky. Then the

storm bursts. Thunder rolls, and cracks, and crashes; as if the brazen

gates of heaven clashed to and fro. The peasants fly, driving their

cattle before them. The pig's run grunting homeward. The helpless lamb

is stricken where it stands, crouching in a deep gorge; the little

maid sits weeping by. Down beats the hail like pebbles. It strikes

upon the vines, scorches and blackens them. The wheat is leveled

to the ground. The river suddenly swells into a raging torrent. Its

turbid waters bear away the riches of the poor--the cow that served a

little household and followed the children, lowing, to reedy meadows

bathed by limpid streams--a horse caught browsing in a peaceful vale,

thinking no ill--great trees hurling destruction with them. Rafters,

roofs of houses, sometimes a battered corpse, float by.

The roads are broken up. The bridge is snapped. Years will not repair

the fearful ravage. The evening sun sets on a desolate waste. Men sit

along the road-side wringing their hands beside their ruined crops.

Children creep out upon their naked feet, and look and wonder. Where

is the little kid that ran before and licked their hands? Where is the

gray-skinned, soft-eyed cow that hardly needed a cord to lead her? The

shapely cob, so brave with its tinkling bells and crimson tassels? The

cob that daddy drove to market, and many merry fairs? Gone with the

storm! all gone!

* * * * *

Count Nobili was like the Italian climate--in extremes. Like his

native soil, he must live in the sunshine. His was not a nature to

endure a secret sorrow. He must be kissed, caressed, and smoothed by

tender hands and loving voices. He must have applause, approval, be

flattered, envied, and followed. Hitherto all this had come naturally

to him. His gracious temper, generous heart, and great wealth, had

made all bright about him. Now a sudden storm had swept over him and

brought despair into his heart.

When Prince Ruspoli left him, Nobili felt as battered and sore as if a

whirlwind had caught him, then let him go, and he had dropped to earth

a broken man. Yet in the turmoil of his brain a pale, scared little

face, with wild, beseeching eyes, was ever before him. It would not

leave him. What was this horrible nightmare that had come over him in

the heyday of his joy? It was so vague, yet so tangible if judged by

its effect on others. Others held Enrica dishonored, that was clear.

Was she dishonored? He was bound to her by every tie of honor. He

loved her. She had a charm for him no other woman ever possessed, and

she loved him. A women's eye, he told himself, had never deceived him.

Yes, she loved him. Yet if Enrica were as guileless as she seemed, how

could she conceal from him she had another lover--less loved perhaps

than he--but still a lover? And this lover had refused to marry her?

That was the stab. That every one in Lucca should know his future

bride had been scouted by another man who had turned a rhyme upon her,

and left her! Could he bear this?

What were Enrica's relations with Marescotti? Some one had said she

had accepted him. Nobili was sure he had heard this. He, Marescotti,

must have approached her nearly by her own confession. He had

celebrated her in sonnets, amorous sonnets--damnable thought!--gone

with her to the Guinigi Tower--then rejected her! A mist seemed to

gather about Nobili as he thought of this. He grew stupid in

long vistas of speculation. Had Enrica not dared to meet

him--Nobili--clandestinely? Was not this very act unmaidenly? (Such

are men: they urge the slip, the fall, then judge a woman by the

force of their own urging!) Had Enrica met Marescotti in secret also?

No--impossible! The scared, white face was before Nobili, now plainer

than ever. No--he hated himself for the very thought. All the chivalry

of his nature rose up to acquit her.

Still there was a mystery. How far was Enrica concerned in it? Would

she have married Count Marescotti? Trenta was away, or he would

question him. _Had he better ask? What might he hear_? Some one had

deceived him grossly. The marchesa would stick at nothing; yet what

could the marchesa have done without Enrica? Nobili was perplexed

beyond expression. He buried his head within his arms, and leaned upon

a table in an agony of doubt. Then he paced up and down the splendid

room, painted with frescoed walls, and hung with rose and silver

draperies from Paris (it was to have been Enrica's boudoir), looking

south into a delicious town-garden, with statues, and flower-beds,

and terraces of marble diamonded in brilliant colors. To be so

cheated!--to be the laughing-stock of Lucca! Good God! how could he

bear it? To marry a wife who would be pointed at with whispered words!

