Trenta shook his head. If his life had depended upon it he could not have uttered a single word at that moment. His sobs choked him. Tears ran down his aged cheeks, moistening the wrinkles and furrows now so apparent. He was in such a piteous condition that even the marchesa was softened as she looked at him.
"If all this is because the marriage with Count Marescotti has failed, you are a fool, Trenta! a fool, do you hear?" And she leaned over him, tightened her hand upon his shoulder, and actually shook him.
Trenta submitted passively.
"On the whole, I am very glad of it. Do you hear? You talked me over, Cesarino; I have repented it ever since. Count Marescotti is not the man I should have selected for raising up heirs to the Guinigi. Now don't irritate me," she continued, with a disdainful glance at the cavaliere. "Have done with this folly. Do you hear?"
"Enrica, Enrica!" groaned Trenta, who, always accustomed to obey her, began wiping his eyes—they would, however, keep overflowing—"O marchesa! how can I tell you?"
"Tell me what?" demanded the marchesa, sternly.
Her breath came short and quick, her thin face grew set and rigid.
Like a veteran war-horse, she scented the battle from afar!
"Ah! if you only knew all!" And a great spasm passed over the cavaliere's frame. "You must prepare yourself for the worst."
The marchesa laughed—a short, contemptuous laugh—and shrugged her shoulders.
"Enrica, Enrica—what can she do?—a child! She cannot compromise me, or my name."