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Updated: June 17, 2025
I should so much like to show Enrica the tombs of the Trenta. We have been a famous family in our time. Do not refuse us, marchesa." All this was entirely out of the habits of Casa Guinigi. Hitherto Enrica had been kept in absolute subjection. If she were present no one spoke to her, or noticed her. Now all this was to be changed, because Count Marescotti had come up from Rome.
"Indeed, count, you did very wrong," put in the cavaliere; "one understands you wrote in furore so much the better," and Trenta gave a sly wink, which was entirely lost on Marescotti. "But time is getting on. When are we to have that oration on the history and beauties of Lucca that we came up to hear? Had you not better begin?"
"Compromising very," murmured Franchi, feebly, leaning back out of the range of Orsetti's arm. "The Red count was a communist, we all know," observed Malatesta. "Mon cher! he was a poet also," responded Orazio. Orazio's languor never interfered with his love of scandal. "When any lady struck his fancy, Marescotti made a sonnet a damaging practice. These sonnets are a diary of his life.
"No, no," she answered, greatly confused; "please say nothing not now another time. I should like to ascend the tower; let us go on." The cavaliere was greatly puzzled. It was plain there was something on her mind. What could it be? How fortunate, he told himself, if she had taken a liking to Marescotti, and desired to confess it! This would make all easy.
As to Marescotti, these new-fangled notions will turn his brain; he'll end in a mad-house. I don't believe he is quite in his senses at this very minute. Look! look! What strides he is taking up and down! For the love of Heaven, my boy, run and fasten the trap-door tight! He may fall through! He's not safe! I swear it, by all the saints!"
Count Marescotti, who came last, advanced to take leave of Enrica. At this moment an olive-skinned, black-eyed girl rose out of the shadow of a neighboring wall, and, lowering a basket from her head, filled with fruit tawny figs, ruddy peaches, purple grapes, and russet-skinned medlars, shielded from the heat by a covering of freshly-picked vine-leaves offered it to Enrica.
"Who told you this?" she asked, in a strange, hollow voice, without turning her eyes or moving a muscle of her face. "Count Marescotti," answered Trenta, meekly. He positively cowered beneath the pent-up wrath of the marchesa. "Who is the man?" "Nobili." "What! Count Nobili?" "Yes, Count Nobili." With a great effort she commanded herself, and continued interrogating Trenta.
The air was full of light the last gleams of parting day. The splash of the fountain upon the lion's heads was heard in the silence, the heavy perfume of the magnolia-flowers stole in wafts through the sculptured casements, creeping upward in the soft evening air. Still, motionless before Enrica, Marescotti was rapidly falling into a poetic rapture. The marchesa broke the awkward silence.
Besides, a veteran in etiquette, he felt that it was to himself an explanation was due. Marescotti had been about to send for him. Now he was there, Marescotti had heard his proposal, it was for Marescotti to answer. That the count felt this also was apparent. There was something solemn in his manner as he turned away from the window and slowly advanced toward the cavaliere.
"Good, pious old man, how I honor you!" ejaculated Count Marescotti, fervently, as he watched the timid gray-coated pigeons gathering round the cavaliere's feet, as he stood apart from the rest, serenely smiling as he fed them. "May thy placid spirit be unruffled in time and in eternity!" The interior of the church, in the Longobardic style, is bare almost to plainness.
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