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 Baldassare, 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 Baldassare'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 Cassandra. "He dines at our place every day. It's a pleasure to see his black curls and smell his scented handkerchief."

A cluster of listeners had now gathered round Cassandra, 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. Cassandra 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." (Cassandra is standing on tiptoe now, the better to observe those who pass.) "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 Cassandra, 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, Cassandra mia?" asks
Brigitta, looking round, with a short laugh.

"Because I have eyes in my head," replies Cassandra, 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 Cassandra. "When he is in Lucca, Fra Pacifico passes my shop every morning to say mass in the marchesa's private chapel. He knows all her sins."

"And the old gentleman with him," puts in Cassandra, 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."

Cassandra 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 passes 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!"—Cassandra still speaks under her breath.—"He'll give us a republic yet."

Following close on Count Marescotti comes Count Nobili. 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.—Nobili is closely followed by a lady of mature age, dark, thin, and sharp-featured. She has a glass 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 Nobili 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 Nobili, 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 pass, and are gone.

As Count Nobili 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 Nobili 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 mass 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 abutting on the piazza.

Last of all, Carlotta, Brigitta, and Cassandra, leave their corner. They are speedily engulfed in the shadows of a neighboring alley, and are seen no more.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MARCHESA GUINIGI.