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.”