“If you despise Del Ferice as much as you say,” he remarked, “I wonder that you tolerate him as you do.”

“I tolerate him.  Toleration is the very word—­it delightfully expresses my feelings towards him.  He is a perfectly harmless creature, who affects immense depth of insight into human affairs, and who cannot see an inch before his face.  Dear me! yes, I shall always tolerate Del Ferice, poor fellow!”

“You may not be called upon to do so much longer,” replied Valdarno.  “They say he is in a very dangerous condition.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Astrardente, putting up his eyeglass at his companion.  “Ah, you don’t say so!”

There was something so insolent in the old man’s affected stare that even the foolish and good-natured Valdarno lost his temper, being already somewhat irritated.

“It is a pity that you should be so indifferent.  It is hardly becoming.  If you had not tolerated him as you have, he might not be lying there at the point of death.”

Astrardente stared harder than ever.

“My dear young friend,” he said, “your language is the most extraordinary I ever heard.  How in the world can my treatment of that unfortunate man have had anything to do with his being wounded in a duel?”

“My dear old friend,” replied Valdarno, impudently mimicking the old man’s tone, “your simplicity surpasses anything I ever knew.  Is it possible that you do not know that this duel was fought for your wife?”

Astrardente looked fixedly at Valdarno; his eyeglass dropped from his eye, and he turned ashy pale beneath his paint.  He staggered a moment, and steadied himself against the door of a shop.  They were just passing the corner of the Piazza di Sciarra, the most crowded crossing of the Corso.

“Valdarno,” said the old man, his cracked voice dropping to a hoarser and deeper tone, “you must explain yourself or answer for this.”

“What!  Another duel!” cried Valdarno, in some scorn.  Then, seeing that his companion looked ill, he took him by the arm and led him rapidly through the crowd, across the Arco dei Carbognani.  Entering the Caffe Aragno, a new institution in those days, both men sat down at a small marble table.  The old dandy was white with emotion; Valdarno felt that he was enjoying his revenge.

“A glass of cognac, Duke?” he said, as the waiter came up.  Astrardente nodded, and there was silence while the man brought the cordial.  The Duca lived by an invariable rule, seeking to balance the follies of his youth by excessive care in his old age; it was long, indeed, since he had taken a glass of brandy in the morning.  He swallowed it quickly, and the stimulant produced its effect immediately; he readjusted his eyeglass, and faced Valdarno sternly.

“And now,” he said, “that we are at our ease, may I inquire what the devil you mean by your insinuations about my wife?”

“Oh,” replied Valdarno, affecting great indifference, “I only say what everybody says.  There is no offence to the Duchessa.”