"Enrica has compromised both," cried Trenta, roused at last from his paroxysm of grief. "Enrica has more than compromised it; she has compromised all the Guinigi that ever lived—you, the palace, herself—every one. Enrica has a lover!" The marchesa bounded from her chair; her face turned livid in the waning light.
"Who told you this?" she asked, in a strange, hollow voice, without turning her eyes or moving a muscle of her face.
"Count Marescotti," answered Trenta, meekly.
He positively cowered beneath the pent-up wrath of the marchesa.
"Who is the man?"
"Nobili."
"What!—Count Nobili?"
"Yes, Count Nobili."
With a great effort she commanded herself, and continued interrogating
Trenta.
"How did Marescotti hear it?"