his deadliest enemies.  These enemies, rather than see the supreme power vested in each other, united to advance him.  The first triumvirate was the consequence of the meeting.  Ages pass by.  The Roman Empire dissolves.  Barbarians invade Italy.  Lucca is an independent state—­not long to remain so, however, for the Countess Matilda, daughter of Duke Bonifazio, is born within her walls.  At Lucca Countess Matilda holds her court.  By her counsels, assistance, and the rich legacy of her patrimonial dominions, she founds the temporal power of the papacy.  To Lucca came, in the fifteenth century, Charles VIII. of France, presumptuous enough to attempt the conquest of Naples; also that mighty dissembler, Charles V. to meet the reigning pontiff Paul III. in our cathedral of San Martino.  But more precious far to me than the traditions of the shadowy pomp of defunct tyrants is the remembrance that Lucca was the Geneva of Italy—­that these streets beneath us resounded to the public teaching of the Reformation!  Such progress, indeed, had the reformers made, that it was publicly debated in the city council, ’If Lucca should declare herself Protestant—­’”

“Per Bacco! a disgraceful fact in our history!” burst out Trenta, a look of horror in his round blue eyes.  “Hide it, hide it, count!  For the love of Heaven!  You do not expect me to rejoice at this?  Pray, when you mention it, add that the Protestants were obliged to flee for their lives, and that Lucca purified itself by abject submission to the Holy Father.”

“Yes; and what came of that?” cried the count, raising his voice, a sudden flush of anger mounting over his face.  “The Church—­your Catholic and Apostolic Church—­established the Inquisition.  The Inquisition condemned to the flames the greatest prophet and teacher since the apostles—­Savonarola!”

Trenta, knowing how deeply Marescotti’s feelings were engaged in the subject of Savonarola, was too courteous to desire any further discussion.  But at the same time he was determined, if possible, to hear no more of what was to him neither more nor less than blasphemy.

“Do you know how long we have been up here, count?” he asked, taking out his watch.  “Enrica must return.  I hope you won’t detain us,” he said, with a pitiful look at the count, who seemed preparing for an oration in honor of the mediaeval martyr.  “I have already got a violent rheumatism in my shoulder.—­Here, Baldassare, open the trap-door, and let us go down.—­Where is Baldassare?—­Baldassare!  Where are you, imbecile?  Baldassare, I say!  Why, diamine!  Where can the boy be?  He’s not been privately practising his last new step behind the bay-trees, and taken a false one over the parapet?”

The small space was easily searched.  Baldassare was discovered sketched at full length and fast asleep under a bench on the other side of the bay-trees.

“Ah, wretch!” grumbled the old chamberlain, “if you sleep like this you will outlive me, who mean to flourish for the next hundred years.  He’s always asleep, except when dancing,” he added indignantly appealing to Marescotti.  “Look at him.  There’s beauty without expression.  Doesn’t he inspire you?  Endymion who has overslept himself and missed Diana—­Narcissus overcome by the sight of his own beauty.”