Now Trenta never in his life was wanting in the very flower of courtesy; he would much sooner have shot himself than be guilty of an ill-bred word.  So, under protest, therefore—­a protest more distinctly written in the general puckering up of his round, plump face, and a certain sulky swell about his usually smiling mouth—­it was clear he meant to listen, cost him what it might.  Besides, when he had heard what the count had to say, it was clearly his duty to reason with him.  Who could tell that he might not yield to such a process?  He avowed that he was deeply enamored of Enrica—­a man in love is already half vanquished.  Why should Marescotti throw away his chance of happiness for a phantasy—­a mere dream?  There was no real obstacle.  He was versatile and visionary, but the very soul of honor.  How, if he—­Trenta—­could bring Marescotti to see how much it would be to Enrica’s advantage that he should transplant her from a dreary home, to become a wife beside him?

Decidedly it was still possible that he, Cesare Trenta, who had arranged satisfactorily so many most difficult royal complications, might yet bring Marescotti to reason.  Who could tell that he might not yet be spared the humiliation of returning to impart his failure to the marchesa?  A return, be it said, the good Trenta dreaded not a little, remembering the characteristics of his dear friend, and the responsibility of success which he had so confidently taken upon himself before he started.

CHAPTER VI.

A NEW PHILOSOPHY.

There had been an interval of silence, during which the count paced up and down the spacious room meditatively, each step sounding distinctly on the stone floor.  The rugged look of conscious power upon his face, the far-way glance in his sombre eyes, showed that his mind was working upon what he was about to say.  Presently he ceased to walk, reseated himself opposite the cavaliere, and fixed a half-absent gaze upon him.

Trenta, who would cheerfully have undergone any amount of suffering rather than listen to the abominations he felt were coming, sat with half-closed eyes, gathered into the corner of the arm-chair, the very picture of patient martyrdom.

The count contemplated him for a moment.  As he did so an expression, half cynical, half melancholy, passed over his countenance, and a faint smile lurked about the corners of his mouth.  Then in a voice so full and sweet that the ear eagerly drank in the sound, like the harmony of a cadence, he began: 

“The Roman Catholic Church,” he said, “styles itself divinely constituted.  It claims to be supreme arbiter in religion and morals; supreme even in measuring intellectual progress; absolute in its jurisdiction over the state, and solely responsible to itself as to what the limit of that jurisdiction shall be.  It calls itself supreme and absolute, because infallible—­infallible because divine.  Thus the vicious circle is complete.  Now entire obedience necessarily comes into collision with every species of freedom—­nay, it is in itself antagonistic to freedom—­freedom of thought, freedom of action—­specially antagonistic to national freedom.”