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.”