Enrica had been the agent by which all this had been effected, therefore she regarded Enrica at this time with more consideration than she had ever done before.  As to any real sentiments of affection, the marchesa was incapable of them—­a cold, hard woman from her youth, now vindictive, as well as cold.

The day after the signing of the contract she called Enrica to her.  Enrica trod lightly across the stuccoed floor to where her aunt was standing; then she stopped and waited for her to address her.  The marchesa took Enrica’s hand within her own for some minutes, and silently stroked each rosy finger.

“My child Enrica, are you content?” This question was accompanied by an inquiring look, as if she would read Enrica through and through.  A sweet smile of ineffable happiness stole over Enrica’s soft face.  The marchesa, still holding her hand, uttered something which might almost be called a sigh.  “I hope this will last, else—­” She broke off abruptly.

Enrica, resenting the implied doubt, disengaged her hand, and drew back from her.  The marchesa, not appearing to observe this, continued: 

“I had other views for you, Enrica; but, before you knew any thing, you chose a husband for yourself.  What do you know about a husband?  It is a bad choice.”

Again Enrica drew back still farther from her aunt, and lifted up her head as if in remonstrance.  But the marchesa was not to be stopped.

“I hate Count Nobili!” she burst out.  “I have had my eye upon him ever since he came to Lucca.  I know him—­you do not.  It is possible he may change, but if he does not—­”

For the second time the marchesa did not finish the sentence.

“And do you think he loves you?”

As she asked this question she seated herself, and contemplated Enrica with a cynical smile.

“Yes, he loves me.  It is you who do not know him!” exclaimed Enrica.  “He is so good, so generous, so true; there is no one in the world like him.”

How pure Enrica looked, pleading for her lover!—­her face thrown out in sharp profile against the dark wall; her short upper lip raised by her eager speech; the dazzling fairness of her complexion; and her soft hair hanging loose about her head and neck.

“I think I do—­I think I know him better than you do,” the marchesa answered, somewhat absently.

She was struck by Enrica’s exceeding beauty, which seemed within the last few days to have suddenly developed and matured.

“The young man appreciates you, too, I do not doubt.  I am told he is a lover of beauty.”

This was added with a sneer.  Enrica grew crimson.

“Well, well,” the marchesa went on to say, “it is too late now—­the thing is done.  But remember I have warned you.  You chose Count Nobili, not I. Enrica, I have done my duty to you and to my own name.  Now go and tell the cavaliere I want him.”

The marchesa was always wanting the cavaliere; she was closeted with him for hours at a time.  These conferences all ended in one conclusion—­that she was irretrievably ruined.  No one knew this better than the marchesa herself; but her haughty reluctance either to accept Count Nobili’s money, or to give up Enrica, was the cause of unknown distress to Trenta.