“You may retire,” he said to Teresa.  “I will take charge of the signorina.”

“But—­Signore Cavaliere”—­and Teresa, feeling the affront, colored scarlet—­“the marchesa’s positive orders were, I was not to leave the signorina.”

“Never mind,” answered the cavaliere, authoritatively, “I will take that on myself.  You can retire.”

Teresa, swelling with anger, remained in the court.  The cavaliere offered his arm to Enrica.  She turned and addressed a few words to the exasperated Teresa; then, led by Trenta, she passed into the street.  Upon the threshold, Count Marescotti met them.

“This is indeed an honor,” he said, addressing Enrica—­his face beamed, and he bowed to the ground.  “I trembled lest the marchesa should have forbidden your coming.”

“So did I,” answered Enrica, frankly.  “I am so glad.  I fear that my aunt is not altogether pleased; but she has said nothing, and I came.”

She spoke with such eagerness, she saw that the count was surprised.  This made her blush.  At any other time such an expedition as that they were about to make would have been delightful to her for its own sake, Enrica was so shut up within the palace, except on the rare occasions when she accompanied Teresa to mass, or took a formal drive on the ramparts at sundown with her aunt.  But now she was full of anxiety about Nobili.  They had not met for a week—­he had not written to her even.  Should she see him in the street?  Should she see him from the top of the tower?  Perhaps he was at home at that very moment watching her.  She gave a furtive glance upward at the stern old palace before her.  The thick walls of sun-dried bricks looked cruel; the massive Venetian casements mocked her.  The outer blinds shut out all hope.  Alas! there was not a chink anywhere.  Even the great doors were closed.

“Ah! if Teresa could have warned him that I was coming!”—­and she gave a great sigh.  “If he only knew that I was here, standing in the very street!  Oh, for one glimpse of his dear, bright face!”

Again Enrica sighed, and again she gazed up wistfully at the closed facade.

Meanwhile the cavaliere and Baldassare were engaged in a violent altercation.  Baldassare had proposed walking to the church of San Frediano, which, in consideration of the cavaliere’s wishes, they were to visit first.  “No one would think of driving such a short distance,” he insisted.  “The sun was not hot, and the streets were all in shade.”  The cavaliere retorted that “it was too hot for any lady to walk,” swung his stick menacingly in the air, called Baldassare “an imbecile,” and peremptorily ordered him to call a fiacre.  Baldassare turned scarlet in the face, and rudely refused to move.

“He was not a servant,” he said.  “He would do nothing unless treated like a gentleman.”

This was spoken as he hurled what he intended to be a tremendous glance of indignation at the cavaliere.  It produced no effect whatever.  With an exasperating smile, the cavaliere again desired Baldassare to do as he was bid, or else to go home.  The count interposed, a fiacre was called, in which they all seated themselves.