“Do you?” sneered Orazio, leaning back, and pulling at his sandy mustache.  “That is because you know nothing about it.  This Sainte Vierge has already been much talked about—­first, with Nobili, who lives opposite—­when ma tante was sleeping.  Then she spent a day with several men upon the Guinigi Tower, an elegant retirement among the crows.  After that old Trenta offered her formally in marriage to Marescotti.”

“What!—­After the Guinigi Tower?” put in Malatesta.  “Of course Marescotti refused her?”

“‘Refused her, of course, with thanks.’  So says the sonnet.”  Orazio went on to say all this in a calm, tranquil way, casting the bread of scandal on social waters as he puffed at his cigar.  “It is very prettily rhymed—­the sonnet—­I have read it.  The young Madonna is warmly painted. Now, why did Marescotti refuse to marry her? That is what I want to know.”  And Franchi looked round upon his audience with a glance of gratified malice.

“Even in Lucca!—­even in Lucca!” Malatesta clapped his hands and chuckled until he almost choked.  “Laus Veneri!—­the mighty goddess!—­She has reared an altar even here in this benighted city.  I was a skeptic, but a Paphian miracle has converted me.  I must drink a punch in honor of the great goddess.”

Here Baldassare rose and leaned over from behind.

“I went up the Guinigi Tower with the party,” he ventured to say.  “There were four of us.  The Cavaliere Trenta told me in the street just before that it was all right, and that the lady had agreed to marry Count Marescotti.  There can be no secret about it now that every one knows it.  Count Marescotti raved so about the Signorina Enrica, that he nearly jumped over the parapet.”

“Better for her if you had helped him over,” muttered Orazio, with a sarcastic stare.  “The sonnet would not then have been written.”

But Baldassare, conscious that he had intelligence that would make him welcome, stood his ground.  “You do not seem to know what has happened,” he continued.

“More news!” cried Malatesta.  “Gracious heavens!  Wave after wave it comes!—­a mighty sea.  I hear the distant roar—­it dashes high!—­It breaks!—­Speak, oh, speak, Adonis!”

“The Marchesa Guinigi has left Lucca suddenly.”

“Who cares?  Do you, Pietrino?” asked Franchi of Orsetti, with a contemptuous glance at Baldassare.

“Let him speak,” cried Malatesta; “Baldassare is an oracle.”

“The marchesa left Lucca suddenly,” persisted Baldassare, not daring to notice Orsetti’s insolence.  “She took her niece with her.”

“Have it cried about the streets,” interrupted Orazio, opening his eyes.

“Yesterday morning an express came down for Cavaliere Trenta.  The ancient tower of Corellia has been entirely burnt.  The marchesa was rescued.”

“And the niece—­is the niece gone to glory on the funeral-pyre?”

“No,” answered Baldassare, helplessly, settling his stupid eyes on Orazio, whose thrusts he could not parry.  “She was saved by Count Nobili, who was accidentally shooting on the mountains near.”