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Updated: June 29, 2025
"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.
"Sire," said Trenta Capelli, "we are the faithful subjects of King Ferdinand, and we come to fight you, and not to bear you company. Give yourself up, if you would prevent bloodshed." Murat looked at the captain with an expression which it would be impossible to describe; then without deigning to answer, he signed to Cagelli to move away, while his other hand went to his pistol.
The marchesa, deeply resenting his remarks upon her whist playing, tapped her foot impatiently on the floor, fanned herself, and glowered at him out of the darkness which the single pair of candles did not dispel. As he still made no motion to go, she took out her watch, looked at it, and, with an exclamation of surprise, rose. Quite useless. Trenta did not stir.
Endymion who has overslept himself and missed Diana Narcissus overcome by the sight of his own beauty." After being called, pushed, and pinched, by the cavaliere, Baldassare at last opened his eyes in great bewilderment stretched himself, yawned, then, suddenly clapping his hand to his side, looked fiercely at Trenta. Trenta was shaking with laughter.
"She has learned her way there already. Let her go go instantly," the marchesa's hand was on the bell. "Let her go, the soft-voiced viper!" The transport of fury which possessed the marchesa had had the effect of completely recalling Trenta to himself. For his great age, Trenta possessed extraordinary recuperative powers, both of body and mind.
"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.
Your adoring. Cesare Trenta is dressed with unusual care. His linen is spotless; his white hair, as fine as silk, is carefully combed; his chin is well shaven. He wears a glossy white hat, and carries his gold-headed cane in his hand. Now he does not want it.
"You are a bigot, Trenta an old bigot. You believe every thing a priest tells you. A fine exhibition we had yesterday of what that comes to! The Holy Countenance! Do you think any educated person in Lucca believes in the Holy Countenance? I do not. It is only an excuse for idleness for idleness, I say. Priests love idleness; they go into the Church because they are too idle to work."
Here I, Cesare Trenta, fourteenth in succession from Gaultiero Trenta who commanded a regiment at the battle of Marignano against the French under Francis I. hope to lay my bones. The altar, as you see, is sanctified by the possession of an ancestral picture, deemed miraculous." He bowed to the earth as he spoke, in which example he was followed by Enrica and Baldassare.
"We are all in the hands of God," the marchesa repeated, solemnly, and crossed herself. "I believe little in doctors." "Still," said Trenta, "if there is no change, it is our duty to send for one. Is there any doctor at Corellia?" "None nearer than Lucca," she replied. "Send for Fra Pacifico. If he thinks it of any use, a man shall be dispatched to Lucca immediately."
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