Читать книгу The Italians - Frances Minto Dickinson Elliot - Страница 20

When the count and Baldassare had left the room, Cavaliere Trenta made no motion to follow them. On the contrary, he leaned back in the chair on which he was seated, and nursed his leg with the nankeen trouser meditatively. The expression of his face showed that his thoughts were busy with some project he desired to communicate. Until he had done so in his own way, and at his own time, he would continue to sit where he was. It was this imperturbable self-possession and good-humor combined which gave him so much influence over the irascible marchesa. They were as iron to fire, only the iron was never heated.

The marchesa, deeply resenting his remarks upon her whist playing, tapped her foot impatiently on the floor, fanned herself, and glowered at him out of the darkness which the single pair of candles did not dispel. As he still made no motion to go, she took out her watch, looked at it, and, with an exclamation of surprise, rose. Quite useless. Trenta did not stir.

"Marchesa," he said at last, abruptly, raising his head and looking at her, "do me the favor to sit down. Spare me a few moments before you retire."

"I want to go to bed," she answered, rudely. "It is already past my usual hour."

"Marchesa—one moment. I permitted myself the liberty of an old friend just now—to check your speech to Count Marescotti."

"Yes," said she, drawing up her long throat, and throwing back her head, an action habitual to her when displeased, "you did so. I did not understand it. We have been acquainted quite long enough for you to know I do not like interference."

"Pardon me, noble lady"—(Trenta spoke very meekly—to soothe her now was absolutely necessary)—"pardon me, for the sake of my good intentions."

"And pray what were your good intentions, cavaliere?" she asked, in a mocking tone, reseating herself. Her curiosity was rapidly getting the better of her resentment.

As she asked the question, the cavaliere left off nursing his leg with the nankeen trouser, rose, drew his chair closer to hers, then sat down again. The light from the single pair of candles was very dim, and scarcely extended beyond the card-table. Both their heads were therefore in shadow, but the marchesa's eyes gleamed nevertheless, as she waited for Trenta's explanation.

"Did you observe nothing this evening, my friend?" he asked—"nothing?" His manner was unusually excited.

"No," she answered, thoughtfully. She had been so exclusively occupied with the slights put upon herself that every thing else had escaped her. "I observed nothing except the impertinence of Count Marescotti, and the audacity—the—"

"Stop, marchesa," interrupted Trenta, holding up his hand. "We will talk of all that another time. If Count Marescotti and Baldassare have offended you, you can decline to receive them. You observed nothing, you say? I did." He leaned forward, and spoke with emphasis—"Marescotti is in love with Enrica."

The marchesa started violently and raised herself bolt upright.

"The Red count in love with a child like Enrica!"

"Only a child in your eyes, Signora Marchesa," rejoined Trenta, warmly. (He had warmed with his own convictions, his benevolent heart was deeply interested in Enrica. He had known her since she had first come to Casa Guinigi, a baby; from his soul he pitied her.) "In the eyes of the world Enrica is not only a woman, but promises to be a very lovely one. She is seventeen years old, and marriageable. Young ladies of her name and position must have fortunes, or they do not marry well. If they do, it is a chance—quite a chance. Under these circumstances, it would be cruel to deprive her of so suitable an alliance as Count Marescotti. Now, allow me to ask you, seriously, how would this marriage suit you?"

"Not at all," replied the marchesa, curtly. "The count is a republican. I hate republicans. The Guinigi have always been Ghibelline, and loyal. I dislike him, too, personally. I was about to desire you never to bring him here again. Contact with low people has spoiled him. His manners are detestable."

"But, marchesa, che vuole?" Trenta shrugged his shoulders. "He belongs to one of the oldest families in Rome; he is well off, handsome (he reminds me of your ancestor, Castruccio Castracani); a wife might improve him." The marchesa shook her head.

"He like the great Castruccio!—I do not see it."

"Permit me," resumed Trenta, "without entering into details which, as a friend, you have confided to me, I must remind you that your affairs are seriously embarrassed."

The marchesa winced; she guessed what was coming. She knew that she could not deny it.

"You are embarrassed by lawsuits. Unfortunately, all have gone against you."

"I fought for the ancient privileges of the Guinigi!" burst out the marchesa, imperiously. "I would do it again."

"I do not in the least doubt you would do it again, exalted lady," responded Trenta, with a quiet smile. "Indeed, I feel assured of it. I merely state the fact. You have sacrificed large sums of money. You have lost every suit. The costs have been enormous. Your income is greatly reduced. Enrica is therefore portionless."

"No, no, not altogether." The marchesa moved nervously in her chair, carefully avoiding meeting Trenta's steely blue eyes. "I have saved money, Cesarino—I have indeed," she repeated. The marchesa was becoming quite affable. "I cannot touch the heirlooms. But Enrica will have a small portion."

"Well, well," replied Trenta. "But it is impossible you can have saved much since the termination of that last long suit with the chapter about your right to the second bench in the nave of the cathedral, the bench awarded to Count Nobili when he bought the palace. The expense was too great, and the trial too recent."

