When Prince Ruspoli left him, Nobili felt as battered and sore as if a whirlwind had caught him, then let him go, and he had dropped to earth a broken man.  Yet in the turmoil of his brain a pale, scared little face, with wild, beseeching eyes, was ever before him.  It would not leave him.  What was this horrible nightmare that had come over him in the heyday of his joy?  It was so vague, yet so tangible if judged by its effect on others.  Others held Enrica dishonored, that was clear.  Was she dishonored?  He was bound to her by every tie of honor.  He loved her.  She had a charm for him no other woman ever possessed, and she loved him.  A women’s eye, he told himself, had never deceived him.  Yes, she loved him.  Yet if Enrica were as guileless as she seemed, how could she conceal from him she had another lover—­less loved perhaps than he—­but still a lover?  And this lover had refused to marry her?  That was the stab.  That every one in Lucca should know his future bride had been scouted by another man who had turned a rhyme upon her, and left her!  Could he bear this?

What were Enrica’s relations with Marescotti?  Some one had said she had accepted him.  Nobili was sure he had heard this.  He, Marescotti, must have approached her nearly by her own confession.  He had celebrated her in sonnets, amorous sonnets—­damnable thought!—­gone with her to the Guinigi Tower—­then rejected her!  A mist seemed to gather about Nobili as he thought of this.  He grew stupid in long vistas of speculation.  Had Enrica not dared to meet him—­Nobili—­clandestinely?  Was not this very act unmaidenly? (Such are men:  they urge the slip, the fall, then judge a woman by the force of their own urging!) Had Enrica met Marescotti in secret also?  No—­impossible!  The scared, white face was before Nobili, now plainer than ever.  No—­he hated himself for the very thought.  All the chivalry of his nature rose up to acquit her.

Still there was a mystery.  How far was Enrica concerned in it?  Would she have married Count Marescotti?  Trenta was away, or he would question him. Had he better ask?  What might he hear?  Some one had deceived him grossly.  The marchesa would stick at nothing; yet what could the marchesa have done without Enrica?  Nobili was perplexed beyond expression.  He buried his head within his arms, and leaned upon a table in an agony of doubt.  Then he paced up and down the splendid room, painted with frescoed walls, and hung with rose and silver draperies from Paris (it was to have been Enrica’s boudoir), looking south into a delicious town-garden, with statues, and flower-beds, and terraces of marble diamonded in brilliant colors.  To be so cheated!—­to be the laughing-stock of Lucca!  Good God! how could he bear it?  To marry a wife who would be pointed at with whispered words!  Of all earthly things this was the bitterest!  Could he bear it?—­and Enrica—­would she not suffer?  And if she did, what then?  Why, she deserved it—­she must deserve it, else why was she accused?  Enrica was treacherous—­the tool of her aunt.  He could not doubt it.  If she cared for him at all, it was for the sake of his money—­hateful thought!—­yet, having signed the contract, he supposed he must give her the name of wife.  But the future mother of his children was branded.