CHAPTER IX

One Struggle more

The Marchese reached the Palazzo Castelmare unobserved by any one, save old Quinto Lalli, who had been for some time past watching the door of his adopted daughter from a neighbouring corner, in order to ascertain when he might go home to his bed without infringing the order that had been given him.

“And what do you think of it now, papa mio?” said the Diva, when she had very faithfully, though summarily, recounted the scene which had just passed, to her old friend and counsellor.

“Well, I see no reason to despair of the result,” said Quinto.  “You did not expect him to jump at the idea of making you Marchesa di Castelmare, I suppose?  Of course he was a little staggered; and, probably, his own notion at this moment is, that he would rather never see your face again, than dream of such a thing.  Ma, ci vuol pazienza!  My notion is, that you will have him nibbling at the hook again before long.  That little hint about the nephew was masterly.  Depend upon it that will do its work.”

“But, Quinto, I did not say a word to him that was not true—­hardly a word.  I do like him better, by an hundred times, than any other man I ever knew; and if I succeed, you see if I do not make him a good wife; I swear I will!  As for Signor Ludovico, that is all trash and nonsense.  He belongs to his Venetian, body and soul:  and he has enough to think of, poor boy, in scheming to get out of the marriage they have planned for him.”

“What! he wants to marry the Venetian, does he?” asked Quinto.

“Yes; they have engaged themselves to each other; she would not hear of anything else.”

“Lord bless me! how moral and respectable the world is growing.  I suppose Cupid himself will be attended by a gentleman in cassock and bands before long, and Mars will make Venus an honest woman, as the phrase goes.  Well, I am not sorry I had my day in the old time.  It would be rare fun, though, if these grand Signori, the uncle and the nephew, were both to be hooked in the same fashion at the same time.”

“There is nothing against the character of the Venetian of any sort,” said Bianca, with a sigh.

“Ta, ta, ta!  I’d back your chance of the uncle against her chance of the nephew, any day of the week.”

“Ludovico is solemnly engaged to her.”

“I’d hold to my bet, all the same for that; and now let’s get to bed, you have to sing to-morrow night.”

“Yes, and I’m regularly tired out; good-night.”

The Marchese Lamberto was probably hardly less in need of rest, when he reached the Palazzo Castelmare.  But he did not equally feel that it was within his reach.  He shut himself into his room; and throwing himself into an easy chair, with one hand pressed to his fevered brow, strove to think; set himself to think out the possibilities of the present, and the prospects of the future, as far as the blinding volcano bursts of passion, which ever and anon threatened to sweep all power of thought away, would permit him to do so.