“What happened?” asked Count Orsetti.

“A secret commission has been sent from Rome.”  There was a breathless silence.  “The government is alarmed.  A secret commission to examine Count Marescotti’s papers, and to imprison him.”

“That’s his uncle’s doing—­the Jesuit!” cried Malatesta.  “This is the second time.  Marescotti will be shut up for life.”

“Did they catch him?” asked Orsetti.

“No; he got out of an upper window, and escaped across the roof.  He had taken all the upper floor of the Universo for his accomplices, who were expected from Paris.”

“Honor to Lucca!” Malatesta put in.  “We are progressing.”

“He’s gone,” continued Orazio, falling back exhausted on his chair, “but his papers—­” Here Franchi thought it right to pause and faintly wink.  “I’ll tell you the rest when I have smoked a cigar.  Give me a light.”

“No, no, you must smoke afterward,” said Orsetti, rapping him smartly on the back.  “Go on—­what about Marescotti’s papers?”

“Compromising—­very,” murmured Franchi, feebly, leaning back out of the range of Orsetti’s arm.

“The Red count was a communist, we all know,” observed Malatesta.

“Mon cher! he was a poet also,” responded Orazio.  Orazio’s languor never interfered with his love of scandal.  “When any lady struck his fancy, Marescotti made a sonnet—­a damaging practice.  These sonnets are a diary of his life.  The police were much diverted, I assure you, and so was I. I was in the hotel; I gave them the key to all the ladies.”

“You might have done better than waste your fine energies in making ladies names public town-talk,” said Orsetti, frowning.

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion,” replied Orazio, with a certain calm insolence peculiar to him.  “I have no ladylove in Lucca.”

“Delicious!” broke in Malatesta, brightening up all over.  “Don’t quarrel over a choice bone.—­Who is compromised the most?  I’ll have her name placarded.  Some one must make a row.”

“Enrica Guinigi is the most compromised,” answered Orazio, striking a match to light his cigar.  “Marescotti celebrates her as the young Madonna before the archangel Gabriel visited her.  Ha! ha!”

Malatesta gave a low whistle.

“Enrica Guinigi!  Is not that the marchesa’s niece?” asked Orsetti; “a pretty, fair-faced girl I see driving with her aunt on the ramparts sometimes?”

“The same,” answered Malatesta.  “But what, in the name of all the devils, could Marescotti know of her?  No one has ever spoken to her.”

Baldassare now leaned forward and listened; the name of Enrica woke him from his sleep.  He hardly dared to join the circle formed round Franchi, for Franchi always snubbed him, and called him “Young Galipots,” when Trenta was absent.

“Perhaps Marescotti was the archangel Gabriel himself,” said Malatesta, with a leer.

“But answer my question,” insisted Orsetti, who, as an avowed suitor of Lucca maidens had their honor and good name at heart.  “Don’t be a fool, but tell me what you know.  This idle story, involving the reputation of a young girl, is shameful.  I protest against it!”