Neither could Nobili conceal from himself how probable it was that the Marchesa Guinigi should come to some knowledge of his clandestine interviews with her niece.  It had been necessary to trust many persons.  Spite of heavy bribes, one of these might at any moment betray them.  He might be followed and watched, spite of his precautions.  Their letters might be intercepted.  Should any thing happen, what a situation for Enrica!  She was too trusting and too inexperienced fully to appreciate the danger; but Nobili understood it, and trembled for her.  Something must, he felt, be done at once.  Enrica must be prepared for any thing that might happen.  He must write to her—­write this very night to her.

And then came the question—­what should he say to her?  Then Nobili felt, and felt keenly, how much he had compromised himself.  Hitherto his love for Enrica, and Enrica’s love for him, had been so full, so entire, that every thought was hers.  Now there was a name he must hide from her, an hour of his life she must never know.

Nobili rose from the divan on which he had been lying, lighted some candles, and, sitting down at a table, took a pen in his hand.  But the pen did not help him.  He tore it between his teeth, he leaned his head upon his hand, he stared at the blank paper before him.  What should he say to her? was the question he asked himself.  After all, should he confess all his weakness, and implore her forgiveness? or should he take the chance of her hearing nothing?

After much thought and many struggles with his pen, he decided he would say nothing.  But write he would; write he must.  Full of remorse for what had passed, he longed to assure her of his love.  He yearned to cast himself for pardon at her feet; to feast his eyes upon the sweetness of her fair face; to fill his ears with the sound of her soft voice; to watch her heavenly eyes gathering upon him with the gleam of incipient passion.

How pure she was!  How peerless, how different from all other women!  How different from Nera! dark-eyed, flashing, tempting Nera!—­Nera, so sensual in her ripe and dazzling beauty.  At that moment of remorse and repentance he would have likened her to an alluring fiend, Enrica to an angel!  Yes, he would write; he would say something decisive.  This point settled, Nobili put down the pen, struck a match, and lit a cigar.  A cigar would calm him, and help him to think.

His position, even as he understood it, was sufficiently difficult.  How much more, had he known all that lay behind!  He had entered life a mere boy at his father’s death, with some true friends; his wealth had created him a host of followers.  His frank, loyal disposition, his generosity, his lavish hospitality, his winning manners, had insured him general popularity.  Not one, even of those who envied him, could deny that he was the best fellow in Lucca.  Women adored him, or said so, which came to the same thing, for he believed them.