“It is nothing but a sonnet found among Marescotti’s papers.”  Orsetti now was speaking.  “Marescotti has fled from the police.  Nothing but a sonnet addressed to the lady—­a poet’s day-dream—­untrue of course.”

“Will no one tell me what the sonnet said?” demanded Nobili.  He had mastered himself for the moment.

“Stuff, stuff!” cried Ruspoli.  “Every pretty woman has heaps of sonnets and admirers.  It is a brevet of beauty.  After all this row, it was only an offer of marriage made to Count Marescotti and refused by him.  Probably the lady never knew it.”

“Oh, yes, she did, she accepted him,” sounded from behind.  It was Baldassare, whose vanity was piqued because no one had referred to him for information.

“Accepted!  Refused by Count Marescotti!” Nobili caught and repeated the words in a voice so strange, it sounded like the echo from a vault.

“Wall! by Jove!  It’s five o’clock!” exclaimed Prince Ruspoli, looking at his watch.  “My dear fellow,” he said, addressing Nobili, “I have an appointment on the ramparts; will you go with me?” He passed his arm through that of Nobili.  It was a painful scene, which Ruspoli desired to end.  Nobili shook his head.  He was so stunned and dazed he could not speak.

“If it is five o’clock,” said Malatesta, “I must go too.”

Malatesta drew Nobili a little apart.  “Don’t think too much of this, Nobili.  It will all blow over and be forgotten in a month.  Take your wife a trip to Paris or London.  We shall hear no more of it, believe me.  Good-by.”

“Count Nobili,” called out Franchi, from the other end of the portico, making a languid bow, “after all that I have heard, I congratulate you on your marriage most sincerely.”

Nobili did not hear him.  All were gone.  He was alone with Ruspoli.  His head had dropped upon his breast.  There was the shadow of a tear in Prince Ruspoli’s steely eye.  It was not enough to be brushed off, for it absorbed itself and came to nothing, but it was there nevertheless.

“Wall, Mario,” he said, apparently unmoved, “it seems to me the club is made too hot to hold you.  Come home.”

Nobili nodded.  He was so weak he had to hang heavily on Prince Ruspoli’s arm as they crossed the piazza.  Prince Ruspoli did not leave him until he saw him safe to his own door.

“You will judge what is right to do,” were Ruspoli’s last words.  “But do not be guided by those young scamps.  They live in mischief.  If you love the girl, marry her—­that is my advice.”

CHAPTER VIII.

COUNT NOBILI’S THOUGHTS.