It is five o’clock in the afternoon of a splendid day early in October—­the next day, in fact, after the contract was signed at Corellia.  The hour for the drive upon the ramparts at Lucca is not till six.  This, therefore, is the favorite moment for a lounge at the club.  The portico is dotted with black coats and hats.  Baldassare lay asleep between two chairs.  He had arranged himself so as not to crease a pair of new trousers—­all’Inglese—­not that any Englishman would have worn such garments—­they were too conspicuous; but his tailor tells him they are English, and Baldassare willingly believes him.

Baldassare is not a member, but he was admitted to the club by the influence of his patron, the old chamberlain; not without protest, however, with the paternal shop close by.  Being there, Baldassare stands his ground in a sullen, silent way.  He has much jewelry about him, and wears many showy rings.  Trenta says publicly that these rings are false; but Trenta is not at the club to-day.

Lolling back in a chair near Baldassare, with his short legs crossed, and his thumbs stuck into the arm-holes of his coat, is Count Orsetti, smiling, fat, and innocuous.  His mother has not yet decided when he is to speak the irrevocable words to Teresa Ottolini.  Orsetti is far too dutiful a son to do so before she gives him permission.  His mother might change her mind at the last moment; then Orsetti would change his mind, too, and burn incense on other altars.  Orsetti has a meerschaum between his teeth, from which he is puffing out columns of smoke.  With his head thrown back, he is watching it as it curls upward into the vaulted portico.  The languid young man, Orazio Franchi, supported by a stick, is at this moment ascending the steps.  To see him drag one leg after the other, one would think his days were numbered.  Not at all.  Franchi is strong and healthy, but he cultivates languor as an accomplishment.  Everybody at Lucca is idle, but nobody is languid, so Franchi has thought fit to adopt that line of distinction.  His thin, lanky arms, stooping figure, and a head set on a long neck that droops upon his chest, as well as a certain indolent grace, suit the role.  When Franchi had mounted the steps he stood still, heaved an audible sigh of infinite relief, then he sank into a chair, leaned back and closed his eyes.  Count Malatesta, who was near, leaning against the wall behind, took his cigar from his mouth and laughed.

“Su!—­Via!—­A little courage to bear the burden of a weary life.  What has tired you, Orazio?”

“I have walked from the gate here,” answered Orazio, without unclosing his eyes.

“Go on, go on,” is Malatesta’s reply, “nothing like perseverance.  You will lose the use of your limbs in time.  It is this cursed air.  Per Bacco! it will infect me.  Why, oh! why, my penates, was I born at Lucca?  It is the dullest place.  No one ever draws a knife, or fights a duel, or runs away with his neighbor’s wife.  Why don’t they?  It would be excitement.  Cospetto! we marry, and are given in marriage, and breed like pigeons in our own holes.—­Come, Franchi, have you no news?  Wake up, man!  You are full of wickedness, spite of your laziness.”