ssing an
ode to her in the character of the young Madonna--the uninstructed
Madonna--without that look of pensive suffering painters put into her
eyes.

The Madonna figured prominently in Marescotti's creed, spite of his
belief in the stern precepts of Savonarola--the plastic creed of an
artist, made up of heavenly eyes, ravishing forms, melodious sounds,
rich color, sweeping rhythms, moonlight, and violent emotions.

"I was not there myself--no, or I should have been aware you had
not honored the Countess Orsetti with your presence. But in the
morning--that glorious mass in the old cathedral--you were there?"

Enrica answered that she had not left the house all day, at which the
count raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

"That mass," he continued, "in celebration of a local miracle
(respectable from its antiquity), has haunted me ever since. The
gloomy splendor of the venerable cathedral overwhelmed me; the happy
faces that met me on every side, the spontaneous rejoicing of the
whole population, touched me deeply. I longed to make them free. They
deserve freedom; they shall have it!" A dark fire glistened in his
eye. "I have been lost in day-dreams ever since; I must give them
utterance." And he gazed steadfastly at Enrica.--"I have not left my
room, marchesa, ever since"--at last Marescotti left Enrica's side,
and approached the marchesa--"until an hour ago, when Baldassare"--and
the count bowed to Adonis, still seated sulky in a corner--"came
and carried me off in the hope that you would permit me to join your
rubber. Had I known"--he added, in a lower voice, bending his head
toward Enrica. Then he stopped, suddenly aware that every one was
listening to all he said (a fact which he had been far too much
absorbed to notice previously), colored, and retreated to the sofa
with the spindle-legs.

"Per Bacco!" whispered the cavaliere to the marchesa, sitting near her
on the other side; "I am convinced poor Marescotti has never touched
a morsel of food since that mass--I am certain of it. He always lives
upon a poetical diet, poor devil!--rose-leaves and the beauties of
Nature, with a warm dish now and then in the way of a _ragout_ of
conspiracy. God help him! he's a greater lunatic than ever." This was
spoken aside into the marchesa's ear. "If you have a soul of pity,
marchesa, order him a chicken before we begin playing, or he will
faint upon the floor." The marchesa smiled.

"I don't like impressionable people