No one knew exactly what had happened before Christmas at the Palazzo Macomer excepting the persons concerned; but there is inevitably a certain amount of publicity about all business transactions connected with real estate, and somehow a story had filtered from the financial to the social world, which more or less explained Veronica’s conduct.  It was said that Gregorio, whom most people had detested, had mismanaged her fortune, though nothing was hinted about any great fraud; and people added that when the day of reckoning had come he had found himself ruined, and had lost his mind; Matilde, as guardian, had incurred the young princess’s displeasure, but the latter had treated her generously, allowing her to live in the palace, which was now undoubtedly Veronica’s property.  Some persons told a story of an attempt made by a servant to poison the Macomer household, but the majority laughed at the tale, and said that Gregorio had been too poor, or too stingy, to have his copper saucepans properly tinned, and that a grain of verdigris would poison half a regiment, as every Italian knows.

However that might be, no one was responsible for Veronica, but Veronica herself, unless Cardinal Campodonico still had some authority over her, which seemed more than doubtful.  The old Duca made him a formal visit, and a formal proposition.  His Eminence smiled, looked grave, smiled again, and replied that in a long and varied experience of the world he could not remember to have met with just such a case; that so far as he could understand, the young Princess of Acireale was her own mistress, and would make her own choice, if she made any; but that she had been heard to say that she would never marry at all.  This, however, the cardinal thought impossible.

“Then,” said the Duca della Spina, “you advise me to go directly to the young lady and ask her whether she will marry my son.”

“My friend,” replied the cardinal, “this is a case in which I would rather not give advice.  I have no doubt that whatever you do will be well done, and I wish you all possible success.”

The old Duca shuffled out of the cardinal’s study, more puzzled than ever, and went home to tell his wife and Gianluca and Taquisara the result of the interview.  Taquisara was in the confidence of the family, and spent much of his time with his friend.

“I am at my wits’ end,” concluded the old nobleman, shaking his head, and looking sorrowfully at his son.  “If you wish it, I will go to Donna Veronica myself.  It would be—­well—­very informal, to say the least.  Poor Gianluca!  My poor boy!  If you would only be satisfied to marry your cousin Vittoria, it would be a question of days!  Of course—­I understand—­her complexion is an obstacle,” he added reflectively.  “It will probably improve, however.”

No one answered him, Taquisara broke the silence, after a pause.

“You must either speak to the Princess Corleone,” he said, “or Gianluca must speak to Donna Veronica for himself.”