"What has he to do with the marchesa? Listen, Madama Brigitta. I will tell you. Do you know that, of all gentlemen in Lucca, the marchesa hates n.o.bili?"

"Well, and what then?"

"She hates him because he is rich and spends his money freely, and because she--the Guinigi--lives in the same street and sees it. It turns sour upon her stomach, like milk in a thunder-storm. She hates him."

"Well, is that all?" interrupts Brigitta.

Carlotta puts up her chin close to Brigitta's face, and clasps her tightly by the shoulder with both her skinny hands. "That is not all.

The marchesa has her own niece, who lives with her--a doll of a girl, with a white face--puff! not worth a feather to look at; only a cousin of the marchesa's husband; but, she's the only one left, all the same.

They are so thin-blooded, the Guinigi, they have come to an end. The old woman never had a child; she would have starved it."

Carlotta lowers her voice, and speaks into Brigitta's ear. "n.o.bili loves the niece. The marchesa would have the carbineers out if she knew it."

"Oh!" breaks from Brigitta, under her breath. "This is fine! splendid!

Are you sure of this, Carlotta? quite sure?"

"As sure as that I like meat, and only get it on Sundays.--Sure?--I have seen it with my own eyes. Checco knows the granddaughter of the man who helps the cook--n.o.bili pays like a lord, as he is!--He spends his money, he does!--n.o.bili writes to the niece, and she answers.

Listen. To-day, the marchesa shut up her palace and put a chain on the door. But chains can be unloosed, locks broken. Enrica (that's the niece) at daybreak comes out to the arched gate-way that opens from the street into the Moorish garden at the farther side of the palace--she comes out and talks to n.o.bili for half an hour, under cover of the ivy that hangs over the wall on that side. Teresa, the maid, was there too, but she stood behind. n.o.bili wore a long cloak that covered him all over; Enrica had a thick veil fastened round her head and face. They didn't see me, but I watched them from behind Pietro's house, at the corner of the street opposite. First of all, Enrica puts her head out of the gate-way. Teresa puts hers out next.

Then Enrica waves her hand toward the palace opposite, a side-door opens piano, n.o.bili appears, and watches all round to see that no one is near--ha! ha! his young eyes didn't spy out my old ones though, for all that--n.o.bili appears, I say, then he puts his hand to his heart, and gives such a look across the street!--Ahi! it makes my old blood boil to see it. I was pretty once, and liked such looks.--You may think my eyes are dim, but I can see as far as another."

And the old hag chuckles spitefully, and winks at Brigitta, enjoying her surprise.

"Madre di Dio!" exclaims this one. "There will be fine work."

"Yes, truly, very fine work. The marchesa shall know it; all Lucca shall know it too--mark my words, all Lucca! Curses on the Guinigi root and branch! I will humble them! Curses on them!" mumbles Carlotta.

"And what did n.o.bili do?" asks Brigitta.

"Do?--Why, seeing no one, he came across and kissed Enrica's hand; I saw it. He made as if he would have knelt upon the stones, only she would not let him. Then they whispered for, as near as I can guess, half an hour--Teresa standing apart. There was the sound of a cart then coming along the street, and presto!--Enrica was within the garden in an instant, the gate was closed, and n.o.bili disappeared."

Any further talk is now cut short by the approach of Ca.s.sandra, a friend of Brigitta's. Ca.s.sandra is a servant in a neighboring eating-house, a tall, large-boned woman, a colored handkerchief tied over her head, and much tawdry jewelry about her hands and neck.

"What are you two chattering about?" asks Ca.s.sandra sharply. "It seems entertaining. What's the news? I get paid for news at my shop. Tell me directly."

"Lotta here was only relating to me all about her grandchild," answers Brigitta, with a whine.--Brigitta was rather in dread of Ca.s.sandra, whose temper was fierce, and who, being strong, knocked people down occasionally if they offended her.

"Lotta was telling me, too, that she wants fresh stores for her shop, but all her money is gone to the grandchild in the hospital, who is ill, very ill!" and Brigitta sighs and turns up the whites of her eyes.

"Yes, yes," joins in Carlotta, a dismal look upon her shriveled old face. "Yes--it is just that. All the money gone to the grandchild, the son of my Beppo--that's the soldier who is with the king's army.--Alas! all gone; my money, my son, and all."

Here Carlotta affects to groan and wring her hands despairingly.

The ma.s.s was now nearly over; many people were already leaving the cathedral; but the swell of the organs and the sweet tones of voices still burst forth from time to time. Festive ma.s.ses are always long. It might not seem so to the pretty ladies in the boxes, still perseveringly fanning themselves, nor to the golden youths who were diverting them; but the prospect of dinner and a siesta was a temptation stronger than the older portion of the congregation could resist. By twos and threes they slipped out.

This is the moment for the three women to use their eyes and their tongues--very softly indeed--for they were now elbowed by some of the best people in Lucca--but to use them.

"There's Balda.s.sare, the chemist's son," whispers Brigitta, who was using her one eye diligently.

"Mercy! That new coat was never cut in Lucca. They need sell many drugs at papa-chemist's to pay for Balda.s.sare's clothes. Why, he's combed and scented like a spice-tree. He's a good-looking fellow; the great ladies like him." This was said with a knock-me-down air by Ca.s.sandra. "He dines at our place every day. It's a pleasure to see his black curls and smell his scented handkerchief."

A cl.u.s.ter of listeners had now gathered round Ca.s.sandra, who, conscious of an audience, thought it worth her while to hold forth.

Shaking out the folds of her gown, she leaned her back against the wall, and pointed with a finger on which were some trumpery rings.

