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