But now a new horror seized her, and terrified her beyond measure.  This rumour of a duel—­a mere word dropped carelessly in conversation by a thoughtless acquaintance—­called up to her sudden visions of evil to come.  Surely, howsoever she might struggle against love and beat it roughly to silence in her breast, it was not wrong to fear danger for Giovanni,—­it could not be a sin to dread the issue of peril when it was all so very near to her.  It might perhaps not be true, for people in the world are willing to amuse their empty minds with empty tales, acknowledging the emptiness.  It could not be true; she had seen Giovanni but a moment before—­he would have given some hint, some sign.

Why—­after all?  Was it not the boast of such men that they could face the world and wear an indifferent look, at times of the greatest anxiety and danger?  But, again, if Giovanni had been involved in a quarrel so serious as to require the arbitrament of blood, some rumour of it would have reached her.  She had talked with many men that night, and with some women—­gossips all, whose tongues wagged merrily over the troubles of friend, or foe, and who would have battened upon anything so novel as a society duel, as a herd of jackals upon the dead body of one of their fellows, to make their feast off it with a light heart.  Some one of all these would have told her; the quarrel would have been common property in half an hour, for somebody must have witnessed it.

It was a consolation to Corona to reflect upon the extreme improbability of the story; for when the diplomatist was gone, her husband dwelt upon it—­whether because he could not conceal his unsatisfied curiosity, or from other motives, it was hard to tell.

Astrardente led his wife from the supper-table through the great rooms, now almost deserted, and past the wide doors of the hall where the cotillon was at its height.  They paused a moment and looked in, as Giovanni had done a quarter of an hour earlier.  It was a magnificent scene; the lights flashed back from the jewels of fair women, and surged in the dance as starlight upon rippling waves.  The air was heavy with the odour of the countless flowers that filled the deep recesses of the windows, and were distributed in hundreds of nosegays for the figures of the cotillon; enchanting strains of waltz music seemed to float down from above and inspire the crowd of men and women with harmonious motion, so that sound was made visible by translation into graceful movement.  As Corona looked there was a pause, and the crowd parted, while a huge tiger, the heraldic beast of the Frangipani family, was drawn into the hall by the young prince and Bianca Valdarno.  The magnificent skin had been so artfully stuffed as to convey a startling impression of life, and in the creature’s huge jaws hung a great basket filled with tiny tigers, which were to be distributed as badges for the dance by the leaders.  A wild burst of applause greeted this novel figure, and every one ran forward to obtain a nearer view.