of sorest temptation.  And with her there would be no return of the danger.  Having found strength to resist, she knew that there would be no more weakness; her love for Giovanni was deep and sincere, but it had become now the chief cause of suffering in her life; it had utterly ceased to be the chief element of joy, as it had been for a few short days.  It was one thing more to be borne, and it outweighed all other cares.

The news of the duel had given her great distress.  She believed honestly that she was in no way concerned in it, and she had bitterly resented old Saracinesca’s imputation.  In the hot words that had passed between them, she had felt her anger rise justly against the old Prince; but when he appealed to her on account of his son, her love for Giovanni had vanquished her wrath against the old man.  Come what might, she would do what was best for him.  If possible, she would induce him to leave Rome at once, and thus free herself from the pain of constantly meeting him.  Perhaps she could make him marry—­anything would be better than to allow things to go on in their present course, to have to face him at every turn, and to know that at any moment he might be quarrelling with somebody and fighting duels on her account.

She went boldly into the world that night, not knowing whether she should meet Giovanni or not, but resolved upon her course if he appeared.  Many people looked curiously at her, and smiled cunningly as they thought they detected traces of care upon her proud face; but though they studied her, and lost no opportunity of talking to her upon the one topic which absorbed the general conversation, no one had the satisfaction of moving her even so much as to blush a little, or to lower the gaze of her eyes that looked them all indifferently through and through.

Giovanni, however, did not appear, and people told her he would not leave his room for several days, so that she returned to her home without having accomplished anything in the matter.  Her husband was very silent, but looked at her with an expression of uncertainty, as though hesitating to speak to her upon some subject that absorbed his interest.  Neither of them referred to the strange interview of the previous night.  They went home early, as has been already recorded, seeing it was only a great and formal reception to which the world went that night; and even the toughest old society jades were weary from the ball of the day before, which had not broken up until half-past six in the morning.

On the next day, at about twelve o’clock, Corona was sitting in her boudoir writing a number of invitations which were to be distributed in the afternoon, when the door opened and her husband entered the room.

“My dear,” he cried in great excitement, “it is perfectly horrible!  Have you heard?”

“What?” asked Corona, laying down her pen.

“Spicca has killed Casalverde—­the man who seconded Del Ferice yesterday,—­killed him on the spot—­”