Giovanni laughed.

“It will end in our having to go to Aquila in search of my supposed better half,” he said.  “Aquila, of all places!  If she had said Paris—­or even Florence—­but why, in the name of geography, Aquila?”

“She probably looked for some out-of-the-way place upon an alphabetical list,” laughed the Prince.  “Aquila stood first.  We shall know in two hours—­come along.  It is time to be going.”

They found Corona in her boudoir.  She had passed an uneasy hour on the previous afternoon after they had left her, but her equanimity was now entirely restored.  She had made up her mind that, however ingenious the concocted evidence might turn out to be, it was absolutely impossible to harm Giovanni by means of it.  His position was beyond attack, as, in her mind, his character was above slander.  Far from experiencing any sensation of anxiety as to the result of Donna Tullia’s visit, what she most felt was curiosity to see what these fancied proofs would be like.  She still believed that Madame Mayer was mad.

“I have been remarking to Giovanni upon Donna Tullia’s originality,” said old Saracinesca.  “It is charming; it shows a talent for fiction which the world has been long in realising, which we have not even suspected—­an amazing and transcendent genius for invention.”

“It is pure insanity,” answered Corona, in a tone of conviction.  “The woman is mad.”

“Mad as an Englishman,” asseverated the Prince, using the most powerful simile in the Italian language.  “We will have her in Santo Spirito before night, and she will puzzle the doctors.”

“She is not mad,” said Giovanni, quietly.  “I do not even believe we shall find that her documents are forgeries.”

“What?” cried his father.  Corona looked quickly at Giovanni.

“You yourself,” said the latter, turning to old Saracinesca, “were assuring me half an hour ago that I was the victim of a plot.  Now, if anything of the kind is seriously attempted, you may be sure it will be well done.  She has a good ally in the man to whom she is engaged.  Del Ferice is no fool, and he hates me.”

“Del Ferice!” exclaimed Corona, in surprise.  As she went nowhere as yet, she had, of course, not heard the news which had been published on the previous evening.  “You do not mean to say that she is going to marry Del Ferice?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Giovanni.  “They both appeared last night and announced the fact, and received everybody’s congratulations.  It is a most appropriate match.”

“I agree with you—­a beautiful triangular alliteration of wit, wealth, and wickedness,” observed the Prince.  “He has brains, she has money, and they are both as bad as possible.”

“I thought you used to like Donna Tullia,” said Corona, suppressing a smile.