"Stop, stop, my dear Trenta!" cries the count, holding up both his hands in remonstrance; "you overwhelm me. I require no such inducements; they horrify me. Enrica Guinigi is sufficient in herself—so bright a jewel requires no golden settings."
At these words the cavaliere beams all over. He rubs his fat hands together, then gently claps them.
"Bravo!—bravo, count! I see you appreciate her. Per Dio! you make me feel young again! I never was so happy in my life! I should like to dance! I will dance by-and-by at the wedding. We will open the state-rooms. There is not a grander suite in all Italy. It is superb. I will dance a quadrille with the marchesa. Bagatella! I shall insist on it. I will execute a solo in the figure of the pastorelle. I will show Baldassare and all the young men the finish of the old style. People did steps then—they did not jump like wild horses—nor knock each other down. No—then dancing was practised as a fine art."
Suddenly the brisk old cavaliere stops. The expression of Marescotti's large, earnest eyes, fixed on him wonderingly, recalls him to himself.
"Excuse me, my dear friend; when you are my age, you will better understand an old man's feelings. We are losing time. Now get your hat, and come with me at once to Casa Guinigi; the marchesa expects you. We will settle the day of the betrothal.—My sweet Enrica, how I long to see you!"
While he is speaking Trenta rises and strikes his cane on the ground with a triumphant air; then he holds out both his hands toward the count.
"Shake hands with me, my dear Marescotti. I congratulate you—with my whole soul I congratulate you! She will be your salvation, the dear, blue-eyed little angel?"
In the tumult of his excitement Trenta had taken every thing for granted. His thoughts had flown off to Enrica. His benevolent heart throbbed with joy at the thought of her emancipation from the thralldom of her home. A vision of the dark-haired, pale-faced Marescotti, and the little blond head, with its shower of golden curls, kneeling together before the altar in the sunshine, danced before his eyes. Marescotti would become a, Christian—a firm pillar of the Church; he would rear up children who would worship God and the Holy Father; he would restore the glory of the Guinigi!
From this roseate dream the poor cavaliere was abruptly roused. His outstretched hand had not been taken by Marescotti. It dropped to his side. Trenta looked up sharply. His countenance suddenly fell; a purple flush covered it from chin to forehead, penetrating even the very roots of his snowy hair. His cane dropped with a loud thud, and rolled away along the uncarpeted floor. He thrust both his hands into his pockets, and stood motionless, with his eyes wide open, like a man stunned.
"Dio buono!—Dio buono!" he muttered, "the man is mad!—the man is mad!" Then, after a few minutes of absolute silence, he asked, in a husky voice, "Marescotti, what does this mean?"