“That fellow thrust at Giovanni once to kill him while they were halting and his sword was hanging lowered in his hand; and once again he threw himself upon his knee and tried to stab him in the body—­which is a dastardly trick not permitted in any country.  Even in duelling, such things are called murder; and it is their right name.”

Corona was very pale.  Giovanni’s danger had been suddenly brought before her in a very vivid light, and she was horror-struck at the thought of it.

“Is—­is Don Giovanni very badly wounded?” she asked.

“No, thank heaven; he will be wall in a week.  But either one of those attempts might have killed him; and he would have died, I think—­pardon me, no insult this time—­I think, on your account.  Do you see why for him I dread this attachment to you, which leads him to risk his life at every turn for a word about you?  Do you see why I implore you to take the matter into your serious consideration, and to use your influence to bring him to his senses?”

“I see; but in this question of the duel you have no proof that I was concerned.”

“No,—­no proof, perhaps.  I will not weary you with surmises; but even if it was not for you this time, you see that it might have been.”

“Perhaps,” said Corona, very sadly.

“I have to thank you, even if you will not listen to me,” said the Prince, rising.  “You have understood me.  It was all I asked.  Good night.”

“Good night,” answered Corona, who did not move from her seat nor extend her hand this time.  She was too much agitated to think of formalities.  Saracinesca bowed low and left the room.

It was characteristic of him that he had come to see the Duchessa not knowing what he should say, and that he had blurted out the whole truth, and then lost his temper in support of it.  He was a hasty man, of noble instincts, but always inclined rather to cut a knot than to unloose it—­to do by force what another man would do by skill—­angry at opposition, and yet craving it by his combative nature.

His first impulse on leaving Corona was to go to Giovanni and tell him what he had done; but he reflected as he went home that his son was ill with his wounds, and that it would be bad for him to be angry, as of course he would be if he were told of his father’s doings.  Moreover, as old Saracinesca thought more seriously of the matter, he wisely concluded that it would be better not to speak of the visit; and when he entered the room where Giovanni was lying on his couch with a novel and a cigarette, he had determined to conceal the whole matter.

“Well, Giovanni,” he said, “we are the talk of the town, of course.”

“It was to be expected.  Whom have you seen?”

“In the first place, I have seen Madame Mayer.  She is in a state of anger against you which borders on madness—­not because you have wounded Del Ferice, but because you forgot to dance with her.  I cannot conceive how you could be so foolish.”