“What a hideous piece of villany!” she exclaimed, in a stifled voice.  Then slowly recovering from the first shock of the intelligence, she looked at Del Ferice; she was almost as pale as he.  “What proof have you?” she asked.

“I have the attested copy of the banns published by the priest who married them.  That is evidence.  Moreover, the real book of banns exists, and Giovanni’s name is upon the parish register.  I have also a copy of the certificate of the civil marriage, which is signed by Giovanni himself.”

“Tell me more,” said Donna Tullia, eagerly.  “How did you find it?”

“It is very simple,” answered Del Ferice.  “You may go and see for yourself, if you do not mind making a short journey.  Last summer I was wandering a little for my health’s sake, as I often do, and I chanced to be in the town of Aquila—­you know, the capital of Abruzzi.  One day I happened to go into the sacristy of one of the parish churches to see some pictures which are hung there.  There had been a marriage service performed, and as the sacristan moved about explaining the pictures, he laid his hand upon an open book which looked like a register of some kind.  I idly asked him what it was, and he showed it to me; it was amusing to look at the names of the people, and I turned over the leaves curiously.  Suddenly my attention was arrested by a name I knew—­’Giovanni Saracinesca,’ written clearly across the page, and below it, ’Felice Baldi,’—­the woman he had married.  The date of the marriage was the 19th of June 1863.  You remember, perhaps, that in that summer, in fact during the whole of that year, Don Giovanni was supposed to be absent upon his famous shooting expedition in Canada, about which he talks so much.  It appears, then, that two years ago, instead of being in America, he was living in Aquila, married to Felice Baldi—­probably some pretty peasant girl.  I started at the sight of the names.  I got permission to have an attested copy of it made by a notary.  I found the priest who had married them, but he could not remember the couple.  The man, he said, was dark, he was sure; the woman, he thought, had been fair.  He married so many people in a year.  These were not natives of Aquila; they had apparently come there from the country—­perhaps had met.  The banns—­yes, he had the book of banns; he had also the register of marriages from which he sometimes issued certified extracts.  He was a good old man, and seemed ready to oblige me; but his memory was very defective.  He allowed me to take notary’s copies of the banns and the entry in the list, as well as of the register.  Then I went to the office of the Stato Civile.  You know that people do not sign the register in the church themselves; the names are written down by the priest.  I wanted to see the signatures, and the book of civil marriages was shown to me.  The handwriting was Giovanni’s, I am sure—­larger, and a little less firm, but distinguishable at a glance.  I took the copies for curiosity, and never said anything about it, but I have kept them.  That is the history.  Do you see how serious a matter it is?”