once.  Punctually as the gun of Sant Angelo roared out the news that the sun was on the meridian, Cardinal Antonelli entered Corona’s house.  She received him in the great drawing-room.  There was an air of solemnity about the meeting.  The room itself, divested of a thousand trifles which had already been sent into the country, looked desolate and formal; the heavy curtains admitted but little light; there was no fire on the hearth; Corona stood all in black—­a very incarnation of mourning—­as her visitor trod softly across the dark carpet towards her.

The Cardinal’s expressive face was softened by a look of gentle sympathy, as he came forward and took her hand in both of his, and gazed for a moment into her beautiful eyes.

“I am an ambassador, Duchessa,” he said softly.  “I come to tell you how deeply our Holy Father sympathises in your great sorrow.”

Corona bent her head respectfully, and motioned to the Cardinal to be seated.

“I beg that your Eminence will convey to his Holiness my most sincere gratitude for this expression of his paternal kindness to one so unhappy.”

“Indeed I will not fail to deliver your message, Duchessa,” answered the Cardinal, seating himself by her side in one of the great arm-chairs which had been placed together in the middle of the room.  “His Holiness has promised to remember you in his august prayers; and I also, for my own part, entreat you to believe that my poor sympathy is wholly with you in your distress.”

“Your Eminence is most kind,” replied Corona, gravely.

It seemed as though there were little more to be said in such a case.  There was no friendship between the two, no bond of union or fellowship:  it was simply a formal visit of condolence, entailed as a necessity by Corona’s high position.  The Pope had sent her a gift at her wedding; he sent her a message of sympathy at her husband’s death.  Half-a-dozen phrases would be exchanged, and the Cardinal would take his leave, accompanied by a file of the Duchessa’s lackeys—­and so it would all be over.  But the Cardinal was a statesman, a diplomatist, and one of the best talkers in Europe; moreover, he never allowed an opportunity of pursuing his ends to pass unimproved.

“Ah, Duchessa!” he said, folding his hands upon his knee and looking down, “there is but one Consoler in sorrow such as yours.  It is vain for us mortals to talk of any such thing as alleviating real mental suffering.  There are consolations—­many of them—­for some people, but they are not for you.  To many the accidents of wealth, of youth, of beauty, seem to open the perspective of a brilliant future at the very moment when all the present appears to be shrouded in darkness; but if you will permit me, who know you so little, to say it frankly, I do not believe that any of these things which you possess in such plentiful abundance will lessen the measure of your grief.  It is not right that they should,