Memmo.—What, the banditti?
Parozzi.—Not a trace of them can be found. It is enough to kill one with vexation.
Falieri.—And in the meanwhile the time runs out, our projects will get wind, and then we shall sit quietly in the State prisons of Venice, objects of derision to the populace and ourselves. I could tear my flesh for anger. (A universal silence.)
Parozzi (striking his hand against the table passionately).—Flodoardo, Flodoardo.
Falieri.—In a couple of hours I must attend the Cardinal Gonzaga, and what intelligence shall I have to give him?
Memmo.—Come, come, Contarino cannot have been absent so long without cause; I warrant you he will bring some news with him when he arrives.
Falieri.—Pshaw, pshaw! My life on’t he lies at this moment at Olympia’s feet, and forgets us, the Republic, the banditti, and himself.
Parozzi.—And so neither of you know anything of this Flodoardo?
Memmo.—No more than of what happened on Rosabella’s birthday.
Falieri.—Well, then, I know one thing more about him; Parozzi is jealous of him.