“Marescotti!—­where may he come from?—­the clouds, perhaps—­or the last balloon?” asked the marchesa, looking up.

“From Rome; he arrived two days ago.  He is no longer so erratic.  Will you allow him to join us?”

“I shall certainly play my rubber if I am permitted,” answered the marchesa, drawing herself up.

This was intended as a sarcastic reminder of the disregard shown to her by the cavaliere the evening before; but the sarcasm was quite thrown away upon Trenta; he was very simple and straightforward.

“The marchesa has only to command me,” was his polite reply.  “I wonder Marescotti and Baldassare are not here already,” he added, looking toward the door.  “I left them both in the street; they were to follow me up-stairs immediately.”

“Ah!” said the marchesa, smiling sarcastically, “Count Marescotti is not to be trusted.  He is a genius—­he may be back on his way to Rome by this time.”

“No, no,” answered Trenta, rising and walking toward the door, which he opened and held in his hand, while he kept his eyes fixed on the staircase; “Marescotti is disgusted with Rome—­with the Parliament, with the Government—­with every thing.  He abuses the municipality because a secret republican committee which he headed, in correspondence with Paris, has been discovered by the police and denounced.  He had to escape in disguise.”

“Well, well, I rejoice to hear it!” broke in the marchesa.  “It is a good Government; let him find a better.  Why has he come to Lucca?  We want no sans-culottes here.”

“Marescotti declares,” continued the cavaliere, “that even now Rome is still in bondage, and sunk in superstition.  He calls it superstition.  He would like to shut up all the churches.  He believes in nothing but poetry and Red republicans.  Any kind of Christian belief he calls superstition.”

“Marescotti is quite right,” said the marchesa, angrily; she was determined to contradict the cavaliere.  “You are a bigot, Trenta—­an old bigot.  You believe every thing a priest tells you.  A fine exhibition we had yesterday of what that comes to!  The Holy Countenance!  Do you think any educated person in Lucca believes in the Holy Countenance?  I do not.  It is only an excuse for idleness—­for idleness, I say.  Priests love idleness; they go into the Church because they are too idle to work.”  She raised her voice, and looked defiantly at Trenta, who stood before her the picture of meek endurance—­holding the door-handle.  “I hope I shall live to see all festivals abolished.  Why didn’t the Government do it altogether when they were about it?—­no convents, no monks, no holidays, except on Sunday!  Make the people work—­work for their bread!  We should have fewer taxes, and no beggars.”

Trenta’s benignant face had gradually assumed as severe an aspect as it was capable of bearing.  He pointed to Enrica, of whom he had up to this time taken no notice beyond a friendly smile—­the marchesa did not like Enrica to be noticed—­now he pointed to her, and shook his head deprecatingly.  Could he have read Enrica’s thoughts, he need have feared no contamination to her from the marchesa; her thoughts were far away—­she had not listened to a single word.