“I trust not,” said Giovanni, with a smile.  “I trust she did not murder old Mayer.  Nevertheless she is a widow.  That is a strong objection.  Have any of my ancestors married widows?”

“You show your ignorance at every turn,” said the old Prince, with a scornful laugh.  “Leone Saracinesca married the widow of the Elector of Limburger-Stinkenstein in 1581.”

“It is probably the German blood in our veins which gives you your taste for argument,” remarked Giovanni.  “Because three hundred years ago an ancestor married a widow, I am to marry one now.  Wait—­do not be angry—­there are other reasons why I do not care for Madame Mayer.  She is too gay for me—­too fond of the world.”

The Prince burst into aloud ironical laugh.  His white hair and beard bristled about his dark face, and he showed all his teeth, strong and white still.

“That is magnificent!” he cried; “it is superb, splendid, a piece of unpurchasable humour!  Giovanni Saracinesca has found a woman who is too gay for him!  Heaven be praised!  We know his taste at last.  We will give him a nun, a miracle of all the virtues, a little girl out of a convent, vowed to a life of sacrifice and self-renunciation.  That will please him—­he will be a model happy husband.”

“I do not understand this extraordinary outburst,” answered Giovanni, with cold scorn.  “Your mirth is amazing, but I fail to understand its source.”

His father ceased laughing, and looked at him curiously, his heavy brows bending with the intenseness of his gaze.  Giovanni returned the look, and it seemed as though those two strong angry men were fencing across the table with their fiery glances.  The son was the first to speak.

“Do you mean to imply that I am not the kind of man to be allowed to marry a young girl?” he asked, not taking his eyes from his father.

“Look you, boy,” returned the Prince, “I will have no more nonsense.  I insist upon this match, as I have told you before.  It is the most suitable one that I can find for you; and instead of being grateful, you turn upon me and refuse to do your duty.  Donna Tullia is twenty-three years of age.  She is brilliant, rich.  There is nothing against her.  She is a distant cousin—­”

“One of the flock of vultures you so tenderly referred to,” remarked Giovanni.

“Silence!” cried old Saracinesca, striking his heavy hand upon the table so that the glasses shook together.  “I will be heard; and what is more, I will be obeyed.  Donna Tullia is a relation.  The union of two such fortunes will be of immense advantage to your children.  There is everything in favour of the match—­nothing against it.  You shall marry her a month from to-day.  I will give you the title of Sant’ Ilario, with the estate outright into the bargain, and the palace in the Corso to live in, if you do not care to live here.”

“And if I refuse?” asked Giovanni, choking down his anger.