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Updated: June 7, 2025
"Yes, his wife," answered Franchi, crossing his arms with great deliberation. "The Countess Sansovino was received by her attached husband with bouquets, and a band of music. She drove up to the front-door in gala in a four-in-hand,
Un jour de plus, et nous serions deportées," and a loud cry from Miss Gina Longfellow, who sprang from her seat at the other end of the table. "Dio mio! We sure are copped!" "Arrest the lady also, as an accomplice," remarked Signor Cristofero quietly. Dr. Franchi suddenly began to struggle violently, thus engaging the attention of the police.
Now, why do they not do this kind of thing in Lucca? Will any one tell me? I want to know." There was a general laugh. "Well, they may possibly do worse," said Franchi, languidly. "What do you mean?" asked Malatesta, sharply. "Is there more scandal?" Franchi nodded. A crowd collected round him. "How the devil, Franchi, do you know so much? Out with it! You must tell us."
He ignored the implied reproach. "Signor de' Franchi would have done much for me," he went on. "But I only begged the run of his great library. Thou knowest how hard it is for me that the Christians deny us books. And there many a day have I sat reading till the vesper bell warned me that I must hasten back to the Ghetto." "Ah! 'twas but to pervert thee." "Nay, mother, we talked not of religion."
A church would have been contaminated by the presence of heretics, and even from the Oratory any religious objects that lay about had been removed. There was a goodly array of fashionable Christians, resplendent in gold-fringed mantles and silk-ribboned hats; for he was rumored eloquent, and Annibale de' Franchi was there in pompous presidency.
Baldassare now leaned forward and listened; the name of Enrica woke him from his sleep. He hardly dared to join the circle formed round Franchi, for Franchi always snubbed him, and called him "Young Galipots," when Trenta was absent. "Perhaps Marescotti was the archangel Gabriel himself," said Malatesta, with a leer.
At ten o'clock the same morning I arrived at the rooms of M. Louis de Franchi. The seconds of Château-Renard had already called, and I passed them on the stairs. Louis had written me a note; with another friend, Baron Giordano Martelli, the affair was to be arranged with Baron de Châteaugrand, and M. de Boissy, the gentleman I had met on the stairs.
The "golden youth" offer bets as to Nera's recovery; the ladies, who are jealous, back freely against it. In half an hour, however, Countess Orsetti is able to announce that "Nera Boccarini is better, and that, beyond the shock, it is hoped that she is not seriously hurt." "You see, Malatesta, I was right," drawls out the languid Franchi as he descends the stairs.
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.
This was the play with which the Lyceum reopened in the autumn of 1880. I was on the last of my provincial tours with Charles Kelly at the time, but I must have come up to see the revival, for I remember Henry Irving in it very distinctly. He had not played the dual rôle of Louis and Fabien del Franchi before, and he had to compete with old playgoers' memories of Charles Kean and Fechter.
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