It is quite clear that Trenta is come on a mission of great importance; his sleek air, and the solemnly official expression of his plump rosy face, say so.  His glassy blue eyes are without their pleasant twinkle, and his lips, tightly drawn over his teeth, lack their usual benignant smile.  Even his fat white hand dimples itself on the top of his cane, so tightly does he clutch it.  He has learned below that Count Marescotti lives at No. 4 on the second story; at the door of No. 4 he raps softly.  A voice from within asks, “Who is there?”

“I,” replies Trenta, and he enters.

The count, who is seated at a table near the window, rises.  His tall figure is enveloped in a dark dressing-gown, that folds about him like a toga.  He has all the aspect of a man roused out of deep thought; his black hair stands straight up in disordered curls all over his head—­he had evidently been digging both his hands into it—­his eyes are wild and abstracted.  Taken as he is now, unawares, that expression of mingled sternness and sweetness in which he so much resembles Castruccio Castracani is very striking.  From the manner he fixes his eyes upon Trenta it is clear he does not at once recognize him.  The cavaliere returns his stare with a look of blank dismay.

“Oh, carissimo!” the count exclaims at last, his countenance changing to its usual expression—­he holds out both hands to grasp those of the cavaliere—­“how I rejoice to see you!  Excuse my absence; I had forgotten our appointment at the moment.  That book”—­and he points to an open volume lying on a table covered with letters, manuscripts, and piles of printed sheets tossed together in wild confusion—­“that book must plead my excuse; it has riveted me.  The wrongs of persecuted Italy are so eloquently pleaded!  Have you read it, my dear cavaliere?  If not, allow me to present you with a copy.”

Trenta made a motion with his hand, as if putting both the book and the subject from him with a certain disgust:  he shakes his head.

“I have not read it, and I do not wish to read it,” he replies, curtly.

The poor cavaliere feels that this is a bad beginning; but he quickly consoles himself—­he was of a hopeful temperament, and saw life serenely and altogether in rose-color—­by remembering that the count is habitually absent, also that he habitually uses strong language, and that he had probably not been so absorbed by the wrongs of Italy as he pretends.

“I fear you have forgotten our appointment, count,” recommences the cavaliere, finding that Marescotti is silent, and that his eyes have wandered off to the pages of the open book.

“Not at all, not at all, my dear Trenta.  On the contrary, had you not come, I was about to send for you.  I have a very important matter to communicate to you.”

The cavaliere’s face now breaks out all over into smiles.  “Send for me,” he repeats to himself.  “Good, good!  I understand.”  He seats himself with great deliberation in a large, well-stuffed arm-chair, near the table, at which Marescotti still continues standing.  He places his cane across his knees, folds his hands together, then looks up in the other’s face.