Of all earthly things this was the bitterest! Could he bear it?--and

Enrica--would she not suffer? And if she did, what then? Why, she

deserved it--she must deserve it, else why was she accused? Enrica was

treacherous--the tool of her aunt. He could not doubt it. If she

cared for him at all, it was for the sake of his money--hateful

thought!--yet, having signed the contract, he supposed he _must_

give her the name of wife. But the future mother of his children was

branded.

Oh, the golden days at mountain-capped Corellia!--that watching in the

perfumed woods--that pleading with the stars that shone over Enrica

to bear her his love-sick sighs! Oh, the triumph of saving her dear

life!--the sweetness of her lips in that first embrace under the

magnolia-tree! Fra Pacifico too, with his honest, sturdy ways--and the

white-haired cavaliere, so wise and courteous. Cheats, cheats--all!

It made him sick to think how they must have laughed and jeered at him

when he was gone. Oh, it was damnable!

His teeth were set. He started up as if he had been stung, and stamped

upon the floor. Then like a madman he rushed up and down the spacious

floor. After a time, brushing the drops of perspiration from his

forehead, Nobili grew calmer. He sat down to think.

Must he marry Enrica?--he asked himself (he had come to that)--marry

the lady of the sonnet--Marescotti's love? He did not see how he could

help it. The contract was signed, and nothing proved against her.

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

Well--he must bear it--unless there had been sin! Nobili did not see

it, nor did he hear it; but much that is never seen, nor heard, nor

known, is yet true--horribly true. He did see it, but as he thought

these cruel thoughts, and hardened himself in them, a pale, scared

face, with wild, pleading eyes, vanished with a shriek of anguish.

Others had loved him well, Nobili reasoned--other women--"_Not so well

as I_" an inaudible voice would have whispered, but it was no longer

there to answer--others that had not been rejected--others fairer than

Enrica--Nera!

With that name there came a world of comfort to him. Nera loved

him--she loved him! He had not seen Nera since that memorable night

she lay like one dead before him. Before he took a final resolve

(by-and-by he must investigate, inquire, know when, and how, and by

whom, all this talk had come), would it not be well to see Nera? It

was a duty, he told himself, he owed her; a duty delayed too long;

only Enrica had so absorbed him. Nera would have heard the town-talk.

How would she take it? Would she be glad, or sorry, he wondered? Then

came a longing upon Nobili he could not resist, to know if Nera still

loved him. If so, what constancy! It deserved reward. He had treated

her shamefully. How sweet her company would be if she would see him!

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

bell.

When the servant came, Nobili ordered his dinner. He was hungry, he

said, and would eat at once. His carriage he should require later.

CHAPTER IX.

NERA.

Close to the Church of San Michele, where a brazen archangel with

outstretched wings flaunts in the blue sky, is the narrow, crypt-like

street of San Salvador. Here stands the Boccarini Palace. It is an

ancient structure, square and large, with an overhanging roof and

open, pillared gallery. On the first floor there is a stone balcony.

Four rows of windows divide the front. The lower ones, barred with

iron, are dismal to the eye. Over the principal entrance are the

Boccarini arms, carved on a stone escutcheon, supported by two angels,

the whole so moss-eaten the details cannot be traced. Above is a

marquis's coronet in which a swallow has built its nest. Both in and

out it is a house where poverty has set its seal. The family is dying

out. When Marchesa Boccarini dies, the palace will be sold, and the

money divided among her daughters.

As dusk was settling into night a carriage rattled along the deserted

street. The horses--a pair of splendid bays--struck sparks out of the

granite pavement. With a bang they draw up at the entrance, under an

archway, guarded by a _grille_ of rusty iron. A bell is rung; it only

echoes through the gloomy court. The bell was rung again, but no one

came. At last steps were heard, and a dried-up old man, with a face

like parchment, and little ferret eyes, appeared, hastily dragging his

arms into a coat much too large for him.

