"Honor to Lucca!" Malatesta put in. "We are progressing."
"He's gone," continued Orazio, falling back exhausted on his chair, "but his papers—" Here Franchi thought it right to pause and faintly wink. "I'll tell you the rest when I have smoked a cigar. Give me a light."
"No, no, you must smoke afterward," said Orsetti, rapping him smartly on the back. "Go on—what about Marescotti's papers?"
"Compromising—very," murmured Franchi, feebly, leaning back out of the range of Orsetti's arm.
"The Red count was a communist, we all know," observed Malatesta.
"Mon cher! he was a poet also," responded Orazio. Orazio's languor never interfered with his love of scandal. "When any lady struck his fancy, Marescotti made a sonnet—a damaging practice. These sonnets are a diary of his life. The police were much diverted, I assure you, and so was I. I was in the hotel; I gave them the key to all the ladies."
"You might have done better than waste your fine energies in making ladies names public town-talk," said Orsetti, frowning.
"Well, that's a matter of opinion," replied Orazio, with a certain calm insolence peculiar to him. "I have no ladylove in Lucca."
"Delicious!" broke in Malatesta, brightening up all over. "Don't quarrel over a choice bone.—Who is compromised the most? I'll have her name placarded. Some one must make a row."
"Enrica Guinigi is the most compromised," answered Orazio, striking a match to light his cigar. "Marescotti celebrates her as the young Madonna before the archangel Gabriel visited her. Ha! ha!"