The intonation of her voice, the change in her manner, gave the exact degree of consideration proper to accord to the head of an ancient Roman family, and the dandy son of a Lucca chemist. And, lest it should be thought strange that the Marchesa Guinigi should admit Baldassare at all to her presence, I must explain that Baldassare was a protégé, almost a double, of the cavaliere, who insisted upon taking him wherever he went. If you received the cavaliere, you must, perforce, receive Baldassare also. No one could explain why this was so. They were continually quarreling, yet they were always together. Their intimacy had been the subject of many jokes and some gossip; but the character of the cavaliere was immaculate, and Baldassare's mother (now dead) had never lived at Lucca. Trenta, when spoken to on the subject of his partiality, said he was "educating him" to fill his place as master of the ceremonies in Lucchese society. Except when specially bullied by the cavaliere—who greatly enjoyed tormenting him in public—Baldassare was inoffensive and useful.
Now he pressed forward to the front.
"Signora Marchesa," he said, eagerly, "allow me to make my excuses to you."
The marchesa turned a surprised and distant gaze upon him; but Baldassare was not to be discouraged. He had that tough skin of true vulgarity which is impervious to any thing but downright hard blows.
"Allow me to make my excuses," he continued. "The cavaliere here has been scolding me all the way up-stairs for not bringing Count Marescotti sooner to you. I could not."
Marescotti bowed an acquiescence.
"While we were standing in the street, waiting to know if the noble lady received, an old beggar, known in Lucca as the Hermit of Pizzorna, come down from the mountains for the festival, passed by."
"Yes, it was a providence," broke in the count—"a real hermit, not one of those fat friars, with shaven crowns, we have in Rome, but a genuine recluse, a man whose life is one long act of practical piety."
When Marescotti had entered, he seemed only the calm, high-bred gentleman; now, as he spoke, his eye sparkled, and his pale cheeks flushed.
"Yes, I addressed the hermit," he continued, and he raised his fine head and crossed his hands on his breast as if he were still before him. "I kissed his bare feet, road-stained with errands of charity. 'My father,' I said to him, 'bless me'—"