the
mountain-tops. Every soul starts up as they hear wheels approaching.
If a bomb had burst in the piazza the panic could not be greater. They
know it is the marchesa. They know that now the marchesa is come she
will grind and harry them, and seize her share of grapes, and corn,
and olives, to the uttermost farthing. Silvestro, her steward, a
timid, pitiful man, can be got over by soft words, and the sight of
want and misery. Not so the marchesa. They know that now she is come
she will call the Town Council, fine them, pursue them for rent, cite
them to the High Court of Barga, imprison them if they cannot pay.
They know her, and they curse her. The ill-news of her arrival runs
from lip to lip. Checco, the butcher, who sells his meat cut into
dark, indescribably-shaped scraps, more fit for dogs than men, first
sees the carriage turn into the piazza. He passes the word on to
Oreste, the barber round the corner. Oreste, who, with his brother
Pilade, both wearing snow-white aprons, are squaring themselves at
their open doorway, over which hangs a copper basin, shaped like
Manbrino's helmet, looking for customers--Oreste and Pilade turn pale.
Then Oreste tells the baker, Pietro, who, naked as Nature made him,
has run out from his oven to the open door, for a breath of air. The
bewildered clerk at the Municipio, who sits and writes, and sleeps
by turns, all day, in a low room beside a desk, taking notes for the
sindaco (mayor) from all who come (he is so tired, that clerk, he
would hear the last trumpet sound unmoved), even he hears the news,
and starts up.

Now the carriage stops. It has drawn up in the centre of the piazza.
It is the marchesa's custom. She puts her head out of the window, and
takes a long, grave look all round. These are her vassals. They fear
her. She knows it, and she glories in it. Every head is uncovered,
every eye turned upon her. It is obviously some one's duty to salute
her and to welcome her to her domain. She has stopped for this
purpose. It is always done. No one, however, stirs. Ser Giacomo, the
notary, bows low beside the table where he has been caught reading the
Lucca broad-sheet; but Ser Giacomo does not stir. How he wishes he had
staid at home!

He has not the courage to move one step toward her. Something must be
done, so Ser Giacomo he runs and fetches the sindaco from inside the
recesses of the _cafe_, where he is playing dominoes under a lighted
lamp. The sindaco must give the marc