“I see no other way.  The cardinal could see the accounts.  You could be married, and the fortune could be made over to you.  She would never know, nor ask questions.  You could set our affairs straight, and still be the richest man in Naples or Sicily.  It would all be over.  It would be peace—­at last, at last!” she repeated, with a sudden change of tone that ended in a deep-drawn sigh of anticipated relief.  “You do not know half there is to tell,” she continued, speaking rapidly after a moment’s pause.  “We are ruined, and worse than ruined.  We have been, for years.  Gregorio got himself into that horrible speculation years and years ago, though I knew nothing about it.  While Veronica was a minor, he helped himself, as he could—­with her money.  It was easy, for he controlled everything.  But now he can do nothing without her signature.  Squarci said so last week.  He cannot sell a bit of land, a stick of timber, anything, without her name.  And we are ruined, Bosio.  This house is mortgaged, and the mortgage expires on the first of January, in three weeks.  We have nothing left—­nothing but the hope of Veronica’s charity—­or the hope that you will marry her and save us from starvation and disgrace.  I got her to sign the will.  There was—­”

The countess checked herself and stopped short, turning an emerald ring which she wore.  She was pale.

“There was what?” asked Bosio, in an unsteady tone.

“There was just the bare possibility that she might die before January,” said Matilde, almost in a whisper.  “People die young sometimes, you know—­very young.  It pleases Providence to do strange things.  Of course it would be most dreadful, if she were to die, would it not?  It would be lonely in the house, without her.  It seems to me that I should see her at night, in the dark corners, when I should be alone.  Ugh!”

Matilde Macomer shivered suddenly, and then stared at Bosio with frightened eyes.  He glanced at her nervously.

“I am afraid of you,” he said.

“Of me?” Her presence of mind returned.  “What an idea! just because I suggested that poor little Veronica might catch a cold or a fever in this horrible weather and might die of the one or the other?  And just because I am fond of her, and said that I should be afraid of seeing her in the dark!  Heaven give her a hundred years of life!  Why should we talk of such sad things?”

“It is certainly not I who wish to talk of them, or think of them,” answered Bosio, thoughtfully, and turning once more to the fire.  “You are overwrought, Matilde—­you are unhappy, afraid of the future—­what shall I say?  Sometimes you speak in a strange way.”

“Is it any wonder?  The case is desperate, and I am desperate, too—­”

“Do not say it—­”

“Then say that you will marry Veronica, and save us all, and bring peace into the house—­for my sake, Bosio—­for me!”

She leaned forward, and her hands met upon her knee in something like a gesture of supplication, while she sought his eyes.