For some time Giovanni and Corona talked of their plans for the spring and summer.  They would read, they would work together at the schemes for uniting and improving their estates; they would build that new road from Astrardente to Saracinesca, concerning which there had been so much discussion during the last year; they would visit every part of their lands together, and inquire into the condition of every peasant; they would especially devote their attention to extending the forest enclosures, in which Giovanni foresaw a source of wealth for his children; above all, they would talk to their hearts’ content, and feel, as each day dawned upon their happiness, that they were free to go where they would, without being confronted at every turn by the troublesome duties of an exigent society.

At last the conversation turned again upon recent events, and especially upon the part Del Ferice and Donna Tullia had played in attempting to prevent the marriage.  Corona asked what Giovanni intended to do about the matter.

“I do not see that there is much to be done,” he answered.  “I will go to Donna Tullia to-morrow, and explain that there has been a curious mistake—­that I am exceedingly obliged to her for calling my attention to the existence of a distant relative, but that I trust she will not in future interfere in my affairs.”

“Do you think she will marry Del Ferice after all?” asked Corona.

“Why not?  Of course he gave her the papers.  Very possibly he thought they really proved my former marriage.  She will perhaps blame him for her failure, but he will defend himself, never fear; he will make her marry him.”

“I wish they would marry and go away,” said Corona to whom the very name of Del Ferice was abhorrent, and who detested Donna Tullia almost as heartily.  Corona was a very good and noble woman, but she was very far from that saintly superiority which forgets to resent injuries.  Her passions were eminently human, and very strong.  She had struggled bravely against her overwhelming love for Giovanni; and she had so far got the mastery of herself, that she would have endured to the end if her husband’s death had not set her at liberty.  Perhaps, too, while she felt the necessity of fighting against that love, she attained for a time to an elevation of character which would have made such personal injuries as Donna Tullia could inflict seem insignificant in comparison with the great struggle she sustained against an even greater evil.  But in the realisation of her freedom, in suddenly giving the rein to her nature, so long controlled by her resolute will, all passion seemed to break out at once with renewed force; and the conviction that her anger against her two enemies was perfectly just and righteous, added fuel to the fire.  Her eyes gleamed fiercely as she spoke of Del Ferice and his bride, and no punishment seemed too severe for those who had so treacherously tried to dash the cup of her happiness from her very lips.