LEONORA. I understand thee--thou thoughtest my wounded pride would plead in thy behalf. (With dignity). Thou didst not know that she who loves Fiesco feels even the pang that rends her heart ennobling. Begone! Fiesco's perfidy will not make Calcagno rise in my esteem--but--will lower humanity. [Exit hastily. CALCAGNO (stands as if thunderstruck, looks after her, then striking his forehead). Fool that I am. [Exit. SCENE IV. The MOOR and FIESCO. FIESCO. Who was it that just now departed? MOOR. The Marquis Calcagno. FIESCO. This handkerchief was left upon the sofa. My wife has been here. MOOR. I met her this moment in great agitation. FIESCO. This handkerchief is moist (puts it in his pocket). Calcagno here? And Leonora agitated? This evening thou must learn what has happened. MOOR. Miss Bella likes to hear that she is fair. She will inform me. FIESCO. Well--thirty hours are past. Hast thou executed my commission? MOOR. To the letter, my lord. FIESCO (seating himself). Then tell me how they talk of Doria, and of the government. MOOR. Oh, most vilely. The very name of Doria shakes them like an ague-fit. Gianettino is as hateful to them as death itself--there's naught but murmuring. They say the French have been the rats of Genoa, the cat Doria has devoured them, and now is going to feast upon the mice. FIESCO. That may perhaps be true. But do they not know of any dog against that cat? MOOR (with an affected carelessness). The town was murmuring much of a certain--poh--why, I have actually forgotten the name. FIESCO (rising). Blockhead! That name is as easy to be remembered as 'twas difficult to achieve. Has Genoa more such names than one? MOOR. No--it cannot have two Counts of Lavagna. FIESCO (seating himself). That is something. And what do they whisper about my gayeties? MOOR (fixing his eyes upon him). Hear me, Count of Lavagna! Genoa must think highly of you. They can not imagine why a descendant of the first family--with such talents and genius--full of spirit and popularity-- master of four millions--his veins enriched with princely blood--a nobleman like Fiesco, whom, at the first call, all hearts would fly to meet---- FIESCO (turns away contemptuously). To hear such things from such a scoundrel! MOOR. Many lamented that the chief of Genoa should slumber over the ruin of his country. And many sneered. Most men condemned you. All bewailed the state which thus had lost you. A Jesuit pretended to have smelt out the fox that lay disguised in sheep's clothing. FIESCO. One fox smells out another. What say they to my passion for the Countess Imperiali? MOOR. What I would rather be excused from repeating. FIESCO. Out with it--the bolder the more welcome. What are their murmurings? MOOR. 'Tis not a murmur. At all the coffee-houses, billiard-tables, hotels, and public walks--in the market-place, at the Exchange, they proclaim aloud---- FIESCO. What? I command thee!