Enrica had not uttered a single word since she first entered, except to Nobili.  When he spoke of parting, her head dropped on her breast.  A dread—­a horror came suddenly upon her.  “O Nobili, why must we part?”

“Scarcely to part,” he answered, pressing her hand—­“only for a few days; then always to be together.”

Enrica tried to withdraw her hand from his, but he held it firmly.  Then she turned away her head, and big tears rolled down her cheeks.  When at last Nobili tore himself from her, Enrica followed him to the door, and, regardless of her aunt’s furious glances, she kissed her hand, and waved it after him.  There was a world of love in the action.

Spite of his indignation, Count Nobili did not fail duly to make his salutation to the marchesa.

The cavaliere and Fra Pacifico followed him out.  Twilight now darkened the garden.  The fragrance of the flowers was oppressive in the still air.  A star or two had come out, and twinkled faintly on the broad expanse of deep-blue sky.  The fountain murmured hollow in the silence of coming night.

“Good-by,” said Cavaliere Trenta to Nobili, in his thin voice.  “I deeply regret the marchesa’s rudeness.  She is unhinged—­quite unhinged; but her heart is excellent, believe me, most excellent.”

“Do not talk of the marchesa,” exclaimed Nobili, as he rapidly ascended flight after flight of the terraces.  “Let me forget her, or I shall never return to Corellia.  Dio Sagrato!” and Nobili clinched his fist.  “The marchesa is the most cursed thing God ever created!”

CHAPTER VII.

THE CLUB AT LUCCA.

The piazza at Lucca is surrounded by four avenues of plane-trees.  In the centre stands the colossal statue of a Bourbon with disheveled hair, a cornucopia at her feet.  Facing the west is the ducal palace, a spacious modern building, in which the sovereigns of Lucca kept a splendid court.  Here Cesare Trenta had flourished.  Opposite the palace is the Hotel of the Universo, where, as we know, Count Marescotti lodged at No. 4, on the second story.  Midway in the piazza a deep and narrow street dives into the body of the city—­a street of many colors, with houses red, gray, brown, and tawny, mellowed and tempered by the hand of Time into rich tints that melt into warm shadows.  In the background rise domes, and towers, and mediaeval church-fronts, galleried and fretted with arches, pillars, and statues.  Here a golden mosaic blazes in the sun, yonder a brazen San Michele with outstretched arms rises against the sky; and, scattered up and down, many a grand old palace-roof uprears its venerable front, with open pillared belvedere, adorned with ancient frescoes.  A dull, sleepy old city, Lucca, but full of beauty!

On the opposite side of the piazza, behind the plane-trees, stand two separate buildings, of no particular pretension, other than that both are of marble.  One is the theatre, the other is the club.  About the club there is some attempt at ornamentation.  A wide portico, raised on broad steps, runs along the entire front, supported by Corinthian columns.  Under this portico there are orange-trees in green stands, rows of chairs, and tables laid with white table-cloths, plates, and napkins, ready for an al-fresco meal.