“I come here,” she said, “at your invitation, to exhibit to your eyes the evidence of what I yesterday asserted—­the evidence of the monstrous crime of which I accuse that man.”  Here she raised her finger with a gesture of scorn, and extending her whole arm, pointed towards Giovanni.

“Madam,” interrupted the old Prince, “I will trouble you to select your epithets and expressions with more care.  Pray be brief, and show what you have brought.”

“I will show it, indeed,” replied Donna Tullia, “and you shall tremble at what you see.  When you have evidence of the truth of what I say, you may choose any language you please to define the action of your son.  These documents,” she said, holding up the package, “are attested copies made from the originals—­the first two in the possession of the curate of the church of San Bernardino da Siena, at Aquila, the other in the office of the Stato Civile in the same city.  As they are only copies, you need not think that you will gain anything by destroying them.”

“Spare your comments upon our probable conduct,” interrupted the Prince, roughly.  Donna Tullia eyed him with a scornful glance, and her face began to grow red.

“You may destroy them if you please,” she repeated; “but I advise you to observe that they bear the Government stamp and the notarial seal of Gianbattista Caldani, notary public in the city of Aquila, and that they are, consequently, beyond all doubt genuine copies of genuine documents.”

Donna Tullia proceeded to open the envelope and withdraw the three papers it contained.  Spreading them out, she took up the first, which contained the extract from the curate’s book of banns.  It set forth that upon the three Sundays preceding the 19th of June 1863, the said curate had published, in the parish church of San Bernardino da Siena, the banns of marriage between Giovanni Saracinesca and Felice Baldi.  Donna Tullia read it aloud.

Giovanni could hardly suppress a laugh, it sounded so strangely.  Corona herself turned pale, though she firmly believed the whole thing to be an imposture of some kind.

“Permit me, madam,” said old Saracinesca, stepping forward and taking the paper from her hand.  He carefully examined the seal and stamp.  “It is very cleverly done,” he said with a sneer; “but there should be only one letter r in the name Saracinesca—­here it is spelt with two!  Very clever, but a slight mistake!  Observe,” he said, showing the place to Donna Tullia.

“It is a mistake of the copyist,” she said, scornfully.  “The name is properly spelt in the other papers.  Here is the copy of the marriage register.  Shall I read it also?”

“Spare me the humiliation,” said Giovanni, in quiet contempt.  “Spare me the unutterable mortification of discovering that there is another Giovanni Saracinesca in the world!”

“I could not have believed that any one could be so hardened,” said Donna Tullia.  “But whether you are humiliated or not by the evidence of your misdeeds, I will spare you nothing.  Here it is in full, and you may notice that your name is spelt properly too.”