He shuffled to the front and bowed. Taking a key from his pocket he

unlocked the iron gates, then planted himself on the threshold, and

turned his ear toward the well-appointed brougham, and Count Nobili

seated within.

"Do the ladies receive?" Nobili called out. The old man nodded,

bringing his best ear and ferret eyes to bear upon him.

"Yes, the ladies do receive. Will the excellency descend?"

Count Nobili jumped out and hurried through the archway into a court

surrounded by a colonnade.

It is very dark. The palace rises upward four lofty stories. Above is

a square patch of sky, on which a star trembles. The court is full

of damp, unwholesome odors. The foot slips upon the slimy pavement.

Nobili stopped. The old man came limping after, buttoning his coat

together.

"Ah! poor me!--The excellency is young!" He spoke in the odd, muffled

voice, peculiar to the deaf. "The excellency goes so fast he will fall

if he does not mind. Our court-yard is very damp; the stairs are old."

"Which is the way up-stairs?" Nobili asked, impatiently. "It is so

dark I have forgotten the turn."

"Here, excellency--here to the right. By the Madonna there, in the

niche, with the light before it. A thousand excuses! The excellency

will excuse me, but I have not yet lit the lamp on the stairs. I

was resting. There are so many visitors to the Signora Marchesa. The

excellency will not tell the Signora Marchesa that it was dark upon

the stairs? Per pieta!"

The shriveled old man placed himself full in Nobili's path, and held

out his hands like claws entreatingly.

"A thousand devils!--no," was Nobili's irate reply, pushing him back.

"Let me go up; I shall say nothing. Cospetto! What is it to me?"

"Thanks! thanks! The excellency is full of mercy to an old, overworked

servant. There was a time when the Boccarini--"

Nobili did not wait to hear more, but strode through the darkness at

hazard, to find the stairs.

"Stop! stop! the excellency will break his limbs against the wall!"

the old man shouted.

He fumbled in his pocket, and drew out some matches. He struck one

against the wall, held it above his head, and pointed with his bony

finger to a broad stone stair under an inner arch.

Nobili ascended rapidly; he was in no mood for delay. The old man,

standing at the foot, struck match after match to light him.

"Above, excellency, you will find our usual lamps. You must go on to

the second story."

On the landing at the first floor there was still a little daylight

from a window as big as if set in the tribune of a cathedral. Here a

lamp was placed on an old painted table. Some moth-eaten tapestry hung

from a mildewed wall. Here and there a rusty nail had given way, and

the stuff fell in downward folds. Nobili paused. His head was hot and

dizzy. He had dined well, and he had drunk freely. His eyes traveled

upward to the old tapestry--(it was the daughter of Herodias dancing

before Herod the cancan of the day). Something in the face and figure

of the girl recalled Nera to him, or he fancied it--his mind being

full of her. Nobili envied Herod in a dreamy way, who, with round,

leaden eyes, a crown upon his head--watched the dancing girl as she

flung about her lissome limbs. Nobili envied Herod--and the thought

came across him, how pleasant it would be to sit royally enthroned,

and see Nera gambol so! From that--quicker than I can write it--his

thoughts traveled backward to that night when he had danced with Nera

at the Orsetti ball. Again the refrain of that waltz buzzed in

his ear. Again the measure rose and fell in floods of luscious

sweetness--again Nera lay within his arms--her breath was on his

cheek--the perfume of the flowers in her flossy hair was wafted in the

air--the blood stirred in his veins.

The old man said truly. All the way up the second stair was lit by

little lamps, fed by mouldy oil; and all the way up that waltz rang

in Nobili's ear. It mounted to his brain like fumes of new wine tapped

from the skin. A green door of faded baize faced him on the upper

landing, and another bell--a red tassel fastened to a bit of whipcord.

