Giovanni was at that moment supremely comfortable, both in mind and body.  It was late.  The old prince had gone to his own quarters, the boys were in bed, and Orsino was presumably at a party or at the club.  Sant’ Ilario was enjoying the delight of spending an hour alone in his wife’s society.  They were in Corona’s old boudoir, a place full of associations for them both.  He did not want to be mentally disturbed.  He said nothing in answer to his wife’s remark.  She repeated it in a different form.

“Women like her do not disappear when one does not want them,” she said.

“What makes you think so?” inquired Giovanni with a man’s irritating indolence when he does not mean to grasp a disagreeable idea.

“I know it,” Corona answered, resting her chin upon her hand and staring at the fire.

Giovanni surrendered unconditionally.

“You are probably right, dear.  You always are about people.”

“Well—­then you must see the importance of what I say,” said Corona pushing her victory.

“Of course, of course,” answered Giovanni, squinting at the flames with one eye between his outstretched fingers.

“I wish you would wake up!” exclaimed Corona, taking the hand in hers and drawing it to her.  “Orsino is probably making love to Madame d’Aranjuez at this very moment.”

“Then I will imitate him, and make love to you, my dear.  I could not be better occupied, and you know it.  You used to say I did it very well.”

Corona laughed in her deep, soft voice.

“Orsino is like you.  That is what frightens me.  He will make love too well.  Be serious, Giovanni.  Think of what I am saying.”

“Let us dismiss the question then, for the simple reason that there is absolutely nothing to be done.  We cannot turn this good woman out of Rome, and we cannot lock Orsino up in his room.  To tell a boy not to bestow his affections in a certain quarter is like ramming a charge into a gun and then expecting that it will not come out by the same way.  The harder you ram it down the more noise it makes—­that is all.  Encourage him and he may possibly tire of it.  Hinder him and he will become inconveniently heroic.”

“I suppose that is true,” said Corona.  “Then at least find out who the woman is,” she added, after a pause.

“I will try,” Giovanni answered.  “I will even go to the length of spending an hour a day at the club, if that will do any good—­and you know how I detest clubs.  But if anything whatever is known of her, it will be known there.”

Giovanni kept his word and expended more energy in attempting to find out something about Madame d’Aranjuez during the next few days than he had devoted to anything connected with society for a long time.  Nearly a week elapsed before his efforts met with any success.

He was in the club one afternoon at an early hour, reading the papers, and not more than three or four other men were present.  Among them were Frangipani and Montevarchi, who was formerly known as Ascanio Bellegra.  There was also a certain young foreigner, a diplomatist, who, like Sant’ Ilario, was reading a paper, most probably in search of an idea for the next visit on his list.