"From common report. It is known all over Lucca."
"Was this the reason that Count Marescotti declined to marry my niece?"
The marchesa spoke in the same strange tone, but she fixed her eyes savagely on Trenta, so as to be able to convince herself how far he might dare to equivocate.
"That was a principal reason," replied the cavaliere, in a faltering voice; "but there were others."
"What are the others to me? The dishonor of my niece is sufficient."
There was a desperate composure about the marchesa, more terrible than passion.
"Her dishonor! God and all the saints forbid!" retorted Trenta, clasping his hands. "Marescotti did not speak of dishonor."
"But I speak of dishonor!" shrieked the marchesa, and the pent-up rage within her flashed out over her face like a tongue of fire. "Dishonor!—the vilest, basest dishonor! What do I care "—and she stamped her foot loudly on the brick floor—"what do I care what Nobili has done to her? By that one fact of loving him she has soiled this sacred roof." The marchesa's eyes wandered wildly round the room. "She has soiled the name I bear. I will cast her forth into the street to beg—to starve!"
And as the words fell from her lips she stretched out her long arm and bony finger as in a withering curse.
"But, ha! ha!"—and her terrible voice echoed through the empty room—"I forgot. Count Nobili loves her; he will keep her—in luxury, too—and in a Guinigi palace!" She hissed out these last words. "She has learned her way there already. Let her go—go instantly," the marchesa's hand was on the bell. "Let her go, the soft-voiced viper!"