A gesture of horror from the cavaliere recalled the marchesa to a sense of what she had uttered.

“And do you deem it nothing, Cesare Trenta, after a life spent in building up the ancient name I bear, that I should be brought to sign a marriage-contract with a peddler’s son?” She trembled with passion.

“Yet it must be done,” answered Trenta.

“Must be done!  Must be done!  I would rather die!  Mark my words, Cesare.  No good will come of this marriage.  That young man is weak and dissolute.  He is mad with wealth, and the vulgar influence that comes with wealth.  As a man, he is unworthy of my niece, who, I must confess, has the temper of an angel.”

“I believe that you are wrong, marchesa; Count Nobili is much beloved in Lucca.  Fra Pacifico has known him from boyhood.  He praises him greatly.  I also like him.”

“Like him!—­Yes, Cesare, you are such an easy fool you like every one.  First Marescotti, then Nobili.  Marescotti was a gentleman, but this fellow—­” She left the sentence incomplete.  “Remember my words—­you are deceived in him.”

“At all events,” retorted the cavaliere, “it is too late to discuss these matters now.  Time presses.  Enrica loves him.  He insists on marrying her.  You have no money, and cannot give her a portion.  My respected marchesa, I have often ventured to represent to you what those lawsuits would entail!  Per Bacco!  There must be an end of all things—­may I call them in?”

The poor old chamberlain was completely exhausted.  He had spent four hours in reasoning with his friend.  The marchesa turned her head away and shuddered; she could not bring herself to speak the word of bidding.  The cavaliere accepted this silence for consent.  He struggled out of the ponderous arm-chair, and went out into the garden.  There (leaning over the balustrade of the lowest terrace, under the willful branches of a big nonia-tree, weighted with fronds of scarlet trumpet-flowers, that hung out lazily from the wall, to which the stem was nailed) Cavaliere Trenta found Count Nobili and Fra Pacifico awaiting the marchesa’s summons.  Behind them, at a respectful distance, stood Ser Giacomo, the notary from Corellia.  Streamlets pure as crystal ran bubbling down beside them in marble runnels; statues of gods and goddesses balanced each other, on pedestals, at the angles where the steps turned.  In front, on the gravel, a pair of peacocks strutted, spreading their gaudy tails in the sunshine.

As the four men entered the sala, they seemed to bring the evening shadows with them.  These suddenly slanted across the floor like pointed arrows, darkening the places where the sun had shone.  Was it fancy, or did the sparkling fountain at the door, as it fell backward into the marble basin, murmur with a sound like human sighs?

Count Nobili walked first.  He was grave and pale.  Having made a formal obeisance to the marchesa, his quick eye traveled round in search of Enrica.  Not finding her, it settled again upon her aunt.  As Nobili entered, she raised her smooth, snake-like head, and met his gaze in silence.  She had scarcely bowed, in recognition of his salute.  Now, with the slightest possible inclination of her head, she signed to him to take his place on one of the chairs before her.