“Indeed, indeed, no such thought ever crossed my mind.  I give you all I have,” cried Corona, in great distress; “I will give you more—­I will devote my whole life to you—­”

“You do, my dear.  I am sensible of it,” said Astrardente, quietly.  “You cannot do more, if you will; you cannot make me young again, nor take away the bitterness of death—­of a death that leaves you behind.”

Corona leaned forward, staring into the dying embers of the fire, one hand supporting her chin.  The tears stood in her eyes and on her cheeks.  The old dandy in his genuine misery had excited her compassion.

“I would mourn you long,” she said.  “You may have wasted your life; you say so.  I would love you more if I could, God knows.  You have always been to me a courteous gentleman and a faithful husband.”

The old man rose with difficulty from his deep chair, and came and stood by her, and took the hand that lay idle on her knees.  She looked up at him.

“If I thought my blessing were worth anything, I would bless you for what you say.  But I would not have you waste your youth.  Youth is that which, being wasted, is like water poured out upon the ground.  You must marry again, and marry soon—­do not start.  You will inherit all my fortune; you will have my title.  It must descend to your children.  It has come to an unworthy end in me; it must be revived in you.”

“How can you think of it?  Are you ill?” asked Corona kindly, pressing gently his thin hand in hers.  “Why do you dwell on the idea of death to-night?”

“I am ill; yes, past all cure, my dear,” said the old man, gently raising her hand to his lips, and kissing it.

“What do you mean?” asked Corona, suddenly rising to her feet and laying her hand affectionately upon his shoulder.  “Why have you never told me?”

“Why should I tell you—­except that it is near, and you must be prepared?  Why should I burden you with anxiety?  But you were so gentle and kind to-night, upon the stairs,” he said, with some hesitation, “that I thought perhaps it would be a relief to you to know—­to know that it is not for long.”

There was something so gentle in his tone, so infinitely pathetic in his thought that possibly he might lighten the burden his wife bore so bravely, there was something at last so human in the loving regret with which he spoke, that Corona forgot all his foolish ways, his wig and his false teeth and his petty vanities, and letting her head fall upon his shoulder, burst into passionate tears.

“Oh no, no!” she sobbed.  “It must be a long time yet; you must not die!”

“It may be a year, not more,” he said gently.  “God bless you for those tears, Corona—­the tears you have shed for me.  Good night, my dearest.”

He let her sink upon her chair, and his hand rested for one moment upon her raven hair.  Then with a last remnant of energy he quickly left the room.