“Another revolution may do much for Italy,” he answered, in a low tone.

“For the love of God,” ejaculated Trenta, stung to the quick by what he looked upon at that particular moment as in itself an aggravation of his wrongs, “don’t remind me of your politics, or I shall instantly leave the room.  Domine Dio! it is too much.  You have just escaped by the veriest good luck (good luck, by-the-way, you did not in the least deserve) a life-long imprisonment at Rome.  You had a mission there, too, I believe.”

This was spoken in as bitter a sneer as the cavaliere’s kindly nature permitted.

“Now pray be satisfied.  If you and I are not to part this very instant, don’t let me realize you as the ‘Red count.’  That is a character I cannot tolerate.”

Trenta, so seldom roused to anger, shook all over with rage.  “I believe sincerely that it is such so-called patriots as yourself, with their devilish missions, that will ruin us all.”

“It is because you are ignorant of the grandeur of our cause, it is because you do not understand our principles, that you misjudge us,” responded the count, raising his eyes upon Trenta, and speaking with a lofty disregard of his hot words.  “Permit me to unfold to you something of our philosophy, a philosophy which will resuscitate our country, and place her again in her ancient position, as intellectual monitress of Europe.  You must not, cavaliere, judge either of my mission or of my creed by the yelping of the miserable curs that dog the heels of all great enterprises.  There is the penetralia, the esoteric belief, in all great systems of national belief.”

The count spoke with emphasis, yet in grave and measured accents; but his lustrous eyes, and the wild confusion of those black locks, that waved, as it were, sympathetic to his humor, showed that his mind was engrossed with thoughts of overwhelming interest.

The cavaliere, after his last indignant outburst, had subsided into the depths of the arm-chair in which Marescotti had placed him; it was so large as almost to swallow up the whole of his stout little person.  With his hands joined, his dimpled fingers interlaced and pointing upward, he patiently awaited what the count might say.  He felt painfully conscious that he had failed in his errand.  This irritated him exceedingly.  He had not entered that room—­No. 4, at the Universo Hotel—­in order to listen to the elaboration of Count Marescotti’s mission, but in order to set certain marriage-bells ringing.  These marriage-bells were, it seemed, to be forever mute.  Still, having demanded an explanation of what he conceived to be the count’s most incomprehensible conduct, he was bound, he felt, in common courtesy, to listen to all he had to say.