tti 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 PASSION.

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 passed
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.

When the marchesa, as I have said, was aroused by a knock, she sat up
stiffly, and rubbed her eyes before she would say, "Enter." When she
spoke the word, the door slowly opened, and Cavaliere Trenta
stood before her. Never had he presented himself i