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Updated: June 17, 2025
"Per Bacco!" whispered the cavaliere to the marchesa, sitting near her on the other side; "I am convinced poor Marescotti has never touched a morsel of food since that mass I am certain of it. He always lives upon a poetical diet, poor devil! rose-leaves and the beauties of Nature, with a warm dish now and then in the way of a ragoût of conspiracy. God help him! he's a greater lunatic than ever."
Had she not already permitted herself to be too much influenced? She had offered Enrica in marriage to Count Marescotti, and he had refused her refused her niece! Suddenly she shook off the incubus of these thoughts and turned toward Trenta. He had been watching her anxiously. "I can never forgive Enrica," she said. "She may not have disgraced herself that matters little but she has disgraced me.
And she sighed, recalling her own silent vigils on the floor beneath, unknown to all save the cavaliere. "But a thousand pardons!" cried Marescotti, gradually waking up to some social energy, "I have been talking only of myself! Talking of myself in your presence, ladies! What can we do to amuse your niece, marchesa? Lucca is horribly dull.
And seeing that Marescotti drew back toward the window, the cavaliere pressed closer upon him, stamped his foot upon the floor, and raised his clinched fist as near to the count's face as his height permitted. Had the official sword hung at Trenta's side, he would undoubtedly have drawn it at that moment and attacked him. In the defense of Enrica he forgot his age he forgot every thing.
"Do you see the count? He is fairly off. Marescotti is too poetical for this world. Unpractical, poor fellow very unpractical. The fit is on him now. Look at him, Baldassare; see how he stares about, and clinches his fist. I hope he will not leap over the parapet in his ecstasy."
Trenta had been waiting for this direct appeal. Now his tongue was unloosed. "I will tell you, Signora Marchesa, plainly what I would advise you to do," was his answer. "Let Enrica marry Marescotti. Put the whole matter into my hands, if you have sufficient confidence in me." "Remember, Trenta, the humiliation!" "What humiliation?" asked the cavaliere, with surprise.
He has learned below that Count Marescotti lives at No. 4 on the second story; at the door of No. 4 he raps softly. A voice from within asks, "Who is there?" "I," replies Trenta, and he enters. The count, who is seated at a table near the window, rises. His tall figure is enveloped in a dark dressing-gown, that folds about him like a toga.
The cavaliere mechanically grasped it, rose, and moved feebly toward the door. "Let me go," he said, faintly, addressing Marescotti, who urged him to remain. "Let me go. I must inform the marchesa, I must see Enrica. Ah! if you knew all!" he whispered, looking piteously at the count. "My poor Enrica! my pretty lamb! Who can have led her astray? How can it have happened? I must go go at once.
"I was not there," answered Enrica, blushing deeply and glancing timidly at the marchesa, who, with a scowl on her face, was fanning herself violently. "Not there!" ejaculated Marescotti, with wonder. "Why, marchesa, is it not barbarous to shut up your beautiful niece? Is it because you deem her too precious to be gazed upon? If so, you are right."
"That was a principal reason," replied the cavaliere, in a faltering voice; "but there were others." "What are the others to me? The dishonor of my niece is sufficient." There was a desperate composure about the marchesa, more terrible than passion. "Her dishonor! God and all the saints forbid!" retorted Trenta, clasping his hands. "Marescotti did not speak of dishonor."
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