“Giovannino,” called the Prince.

“Well?”

“I feel better now.  I wanted to abuse somebody.  Look here—­wait a moment.”  He rose quickly, and left the room.

Giovanni sat down and smoked rather impatiently, looking at his watch from time to time.  In five minutes his father returned, bringing in his hand an old red morocco case.

“Give it to her with my compliments, my boy,” he said.  “They are some of your mother’s diamonds—­just a few of them.  She shall have the rest on the wedding-day.”

“Thank you,” said Giovanni, and pressed his father’s hand.

“And give her my love, and say I will call to-morrow at two o’clock,” added the Prince, now perfectly serene.

With the diamonds under his arm, Giovanni went out.  The sky was clear and frosty, and the stars shone brightly, high up between the tall houses of the narrow street.  Giovanni had not ordered a carriage, and seeing how fine the night was, he decided to walk to his destination.  It was not eight o’clock, and Corona would have scarcely finished dinner at that hour.  He walked slowly.  As he emerged into the Piazza di Venezia some one overtook him.

“Good evening, Prince.”  Giovanni turned, and recognised Anastase Gouache, the Zouave.

“Ah, Gouache—­how are you?”

“I am going to pay you a visit,” answered the Frenchman.

“I am very sorry—­I have just left home,” returned Giovanni, in some surprise.

“Not at your house,” continued Anastase.  “My company is ordered to the mountains.  We leave tomorrow morning for Subiaco, and some of us are to be quartered at Saracinesca.”

“I hope you will be among the number,” said Giovanni.  “I shall probably be married next week, and the Duchessa wishes to go at once to the mountains.  We shall be delighted to see you.”

“Thank you very much.  I will not fail to do myself the honour.  My homage to Madame la Duchesse.  I must turn here.  Good night.”

“Au revoir,” said Giovanni, and went on his way.

He found Corona in an inner sitting-room, reading beside a great wood-fire.  There were soft shades of lilac mingled with the black of her dress.  The year of mourning was past, and so soon as she could she modified her widow’s weeds into something less solemnly; black.  It was impossible to wear funeral robes on the eve of her second marriage; and the world had declared that she had shown an extraordinary degree of virtue in mourning so long for a death which every one considered so highly appropriate.  Corona, however, felt differently.  To her, her dead husband and the man she now so wholly loved belonged to two totally distinct classes of men.  Her love, her marriage with Giovanni, seemed so natural a consequence of her being left alone—­so absolutely removed from her former life—­that, on the eve of her wedding, she could almost wish that poor old Astrardente were alive to look as her friend upon her new-found happiness.