passed across his chest; he is otherwise so enveloped with gold-lace, embroidery, buttons, trencher, and cocked-hat, that the whole inner man is absorbed, not to say invisible.  Beside him, in the livery of the house, tall valets grin, lounge, and ogle the passers-by (wearers of Leghorn hats, and veils, and white head-gear generally).  This particular Guinigi Palace belongs to Count Mario Nobili.  He bought it of the Marchesa Guinigi, who lives opposite.  Nobili is the richest young man in Lucca.  No one calls upon him for help in vain; but, let it be added, no one offends him with impunity.  When Nobili first came to Lucca, the old families looked coldly at him, his nobility being of very recent date.  It was bestowed on his father, a successful banker—­some said usurer, some said worse—­by the Grand-duke Leopold, for substantial assistance toward his pet hobby—­the magnificent road that zigzags up the mountain-side to Fiesole from Florence.

But young Nobili soon conquered Lucchese prejudice.  Now he is well received by all—­all save the Marchesa Guinigi.  She was, and is at this time, still irreconcilable.  Nobili stands in the central window of his palace.  He leans out over the street, a cigar in his mouth.  A servant beside him flings down from time to time some silver coin among Leghorn hats and the beggars, who scramble for it on the pavement.  Nobili’s eyes beam as the populace look up and cheer him:  “Long live Count Nobili!  Evviva!” He takes off his hat and bows; more silver coin comes clattering down on the pavement; there are fresh evvivas, fresh bows, and more scramblers cover the street.  “No one like Nobili,” the people say; “so affable, so open-handed—­yes, and so clever, too, for has he not traveled, and does he not know the world?”

Beside Count Nobili some jeunesse doree of his own age (sons of the best houses in Lucca) also lean over the Venetian casements.  Like the liveried giants at the entrance, these laugh, ogle, chaff, and criticise the wearers of Leghorn hats, black veils, and white head-gear, freely.  They smoke, and drink liqueurs and sherbet, and crack sugar-plums out of crystal cup on silver plates, set on embossed trays placed beside them.

The profession of these young men is idleness.  They excel in it.  Let us pause for a moment and ask what they do—­this jeunesse doree, to whom the sacred mission is committed of regenerating an heroic people?  They could teach Ovid “the art of love.”  It comes to them in the air they breathe.  They do not love their neighbor as themselves, but they love their neighbor’s wives.  Nothing is holy to them.  “All for love, and the world well lost,” is their motto.  They can smile in their best friend’s face, weep with him, rejoice with him, eat with him, drink with him, and—­betray him; they do this every day, and do it well.  They can also lie artistically, dressing up imaginary details with great skill, gamble and sing, swear, and talk scandal.