"I cannot speak," answered the cavaliere, almost inaudibly, trying to rise. "Every obstacle." And he sank back helplessly on the chair.
Count Marescotti took a silver flask from a drawer, and offered him a cordial. Trenta swallowed it with the submissiveness of a child. The count picked up his cane, and placed it in his hand. The cavaliere mechanically grasped it, rose, and moved feebly toward the door.
"Let me go," he said, faintly, addressing Marescotti, who urged him to remain. "Let me go. I must inform the marchesa, I must see Enrica. Ah! if you knew all!" he whispered, looking piteously at the count. "My poor Enrica!—my pretty lamb! Who can have led her astray? How can it have happened? I must go—go at once. I am better now. Yes—give me your arm, count, I am a little weak. I thank you—it supports me."
The door of No. 4 was at last opened. The cavaliere descended the stairs very slowly, supported by Marescotti, whose looks expressed the deepest compassion. A fiacre was called from the piazza.
"The Palazzo Trenta," said Count Marescotti to the driver, handing in the cavaliere.
"No, no," he faintly interrupted, "not there. To Casa Guinigi. I must instantly see the marchesa," whispered Trenta in the count's ear.
The fiacre containing the unhappy chamberlain drove from the door, and plunged into a dark street toward the cathedral.
Count Marescotti stood for some minutes in the doorway, gazing after it. The full blaze of a hot September sun played round his uncovered head, lighting it up as with a glory. Then he turned, and, slowly reascending the stairs to No. 4, opened his door, and locked it behind him.