The Italians Part 20

"For this end" (a mournful cadence came into the count's voice when he at length proceeded) "I am ready to sacrifice my life. My life!--what is that? I am ready to sacrifice my love--ay, my love--the love of the only woman who fulfills the longings of my poetic soul."

The count ceased speaking. The fair Enrica, with her tender smile, and patient, chastened loveliness--Enrica, as he had imagined her, the type of the young Madonna, was before him. No, Enrica could never be his; no child of his would ever be encircled by those soft, womanly arms! With a strong effort to shake off the feeling which so deeply moved him, the count continued:

"In the boundless realms of ideal philosophy"--his n.o.ble features were at this moment lit up into the living image of that hero he so much resembled--"man grapples hand to hand with the unseen. There are no limits to his glorious aspirations. He is as G.o.d himself. He, too, becomes a Creator; and a new and purer world forms beneath his hand."

"Have you done?" asked Trenta, looking up out of the arm-chair. He was so thoroughly overcome, so subdued, he could have wept. From the very commencement of the count's explanation, he had felt that it was not given to him to combat his opinions. If he could, he was not sure that he would have ventured to do so. "Let pitch alone," says the proverb.

Now Trenta, of a most cleanly nature, morally and physically--abhorred pitch, especially such pitch as this. He had long looked upon Count Marescotti as an atheist, a visionary--but he had never conceived him capable of establis.h.i.+ng an organized system of rebellion and communism. At Lucca, too! It was horrible! By some means such an incendiary must be got rid of. Next to the foul Fiend himself established in the city, he could conceive nothing more awful! It was a Providence that Marescotti could not marry Enrica! He should tell the marchesa so. Such sophistry might have perverted Enrica also. It was more than probable that, instead of reforming him, she might have fallen a victim to his wickedness. This reflection was infinitely comforting to the much-enduring cavaliere. It lightened also much of his apprehension in approaching the marchesa, as the bearer of the count's refusal.

To Trenta's question as to "whether he had done," Marescotti had promptly replied with easy courtesy, "Certainly, if you desire it.

But, my dear cavaliere," he went on to say, speaking in his usual manner, "you will now understand why, cost me what it may, I cannot marry. Never, never, I confess, have I been so fiercely tempted! But the pang is past!" And he swept his hand over his brow. "Marriage with me is impossible. You will understand this."

"Yes, yes, I quite agree with you, count," put in Trenta--sideways, as it were. He was rejoiced to find he had any common standing-point left with Marescotti. "I agree with you--marriage is quite impossible.

I hope, too," he added, recovering himself a little, with a faint twinkle in his eye, "you will find your mission at Lucca equally impossible. San Riccardo grant it!" And the old man crossed himself, and secretly fingered an image of the Virgin he wore about his neck.

"Putting aside the sacred office with which I am invested," resumed the count, without noticing Trenta's observation, "no wife could sympathize with me. It would be a case of Byron over again. What agony it would be to me to see the exquisite Enrica unable to understand me! A poet, a mystic, I am only fit to live alone. My path"--and a far-away look came into his eyes--"my path lies alone upon the mountains--alone! alone!" he added sorrowfully, and a tear trembled on his eyelid.

"Then why, may I ask you," retorted Trenta, with energy, raising himself upright in the arm-chair, "why did you mislead me by such pa.s.sionate language to Enrica? Recall the Guinigi Tower, your att.i.tude--your glances--I must say, Count Marescotti, I consider your conduct unpardonable--quite unpardonable."

Trenta's face and forehead were scarlet, his steely blue eyes were rounded to their utmost width, and, as far as such mild eyes could, they glared at the count.

"You have entirely misled me. As to your political opinions, I have, thank G.o.d, nothing to do with them; that is your affair. But in this matter of Enrica you have unjustifiably misled me. I shall not forgive you in a hurry, I can tell you." There was a rustling of anger all over the cavaliere, as the leaves of the forest-trees rustle before the breath of the coming tempest.

"My admiration for women," replied the count, "has. .h.i.therto been purely aesthetic. You, cavaliere, cannot understand the discrepancies of an artistic nature. Women have been to me heretofore as beautiful abstractions. I have adored them as I adore the works of the great masters. I would as soon have thought of plucking a virgin from the canvas--a Venus from her pedestal, as of appropriating one of them.

Enrica Guinigi"--there was a tender inflection in Count Marescotti's voice whenever he named her, an involuntary bending of the head that was infinitely touching--"Enrica Guinigi is an exception. I could have loved her--ah! she is worthy of all love! Her soul is as rare as her person. I read in the depths of her plaintive eyes the trust of a child and the fort.i.tude of a heroine. If I dared to give these thoughts utterance, it was because I knew _she loved another!_"

"Loved another?" screamed Trenta, losing all self-control and tottering to his feet. "Loved another?" he repeated, every feature working convulsively. "What do you mean?"

