Poor Baldassare!--his life was a continual conflict--a sacrifice to
his love of fine company. It might be doubted if he would not
have been infinitely happier in the atmosphere of the paternal
establishment, weighing out drugs, in shabby clothes, behind the
counter, than he was now, snubbed and affronted, and barely tolerated.

After this the marchesa and Trenta became partners; but matters did
not improve. A violent altercation ensued as to who led a certain
crucial card, which decided the game. Once seated at the whist-table,
the cavaliere was a real autocrat. _There_ he did not affect even to
submit to the marchesa. Now, provoked beyond endurance, he plainly
told her "she never had played a good game, and, what was more,
that she never would--she was too impetuous." Upon hearing this the
marchesa threw down her cards in a rage, and rose from the table.
Trenta rose also. With an imperturbable countenance he offered her his
arm, to lead her back to her seat.

The marchesa, extremely irate at what he had said, pushed him rudely
to one side and reseated herself.

Baldassare and Marescotti rose also. The count, having continued
persistently absent up to the last, was utterly unconscious of the
little fracas that had taken place between the marchesa and the
cavaliere, and the consequent sudden conclusion of the game. He had
seen her rise, and it was a great relief to him. He had been debating
in his own mind whether he should adopt the Dante rhyme for his ode to
the young Madonna, or make it in strophes. He inclined to the latter
treatment as more picturesque, and therefore more suitable to the
subject.