“Ah!” exclaimed old Astrardente, “I envy them that invention, my dear; it is perfectly magnificent.  You must have a tiger to take home.  How fortunate we were to be in time!” He forced his way into the crowd, leaving his wife alone for a moment by the door; and he managed to catch Valdarno, who was distributing the little emblems to right and left.  Madame Mayer’s quick eyes had caught sight of Corona and her husband, and from some instinct of curiosity she made towards the Duchessa.  She was still angry, as she had never been in her short life, at Giovanni’s rudeness in forgetting her dance, and she longed to inflict some wound upon the beautiful woman who had led him into such forgetfulness.  When Astrardente left his wife’s side, Donna Tullia pressed forward with her partner in the general confusion that followed upon the entrance of the tiger, and she managed to pass close to Corona.  She looked up suddenly with an air of surprise.

“What! not dancing, Duchessa?” she asked.  “Has your partner gone home?”

With the look that accompanied the question, it was an insulting speech enough.  Had Donna Tullia seen old Astrardente close behind her, she would not have made it.  The old dandy was returning in triumph in possession of the little tiger-badge for Corona.  He heard the words, and observed with inward pleasure his wife’s calm look of indifference.

“Madam,” he said, placing himself suddenly in Madame Mayer’s way, “my wife’s partners do not go home while she remains.”

“Oh, I see,” returned Donna Tullia, flushing quickly; “the Duchessa is dancing the cotillon with you.  I beg your pardon—­I had forgotten that you still danced.”

“Indeed it is long since I did myself the honour of asking you for a quadrille, madam,” answered Astrardente with a polite smile; and so saying, he turned and presented the little tiger to his wife with a courtly bow.  There was good blood in the old roue.

Corona was touched by his thoughtfulness in wishing to get her the little keepsake of the dance, and she was still more affected by his ready defence of her.  He was indeed sometimes a little ridiculous, with his paint and his artificial smile—­he was often petulant and unreasonable in little things; but he was never unkind to her, nor discourteous.  In spite of her cold and indifferent stare at Donna Tullia, she had keenly felt the insult, and she was grateful to the old man for taking her part.  Knowing what she knew of herself that night, she was deeply sensible to his kindness.  She took the little gift, and laid her hand upon his arm.

“Forgive me,” she said, as they moved away, “if I am ever ungrateful to you.  You are so very good to me.  I know no one so courteous and kind as you are.”

Her husband looked at her in delight.  He loved her sincerely with all that remained of him.  There was something sad in the thought of a man like him finding the only real passion of his life when worn out with age and dissipation.  Her little speech raised him to the seventh heaven of joy.