The count, who is still leaning back in his chair in an attitude of polite attention, starts violently, sits straight upright, and fixes his eyes upon Trenta.
"What do you mean, cavaliere? After a life devoted to my country, you cannot imagine I should change? The very idea is offensive to me."
"No, no, my dear count, you misapprehend me," rejoins Trenta, soothingly. (He perceived the mistake into which the word "change" had led Count Marescotti, and dreaded exciting his too susceptible feelings.) "It is no change of that kind I allude to; the change I mean is in the nature of a reward for the life of sacrifice you have led—a reward, a consolation to your fervid spirit. It is to bring you into an atmosphere of peace, happiness, and love. To reconcile you perhaps, as a son, erring, but repentant, with that Holy Mother Church to which you still belong. This is the change I am come to offer you."
As the cavaliere proceeds, the count's expressive eyes follow every word he utters with a look of amazement. He is about to reply, but Trenta places his finger on his lips.
"Let me continue," he says, smiling blandly. "When I have done, you shall answer. In one word, count, it is marriage I am come to propose to you."
The count suddenly rises from his seat, then he hurriedly reseats himself. A look of pain comes into his face.
"Permit me to proceed," urges the cavaliere, watching him anxiously.
"I presume you mean to marry?"
Marescotti was silent. Trenta's naturally piping voice grows shriller as he proceeds, from a certain sense of agitation.
"As the common friend of both parties, I am come to propose a marriage to you, Count Marescotti."
"And who may the lady be?" asks the count, drawing back with a sudden air of reserve. "Who is it that would consent to leave home and friends, perhaps country, to share the lot of a fugitive patriot?"