Ca.s.sandra knew everybody, and was determined to make those about her aware of it. "That's young Count Orsetti and his mamma; they give a grand ball to-night." (Ca.s.sandra is standing on tiptoe now, the better to observe those who pa.s.s.) "There she goes to her carriage. Ahi! how grand! The coachman and the valet with gold-lace and silk stockings.

I would fast for a week to ride once in such a carriage. Oh! I would give any thing to splash the mud in people's faces. She's a fine woman--the Orsetti. Observe her light hair. Madonna mia! What a train of silk! Twelve shillings a yard--not a penny less. She's got a cavaliere still.--He! he! a cavaliere!"

Carlotta grins, and winks her wicked old eyes. "She wants to marry her son to Teresa Ottolini. He's a poor silly little fellow; but rich--very rich."

"Who's that fat man in a brown coat?" asks Brigitta. "He's like a maggot in a fresh nut!"

"That's my master--a fine-made man," answers Ca.s.sandra, frowning and pinching in her lips, with an affronted air, "Take care what you say about my master, Brigitta; I shall allow no observations."

Brigitta turns aside, puts her tongue in her cheek, and glances maliciously at Carlotta, who nods.

"How do you know how your master is made, Ca.s.sandra mia?" asks Brigitta, looking round, with a short laugh.

"Because I have eyes in my head," replies Ca.s.sandra, defiantly. "My master, the padrone of the Pelican Hotel, is not a man one sees every day in the week!"

A tall priest now appears from within the church, coming down the nave, in company with a rosy-faced old gentleman, who, although using a stick, walks briskly and firmly. He has a calm and pleasant face, and his hair, which lies in neat little curls upon his forehead, is as white as snow. One moment the rosy old gentleman talks eagerly with the priest; the next he sinks upon his knees on the pavement, and murmurs prayers at a side altar. He does this so abruptly that the tall priest stumbles over him. There are many apologies, and many bows. Then the old gentleman rises, dusts his clothes carefully with a white handkerchief, and walks on, talking eagerly as before. Both he and the priest bend low to the high altar, dip their fingers in the holy-water, cross themselves, bend again to the altar, turning right and left--before leaving the cathedral.

"That's Fra Pacifico," cries Carlotta, greatly excited--"Fra Pacifico, the Marchesa Guinigi's chaplain. He's come down from Corellia for the festival."--Carlotta is proud to show that she knows somebody, as well as Ca.s.sandra. "When he is in Lucca, Fra Pacifico pa.s.ses my shop every morning to say ma.s.s in the marchesa's private chapel. He knows all her sins."

"And the old gentleman with him," puts in Ca.s.sandra, twitching her hook nose, "is old Trenta--Cesare Trenta, the cavaliere. Bless his dear old face! The duke loved him well. He was chamberlain at the palace. He's a gentleman all over, is Cavaliere Trenta. There--there.

Look!"--and she points eagerly--"that's the Red count, Count Marescotti, the republican."

Ca.s.sandra lowers her voice, afraid to be overheard, and fixes her eyes on a man whose every feature and gesture proclaimed him an aristocrat.

Excited by the grandeur of the service, Marescotti's usually pale face is suffused with color; his large black eyes shine with inner lights.

Looking neither to the right nor to the left, he walks through the atrium, straight down the marble steps, into the piazza. As he pa.s.ses the three women they draw back against the wall. There is a dignity about Marescotti that involuntarily awes them.

"That's the man for the people!"--Ca.s.sandra still speaks under her breath.--"He'll give us a republic yet."

Following close on Count Marescotti comes Count n.o.bili. There are ease and conscious strength and freedom in his every movement. He pauses for a moment on the uppermost step under the central arch of the atrium and gazes round. The sun strikes upon his fresh-complexioned face and lights up his fair hair and restless eyes.--It is clear to see no care has yet troubled that curly head of his.--n.o.bili is closely followed by a lady of mature age, dark, thin, and sharp-featured. She has a gla.s.s in her eye, with which she peers at every thing and everybody. This is the Marchesa Boccarini. She is followed by her three daughters; two of them of no special attraction, but the youngest, Nera, dark and strikingly handsome. These three young ladies, all matrimonially inclined, but Nera specially, had carefully watched the instant when n.o.bili left his seat. Then they had followed him closely. It was intended that he should escort them home.

Nera has already decided what she will say to him touching the Orsetti ball that evening and the cotillon, which she means to dance with him if she can. But n.o.bili, with whom they come up under the portico, merely responds to their salutation with a low bow, raises his hat, and stands aside to make way for them. He does not even offer to hand them to their carriage. They pa.s.s, and are gone.

As Count n.o.bili descends the three steps into the piazza, he is conscious that all eyes are fixed upon him; that every head is uncovered. He pauses, casts his eyes round at the upturned faces, raises his hat and smiles, then puts his hand into his pocket, and takes out a gold-piece, which he gives to the nearest beggar. The beggar, seizing the gold-piece, blesses him, and hopes that "Heaven will render to him according to his merits." Other beggars, from every corner, are about to rush upon him; but n.o.bili deftly escapes from these as he had escaped from the Marchesa Boccarini and her daughters, and is gone.

"A lucky face," mumbles old Carlotta, working her under lip, as she fixes her bleared eyes on him--"a lucky face! He will choose the winning number in the lottery, and the evil eye will never harm him."

The music had now ceased. The ma.s.s was over. The vast congregation poured through the triple doors into the piazza, and mingled with the outer crowd. For a while both waved to and fro, like billows on a rolling sea, then settled down into one compact current, which, flowing onward, divided and dispersed itself through the openings into the various streets ab.u.t.ting on the piazza.

Last of all, Carlotta, Brigitta, and Ca.s.sandra, leave their corner.

They are speedily engulfed in the shadows of a neighboring alley, and are seen no more.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MARCHESA GUINIGI.