Marescotti rose also. Was it possible that Trenta could be in ignorance, he asked himself, hurriedly, as he stared at the aged chamberlain, trembling from head to foot.

"Loved another? You are mad, Count Marescotti, I always said so--mad!

mad!" Trenta gasped for breath. He was hardly able to articulate.

The count bowed to him ironically.

"Calm yourself, cavaliere," he said, haughtily, measuring from head to foot the plump little cavaliere, who stood before him literally panting with rage. "There is no need for violence. You and the marchesa must have known of this. I shuddered, when I thought that Enrica might have been driven into acquiescence with your proposal against her will. I love her too much to have permitted it."

The cavaliere could with difficulty bring himself to allow Marescotti to finish. He was too furious to take in the full sense of what he said. His throat was parched.

"You must answer to me for this!" Trenta could barely articulate.

His voice was dry and hoa.r.s.e. "You must--you shall. You have refused Enrica, now you insult her. I demand--I demand satisfaction. No excuse--no excuse!" he shouted. And seeing that Marescotti drew back toward the window, the cavaliere pressed closer upon him, stamped his foot upon the floor, and raised his clinched fist as near to the count's face as his height permitted.

Had the official sword hung at Trenta's side, he would undoubtedly have drawn it at that moment and attacked him. In the defense of Enrica he forgot his age--he forgot every thing. His very voice had changed into a manly barytone. In the absence of his sword, Trenta was evidently about to strike Marescotti. As he advanced, the other retreated.

A hot flush overspread the count's face for an instant, then it faded out, and grew pale and rigid. He remembered the cavaliere's great age, and checked himself. To avoid him, the count retreated to the farthest limit of the room, hastily seized a chair, and barricaded himself behind it. "I will not fight you, Cavaliere Trenta," he answered, speaking with calmness.

"Ah, coward!" screamed Trenta, "would you dishonor me?"

"Cavaliere Trenta, this is folly," said the count, crossing his arms on his breast. "Strike me if you please," he added, seeing that Trenta still threatened him. "Strike me; I shall not return it. On my honor as a gentleman, what I have said is true. Had you, cavaliere, been a younger man, you must have heard it in the city, at the club, the theatre; it is known everywhere."

"What is known?" asked Trenta, hoa.r.s.ely, standing suddenly motionless, the flush of rage dying out of his countenance, and a look of helpless suffering taking its place.

"That Count n.o.bili loves Enrica Guinigi," answered Marescotti, abruptly.

Like a shot Balda.s.sare's words rose to Trenta's remembrance. The poor old chamberlain turned very white. He quivered like a leaf, and clung to the table for support.

"Pardon me, oh! pardon me a thousand times, if I have pained you,"

exclaimed the count; he left the place where he was standing, threw his arms round Trenta, and placed him with careful tenderness on a seat. His generous heart upbraided him bitterly for having allowed himself for an instant to be heated by the cavaliere's reproaches.

"How could I possibly imagine you did not know all this?" he asked, in the gentlest voice.

Trenta groaned.

"Take me home, take me home," he murmured, faintly. "Gran Dio! the marchesa! the marchesa!" He clasped his hands, then let them fall upon his knees.

"But what real obstacle can there be to a marriage with Count n.o.bili?"

"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 compa.s.sion. 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.

CHAPTER VII.

THE MARCHESA'S Pa.s.sION.

The Marchesa Guinigi dined early. She had just finished when a knock at the door of her squalid sitting-room on the second story, with the pea-green walls and shabby furniture, aroused her from what was the nearest approach to a nap in which she ever indulged. In direct opposition to Italian habits, she maintained that sleeping in the day was not only lazy, but pernicious to health. As the marchesa did not permit herself to be lulled by the morphitic influences of those long, dreary days of an Italian summer, which must perforce be pa.s.sed in closed and darkened chambers, and in a stifling atmosphere, she resolutely set her face against any one in her palace enjoying this national luxury.

At the hottest moment of the twenty-four hours, and in the dog-days, when the rays of a scalding sun pour down upon roof and wall and tower like molten lead, searching out each crack and cranny with cruel persistence, the marchesa was wont stealthily to descend into the very bowels, as it were, of that great body corporate, the Guinigi Palace--to see with her own eyes if her orders were obeyed. With hard words, and threats of instant dismissal, she aroused her sleeping household. No refuge could hide an offender--no hole, however dark, could conceal so much as a kitchen-boy.

The marchesa's eye penetrated everywhere. From garret to cellar she knew the dimensions of every cupboard--the capacity of each nook--the measure of the very walls. Woe to the unlucky sleeper! his slumbers from that hour were numbered; she watched him as if he had committed a crime.