“I tried to consult you,” objected Donna Tullia.  “It is the same thing.”

“It is not the same thing to me,” he answered, “although you have not involved me in the affair.  I would have most distinctly advised you to say nothing about it at present.  You have acted rashly, have put yourself in a most painful situation; and you have broken your promise to me—­a very solemn promise, Donna Tullia, sworn upon the memory of your mother and upon a holy relic.  One cannot make light of such promises as that.”

“You made me give it in order to frighten me.  The Church does not bind us to oaths sworn under compulsion,” she argued.

“Excuse me; there was no compulsion whatever.  You wanted to know my secret, and for the sake of knowing it you bound yourself.  That is not compulsion.  I cannot compel you.  I could not think of presuming to compel you to marry me now.  But I can say to you that I am devotedly attached to you, that to marry you is the aim and object of my life, and if you refuse, I will tell you that you are doing a great wrong, repudiating a solemn contract—­”

“If I refuse—­well—­but you would give me the papers?” asked Donna Tullia, who was beginning to tremble for the result of the interview.  She had a vague suspicion that, for the sake of obtaining them, she would even be willing to promise to marry Del Ferice.  It would be very wrong, perhaps; but it would be for the sake of accomplishing good, by preventing Corona from falling into the trap—­Corona, whom she hated!  Still, it would be a generous act to save her.  The minds of women like Madame Mayer are apt to be a little tortuous when they find themselves hemmed in between their own jealousies, hatreds, and personal interests.

“If you refused—­no; if you refused, I am afraid I could not give you the papers,” replied Del Ferice, musing as he gazed at the fire.  “I love you too much to lose that chance of winning you, even for the sake of saving the Duchessa d’Astrardente from her fate.  Why do you refuse? why do you bargain?” he asked, suddenly turning towards her.  “Does all my devotion count for nothing—­all my love, all my years of patient waiting?  Oh, you cannot be so cruel as to snatch the cup from my very lips!  It is not for the sake of these miserable documents:  what is it to me whether Don Giovanni appears as the criminal in a case of bigamy—­whether he is ruined now, as by his evil deeds he will be hereafter, or whether he goes on unharmed and unthwarted upon his career of wickedness?  He is nothing to me, nor his pale-faced bride either.  It is for you that I care, for you that I will do anything, bad or good, to win you that I would risk my life and my soul.  Can you not see it?  Have I not been faithful for very long?  Take pity on me—­forget this whole business, forget that you have promised anything, forget all except that I am here at your feet, a miserable man, unless you speak the word, and turn all my wretchedness into joy!”