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.