-they were too conspicuous; but his tailor
tells him they are English, and Baldassare willingly believes him.

Baldassare is not a member, but he was admitted to the club by the
influence of his patron, the old chamberlain; not without protest,
however, with the paternal shop close by. Being there, Baldassare
stands his ground in a sullen, silent way. He has much jewelry about
him, and wears many showy rings. Trenta says publicly that these rings
are false; but Trenta is not at the club to-day.

Lolling back in a chair near Baldassare, with his short legs crossed,
and his thumbs stuck into the arm-holes of his coat, is Count Orsetti,
smiling, fat, and innocuous. His mother has not yet decided when he is
to speak the irrevocable words to Teresa Ottolini. Orsetti is far too
dutiful a son to do so before she gives him permission. His mother
might change her mind at the last moment; then Orsetti would change
his mind, too, and burn incense on other altars. Orsetti has a
meerschaum between his teeth, from which he is puffing out columns of
smoke. With his head thrown back, he is watching it as it curls upward
into the vaulted portico. The languid young man, Orazio Franchi,
supported by a stick, is at this moment ascending the steps. To
see him drag one leg after the other, one would think his days were
numbered. Not at all. Franchi is strong and healthy, but he cultivates
languor as an accomplishment. Everybody at Lucca is idle, but
nobody is languid, so Franchi has thought fit to adopt that line of
distinction. His thin, lanky arms, stooping figure, and a head set on
a long neck that droops upon his chest, as well as a certain indolent
grace, suit the _role_. When Franchi had mounted the steps he stood
still, heaved an audible sigh of infinite relief, then he sank into a
chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. Count Malatesta, who was near,
leaning against the wall behind, took his cigar from his mouth and
laughed.

"Su!--Via!--A little courage to bear the burden of a weary life. What
has tired you, Orazio?"

"I have walked from the gate here," answered Orazio, without unclosing
his eyes.

"Go on, go on," is Malatesta's reply, "nothing like perseverance. You
will lose the use of your limbs in time. It is this cursed air. Per
Bacco! it will infect me. Why, oh! why, my penates, was I born at
Lucca? It is the dullest place. No one ever draws a knife, or fights a
duel, or runs away with his neighbor's wife. Why don't they