She waited for a reply.  What was the cavaliere to answer?  He loved Enrica dearly, but he dared not say so, lest he should offend the marchesa.  He feared that if he spoke he should assuredly say too much.  Well as he knew her, the marchesa’s egotism horrified him.

“Poor Enrica!” he muttered, involuntarily, half aloud.

The marchesa caught at the name.

“Enrica?—­yes.  From the time of my husband’s death I have sacrificed my life to the duties imposed on me by my position.  So must Enrica.  No personal feeling for her shall bias me in the least.”

Her eyes were fixed on those of Trenta.  She paused again, and passed her white hand slowly one over the other.  The cavaliere looked down; he durst not meet her glance, lest she should read his thoughts.  Thinking of Enrica at that moment, he absolutely hated her!

“What would you advise me to do?” she asked, at last.  Her voice fell as she put the question.

Trenta had been waiting for this direct appeal.  Now his tongue was unloosed.

“I will tell you, Signora Marchesa, plainly what I would advise you to do,” was his answer.  “Let Enrica marry Marescotti.  Put the whole matter into my hands, if you have sufficient confidence in me.”

“Remember, Trenta, the humiliation!”

“What humiliation?” asked the cavaliere, with surprise.

“The humiliation involved in the confession that my niece is almost portionless.”  The words seemed to choke her.  “She will inherit all I have to leave,” and she glanced significantly at the cavaliere; “but that is—­you understand me?—­uncertain.”

“Bagatella!—­that will be all right,” he rejoined, with alacrity.  “The idea of money will not sway Marescotti in the least.  He is wealthy—­a fine fellow.  Have no fear of that.  Leave it all to me, Enrica, and Marescotti.  I am an old courtier.  Many a royal marriage has passed through my hands.  Per Bacco—­though no one but the duke knew it—­through my hands!  You may trust me, marchesa.”

There was a proud consciousness of the past in the old man’s face.  He showed such perfect confidence in himself that he imparted the same confidence to the marchesa.

“I would trust no one else, Cesarino,” she said, rising from her chair.  “But be cautious; bind me to nothing until we meet again.  I must hear all that passes between you and the count, then judge for myself.”

“I will obey you in all things, noble lady,” replied Trenta, submissively.

How he dreaded betraying his secret exultation!  To emancipate Enrica from her miserable life by an honorable marriage, was, to his benevolent heart, infinite happiness!

“Good-night, marchesa.  May you repose well!”

“Good-night, Cesarino—­a rivederci!”

So they parted.

CHAPTER IX.

THE COUNTESS ORSETTI’S BALL.