“Lotta was telling me, too, that she wants fresh stores for her shop, but all her money is gone to the grandchild in the hospital, who is ill, very ill!” and Brigitta sighs and turns up the whites of her eyes.

“Yes, yes,” joins in Carlotta, a dismal look upon her shriveled old face.  “Yes—­it is just that.  All the money gone to the grandchild, the son of my Beppo—­that’s the soldier who is with the king’s army.—­Alas! all gone; my money, my son, and all.”

Here Carlotta affects to groan and wring her hands despairingly.

The mass was now nearly over; many people were already leaving the cathedral; but the swell of the organs and the sweet tones of voices still burst forth from time to time.  Festive masses are always long.  It might not seem so to the pretty ladies in the boxes, still perseveringly fanning themselves, nor to the golden youths who were diverting them; but the prospect of dinner and a siesta was a temptation stronger than the older portion of the congregation could resist.  By twos and threes they slipped out.

This is the moment for the three women to use their eyes and their tongues—­very softly indeed—­for they were now elbowed by some of the best people in Lucca—­but to use them.

“There’s Baldassare, the chemist’s son,” whispers Brigitta, who was using her one eye diligently.

“Mercy!  That new coat was never cut in Lucca.  They need sell many drugs at papa-chemist’s to pay for Baldassare’s clothes.  Why, he’s combed and scented like a spice-tree.  He’s a good-looking fellow; the great ladies like him.”  This was said with a knock-me-down air by Cassandra.  “He dines at our place every day.  It’s a pleasure to see his black curls and smell his scented handkerchief.”

A cluster of listeners had now gathered round Cassandra, who, conscious of an audience, thought it worth her while to hold forth.  Shaking out the folds of her gown, she leaned her back against the wall, and pointed with a finger on which were some trumpery rings.  Cassandra knew everybody, and was determined to make those about her aware of it.  “That’s young Count Orsetti and his mamma; they give a grand ball to-night.” (Cassandra is standing on tiptoe now, the better to observe those who pass.) “There she goes to her carriage.  Ahi! how grand!  The coachman and the valet with gold-lace and silk stockings.  I would fast for a week to ride once in such a carriage.  Oh!  I would give any thing to splash the mud in people’s faces.  She’s a fine woman—­the Orsetti.  Observe her light hair.  Madonna mia!  What a train of silk!  Twelve shillings a yard—­not a penny less.  She’s got a cavaliere still.—­He! he! a cavaliere!”

Carlotta grins, and winks her wicked old eyes.  “She wants to marry her son to Teresa Ottolini.  He’s a poor silly little fellow; but rich—­very rich.”

“Who’s that fat man in a brown coat?” asks Brigitta.  “He’s like a maggot in a fresh nut!”