“But—­a thousand pardons!” cried Marescotti, gradually waking up to some social energy, “I have been talking only of myself!  Talking of myself in your presence, ladies!—­What can we do to amuse your niece, marchesa?  Lucca is horribly dull.  If she is to go neither to festivals nor to balls, it will not be possible for her to exist here.”

“It will be quite possible,” answered the marchesa, greatly displeased at the turn the conversation was taking.  “Quite possible, if I choose it.  Enrica will exist where I please.  You forget she has lived here for seventeen years.  You see she has not died of it.  She stays at home by my order, count.”

Enrica cast a pleading look at her aunt, as if to say, “Can I help all this?” As for Count Marescotti, he was far too much engrossed with his own thoughts to be aware that he was treading on delicate ground.

“But, marchesa,” he urged, “you can’t really keep your niece any longer shut up like the fairy princess in the tower.  Let me be permitted to act the part of the fairy prince and liberate her.”

Again he had turned, and again his glowing eyes fixed themselves on Enrica, who had withdrawn as much as possible behind the curtains.  Her cheeks were dyed with blushes.  She shrank from the count’s too ardent glances, as though those glances were an involuntary treason to Nobili.

“Something must be done,” muttered the count, meditating.

“Will you trust your niece with Cavaliere Trenta, and permit me to accompany them on some little excursion in the city, to make up for the loss of the cathedral and the ball?”

The marchesa, who found the count decidedly troublesome, not to say impertinent, had opened her lips to give an unqualified negative, but another glance from Trenta checked her.

“An excellent idea,” put in the cavaliere, before she could speak.  “With me, marchesa—­with me” he added, looking at her deprecatingly.

Trenta loved Enrica better than any thing in the world, but carefully concealed it, the better to serve her with her aunt.

“As for me, I am ready for any thing.”  And, to show his agility, he rose, and, with the help of his stick, made a glissade on the floor.

Baldassare laughed out loud from the corner.  It gratified his wounded vanity to see his elder ridiculous.

Marescotti, greatly alarmed, started forward and offered his arm, in order to lead the cavaliere back to his seat, but Trenta indignantly refused his assistance.  The marchesa shook her head.

“Calm yourself,” she said, looking at him compassionately.  “Calm yourself, Cesarino, I should not like you to have a fit in my house.”

“Fit!—­che che?” cried Trenta, angrily.  “Not while I am in the presence of the young and fair,” he added, recovering himself.  “It is that which has kept me alive all this time.  No, marchesa, I refuse to sit down again.  I refuse to sit down, or to take a hand at your rubber, until something is settled.”