Ah! could the marchesa have heard this, she would never have spoken to Trenta again!

“You gratify me exceedingly, cavaliere,” replied Nobili, really pleased at the old man’s praise.  “I desire, as far as I can, to become Lucchese at heart.  Why should not the festivals of New Italy exceed those of the old days?  At least, I shall do my best that it be so.”

“Eh? eh?” replied Trenta, rubbing his nose with a doubtful expression; “difficult—­very difficult.  In the old days, my young friend, society was a system.  Each sovereign was the centre of a permanent court circle.  There were many sovereigns and many circles—­many purses, too, to pay the expenses of each circle.  Now it is all hap-hazard; no money, no court, no king.”

“No king?” exclaimed Nobili, with surprise.

“I beg pardon, count,” answered the urbane Trenta, remembering Nobili’s liberal politics—­“I mean no society.  Society, as a system, has ceased to exist in Italy.  But we must think of the cotillon.  It is now twelve o’clock.  There will be supper.  Then we must soon begin.  You, count, are to dance with Nera Boccarini.  You came so late we were obliged to arrange it for you.”

Nobili colored crimson.

“Does the lady—­does Nera Boccarini know this?” he asked, and as he asked his color heightened.

“Well, I cannot tell you, but I presume she does.  Count Orsetti will have told her.  The cotillon was settled early.  You have no objection to dance with her, I presume?”

“None—­none in the world.  Why should I?” replied Nobili, hastily (now the color of his cheeks had grown crimson).  “Only—­only I might not have selected her.”  The cavaliere looked up at him with evident surprise.  “Am I obliged to dance the cotillon at all, cavaliere?” added Nobili, more and more confused.  “Can’t I sit out?”

“Oh, impossible—­simply impossible!” cried Trenta, authoritatively.  “Every couple is arranged.  Not a man could fill your place; the whole thing would be a failure.”

“I am sorry,” answered Nobili, in a low voice—­“sorry all the same.”

“Now go, and find your partner,” said Trenta, not heeding this little speech.  “I am about to have the chairs arranged.  Go and find your partner.”

“Now what could make Nobili object to dance with Nera Boccarini?” Trenta asked himself, when Nobili was gone, striking his stick loudly on the floor, as a sign for the music to cease.

There was an instant silence.  The gentlemen handed the ladies to a long gallery, the last of the suite of the rooms on the ground-floor.  Here a buffet was arranged.  The musicians also were refreshed with good wine and liquors, before the arduous labors of the cotillon commenced.  No brilliant cotillon ends before 8 A.M.; then there is breakfast and driving home by daylight at ten o’clock.