So there was some one whom he loved, some one for whose fair name he was willing to sacrifice himself even to the extent of marrying against his will.  Some one, too, who not only did not love him, but took no interest whatever in him.  Those were his own words, and they must be true, for he never lied.  That accounted for his accompanying Donna Tullia to the picnic.  He was going to marry her after all.  To save the woman he loved so hopelessly from the mere suspicion of being loved by him, he was going to tie himself for life to the first who would marry him.  That would never prevent the gossips from saying that he loved this other woman as much as ever.  It could do her no great harm, since she took no interest whatever in him.  Who could she be, this cold creature, whom even Giovanni could not move to interest?  It was absurd—­the letter was absurd—­the whole thing was absurd!  None but a madman would think of pursuing such a course; and why should he think it necessary to confide his plans—­his very foolish plans—­to her, Corona d’Astrardente,—­why?  Ah, Giovanni, how different things might have been!

Corona rose angrily from her seat and leaned against the broad chimney-piece, and looked at the clock—­it was nearly mid-day.  He might marry whom he pleased, and be welcome—­what was it to her?  He might marry and sacrifice himself if he pleased—­what was it to her?

She thought of her own life.  She, too, had sacrificed herself; she, too, had tied herself for life to a man she despised in her heart, and she had done it for an object she had thought good.  She looked steadily at the clock, for she would not give way, nor bend her head and cry bitter tears again; but the tears were in her eyes, nevertheless.

“Giovanni, you must not do it—­you must not do it!” Her lips formed the words without speaking them, and repeated the thought again and again.  Her heart beat fast and her cheeks flushed darkly.  She spread out the crumpled letter and read it once more.  As she read, the most intense curiosity seized her to know who this woman might be whom Giovanni so loved; and with her curiosity there was a new feeling—­an utterly hateful and hating passion—­something so strong, that it suddenly dried her tears and sent the blood from her cheeks back to her heart.  Her white hand was clenched, and her eyes were on fire.  Ah, if she could only find that woman he loved! if she could only see her dead—­dead with Giovanni Saracinesca there upon the floor before her!  As she thought of it, she stamped her foot upon the thick carpet, and her face grew paler.  She did not know what it was that she felt, but it completely overmastered her.  Padre Filippo would be pleased, she thought, for she knew how in that moment she hated Giovanni Saracinesca.

With a sudden impulse she again sat down and opened the letter next to her hand.  It was a gossiping epistle from a friend in Paris, full of stories of the day, exclamations upon fashion and all kinds of emptiness; she was about to throw it down impatiently and take up the next when her eyes caught Giovanni’s name.