happy, even though you find no happiness for yourself.  Our social world here is falling to pieces, going astray after strange gods, and especially after Madame Mayer and her lares and penates, young Valdarno and Del Ferice:  it is in your power to create a new life here, or at least to contribute greatly towards reestablishing the social balance.  I say, do this thing, if you will, for it is a good thing to do.  At all events, while you are building roads—­and perhaps schools—­at Astrardente, you can think over the course you will afterwards pursue.  And now, my dear Duchessa, I have detained you far too long.  Forgive me if I have wearied you, for I have great things at heart, and must sometimes speak of them though I speak feebly.  Count on me always for any assistance you may require.  Bear with me if I weary you, for I was a good friend of him we both mourn.”

“Thank you—­you have given me good thoughts,” said Corona, simply.

So the courtly Cardinal rose and took his leave, and once more Corona was left alone.  It was a strange thing that, while he disclaimed all power to comfort her, and denied that consolation was possible in her case, she had nevertheless listened to him with interest, and now found herself thinking seriously of what he had said.  He seemed to have put her thoughts into shape, and to have given direction to that sense of power she had already begun to feel.  For the first time in her life she felt something like sympathy for the Cardinal, and she lingered for some minutes alone in the great reception-room, wondering whether she could accomplish any of the things he had proposed to her.  At all events, there was nothing now to hinder her departure; and she thought with something like pleasure of the rocky Sabines, the solitude of the mountains, the simple faces of the people about her place, and of the quiet life she intended to lead there during the next six months.

But the Cardinal went on his way, rolling along through, the narrow streets in his great coach.  Leaning far back in his cushioned seat, he could just catch a glimpse of the people as he passed, and his quick eyes recognised many, both high and low.  But he did not care to show himself, for he felt himself disliked, and deep in his finely organised nature there lay a sensitiveness which was wounded by the popular hatred.  It hurt him to see the lowering glances of the poor man, and to return the forced bow of the rich man who feared him.  He often longed to be able to explain many things to them both, to the rich and to the poor; and then, knowing how impossible it was that he should be understood by either, he sighed somewhat bitterly, and hid himself still deeper in his carriage.  Few men in the midst of the world have stood so wholly alone as Cardinal Antonelli.