“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.