"If she had been my child!" was the marchesa's thought. "Why was I denied a child?" And she sighed.
The rays of the setting sun dance among the ripples of Enrica's blond hair, and light up the dazzling whiteness of her skin. Seen thus in profile, although her features are regular, and her expression full of sweetness, it is rather the promise than the perfection of actual beauty—the rose-bud—by-and-by to expand into the perfect flower.
There was a knock at the door, and a ruddy old face looked in. It is the Cavaliere Trenta, in his official blue coat and gold buttons, nankeen inexpressibles, a broad-brimmed white hat and a gold-headed cane in his hand. Whatever speck of dust might have had the audacity to venture to settle itself upon any part of the cavaliere's official blue coat, must at once have hidden its diminished head after peeping at the cavaliere's beaming countenance, so scrubbed and shiny, the white hair so symmetrically arranged upon his forehead in little curls—his whole appearance so neat and trim.
"Is it permitted to enter?" he asked, smiling blandly at the marchesa, as, leaning upon his stick, he made her a ceremonious bow.
"Yes, Cesarino, yes, you may enter," she replied, stiffly. "I cannot very well send you away now—but you deserve it."
"Why, most distinguished lady?" again asked Trenta, submissively, closing the door, and advancing to where she sat. He bent down his head and kissed her hand, then smiled at Enrica. "What have I done?"
"Done? You know you never came last night at all. I missed my game of whist. I do not sleep well without it."
"But, marchesa," pleaded Trenta, in the gentlest voice, "I am desolated, as you can conceive—desolated; but what could I do? Yesterday was the festival of the Holy Countenance, that solemn anniversary that brings prosperity to our dear city!" And the cavaliere cast up his mild blue eyes, and crossed himself upon the breast. "I was most of the day in the cathedral. Such a service! Better music than last year. In the evening I had promised to arrange the cotillon at Countess Orsetti's ball. As chamberlain to his late highness the Duke of Lucca, it is expected of me to organize every thing. One can leave nothing to that animal Baldassare—he has no head, no system; he dances well, but like a machine. The ball was magnificent—a great success," he continued, speaking rapidly, for he saw that a storm was gathering on the marchesa's brow, by the deepening of the wrinkles between her eyes. "A great success. I took a few turns myself with Teresa Ottolini—tra la la la la," and he swayed his head and shoulders to and fro as he hummed a waltz-tune.
"You!" exclaimed the marchesa, staring at him with a look of contempt—"you!"
"Yes. Why not? I am as young as ever, dear marchesa—eighty, the prime of life!"