"Well, well, I rejoice to hear it!" broke in the marchesa. "It is a good Government; let him find a better. Why has he come to Lucca? We want no sans-culottes here."
"Marescotti declares," continued the cavaliere, "that even now Rome is still in bondage, and sunk in superstition. He calls it superstition. He would like to shut up all the churches. He believes in nothing but poetry and Red republicans. Any kind of Christian belief he calls superstition."
"Marescotti is quite right," said the marchesa, angrily; she was determined to contradict the cavaliere. "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." She raised her voice, and looked defiantly at Trenta, who stood before her the picture of meek endurance—holding the door-handle. "I hope I shall live to see all festivals abolished. Why didn't the Government do it altogether when they were about it?—no convents, no monks, no holidays, except on Sunday! Make the people work—work for their bread! We should have fewer taxes, and no beggars."
Trenta's benignant face had gradually assumed as severe an aspect as it was capable of bearing. He pointed to Enrica, of whom he had up to this time taken no notice beyond a friendly smile—the marchesa did not like Enrica to be noticed—now he pointed to her, and shook his head deprecatingly. Could he have read Enrica's thoughts, he need have feared no contamination to her from the marchesa; her thoughts were far away—she had not listened to a single word.
"Dio Santo!" he exclaimed at last, clasping his hands together and speaking low, so as not to be overheard by Enrica—"that I should live to hear a Guinigi talk so! Do you forget, marchesa, that it was under the banner of the blessed Holy Countenance (Vulturum di Lucca), miraculously cast on the shores of the Ligurian Sea, that your great ancestor Castruccio Castracani degli Antimelli overcame the Florentines at Alto Passo?"
"The banner didn't help him, nor St. Nicodemus either—I affirm that," answered she, angrily. Her temper was rising. "I will not be contradicted, cavaliere—don't attempt it. I never allow it. Even my husband never contradicted me—and he was a Guinigi. Is the city to go mad, eat, drink, and hang out old curtains because the priests bid them? Did you see Nobili's house?" She asked this question so eagerly, she suddenly forgot her anger in the desire she felt to relate her injuries. "A Guinigi palace dressed out like a booth at a fair!—What a scandal! This comes of usury and banking. He will be a deputy soon. Will no one tell him he is a presumptuous young idiot?" she cried, with a burst of sudden rage, remembering the crowds that filled the streets, and the admiration and display excited. Then, turning round and looking Trenta full in the face, she added spitefully, "You may worship painted dolls, and kiss black crucifixes, if you like: I would not give them house-room."
"Mercy!" cried poor Trenta, putting his hands to his ears. "For pity's sake—the palace will fall about your ears! Remember your niece is present."
And again he pointed to Enrica, whose head was bent down over her work.
"Ha! ha!" was all the reply vouchsafed by the marchesa, followed by a scornful laugh. "I shall say what I please in my own house. Poor Cesarino! You are very ignorant. I pity you!"
But Trenta was not there—he had rushed down-stairs as quickly as his old legs and his stick would carry him, and was out of hearing. At the mention of Nobili's name Enrica looked stealthily from under her long eyelashes, and turned very white. The sharp eyes of her aunt might have detected it had she been less engrossed by her passage of arms with the cavaliere.