“That the marriage is suitable in all respects,” Trenta continues, reassured by the silence—­“I need not tell you; else I, Cesare Trenta, would not be here as the ambassador.”

Again the stout little cavaliere stops to take breath, under evident agitation; then he draws himself up, and turns his face toward the count.  As Trenta proceeds, Marescotti’s brow is overclouded with thought—­a haggard expression now spreads over his features.  His eyes are turned downward on the floor, else the cavaliere might have seen that their brilliancy is dimmed by rising tears.  With his elbow resting on the arm of the chair on which he sits, the count passes his other hand from time to time slowly to and fro across his forehead, pushing back the disordered curls that fall upon it.

“To restore and to continue an illustrious race—­to unite yourself with a lovely girl just bursting into womanhood.”  Trenta’s voice quivers as he says this.  “Ah! lovely indeed, in mind as well as body,” he adds, half aloud.  “This is a privilege you, Count Marescotti, can appreciate above all other men.  That you do appreciate it you have already made evident.  There is no need for me to speak about Enrica herself; you have already judged her.  You have, before my eyes, approached her with the looks and the language of passionate admiration.  It is not given to all men to be so fascinating.  I have seen it with delight.  I love her”—­his voice broke and shook with emotion—­“I love her as if she were my own child.”

All the enthusiasm of which the old chamberlain is capable passes into his face as he speaks of Enrica.  At that moment he really did look as young as he was continually telling every one that he felt.

“Count Marescotti,” he continues, a solemn tone in his voice as he slowly pronounces the words, raising his head at the same time, and gazing fixedly into the other’s face—­Count Marescotti, “I am come here to propose a marriage between you and Enrica Guinigi.  The marchesa empowers me to say that she constitutes Enrica her sole heiress, not only of the great Guinigi name, but of the remaining Guinigi palace, with the portrait of our Castruccio, the heirlooms, the castle of Corellia, and lands of—­”

“Stop, stop, my dear Trenta!” cries the count, holding up both his hands in remonstrance; “you overwhelm me.  I require no such inducements; they horrify me.  Enrica Guinigi is sufficient in herself—­so bright a jewel requires no golden settings.”

At these words the cavaliere beams all over.  He rubs his fat hands together, then gently claps them.

“Bravo!—­bravo, count!  I see you appreciate her.  Per Dio! you make me feel young again!  I never was so happy in my life!  I should like to dance!  I will dance by-and-by at the wedding.  We will open the state-rooms.  There is not a grander suite in all Italy.  It is superb.  I will dance a quadrille with the marchesa.  Bagatella!  I shall insist on it.  I will execute a solo in the figure of the pastorelle.  I will show Baldassare and all the young men the finish of the old style.  People did steps then—­they did not jump like wild horses—­nor knock each other down.  No—­then dancing was practised as a fine art.”