FIESCO. That may perhaps be true. But do they not know of any dog against that cat?
MOOR (with an affected carelessness). The town was murmuring much of a certain—poh—why, I have actually forgotten the name.
FIESCO (rising). Blockhead! That name is as easy to be remembered as 'twas difficult to achieve. Has Genoa more such names than one?
MOOR. No—it cannot have two Counts of Lavagna.
FIESCO (seating himself). That is something. And what do they whisper about my gayeties?
MOOR (fixing his eyes upon him). Hear me, Count of Lavagna! Genoa must think highly of you. They can not imagine why a descendant of the first family—with such talents and genius—full of spirit and popularity— master of four millions—his veins enriched with princely blood—a nobleman like Fiesco, whom, at the first call, all hearts would fly to meet——
FIESCO (turns away contemptuously). To hear such things from such a scoundrel!
MOOR. Many lamented that the chief of Genoa should slumber over the ruin of his country. And many sneered. Most men condemned you. All bewailed the state which thus had lost you. A Jesuit pretended to have smelt out the fox that lay disguised in sheep's clothing.
FIESCO. One fox smells out another. What say they to my passion for the Countess Imperiali?
MOOR. What I would rather be excused from repeating.