Corona uttered an exclamation of horror.

“And they say Del Ferice is dead, or just dying”—­his cracked voice rose at every word; “and they say,” he almost screamed, laying his withered hand roughly upon his wife’s shoulder,—­“they say that the duel was about you—­you, do you understand?”

“That is not true,” said Corona, firmly.  “Calm yourself—­I beseech you to be calm.  Tell me connectedly what has happened—­who told you this story.”

“What right has any man to drag your name into a quarrel?” cried the old man, hoarsely.  “Everybody is saying it—­it is outrageous, abominable—­”

Corona quietly pushed her husband into a chair, and sat down beside him.

“You are excited—­you will harm yourself,—­remember your health,” she said, endeavouring to soothe him.  “Tell me, in the first place, who told you that it was about me.”

“Valdarno told me; he told me that every one was saying it—­that it was the talk of the town.”

“But why?” insisted Corona.  “You allow yourself to be furious for the sake of a piece of gossip which has no foundation whatever.  What is the story they tell?”

“Some nonsense about Giovanni Saracinesca’s going away last week.  Del Ferice proposed to call him before you, and Giovanni was angry.”

“That is absurd,” said Corona.  “Don Giovanni was not the least annoyed.  He was with me afterwards—­”

“Always Giovanni!  Always Giovanni!  Wherever you go, it is Giovanni!” cried the old man, in unreasonable petulance—­unreasonable from his point of view, reasonable enough had he known the truth.  But he struck unconsciously upon the key-note of all Corona’s troubles, and she turned pale to the lips.

“You say it is not true,” he began again.  “How do you know?  How can you tell what may have been said?  How can you guess it?  Giovanni Saracinesca is about you in society more than any one.  He has quarrelled about you, and two men have lost their lives in consequence.  He is in love with you, I tell you.  Can you not see it?  You must be blind!”

Corona leaned back in her chair, utterly overcome by the suddenness of the situation, unable to answer, her hands folded tightly together, her pale lips compressed.  Angry at her silence, old Astrardente continued, his rage gradually getting the mastery of his sense, and his passion working itself up to the pitch of madness.

“Blind—­yes—­positively blind!” he cried.  “Do you think that I am blind too?  Do you think I will overlook all this?  Do you not see that your reputation is injured—­that people associate your name with his—­that no woman can be mentioned in the same breath with Giovanni Saracinesca and hope to maintain a fair fame?  A fellow whose adventures are in everybody’s mouth, whose doings are notorious; who has but to look at a woman to destroy her; who is a duellist, a libertine—­”

“That is not true,” interrupted Corona, unable to listen calmly to the abuse thus heaped upon the man she so dearly loved.  “You are mad—­”