After being called, pushed, and pinched, by the cavaliere, Baldassare at last opened his eyes in great bewilderment—­stretched himself, yawned, then, suddenly clapping his hand to his side, looked fiercely at Trenta.  Trenta was shaking with laughter.

“Mille diavoli!” cried Baldassare, rubbing himself vigorously, “how dare you pinch me so, cavaliere?  I shall be black and blue.  Why should not I sleep?  Nobody spoke to me.”

“I fear you have heard little of the history of Lucca,” said the count, smiling.

“Dio buono! what is history to me?  I hate it!—­I-tell you what, cavaliere, you have hurt me very much.”  And Baldassare passed his hand carefully down his side.  “The next time I go to sleep in your company, I’ll trouble you to keep your fingers to yourself.  You have rapped me like a drum.”

Trenta watched the various phases of Baldassare’s wrath with the greatest amusement.  The descent having been safely accomplished, the whole party landed in the street.  Count Marescotti, who came last, advanced to take leave of Enrica.  At this moment an olive-skinned, black-eyed girl rose out of the shadow of a neighboring wall, and, lowering a basket from her head, filled with fruit—­tawny figs, ruddy peaches, purple grapes, and russet-skinned medlars, shielded from the heat by a covering of freshly-picked vine-leaves—­offered it to Enrica.  Our Adonis, still sulky and sore from the pinches inflicted by the mischievous fingers of the cavaliere, waved the girl rudely away.

“Fruit!  Che!  Begone! our servants have better.  Such fruit as that is not good enough for us; it is full of worms.”

The girl looked up at him timidly, tears gathered in her dark eyes.

“It is for my mother,” she answered, humbly; “she is ill.”

As she bent her head to replace the basket, Marescotti, who had listened to Baldassare with evident disgust, raised the basket in his arms, and with the utmost care poised it on the coil of her dark hair.

“Beautiful peasant,” he said, “I salute you.  This is for your mother,” and he placed some notes in her hand.

The girl thanked him, coloring as red as the peaches in her basket, then, hastily turning the corner of the street, disappeared.

“A perfect Pomona!  I make a point of honoring beauty whenever I find it,” exclaimed the count, looking after her.  He cast a reproving glance at Baldassare, who stood with his eyes wide open.  “The Greeks worshiped beauty—­I agree with them.  Beauty is divine.  What say you?  Were not the Greeks right?”

The words were addressed to Baldassare—­the sense and the direction of his eyes pointed to Enrica.

“Yes; beauty,” replied Baldassare, smoothing his glossy mustache, and trying to look very wise (he was not in the least conscious of the covert rebuke administered by Marescotti)—­“beauty is very refreshing, but I must say I prefer it in the upper classes.  For my part, I like beauty that can dance—­wooden shoes are not to my taste.”