“I will not put Enrica out of my house,” resumed the marchesa, gazing at him suspiciously. (Trenta seemed, she thought, wonderfully interested in Enrica’s fate.  She had noticed this interest once before.  She did not like it.  What was Enrica to him?  Trenta was her friend.) “But she shall remain on one condition only—­Nobili’s name must never be mentioned.  You can inform her of this, as you have taken already so much upon yourself.  Do you hear?”

“Certainly, certainly,” answered the chamberlain with alacrity.  “You shall be obeyed.  I will answer for it—­excellent marchesa, you are right, always right”—­and he stooped down and gently took her thin fingers in his fat hands, and touched them with his lips.

“I will cause no scandal,” she continued, withdrawing her hand.  “Once in a convent, Enrica can harm no one.”

“No, certainly not,” responded Trenta, “and the family will become extinct.  This palace and its precious heirlooms will be sold.”

The marchesa put out her hand with silent horror.

“It is the case with so many of our great families,” continued the impassable Trenta.  “Now, on the other hand, Enrica may possibly change her mind; Nobili may change his mind.  Circumstances quite unforeseen may occur—­who can answer for circumstances?”

The marchesa listened silently.  This was always a good sign; she was too obstinate to confess herself convinced.  But, spite of her prejudices, her natural shrewdness forbade her to reject absolutely the voice of reason.

“I shall not treat Enrica cruelly,” was her reply, “nor will I cause a scandal, but I can never forgive her.  By this act of loving Nobili she has separated herself from me irrevocably.  Let her renounce him; she has her choice—­mine is already made.”

The cavaliere listened in silence.  Much had been gained, in his opinion, by this partial concession.  The subject had been broached, the hated name mentioned, the possibility of the marriage mooted.  He rose with a cheerful smile to take his leave.

“Marchesa, it is late—­permit me to salute you; you must require repose.”

“Yes,” she answered, sighing deeply.  “It seems to me a year since I entered this room.  I must leave Lucca.  Enrica cannot, after what has passed, remain here.  Thanks to her, I, in the solitude of my own palace, am become the common town-talk.  Cesare, I shall leave Lucca to-morrow for my villa of Corellia.  Good-night.”

The cavaliere again kissed her hand and departed.

“If that weathercock of a thousand colors, that idiot, Marescotti,” muttered the cavaliere, as he descended the stairs, “could only be got to give up his impious mission, and marry the dear child, all might yet be right.  He has an eye and a tongue that would charm a woman into anything.  Alas! alas! what a pasticcio!—­made by herself—­made by herself and her lawsuits about the defunct Guinigi—­damn them!”