And was what he desired so much out of his reach?  Surely all that had happened, all that he had seen, all that he had heard at the interview with Bianca that morning, was not calculated to lead him to think so.  And why should it be?  It would be all very much according to the ordinary current of events in such matters.  He was a bachelor.  He was wealthy.  He was the most prominent noble of the city.  He was brought specially into contact with the lady by his theatrical connection and habitudes.  His patronage and protection were by far the most valuable that could be offered to her in Ravenna.  The Diva herself was—­such as Divas of her sort and time were wont to be.  It would seem to be all very easy and straight-forward.  What was the worst penalty wont to follow from such peccadilloes to persons in his position?  The loss of a little money,—­of a good deal of money perhaps.  But he had plenty and to spare.

But none of these considerations availed to smooth the frown from the Marchese’s brow, or to make the future at all seem clear before him.

In the first place to make this singer his mistress, simple and little objectionable as such a step might seem to most men of his country, and rank, and period, and freedom from ties, was not an easy matter, or an agreeable prospect to the Marchese, on purely social considerations.  He had placed himself on a special pedestal, from which such a liaison would involve a fall.  And such a fall, or the danger of such a fall, was very dreadful to the Marchese.  There was the Cardinal; there were the good nuns, whose affairs he managed, and who looked on him as a saint on earth.  Worst of all there was his nephew.  How preach to him (terribly necessary as such preaching might be) under such circumstances?

To be sure, there was no need of doing whatever he might do in such sort that the whole town should be his confidant.  He had as good opportunities for secrecy as could be desired.  Theatrical business and his recognized connection with it was an abundant and unsuspected excuse for as much conversation with the lady,—­as many interviews as he might wish.  It seemed safe enough upon the whole.

And yet these considerations did not avail to take the frown from the Marchese’s brow, or bring his perplexed self-examination to an end.  The very evident disposition of the lady to be kind did not avail to please him.  Instead of being pleased and triumphant at the probable prospect of so enviable a bonne fortune, he was displeased, unhappy, irritated, angry—­angry with himself and with the sorceress who had thrown this spell on him.  How was it?  By what charm had she bewitched him so?  Already he was impatient, longing to be back again in her presence.  And yet he was angry with her,—­doubted whether he did not rather hate her than love her.

At last he started from his chair and swore that he would retain the mastery over his own self; that he would think no more of the abominable woman,—­see her no more!