“However”—­and again she lays her bony hand heavily on Brigitta’s fat arm—­“if you don’t want to hear what I know about Casa Guinigi, I will not tell you.”  Carlotta shuts up her mouth and nods defiantly.

This was not at all what Brigitta desired.  If there was any thing to be told, she would like to hear it.

“Come, come, Carlotta, don’t be angry.  You may know much more than I do; you are always in your shop, except on festivals.  The door is open, and you can see into the street of San Simone, up and down.  But speak low; for there are Lisa and Cassandra close behind, and they will hear.  Tell me, Carlotta, what is it?”

Brigitta speaks very coaxingly.

“Yes,” replies the old woman, “I can see both the Guinigi palaces from my door—­both the palaces.  If the marchesa knew—­”

“Go on, go on!” says Brigitta, nudging her.  She leans forward to listen.  “Go on.  People are coming out of the cathedral.”

Carlotta raises her head and grins, showing the few black teeth left in her mouth.  “Are they?  Well, answer me.  Who lives in the street there—­the street of San Simone—­as well as the marchesa?  Who has a fine palace that the marchesa sold him, a palace on which he has spent—­ah! so much, so much?  Who keeps open house, and has a French cook, and fine furniture, and new clothes, and horses in his stable, and six carriages?  Who?—­who?” As old Carlotta puts these questions she sways her body to and fro, and raises her finger to her nose.

“Who is strong, and square, and fair, and smooth?” “Who goes in and out with a smile on his face?  Who?—­who?”

“Why, Nobili, of course—­Count Nobili.  We all know that,” answered Brigitta, impatiently.  “That’s no news.  But what has Nobili to do with the marchesa?”

“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 Nobili?”

“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.  “Nobili 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?”