s.

CHAPTER V.

ENRICA.

The marchesa was in a very bad humor. Not only did she stay at home
all the day of the festival of the Holy Countenance by reason of the
solemn anniversary which occurred at that time, but she shut herself
up the following day also. When the old servant (old inside and out)
in his shabby livery, who acted as butler, crept into her room,
and asked at what time "the eccellenza would take her airing on the
ramparts"--the usual drive of the Lucchese ladies--when they not only
drive, but draw up under the plane-trees, gossip, and eat sweetmeats
and ices--she had answered, in a tone she would have used to a
decrepit dog who troubled her, "Shut the door and begone!"

She had been snappish to Enrica. She had twitted her with wanting to
go to the Orsetti ball, although Enrica had never been to any ball or
any assembly whatever in her life, and no word had been spoken about
it. Enrica never did speak; she had been disciplined into silence.

Enrica, as has been said, was the marchesa's niece, and lived with
her. She was the only child of her sister, who died when she was
born. This sister (herself, as well as the marchesa, _born_ Guinigi
Ruscellai) had also married a Guinigi, a distant cousin of the
marchesa's husband, belonging to a third branch of the family, settled
at Mantua. Of this collateral branch, all had died out. Antonio
Guinigi, of Mantua, Enrica's father, in the prime of life, was killed
in a duel, resulting from one of those small social affronts that
so frequently do provoke duels in Italy. (I knew a certain T---- who
called out a certain G---- because G---- had said T----'s rooms were
not properly carpeted.) Generally these encounters with swords are
as trifling in their results as in their origin. But the duel in
question, fought by Antonio Guinigi, was unfortunately not so. He died
on the spot. Enrica, when two years old, was an orphan. Thus it came
that she had known no home but the home of her aunt. The marchesa had
never shown her any particular kindness. She had ordered her servants
to take care of her. That was all. Scarcely ever had she kissed her;
never passed her hand among the sunny curls that fell upon the quiet
child's face and neck. The marchesa, in fact, had not so much as
noticed her childish beauty and enticing ways.

Enrica had grown up accustomed to bear with her aunt's haughty,
ungracious manners and capricious temper. She scarcely knew that there
was any