The count had turned away toward the window. At the sound of the cavaliere's husky voice, he moved and faced him. In the space of a few moments he had greatly changed. Suddenly he had grown worn and weary-looking. His eyes were sunk into his head; dark circles had formed round them. His bloodless cheeks, transparent with the pallor of perfect health, were blanched; the corners of his mouth worked convulsively.
"Does the lady—does Enrica Guinigi know of this proposal?" he asked, in a voice so sad that the cavaliere's indignation against him cooled considerably.
"Good God!" exclaimed Trenta, "such a question is an insult to me and to my errand. Can you imagine that I, all my life chamberlain to his highness the Duke of Lucca, am capable of compromising a lady?"
"Thank God!" ejaculated the count, emphatically, clasping his hands together, and raising his eyes—"thank God! Forgive me for asking." His whole voice and manner had changed as rapidly as his aspect. There was a sense of suffering, a quiet resignation about him, so utterly unlike his usual excitable manner that Trenta was puzzled beyond expression—so puzzled, indeed, that he was speechless. Besides, a veteran in etiquette, he felt that it was to himself an explanation was due. Marescotti had been about to send for him. Now he was there, Marescotti had heard his proposal, it was for Marescotti to answer.
That the count felt this also was apparent. There was something solemn in his manner as he turned away from the window and slowly advanced toward the cavaliere. Trenta was still standing immovable on the same spot where he had muttered in the first moment of amazement, "He is mad!"
"My dear old friend," said the count, speaking with evident effort in a dull, sad voice, "there is some mistake. It was not to speak about any lady that I was about to send for you."
"Not about a lady!" cried Trenta, aghast. "Mercy of God!—"
"Let that pass," interrupted the count, waving his hand. "You have asked me for an explanation—an explanation you shall have." He sighed deeply, then proceeded—the cavaliere following every word he uttered with open mouth and wildly-staring eyes: "Of the lady I can say no more than that, on my honor as a gentleman, to me she approaches nearer the divine than any woman I have ever seen—nay, than any woman I have ever dreamed of."
A flash of fire lit up the depths of the count's dark eyes, and there was a tone of melting tenderness in his rich voice as he spoke of Enrica. Then he relapsed into his former weary manner—the manner of a man pronouncing his own death-warrant.
"Of the unspeakable honor you have done me, as has also the excellent Marchesa Guinigi—it does not become me to speak. Believe me, I feel it profoundly." And the count laid his hand upon his heart and bent his grand head. Trenta, with formal politeness, returned the silent salute.