The count, who is still leaning back in his chair in an attitude of polite attention, starts violently, sits straight upright, and fixes his eyes upon Trenta.

“What do you mean, cavaliere?  After a life devoted to my country, you cannot imagine I should change?  The very idea is offensive to me.”

“No, no, my dear count, you misapprehend me,” rejoins Trenta, soothingly. (He perceived the mistake into which the word “change” had led Count Marescotti, and dreaded exciting his too susceptible feelings.) “It is no change of that kind I allude to; the change I mean is in the nature of a reward for the life of sacrifice you have led—­a reward, a consolation to your fervid spirit.  It is to bring you into an atmosphere of peace, happiness, and love.  To reconcile you perhaps, as a son, erring, but repentant, with that Holy Mother Church to which you still belong.  This is the change I am come to offer you.”

As the cavaliere proceeds, the count’s expressive eyes follow every word he utters with a look of amazement.  He is about to reply, but Trenta places his finger on his lips.

“Let me continue,” he says, smiling blandly.  “When I have done, you shall answer.  In one word, count, it is marriage I am come to propose to you.”

The count suddenly rises from his seat, then he hurriedly reseats himself.  A look of pain comes into his face.

“Permit me to proceed,” urges the cavaliere, watching him anxiously.  “I presume you mean to marry?”

Marescotti was silent.  Trenta’s naturally piping voice grows shriller as he proceeds, from a certain sense of agitation.

“As the common friend of both parties, I am come to propose a marriage to you, Count Marescotti.”

“And who may the lady be?” asks the count, drawing back with a sudden air of reserve.  “Who is it that would consent to leave home and friends, perhaps country, to share the lot of a fugitive patriot?”

“Come, come, count, this will not do,” answers Trenta, smiling, a certain twinkle returning to his blue eyes.  “You are a perfectly free agent.  If you are a fugitive, it is because you like change.  You bear a great name—­you are rich, singularly handsome—­an ardent admirer of beauty in art and Nature.  Now, ardor on one side excites ardor on the other.”

While he is speaking, Trenta had mentally decided that Marescotti was the most impracticable man he had ever encountered in the various phases of his court career.

“A fugitive,” he repeats, almost with a sneer.  “No, no, count, this will not do with me.”  The cavaliere pauses and clears his throat.

“You have not yet answered me,” says the count, speaking low, a certain suppressed eagerness penetrating the assumed indifference of his manner.  “Who is the lady?”

“Who is the lady?” echoes the cavaliere.  “Did you not tell me just now you were about to send for me?” Trenta speaks fast, a flush overspreads his cheeks.  “Who is the lady?—­You astonish me!  Per Bacco!  There can be but one lady in question between you and me—­that lady is Enrica Guinigi.”  His voice drops.  There is a dead silence.