"His wife?" shouted Orsetti. "Chè, chè! Any woman but his wife, and I'll believe you. Why, she has lived for the last fifteen years with Duke Bartolo at Venice. Sansovino did not mind the duke, but he charged her with forgery. You remember? About her dower. There was a lawsuit, I think. No, no—not his wife."
"Yes, his wife," answered Franchi, crossing his arms with great deliberation. "The Countess Sansovino was received by her attached husband with bouquets, and a band of music. She drove up to the front-door in gala—in a four-in-hand, à la Daumont. All the tenantry were in waiting—her children too (each by a different father)—to receive her. It was most touching. Old Sansovino did it very well, they tell me. He clasped her to his heart, and melted into tears like a père noble"
"O Bello!" exclaimed Orsetti, "if old Sansovino cried, it must have been with shame. After this, I will believe any thing."
"The Countess Sansovino is very rich," a voice remarked from the background.
"Well, if she forges, I suppose so," another answered.
"O Marriage! large are the folds of thy ample mantle!" cried Count Malatesta. "Who shall say we are not free in Italy? Now, why do they not do this kind of thing in Lucca? Will any one tell me?—I want to know."
There was a general laugh. "Well, they may possibly do worse," said
Franchi, languidly.
"What do you mean?" asked Malatesta, sharply. "Is there more scandal?"
Franchi nodded. A crowd collected round him.
"How the devil, Franchi, do you know so much? Out with it! You must tell us."