This was addressed to the marchesa, who had caught him by the tails of his immaculate blue coat and forced him into a seat beside her.

“Vive la bagatelle!  Where shall we go?  You cannot refuse the count,” he added, giving the marchesa a meaning look.  “What shall we do?  Let us all propose something.  Let me see.  I propose to improve Enrica’s mind.  She is young—­the young have need of improvement.  I propose to take her to the church of San Frediano and to show her the ancient fresco representing the discovery of the Holy Countenance; also the Trenta chapel, containing the tombs of my family.  I will try to explain to her their names and history.—­What do you say to this, my child?”

And the cavaliere turned to Enrica, who, little accustomed to be noticed at all, much less to occupy the whole conversation, looked supplicatingly at her aunt.  She would gladly have run out of the room if she had dared.

“No, no,” exclaimed the irrepressible Baldassare, from the corner.  “Never!  What a ghastly idea!  Tombs and a mouldy old church!  You may find satisfaction, Signore Trenta, in the contemplation of your tomb, but the signorina is not eighty, nor am I, nor is the count.  I propose that after being shut up so many years the Guinigi Palace be thrown open, and a ball given on the first floor in honor of the signorina.  There should be a band from Florence and presents from Paris for the cotillon.  What do you say to that, Signora Marchesa?” asked the misguided young man, with unconscious self-satisfaction.

If a mine had sprung under the marchesa’s feet, she could not have been more horrified.  What she would have said to Baldassare is difficult to guess, but fortunately for him, while she was struggling for words in which she could suitably express her sense of his presumption, Trenta, seeing what was coming, was beforehand.

“Be silent, Baldassare,” he exclaimed, “or, per Dio, I will never bring you here again.”

Before Baldassare could offer his apologies, the count burst in—­

“I propose that we shall show the signorina something that will amuse her.”  He thought for a moment.  “Have you ever ascended the old tower of this palace?” he asked.

Enrica shook her head.

“Then I propose the Guinigi Tower—­the stairs are rather rickety, but they are not unsafe.  I was there the last time I visited Lucca.  The view over the Apennines is superb.  Will you trust yourself to us, signorina?”

Enrica raised her head and looked at him hesitatingly, glanced at her aunt, then looked at him again.  Until the marchesa had spoken she dared not reply.  She longed to go.  If she ascended the tower, might she not see Nobili?  She had not set her eyes on him for a whole week.

Marescotti saw her hesitation, but he misunderstood the cause.  He returned her look with an ardent glance.  Where was the young Madonna leading him?  He did not stop to inquire, but surrendered himself to the enchantment of her presence.