FIESCO. Well—thirty hours are past. Hast thou executed my commission?
MOOR. To the letter, my lord.
FIESCO (seating himself). Then tell me how they talk of Doria, and of the government.
MOOR. Oh, most vilely. The very name of Doria shakes them like an ague-fit. Gianettino is as hateful to them as death itself—there's naught but murmuring. They say the French have been the rats of Genoa, the cat Doria has devoured them, and now is going to feast upon the mice.
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——