“I am the happiest man in all Rome,” he said, assuming his most jaunty walk, and swinging his hat gaily between his thumb and finger.  But a current of deep thought was stirring in him as he went down the broad, staircase by his wife’s side.  He was thinking what life might have been to him had he found Corona del Carmine—­how could he? she was not born then—­had he found her, or her counterpart, thirty years ago.  He was wondering what conceivable sacrifice there could be which he would not make to regain his youth—­even to have his life lived out and behind him, if he could only have looked back to thirty years of marriage with Corona.  How differently he would have lived, how very differently he would have thought! how his whole memory would be full of the sweet past, and would be common with her own past life, which, to her too, would be sweet to ponder on!  He would have been such a good man—­so true to her in all those years!  But they were gone, and he had not found her until his foot was on the edge of the grave—­until he could hardly count on one year more of a pitiful artificial life, painted, bewigged, stuffed to the semblance of a man by a clever tailor—­and she in the bloom of her glory beside him!  What he would have given to have old Saracinesca’s strength and fresh vitality—­old Saracinesca whom he hated!  Yes, with all that hair—­it was white, but a little dye would change it.  What was a little dye compared with the profound artificiality of his own outer man?  How the old fellow’s deep voice rang, loud and clear, from his broad chest!  How strong he was, with his firm step, and his broad brown hands, and his fiery black eyes!  He hated him for the greenness of his age—­he hated him for his stalwart son, another of those long-lived fierce Saracinesca, who seemed destined to outlive time.  He himself had no children, no relations, no one to bear his name—­he had only a beautiful young wife and much wealth, with just enough strength left to affect a gay walk when he was with her, and to totter unsteadily to his couch when he was alone, worn out with the effort of trying to seem young.

As they sat in their carriage he thought bitterly of all these things, and never spoke.  Corona herself was weary, and glad to be silent.  They went up-stairs, and as she took his arm, she gently tried to help him rather than be helped.  He noticed it, and made an effort, but he was very tired.  He paused upon the landing, and looked at her, and a gentle and sad smile stole over his face, such as Corona had never seen there.

“Shall we go into your boudoir for ten minutes, my love?” he said; “or will you come into my smoking-room?  I would like to smoke a little before going to bed.”

“You may smoke in my boudoir, of course,” she answered kindly, though she was surprised at the request.  It was half-past three o’clock.  They went into the softly lighted little room, where the embers of the fire were still glowing upon the hearth.  Corona dropped her furs upon a chair, and sat down upon one side of the chimney piece.  Astrardente sank wearily into a deep easy-chair opposite her, and having found a cigarette, lighted it, and began to smoke.  He seemed in a mood which Corona had never seen.  After a short silence he spoke.