Falieri.—Flodoardo is rather too hasty in making himself remarked.
Parozzi.—Flodoardo must die.
Contarino (filling a goblet).—May his next cup contain poison.
Falieri.—I shall do myself the honour of becoming better acquainted with the gentleman.
Contarino.—Memmo, we must needs have full purses, or our business will hang on hand wofully.
When does your uncle take his departure to a better world?
Memmo.—To-morrow evening, and yet—ugh, I tremble.
CHAPTER III.
MORE CONFUSION.
Since Rosabella’s birthday, no woman in Venice who had the slightest pretensions to beauty, or the most remote expectations of making conquests, had any subject of conversation except the handsome Florentine. He found employment for every female tongue, and she who dared not to employ her tongue, made amends for the privation with her thoughts. Many a maiden now enjoyed less tranquil slumbers; many an experienced coquette sighed as she laid on her colour at the looking glass; many a prude forgot the rules which she had imposed upon herself, and daily frequented the gardens and walks in which report gave her the hope of meeting Flodoardo.
But from the time that, placing himself at the head of the sbirri, he had dared to enter boldly the den of the banditti, and seize them at the hazard of his life, he was scarcely more an object of attention among the women than among the men. Greatly did they admire his courage and unshaken presence of mind while engaged in so perilous an adventure; but still more were they astonished at his penetration in discovering where the bravoes concealed themselves, an attempt which foiled even the keen wits of the so much celebrated police of Venice.