"I shall not treat Enrica cruelly," was her reply, "nor will I cause a scandal, but I can never forgive her. By this act of loving Nobili she has separated herself from me irrevocably. Let her renounce him; she has her choice—mine is already made."
The cavaliere listened in silence. Much had been gained, in his opinion, by this partial concession. The subject had been broached, the hated name mentioned, the possibility of the marriage mooted. He rose with a cheerful smile to take his leave.
"Marchesa, it is late—permit me to salute you; you must require repose."
"Yes," she answered, sighing deeply. "It seems to me a year since I entered this room. I must leave Lucca. Enrica cannot, after what has passed, remain here. Thanks to her, I, in the solitude of my own palace, am become the common town-talk. Cesare, I shall leave Lucca to-morrow for my villa of Corellia. Good-night."
The cavaliere again kissed her hand and departed.
"If that weathercock of a thousand colors, that idiot, Marescotti," muttered the cavaliere, as he descended the stairs, "could only be got to give up his impious mission, and marry the dear child, all might yet be right. He has an eye and a tongue that would charm a woman into anything. Alas! alas! what a pasticcio!—made by herself—made by herself and her lawsuits about the defunct Guinigi—damn them!"
It was seldom that the cavaliere used bad words—excuse him.