On the following day Veronica was surprised to receive a letter addressed in a hand she did not know.  It was from Taquisara, and she frowned a little angrily as she glanced at the signature before reading the contents.  It began in the formal Italian manner,—­“Most gentle Princess,”—­and it ended with an equally formal assurance of respectful devotion.  But the matter of the letter showed little formality.

“I have hesitated long before writing to you”—­it said—­“both because I offended you at our last meeting and because I have not been sure, until to-day, about the principal matter of which I have to speak.  In the first place, I beg you to forgive me for having spoken to you as I did at the Princess Corleone’s house.  I am not skilful at saying disagreeable things gracefully.  I was in earnest, and I meant what I said, but I am sincerely sorry that I should have said it rudely.  I earnestly beg you to pardon the form which my intention took.

“Secondly, I wish very much that I might see you.  I fear that you would not receive me, and from the ordinary point of view of society you would be acting quite rightly, since you are really living alone.  The world, however, is quite sure that you have a companion, an elderly gentlewoman who is a distant relation of yours.  It will never be persuaded that this good lady does not exist, because it cannot possibly believe that you would have the audacity to live alone in your own house.

“I wish to see you, because my friend Gianluca cannot live much longer.  You may remember that he walked with difficulty, and even used a stick, before you left Naples.  He can now hardly walk at all.  According to the doctors, he has a mortal disease of the spine and cannot live more than two or three months.  Perhaps I am telling you this very roughly, but it cannot pain you as much as it does me, and you ought to know it.  He is not the man to let any one tell you of his state, and I have taken it upon myself to write to you without asking his opinion.  I told you once what you were to him.  All that I told you is ten times more true, now.  Between you and life, he would not choose, if he could; but he is losing both.  As a Christian woman, in commonest kindness, if you can see him before he dies, do so.  And you can, if you will.  He was to have been moved to the place near Avellino a few days ago, but he was too ill.  They all leave next week, unless he should be worse.  You are strong and well, and it would not be much for you to make that short journey, considering Gianluca’s condition.

“I shall not tell him that I have written to you, and I leave to you to let him know of my writing, or not, as you think fit.”

Here followed the little final phrase and the signature.  Veronica let the sheet fall upon her table, and gazed long and steadily at the tapestry on the wall opposite her.  Her hands clasped each other suddenly and then fell apart loosely and lay idle before her.  Her head sank forward a little, but her eyes still held the point on which they were looking.