“Don’t, don’t, I hate scandal,” said Ruspoli, taking one of his hands out of his pocket for a moment, and holding it up in remonstrance.  “There is nothing but scandal in these small Italian towns.  Take to hunting, that’s the cure.  Nobili is to marry the little girl, that’s certain.  He’s to pay off all the marchesa’s debts, that’s certain too.  He’s rich, she’s poor.  He wants blood, she has got it.”

“I do not believe in this marriage,” said Orazio, measuring Prince Ruspoli as he stood erect, his slits of eyes without a shadow of expression.  “You remember the ballroom, prince?  And the Boccarini family grouped—­and Nobili crying in a corner?  Nobili will marry the Boccarini.  She is a stunner.”

After Orazio had ventured this observation about Nera Boccarini, Prince Ruspoli brought his small, steely eyes to bear upon him with a fixed stare.

Orazio affected total unconsciousness, but he quailed inwardly.  The others silently watched Ruspoli.  He took up his hunting-whip and whirled it in the air dangerously near Orazio’s head, eying him all the while as a dog eyes a rat he means to crunch between his teeth.

“Whoever says that Count Nobili will marry the Boccarini, is a liar!” Prince Ruspoli spoke with perfect composure, still whirling his whip.  “I shall be happy to explain my reason anywhere, out of the city, on the shortest notice.”

Orazio started up.  “Prince Ruspoli, do you call me a liar?”

“I beg your pardon,” replied Ruspoli, quite unmoved, making Orazio a mock bow.  “Did you say whom Count Nobili would marry?  If you did, will you favor me by repeating it?”

“I only report town-talk,” Franchi answered, sullenly.  “I am not answerable for town-talk.”

Ruspoli was a dead-shot; Orazio only fought with swords.

“Then I am satisfied,” replied Ruspoli, quiet defiance in his look and tone.  “I accuse you, Signore Orazio Franchi, of nothing.  I only warn you.”

“I don’t see why we should quarrel about Nobili’s marriage.  He will be here himself presently, to explain which of the ladies he prefers,” observed the peaceable Orsetti.

“I don’t know which lady Count Nobili prefers,” retorted Ruspoli, doggedly.  “But I tell you the name of the lady he is to marry.  It is Enrica Guinigi.”

“Why, there is Count Nobili!” cried Baldassare, quite loud—­“there, under the plane-trees.”

“Bravo, Adonis!” cried Beppo; “your eyes are as sharp as your feet are swift.”

Nobili crossed the square; he was coming toward the club.  Every face was turned toward him.  He had come down to Lucca like one maddened by the breath of love.  All along the road he had felt drunk with happiness.  To him love was everywhere—­in the deep gloom of the mountain-forests, in the flowing river, diamonded with light under the pale moonbeams; in the splendor of the starry sky, in midnight dreams of bliss, and in the awakening of glorious morning.  The two old palaces were full of love—­the Moorish garden; the magnolias that overtopped the wall, and the soft, creamy perfume that wafted from them; the very street through which he should lead her home; every one he saw; all he said, thought, or did—­it was all love and Enrica!