The thought of Giovanni—­the one thought that again and again kept recurring in her mind—­grew very sweet,—­as sweet as it had once been bitter.  There was nothing to stop its growth now, and she let it have its way.  What did it matter, so long as he did not come near her—­for the present?  Some day he would come; she wondered when, and how long he would keep his promise.  But meanwhile she was not unhappy, and she went about her occupations as before; only sometimes she would go alone at evening to the balcony that faced the higher mountains, and there she would stand for half an hour gazing southward towards the precipitous rocks that caught the red glare of the sinking sun, and she asked herself if he were there, or whether, as report had told her, he were in the far north.  It was but half a day’s ride over the hills, he had said.  But strain her sight as she would, she could not pierce the heavy crags nor see into the wooded dells beyond.  He had said he would pass the summer there; had he changed his mind?

But she was not unhappy.  There was that in her which forbade unhappiness, which would have broken out into great joy if she would have let it; but yet she would not.  It was too soon yet to say aloud what she said in her heart daily, that she loved Giovanni with a great love, and that she knew she was free to love him.  In that thought there was enough of joy.  But he might come if he would; her anger would not be great if he broke his promise now, he had kept it so long—­six whole months.  But by-and-by, as the days passed, the first note of happiness was marred by the discordant ring of a distant fear.  What if she had too effectually forbidden him to see her?  What if he had gone out disappointed of all hope, and was really in distant Scandinavia, as the papers said, risking his life in mad adventures?

But after all, that was not what she feared.  He was strong, young, brave—­he had survived a thousand dangers, he would survive these also.  There arose between her and the thought of him an evil shadow, the image of a woman, and it took the shape of Donna Tullia so vividly that she could see the red lips move and almost hear the noisy laugh.  She was angry with herself at the idea, but it recurred continually and gave her pain, and the pain grew to an intolerable fear.  She began to feel that she must know where he was, at any cost, or she could have no peace.  She was restless and nervous, and began to be absent-minded in her conversation with Sister Gabrielle.  The good woman saw it, and advised a little change—­anything, an excursion of a day for instance.  Corona, she said, was too young to lead this life.

Her mind leaped at the idea.  It was but half a day’s ride, he had said; she would climb those hills and look down upon Saracinesca—­only once.  She might perhaps meet some peasant, and by a careless inquiry she would learn whether he was there—­or would be there in the summer.  No one would know; and besides, Sister Gabrielle had said that an excursion would do Corona good.  Sister Gabrielle had probably never heard that Saracinesca was so near, and she certainly would not guess that the Duchessa had any interest in its lord.  She announced her intention, and the Sister approved—­she herself, she said, was too weak to undergo the fatigue.