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, hoarsely, standing suddenly motionless,
the flush of rage dying out of his countenance, and a look of helpless
suffering taking its place.

"That Count Nobili loves Enrica Guinigi," answered Marescotti,
abruptly.

Like a shot Baldassare'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 Nobili?"

"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 Maresco