gold and silver coin (the gold much less in quantity than the silver).
There are a few jewels, and some diamond pendants in antique settings,
a diamond necklace, crosses, medals, and orders, and a few uncut gems
and antique intaglios.

The marchesa takes up each object and examines it. She counts the
gold-pieces, putting them back again one by one in rows, by tens and
twenties. She handles the crisp bank-notes. She does this over and
over again so slowly and so carefully, it would seem, as if she
expected the money to grow under her fingers. She has placed all in
order before her--the jewels on one side, the money and the notes on
the other. As she moves them to and fro on the smooth marble with the
points of her long fingers, she shakes her head and sighs. Then she
touches a secret spring, and a drawer opens from under the table. Into
this drawer she deposits all that lies before her, her fingers still
clinging to the gold.

After a while she rises, and casting a parting glance at the portrait
of Castruccio--among all her ancestors Castruccio was the object of
her special reverence--she moves leisurely onward through the various
apartments lying beyond the presence-chamber.

The doors, draped with heavy tapestry curtains, are all open. It is a
long, gloomy suite of rooms, where the sun never shines, looking into
the inner court.

The marchesa's steps are noiseless, her countenance grave and pale.
Here and there she pauses to gaze into the face of a picture, or to
brush off the dust from some object specially dear to her. She pauses,
minutely observing every thing around her.