that zigzags up the mountain-side to Fiesole from Florence.

But young Nobili soon conquered Lucchese prejudice. Now he is well
received by all--_all_ save the Marchesa Guinigi. She was, and is at
this time, still irreconcilable. Nobili stands in the central window
of his palace. He leans out over the street, a cigar in his mouth.
A servant beside him flings down from time to time some silver
coin among Leghorn hats and the beggars, who scramble for it on the
pavement. Nobili's eyes beam as the populace look up and cheer him:
"Long live Count Nobili! Evviva!" He takes off his hat and bows; more
silver coin comes clattering down on the pavement; there are fresh
evvivas, fresh bows, and more scramblers cover the street. "No one
like Nobili," the people say; "so affable, so open-handed--yes, and so
clever, too, for has he not traveled, and does he not know the world?"

Beside Count Nobili some _jeunesse dorée_ of his own age (sons of the
best houses in Lucca) also lean over the Venetian casements. Like
the liveried giants at the entrance, these laugh, ogle, chaff,
and criticise the wearers of Leghorn hats, black veils, and white
head-gear, freely. They smoke, and drink _liqueurs_ and sherbet, and
crack sugar-plums out of crystal cup on silver plates, set on embossed
trays placed beside them.

The profession of these young men is idleness. They excel in it. Let
us pause for a moment and ask what they do--this _jeunesse dorée_, to
whom the sacred mission is committed of regenerating an heroic people?
They could teach Ovid "the art of love." It comes to them in the air
they breathe. They do not love their neighbor as themselves, but they
love their neighbor's wives. Nothing is holy to them. "All for love,
and the world well lost," is their motto. They can smile in their best