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Updated: May 17, 2025
"I have not left my room, marchesa, ever since" at last Marescotti left Enrica's side, and approached the marchesa "until an hour ago, when Baldassare" and the count bowed to Adonis, still seated sulky in a corner "came and carried me off in the hope that you would permit me to join your rubber. Had I known" he added, in a lower voice, bending his head toward Enrica.
Orsetti now was speaking. "Marescotti has fled from the police. Nothing but a sonnet addressed to the lady a poet's day-dream untrue of course." "Will no one tell me what the sonnet said?" demanded Nobili. He had mastered himself for the moment. "Stuff, stuff!" cried Ruspoli. "Every pretty woman has heaps of sonnets and admirers. It is a brevet of beauty.
I am better now. Yes give me your arm, count, I am a little weak. I thank you it supports me." The door of No. 4 was at last opened. The cavaliere descended the stairs very slowly, supported by Marescotti, whose looks expressed the deepest compassion. A fiacre was called from the piazza. "The Palazzo Trenta," said Count Marescotti to the driver, handing in the cavaliere.
Marescotti rose also. Was it possible that Trenta could be in ignorance, he asked himself, hurriedly, as he stared at the aged chamberlain, trembling from head to foot. "Loved another? You are mad, Count Marescotti, I always said so mad! mad!" Trenta gasped for breath. He was hardly able to articulate. The count bowed to him ironically.
Next to the foul Fiend himself established in the city, he could conceive nothing more awful! It was a Providence that Marescotti could not marry Enrica! He should tell the marchesa so. Such sophistry might have perverted Enrica also. It was more than probable that, instead of reforming him, she might have fallen a victim to his wickedness.
"Have you heard the miracle of the glorious San Frediano?" asked Trenta, a little timidly, raising his voice to its utmost pitch as he addressed Count Marescotti. "No, I have not, cavaliere; but, if I had, it would not alter my opinion. I do not believe in mediaeval miracles." As he spoke, Count Marescotti turned round from the steps of a side-altar, whither he had wandered to look at a picture.
"That's his uncle's doing the Jesuit!" cried Malatesta. "This is the second time. Marescotti will be shut up for life." "Did they catch him?" asked Orsetti. "No; he got out of an upper window, and escaped across the roof. He had taken all the upper floor of the Universo for his accomplices, who were expected from Paris." "Honor to Lucca!" Malatesta put in. "We are progressing."
As a patriot, he worshiped Italy. His fervid imagination reveled in her natural beauties art, music, history, poetry. He worshiped Italy, and he devoted his whole life to what he conceived to be her good. Marescotti was no atheist; he was a religious reformer, sincerely and profoundly pious, and conscientious to the point of honor.
"Yes, it was a providence," broke in the count "a real hermit, not one of those fat friars, with shaven crowns, we have in Rome, but a genuine recluse, a man whose life is one long act of practical piety." When Marescotti had entered, he seemed only the calm, high-bred gentleman; now, as he spoke, his eye sparkled, and his pale cheeks flushed.
"What is known?" asked Trenta, hoarsely, standing suddenly motionless, the flush of rage dying out of his countenance, and a look of helpless suffering taking its place. "That Count Nobili loves Enrica Guinigi," answered Marescotti, abruptly. Like a shot Baldassare's words rose to Trenta's remembrance. The poor old chamberlain turned very white.
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