Yet with these lofty views, these grand aspirations, with unbounded faith, and unbounded energy and generosity, Marescotti achieved nothing.  He wanted the power of concentration, of bringing his energies to bear on any one particular object.  His mind was like an old cabinet, crowded with artistic rubbish—­gems and rarities, jewels of price and pearls of the purest water, hidden among faded flowers; old letters, locks of hair, daggers, tinsel reliquaries, crosses, and modern grimcracks—­all that was incongruous, piled together pell-mell in hopeless confusion.

His countrymen, singularly timid and conventional, and always unwilling to admit new ideas upon any subject unless imperatively forced upon them, did not understand him.  They did not appreciate either his originality or the real strength of his character.  He differed from them and their mediaeval usages—­therefore he must be wrong.  He was called eccentric by his friends, a lunatic by his enemies.  He was neither.  But he lived much alone; he had dreamed rather than reflected, and he had planned instead of acting.

“Count Marescotti,” said the marchesa, holding out her hand, “I salute you.—­Baldassare, you are welcome.”

The intonation of her voice, the change in her manner, gave the exact degree of consideration proper to accord to the head of an ancient Roman family, and the dandy son of a Lucca chemist.  And, lest it should be thought strange that the Marchesa Guinigi should admit Baldassare at all to her presence, I must explain that Baldassare was a protege, almost a double, of the cavaliere, who insisted upon taking him wherever he went.  If you received the cavaliere, you must, perforce, receive Baldassare also.  No one could explain why this was so.  They were continually quarreling, yet they were always together.  Their intimacy had been the subject of many jokes and some gossip; but the character of the cavaliere was immaculate, and Baldassare’s mother (now dead) had never lived at Lucca.  Trenta, when spoken to on the subject of his partiality, said he was “educating him” to fill his place as master of the ceremonies in Lucchese society.  Except when specially bullied by the cavaliere—­who greatly enjoyed tormenting him in public—­Baldassare was inoffensive and useful.

Now he pressed forward to the front.

“Signora Marchesa,” he said, eagerly, “allow me to make my excuses to you.”

The marchesa turned a surprised and distant gaze upon him; but Baldassare was not to be discouraged.  He had that tough skin of true vulgarity which is impervious to any thing but downright hard blows.

“Allow me to make my excuses,” he continued.  “The cavaliere here has been scolding me all the way up-stairs for not bringing Count Marescotti sooner to you.  I could not.”

Marescotti bowed an acquiescence.

“While we were standing in the street, waiting to know if the noble lady received, an old beggar, known in Lucca as the Hermit of Pizzorna, come down from the mountains for the festival, passed by.”