“Madame d’Aranjuez seemed perfectly sane when I last saw her,” answered Spicca indifferently.

“Then what possible interest had the maid in inventing the lie?”

“Ah—­what interest?  That is quite another matter, as you say.  It may not have been her own interest.”

“You think that Madame d’Aranjuez had instructed her?”

“Not necessarily.  Some one else may have suggested the idea, subject to the lady’s own consent.”

“And she would have consented?  I do not believe that.”

“My dear Orsino, the world is full of such apparently improbable things that it is always rash to disbelieve anything on the first hearing.  It is really much less trouble to accept all that one is told without question.”

“Of course, if you tell me positively that she wishes to be thought mad—­”

“I never say anything positively, especially about a woman—­and least of all about the lady in question, who is undoubtedly eccentric.”

Instead of being annoyed, Orsino felt his curiosity growing, and made a rash vow to find out the truth at any price.  It was inconceivable, he thought, that Spicca should still have perfect control of his faculties, considering the extent of his potations.  The second flask was growing light, and Orsino himself had not taken more than two or three glasses.  Now a Chianti flask never holds less than two quarts.  Moreover Spicca was generally a very moderate man.  He would assuredly not resist the confusing effects of the wine much longer and he would probably become confidential.

But Orsino had mistaken his man.  Spicca’s nerves, overwrought by some unknown disturbance in his affairs, were in that state in which far stronger stimulants than Tuscan wine have little or no effect upon the brain.  Orsino looked at him and wondered, as many had wondered already, what sort of life the man had led, outside and beyond the social existence which every one could see.  Few men had been dreaded like the famous duellist, who had played with the best swordsmen in Europe as a cat plays with a mouse.  And yet he had been respected, as well as feared.  There had been that sort of fatality in his quarrels which had saved him from the imputation of having sought them.  He had never been a gambler, as reputed duellists often are.  He had never refused to stand second for another man out of personal dislike or prejudice.  No one had ever asked his help in vain, high or low, rich or poor, in a reasonably good cause.  His acts of kindness came to light accidentally after many years.  Yet most people fancied that he hated mankind, with that sort of generous detestation which never stoops to take a mean advantage.  In his duels he had always shown the utmost consideration for his adversary and the utmost indifference to his own interest when conditions had to be made.  Above all, he had never killed a man by accident.  That is a crime which society does not forgive.