And Enrica!—­the thought of Enrica pierced through him like the stab of a knife.  Nobili sprang to his feet, pressed both hands to his bosom, then sank down again, utterly bewildered.  Enrica!—­He had forgotten her!  He, Nobili, was it possible?  Forgotten her!—­A pale plaintive face rose up before him, with soft, pleading eyes.  There was the little head, with its tangled meshes of yellow curls, the slight girlish figure, the little feet.  “Enrica! my Enrica!” he cried aloud, so palpable did her presence seem—­“I love you, I love you only!” He dashed, as it were, Nera’s image from him.  She had tempted him—­tempted him with all the fullness of her beauty, tempted him—­and he had yielded!  On a sudden it came over him.  Yes, she had tempted him.  She had followed him—­pursued him rather.  Wherever he went, there Nera was before him.  He recalled it all.  And how he had avoided her with the avoidance of an instinct!  He clinched his fists as he thought of it.  What devil had possessed him to fall headlong into the snare?  What was Nera—­or any other woman—­to him now?  If he had been obliged to dance with her, why had he yielded to her?

“I will never speak to her again,” was his instant resolve.  But the next moment he remembered that he had been indirectly the cause of an accident which might have been fatal.  He must see her once more if she were visible—­or, if not, he must see her mother.  Common humanity demanded this.  Then he would set eyes on her no more.  He had almost come to hate her, for the spell she had thrown over him.

But for Enrica he would have left Lucca altogether for a time.  What had passed that evening would be the subject of general gossip.  He remembered with shame—­and as he did so the blood rushed over his face and brow—­how openly he had displayed his admiration.  He remembered the hot glances he had cast upon Nera.  He remembered how he had leaned entranced over her chair; how he had pressed her to him in the fury of that wild waltz, her white arms entwined round him—­the fragrance of the red roses she wore in her hair mounting to his brain!  At the moment he had been too much entranced to observe what was passing about him.  Now he recalled glances and muttered words.  The savage look Ruspoli had cast on him, when he led her up to him in one of the figures of the cotillon; how Malatesta had grinned at him—­how Orsetti had whispered “Bravo!” in his ear.  Might not some rumor of all this reach Enrica?—­through Trenta, perhaps, or that chattering fool, Baldassare?  If they spoke of the accident, they would surely connect his name with that of Nera.  Would they say he was in love with her?  He grew cold as he thought of it.