“Yes, yes, my dear count,” he answers aloud, “we have much to say to each other—­much to say on a most interesting subject.”  And he gives the count what he intends to be a very meaning glance.

“Interesting!” exclaims the count, his whole countenance lighting up—­“enthralling, overwhelming!—­a matter to me of life or death!”

As he speaks he turns aside, and begins to stride up and down the room, as was his wont when much moved.

“He! he! my dear count, pray be calm.”  And Trenta gives a little laugh, and feebly winks.  “We hope it is a matter of life, not of death—­no—­not of death, surely.”

“Of death,” replied the count, solemnly, and his mobile eyes flash out, and a dark frown gathers on his brow—­“of death, I repeat.  Do you take me for a trifler?  I stake my life on the die.”

Trenta felt considerably puzzled.  Before he begins, he is anxious to assure himself that the nature of his errand had at least distinctly dawned upon the count’s mind, if it had not (as he hoped) been fully understood by him.  Should he let Marescotti speak first; or should he, Trenta, address him formally?  In order to decide, he again scans the count’s face closely.  But, after doing so, he is obliged to confess that Marescotti is impenetrable.  Now he no longer strode up and down the room, but he has seated himself opposite the cavaliere, and again his speaking eyes have wandered off toward the book which he has been reading.  It is evident he is mentally resuming the same train of thought Trenta’s entrance had interrupted.  Trenta feels therefore that he must begin.  He has prepared himself for some transcendentalism on the subject of marriage; but with a man who is so much in love as Count Marescotti, and who was about to send for him and to tell him so, there can be no great difficulty; nor can it matter much who opens the conversation.  The cavaliere takes a spotless handkerchief from his pocket, uses it, replaces it, then coughs.

“Count,” he begins, in a tone of conscious importance, “when I proposed this meeting, it was to make you a proposal calculated to exercise the utmost influence over your future life, and—­the life of another,” he adds, in a lower tone.  “You appear to have anticipated me by desiring to send for me.  You are, of course, aware of my errand?”

As he asks this question, there is, spite of himself, a slight tremor in his voice, and the usual ruddiness of his cheeks pales a little.

“How very mysterious!” exclaims the count, throwing himself back in his chair.  “You look like a benevolent conspirator, cavaliere!  Surely, my dear old friend, you are not about to change your opinions, and to become a disciple of freedom?”

“Change my opinions!  At my age, count!—­Che, che!”—­Trenta waves his hand impatiently.  “When a man arrives at my age, he does not change his opinions—­no, count, no; it is, if you will permit me to say so, it is yourself in whom the change is to be wrought—­yourself only—­”