“My admiration for women,” replied the count, “has hitherto been purely aesthetic.  You, cavaliere, cannot understand the discrepancies of an artistic nature.  Women have been to me heretofore as beautiful abstractions.  I have adored them as I adore the works of the great masters.  I would as soon have thought of plucking a virgin from the canvas—­a Venus from her pedestal, as of appropriating one of them.  Enrica Guinigi”—­there was a tender inflection in Count Marescotti’s voice whenever he named her, an involuntary bending of the head that was infinitely touching—­“Enrica Guinigi is an exception.  I could have loved her—­ah! she is worthy of all love!  Her soul is as rare as her person.  I read in the depths of her plaintive eyes the trust of a child and the fortitude of a heroine.  If I dared to give these thoughts utterance, it was because I knew she loved another!”

“Loved another?” screamed Trenta, losing all self-control and tottering to his feet.  “Loved another?” he repeated, every feature working convulsively.  “What do you mean?”

Marescotti rose also.  Was it possible that Trenta could be in ignorance, he asked himself, hurriedly, as he stared at the aged chamberlain, trembling from head to foot.

“Loved another?  You are mad, Count Marescotti, I always said so—­mad! mad!” Trenta gasped for breath.  He was hardly able to articulate.

The count bowed to him ironically.

“Calm yourself, cavaliere,” he said, haughtily, measuring from head to foot the plump little cavaliere, who stood before him literally panting with rage.  “There is no need for violence.  You and the marchesa must have known of this.  I shuddered, when I thought that Enrica might have been driven into acquiescence with your proposal against her will.  I love her too much to have permitted it.”

The cavaliere could with difficulty bring himself to allow Marescotti to finish.  He was too furious to take in the full sense of what he said.  His throat was parched.

“You must answer to me for this!” Trenta could barely articulate.  His voice was dry and hoarse.  “You must—­you shall.  You have refused Enrica, now you insult her.  I demand—­I demand satisfaction.  No excuse—­no excuse!” he shouted.  And seeing that Marescotti drew back toward the window, the cavaliere pressed closer upon him, stamped his foot upon the floor, and raised his clinched fist as near to the count’s face as his height permitted.

Had the official sword hung at Trenta’s side, he would undoubtedly have drawn it at that moment and attacked him.  In the defense of Enrica he forgot his age—­he forgot every thing.  His very voice had changed into a manly barytone.  In the absence of his sword, Trenta was evidently about to strike Marescotti.  As he advanced, the other retreated.

A hot flush overspread the count’s face for an instant, then it faded out, and grew pale and rigid.  He remembered the cavaliere’s great age, and checked himself.  To avoid him, the count retreated to the farthest limit of the room, hastily seized a chair, and barricaded himself behind it.  “I will not fight you, Cavaliere Trenta,” he answered, speaking with calmness.