He rang it hastily. This time a servant came promptly. He carried in

his hand a lamp of brass.

"Did the ladies receive?"

"They did," was the answer; and the servant held the lamp aloft to

light Nobili into the anteroom.

This anteroom was as naked as a barrack. The walls were painted in

a Raphaelesque pattern, the coronet and arms of the Boccarini in the

centre.

Count Nobili and the servant passed through many lofty rooms of faded

splendor. Chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, and reflected the

light of the brass lamp on a thousand crystal facets. The tall mirrors

in the antique frames repeated it. In a cavern-like saloon, hung with

rows of dark pictures upon amber satin, Nobili and the servant stopped

before a door. The servant knocked; A voice said, "Enter." It was the

voice of Marchesa Boccarini. She was sitting with her three daughters.

A lamp, with a colored shade, stood in the centre of a small room,

bearing some aspect of life and comfort. The marchesa and two of her

daughters were working at some mysterious garments, which rapidly

vanished out of sight. Nera was leaning back on a sofa, superbly

idle--staring idly at an opposite window, where the daylight still

lingered. When Count Nobili was announced, they all rose and spoke

together with the loud peacock voices, and the rapid utterance, which

in Italy are supposed to mark a special welcome. Strange that in

the land of song the talking voices of women should be so harsh and

strident! Yet so it is.

"How long is it since we have seen you, Count Nobili?" It was the

sad-faced marchesa who spoke, and tried to smile a welcome to him. "I

have to thank you for many inquiries, and all sorts of luxuries sent

to my dear child. But we expected you. You never came."

The two sisters echoed, "You never came."

Nera did not speak then, but when they had finished, she rose from the

sofa and stood before Nobili drawn up to her full height, radiant

in sovereign beauty. "I have to thank you most." As Nera spoke, her

cheeks flushed, and she dropped her hand into his. It was a simple

act, but full of purpose as Nera did it. Nera intended it should be

so. She reseated herself. As his eye met hers, Nobili grew crimson.

The twilight and the shaded lamp hid this in part, but Nera observed

it, and noted it for future use.

Count Nobili placed himself beside the marchesa.

"I am overwhelmed with shame," he said. "What you say is too true.

I had intended coming. Indeed, I waited until your daughter"--and he

glanced at Nera--"could receive me, and satisfy me herself she was not

hurt. I longed to make my penitent excuses for the accident."

"Oh! it was nothing," said Nera, with a smile, answering for her

mother.

"What I suffered, no words can tell," continued, Nobili. "Even now I

shudder to think of it--to be the cause--"

"No, not the cause," answered Marchesa Boccarini.

The elder sisters echoed--

"Not the cause."

"It was the ribbon," continued the marchesa. "Nera was entangled with

the ribbon when she rose; she did not know it."

"I ought to have held her up," returned Nobili with a glance at Nera,

who, with a kind of queenly calm, looked him full in the face with her

bold, black eyes.

"I assure you, marchesa, it was the horror of what I had done that

kept me from calling on you."

This was not true, and Nera knew it was not true. Nobili had not come,

because he dreaded his weakness and her power. Nobili had not come,

because he doted on Enrica to that excess, a thought alien to her

seemed then to him a crime. What folly! Now he knew Enrica better! All

that was changed.

"We have felt very grateful," went on to say the marchesa, "I assure

you, Count Nobili, very grateful."

The poor lady was much exercised in spirit as to how she could frame

an available excuse for leaving the count alone with Nera. Had she

only known beforehand, she would have arranged a little plan to do

so, naturally. But it must be done, she knew. It must be done at any

price, or Nera would never forgive her.

"You have been so agreeably occupied, too," Nera said, in a firm, full

voice. "No wonder, Count Nobili, you had no time to visit us."

There was a mute reproach in these few words that made Nobili wince.

"I have been absent," he replied, much confused.

"Yes, absent in mind and body," and Nera laughed a cruel little laugh.

"You have been at Corellia, I believe?" she added, significantly,

fixing him with her lustrous eyes.