They had been taken by surprise, for they had not expected the Duca’s visit.  Not heeding them, his heart full of his son, the old man continued to speak, in short, almost tremulous sentences.

“It is certain that Gianluca is very ill,” he said.  “Taquisara has been with him to-day, and Pietro Ghisleri—­but Taquisara is his best friend.  You know Taquisara, do you not?”

“A Sicilian?” asked the countess, encouraging the old man to go on.

“Yes,” said Macomer, answering for the Duca, for he was proud of his genealogical knowledge, “The only son of the old Baron of Guardia.  But every one calls him Taquisara, though his father is dead.  There is a story which says that they are descended from Tancred.”

“It may be,” said the old Duca.  “There are so many legends—­but he is Gianluca’s best friend, and he comes to see him every day.  The boy is ill—­very ill.”  He shook his head, and bent it almost to his breast.  “He wastes away, and I do not know what to do for him.”

The Count and Countess Macomer also shook their heads gravely, but said nothing.  Bosio, seated at a little distance, looked on, his brain still disturbed by what had gone before, and wondering at Matilde’s power of seeming at her ease in such a desperate situation; wondering, too, at his brother’s hard, cold face—­the mask that had so well hidden the passion of the gambler, and perhaps many other passions as well, of which even Bosio knew nothing, nor cared to know anything, having secrets of his own to keep.

All at once, and without warning, after the short pause, the old man broke out in tremulous entreaty.

“Oh! my friends!” he cried.  “Do not say no!  I shall not have the courage to take such a message to my poor son!  Eh, they say that nowadays old-fashioned love is not to be found.  But look at Gianluca—­he consumes himself, he wastes away before my eyes, and one day follows another, and I can do nothing.  You do not believe?  Go and see!  One day follows another—­he is always in his room, consuming himself for love!  He is pale—­paler than a sheet.  He does not eat, he does not drink, he does not smoke—­he, who smoked thirty cigarettes a day!  As for the theatre, or going out, he will not hear of it.  He says, ’I will not see her, for if she will not have me, it is better to die quickly.’  A father’s heart, dear Macomer—­think of what I suffer, and have compassion!  He is my only one—­such a beautiful boy, and so young—­”

“We are sorry,” said Matilde, with firm-voiced sympathy that was already a refusal.

“You will not!” cried the old man, shakily, in his distress.  “Say you will not—­but not that you are sorry!  And Heaven knows it is not for Donna Veronica’s money!  The contract shall be as you please—­we do not need—­”