Giovanni had realised for more than a year past that he loved Corona d’Astrardente.  Contrary to the custom of young men in his position, he determined from the first that he would never let her know it; and herein lay the key to all his actions.  He had, as he thought, made a point of behaving to her on all occasions as he behaved to the other women he met in the world, and he believed that he had skilfully concealed his passion from the world and from the woman he loved.  He had acted on all occasions with a circumspection which was not natural to him, and for which he undeniably deserved great credit.  It had been a year of constant struggles, constant efforts at self-control, constant determination that, if possible, he would overcome his instincts.  It was true that, when occasion offered, he had permitted himself the pleasure of talking to Corona d’Astrardente—­talking, he well knew, upon the most general subjects, but finding at each interview some new point of sympathy.  Never, he could honestly say, had he approached in that time the subject of love, nor even the equally dangerous topic of friendship, the discussion of which leads to so many ruinous experiments.  He had never by look or word sought to interest the dark Duchessa in his doings nor in himself; he had talked of books, of politics, of social questions, but never of himself nor of herself.  He had faithfully kept the promise he had made in his heart, that since he was so unfortunate as to love the wife of another—­a woman of such nobility that even in Rome no breath had been breathed against her—­he would keep his unfortunate passion to himself.  Astrardente was old, almost decrepit, in spite of his magnificent wig; Corona was but two-and-twenty years of age.  If ever her husband died, Giovanni would present himself before the world as her suitor; meanwhile he would do nothing to injure her self-respect nor to disturb her peace—­he hardly flattered himself he could do that, for he loved her truly—­and above all, he would do nothing to compromise the unsullied reputation she enjoyed.  She might never love him; but he was strong and patient, and would do her the only honour it was in his power to do her, by waiting patiently.

But Giovanni had not considered that he was the most conspicuous man in society; that there were many who watched his movements, in hopes he would come their way; that when he entered a room, many had noticed that, though he never went directly to Corona’s side, he always looked first towards her, and never omitted to speak with her in the course of an evening.  Keen observers, the jays of society who hover about the eagle’s nest, had not failed to observe a look of annoyance on Giovanni’s face when he did not succeed in being alone by Corona’s side for at least a few minutes; and Del Ferice, who was a sort of news-carrier in Rome, had now and then hinted that Giovanni was in love.  People had repeated his hints, as he intended they should, with the illuminating wit peculiar to tale-bearers, and the story had gone abroad accordingly.  True, there was not a man in Rome bold enough to allude to the matter in Giovanni’s presence, even if any one had seen any advantage in so doing; but such things do not remain hidden.  His own father had told him in a fit of anger, and the blow had produced its effect.