The next thing which interested Roman society was Astrardente’s will, but no one was much surprised when the terms of it were known.  As there were no relations, everything was left to his wife.  The palace in Rome, the town and castle in the Sabines, the broad lands in the low hill-country towards Ceprano, and what surprised even the family lawyer, a goodly sum in solid English securities,—­a splendid fortune in all, according to Roman ideas.  Astrardente abhorred the name of money in his conversation—­it had been one of his affectations; but he had an excellent understanding of business, and was exceedingly methodical in the management of his affairs.  The inheritance, the lawer thought, might be estimated at three millions of scudi.

“Is all this wealth mine, then?” asked Corona, when the solicitor had explained the situation.

“All, Signora Duchessa.  You are enormously rich.”

Enormously rich!  And alone in the world.  Corona asked herself if she was the same woman, the same Corona del Carmine who five years before had suffered in the old convent the humiliation of having no pocket-money, whose wedding-gown had been provided from the proceeds of a little sale of the last relics of her father’s once splendid collection of old china and pictures.  She had never thought of money since she had been married; her husband was generous, but methodical; she never bought anything without consulting him, and the bills all went through his hands.  Now and then she had rather timidly asked for a small sum for some charity; she had lacked nothing that money could buy, but she never remembered to have had more than a hundred francs in her purse.  Astrardente had once offered to give her an allowance, and had seemed pleased that she refused it.  He liked to manage things himself, being a man of detail.

And now she was enormously rich, and alone.  It was a strange sensation.  She felt it to be so new that she innocently said so to the lawyer.

“What shall I do with it all?”

“Signora Duchessa,” returned the old man, “with regard to money the question is, not what to do with it, but how to do without it.  You are very young, Signora Duchessa.”

“I shall be twenty-three in August,” said Corona, simply.

“Precisely.  I would beg to be allowed to observe that by the terms of the will, and by the laws of this country, you are not the dowager-duchess, but you are in your own right and person the sole and only feudal mistress and holder of the title.”

“Am I?”

“Certainly, with all the privileges thereto attached.  It may be—­I beg pardon for being so bold as to suggest it—­it may be that in years to come, when time has soothed your sorrow, you may wish, you may consent, to renew the marriage tie.”

“I doubt it—­but the thing is possible,” said Corona, quietly.