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?”