CHAPTER VII.
THE MARCHESA'S PASSION.
The Marchesa Guinigi dined early. She had just finished when a knock at the door of her squalid sitting-room on the second story, with the pea-green walls and shabby furniture, aroused her from what was the nearest approach to a nap in which she ever indulged. In direct opposition to Italian habits, she maintained that sleeping in the day was not only lazy, but pernicious to health. As the marchesa did not permit herself to be lulled by the morphitic influences of those long, dreary days of an Italian summer, which must perforce be passed in closed and darkened chambers, and in a stifling atmosphere, she resolutely set her face against any one in her palace enjoying this national luxury.
At the hottest moment of the twenty-four hours, and in the dog-days, when the rays of a scalding sun pour down upon roof and wall and tower like molten lead, searching out each crack and cranny with cruel persistence, the marchesa was wont stealthily to descend into the very bowels, as it were, of that great body corporate, the Guinigi Palace—to see with her own eyes if her orders were obeyed. With hard words, and threats of instant dismissal, she aroused her sleeping household. No refuge could hide an offender—no hole, however dark, could conceal so much as a kitchen-boy.
The marchesa's eye penetrated everywhere. From garret to cellar she knew the dimensions of every cupboard—the capacity of each nook—the measure of the very walls. Woe to the unlucky sleeper! his slumbers from that hour were numbered; she watched him as if he had committed a crime.
When the marchesa, as I have said, was aroused by a knock, she sat up stiffly, and rubbed her eyes before she would say, "Enter." When she spoke the word, the door slowly opened, and Cavaliere Trenta stood before her. Never had he presented himself in such an abject condition; he was panting for breath; he leaned heavily on his gold-headed cane; his snowy hair hung in disorder about his forehead, deep wrinkles had gathered on his face; his eyes were sunk in their sockets, and his white lips twitched nervously, showing his teeth.
"Cristo!" exclaimed the marchesa, fixing her keen eyes upon him, "you are going to have a fit!"
Trenta shook his head slowly.
The marchesa pulled a chair to her side. The cavaliere sank into it with a sigh of exhaustion, put his hand into his pocket, drew out his handkerchief, placed it before his eyes, and sobbed aloud.
"Trenta—Cesarino!"—and the marchesa rose, laid her long, white fingers on his shoulder—it was a cruel hand, spite of its symmetry and aristocratic whiteness—"what does this mean? Speak, speak! I hate mystification. I order you to speak!" she added, imperiously. "Have you seen Count Marescotti?"
Trenta nodded.
"What does he say? Is the marriage arranged?"
Trenta shook his head. If his life had depended upon it he could not have uttered a single word at that moment. His sobs choked him. Tears ran down his aged cheeks, moistening the wrinkles and furrows now so apparent. He was in such a piteous condition that even the marchesa was softened as she looked at him.
"If all this is because the marriage with Count Marescotti has failed, you are a fool, Trenta! a fool, do you hear?" And she leaned over him, tightened her hand upon his shoulder, and actually shook him.
Trenta submitted passively.
"On the whole, I am very glad of it. Do you hear? You talked me over, Cesarino; I have repented it ever since. Count Marescotti is not the man I should have selected for raising up heirs to the Guinigi. Now don't irritate me," she continued, with a disdainful glance at the cavaliere. "Have done with this folly. Do you hear?"
"Enrica, Enrica!" groaned Trenta, who, always accustomed to obey her, began wiping his eyes—they would, however, keep overflowing—"O marchesa! how can I tell you?"
"Tell me what?" demanded the marchesa, sternly.
Her breath came short and quick, her thin face grew set and rigid.
Like a veteran war-horse, she scented the battle from afar!
"Ah! if you only knew all!" And a great spasm passed over the cavaliere's frame. "You must prepare yourself for the worst."
The marchesa laughed—a short, contemptuous laugh—and shrugged her shoulders.
"Enrica, Enrica—what can she do?—a child! She cannot compromise me, or my name."
"Enrica has compromised both," cried Trenta, roused at last from his paroxysm of grief. "Enrica has more than compromised it; she has compromised all the Guinigi that ever lived—you, the palace, herself—every one. Enrica has a lover!" The marchesa bounded from her chair; her face turned livid in the waning light.
"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.
"How did Marescotti hear it?"
"From common report. It is known all over Lucca."
"Was this the reason that Count Marescotti declined to marry my niece?"
The marchesa spoke in the same strange tone, but she fixed her eyes savagely on Trenta, so as to be able to convince herself how far he might dare to equivocate.
"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."
"But I speak of dishonor!" shrieked the marchesa, and the pent-up rage within her flashed out over her face like a tongue of fire. "Dishonor!—the vilest, basest dishonor! What do I care "—and she stamped her foot loudly on the brick floor—"what do I care what Nobili has done to her? By that one fact of loving him she has soiled this sacred roof." The marchesa's eyes wandered wildly round the room. "She has soiled the name I bear. I will cast her forth into the street to beg—to starve!"
And as the words fell from her lips she stretched out her long arm and bony finger as in a withering curse.
"But, ha! ha!"—and her terrible voice echoed through the empty room—"I forgot. Count Nobili loves her; he will keep her—in luxury, too—and in a Guinigi palace!" She hissed out these last words. "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. Not only had he so far recovered while the marchesa had been speaking as to arrange his hair and his features, and to smoothe the creases of his official coat into something of their habitual punctilious neatness, but he had had time to reflect. Unless he could turn the marchesa from her dreadful purpose, Enrica (still under all circumstances his beloved child) would infallibly be turned into the street by her remorseless aunt.
At the moment that the marchesa had laid her hand upon the bell,
Trenta darted forward and tore it from her hand.
"For the love of the Virgin, pause before you commit so horrible an act!"
So sudden had been his movement, so unwonted his energy, that the marchesa was checked in the very climax of her passion.
"If you have no mercy on a child that you have reared at your side," exclaimed Trenta, laying his hand on hers, "spare yourself, your name, your house, such a scandal! Is it for this that you cherish the name of the great Paolo Guinigi, whose acts were acts of clemency and wisdom? Is it for this you honor the memory of Castruccio Castracani, who was called the 'father of the people?' Bethink you, marchesa, that they lived under this very roof. You dare not—no, not even you—dare not tarnish their memories! Call Enrica here. It is the barest justice that the accused should be heard. Ask her what she has done? Ask her what has passed? How she has met Count Nobili? Until an hour ago I could have sworn she did not even know him."
"Ay, ay," burst out the marchesa, "so could I. How did she come to know him?"
"That is precisely what we must learn," continued Trenta, eagerly seizing on the slightest abatement of the marchesa's wrath. "That is what we must ask her. Marchesa, in common decency, you cannot put your own niece out of your house without seeing her and hearing her explanation."
"You may call her, if you please," answered the marchesa, with a look of dogged rage; "but I warn you, Cesare Trenta, if she avows her love for Nobili in my presence, I shall esteem that in itself the foulest crime she can commit. If she avows it, she leaves my house to-night. Let her die!—I care not what becomes of her!"