n such an abject
condition; he was panting for breath; he leaned heavily on his
gold-headed cane; his snowy hair hung in disorder about his forehead,
deep wrinkles had gathered on his face; his eyes were sunk in their
sockets, and his white lips twitched nervously, showing his teeth.

"Cristo!" exclaimed the marchesa, fixing her keen eyes upon him, "you
are going to have a fit!"

Trenta shook his head slowly.

The marchesa pulled a chair to her side. The cavaliere sank into it
with a sigh of exhaustion, put his hand into his pocket, drew out his
handkerchief, placed it before his eyes, and sobbed aloud.

"Trenta--Cesarino!"--and the marchesa rose, laid her long, white
fingers on his shoulder--it was a cruel hand, spite of its symmetry
and aristocratic whiteness--"what does this mean? Speak, speak! I hate
mystification. I order you to speak!" she added, imperiously. "Have
you seen Count Marescotti?"

Trenta nodded.

"What does he say? Is the marriage arranged?"

Trenta shook his head. If his life had depended upon it he could not
have uttered a single word at that moment. His sobs choked him. Tears
ran down his aged cheeks, moistening the wrinkles and furrows now so
apparent. He was in such a piteous condition that even the marchesa
was softened as she looked at him.

"If all this is because the marriage with Count Marescotti has failed,
you are a fool, Trenta! a fool, do you hear?" And she leaned over him,
tightened her hand upon his shoulder, and actually shook him.

Trenta submitted passively.

"On the whole, I am very glad of it. Do you hear? You talked me over,
Cesarino; I have repented it ever since. Count Marescotti is not the
man I should have selected for raising up heirs to the Guinigi. Now
don't irritate me," she continued, with a disdainful glance at the
cavaliere. "Have done with this folly. Do you hear?"

"Enrica, Enrica!" groaned Trenta, who, always accustomed to obey
her, began wiping his eyes--they would, however, keep overflowing--"O
marchesa! how can I tell you?"

"Tell me what?" demanded the marchesa, sternly.

Her breath came short and quick, her thin face grew set and rigid.
Like a veteran war-horse, she scented the battle from afar!

"Ah! if you only knew all!" And a great spasm passed over the
cavaliere's frame. "You must prepare yourself for the worst."

The marchesa laughed--a short, contemptuous laugh--and shrugged her
shoulders.

"Enrica, Enrica--what can she do?--a child!