She made no reply.

"Then there was that other affair with the municipality about the right of flying the flag from the Guinigi Tower. I do not mention small affairs, such as disputes with your late steward at Corellia, trials at Barga, nor litigation here at Lucca on a small scale. My dear marchesa, you have found the law an expensive pastime." The cavaliere's round eyes twinkled as he said this. "Enrica is therefore virtually portionless. The choice lies between a husband who will wed her for herself, or a convent. If I understand your views, a convent would not suit you. Besides, you would not surely voluntarily condemn a girl, without vocation, and brought up beside you, to the seclusion of a convent?"

"But Enrica is a child—I tell you she is too young to think about marriage, cavaliere."

The marchesa spoke with anger. She would stave off as long as possible the principal question—that of marriage. Sudden proposals, too, emanating from others, always nettled her; it narrowed her prerogative.

"Besides," objected the marchesa, still fencing with the real question, "who can answer for Count Marescotti? He is so capricious! Supposing he likes Enrica to-day, he may change before to-morrow. Do you really think he can care enough about Enrica to marry her? Her name would be nothing to him."

"I think he does care for her," replied Trenta, reflectively; "but that can be ascertained. Enrica is a fit consort for a far greater man than Count Marescotti. Not that he, as you say, would care about her name. Remember, she will be your heiress—that is something."

"Yes, yes, my heiress," answered the marchesa, vaguely; for the dreadful question rose up in her mind, "What would Enrica have to inherit?"

That very day she had received a most insolent letter from a creditor. Under the influence of the painful thoughts, she turned her head aside and said nothing. One of her hands was raised over her eyes to shade them from the candles; the other rested on her dark dress.

If a marriage were really in question, what could be more serious? Was not Enrica's marriage to raise up heirs to the Guinigi—heirs to inherit the palace and the heirlooms? If—the marchesa banished the thought, but it would return, and haunt her like a spectre—if not the palace, then at least the name—the historic name, revered throughout Italy? Nothing could deprive Enrica of the name—that name was in itself a dower. That Enrica should possess both name and palace, with a husband of her—the marchesa's—own choosing, had been her dream, but it had been a far-off dream—a dream to be realized in the course of years.

Taken thus aback, the proposal made by Trenta appeared to her hurried and premature—totally wanting in the dignified and well-considered action that should mark the conduct of the great. Besides, if an immediate marriage were arranged between Count Marescotti and Enrica, only a part of her plan could be realized. Enrica was, indeed, now almost portionless; there would be no time to pile up those gold-pieces, or to swell those rustling sheaves of notes that she had—in imagination—accumulated.

"Portionless!" the marchesa repeated to herself, half aloud. "What a humiliation!—my own niece!"

It will be observed that all this time the marchesa had never considered what Enrica's feeling might be. She was to obey her—that was all.

But in this the marchesa was not to blame. She undoubtedly carried her idea of Enrica's subserviency too far; but custom was on her side. Marriages among persons of high rank are "arranged" in Italy—arranged by families or by priests, acting as go-betweens. The lady leaves the convent, and her marriage is arranged. She is unconscious that she has a heart—she only discovers that unruly member afterward. To love a husband is unnecessary; there are so many "golden youths" to choose from. And the husband has his pastime too. Cosi fan tutti! It is a round game!

All this time the cavaliere had never taken his eyes off his friend. To a certain extent he understood what was passing in her mind. A portionless niece would reveal her poverty.

"A good marriage is a good thing," he suggested, as a safe general remark, after having waited in vain for some response.

"In all I do," the marchesa answered, loftily, "I must first consider what is due to the dignity of my position." Trenta bowed.

"Decidedly, marchesa; that is your duty. But what then?"

"No feeling whatever but that will influence me now, or hereafter—nothing." She dwelt upon the last word defiantly, as the final expression of her mind. Spite of this defiance, there was, however, a certain hesitation in her manner which did not escape the cavaliere. As she spoke, she looked hard at him, and touched his arm to arouse his attention.

Trenta, who knew her so well, perfectly interpreted her meaning. His ruddy cheeks flushed crimson; his kindly eyes kindled; he felt sure that his advice would be accepted. She was yielding, but he must be most cautious not to let his satisfaction appear. So strangely contradictory was the marchesa that, although nothing could possibly be more advantageous to her own schemes than this marriage, she might, if indiscreetly pressed, veer round, and, in spite of her interest, refuse to listen to another syllable on the subject.

All this kept the cavaliere silent. Receiving no answer, she looked suspiciously at him, then grasped his arm tightly.

"And you, cavaliere—how long have you been so deeply interested in Enrica? What is she to you? Her future can only signify to you as far as it affects myself."

She waited for a reply. What was the cavaliere to answer? He loved

Enrica dearly, but he dared not say so, lest he should offend the

marchesa. He feared that if he spoke he should assuredly say too much.

Well as he knew her, the marchesa's egotism horrified him.