“Is that all?” asked Stanmer.

“No; she went on to say that Camerino had killed Count Salvi in a duel, and she admitted that her husband’s jealousy had been the occasion of it.  The Count, it appeared, was a monster of jealousy—­he had led her a dreadful life.  He himself, meanwhile, had been anything but irreproachable; he had done a mortal injury to a man of whom he pretended to be a friend, and this affair had become notorious.  The gentleman in question had demanded satisfaction for his outraged honour; but for some reason or other (the Countess, to do her justice, did not tell me that her husband was a coward), he had not as yet obtained it.  The duel with Camerino had come on first; in an access of jealous fury the Count had struck Camerino in the face; and this outrage, I know not how justly, was deemed expiable before the other.  By an extraordinary arrangement (the Italians have certainly no sense of fair play) the other man was allowed to be Camerino’s second.  The duel was fought with swords, and the Count received a wound of which, though at first it was not expected to be fatal, he died on the following day.  The matter was hushed up as much as possible for the sake of the Countess’s good name, and so successfully that it was presently observed that, among the public, the other gentleman had the credit of having put his blade through M. de Salvi.  This gentleman took a fancy not to contradict the impression, and it was allowed to subsist.  So long as he consented, it was of course in Camerino’s interest not to contradict it, as it left him much more free to keep up his intimacy with the Countess.”

Stanmer had listened to all this with extreme attention.  “Why didn’t she contradict it?”

I shrugged my shoulders.  “I am bound to believe it was for the same reason.  I was horrified, at any rate, by the whole story.  I was extremely shocked at the Countess’s want of dignity in continuing to see the man by whose hand her husband had fallen.”

“The husband had been a great brute, and it was not known,” said Stanmer.

“Its not being known made no difference.  And as for Salvi having been a brute, that is but a way of saying that his wife, and the man whom his wife subsequently married, didn’t like him.”

Stanmer hooked extremely meditative; his eyes were fixed on mine.  “Yes, that marriage is hard to get over.  It was not becoming.”

“Ah,” said I, “what a long breath I drew when I heard of it!  I remember the place and the hour.  It was at a hill-station in India, seven years after I had left Florence.  The post brought me some English papers, and in one of them was a letter from Italy, with a lot of so-called ‘fashionable intelligence.’  There, among various scandals in high life, and other delectable items, I read that the Countess Bianca Salvi, famous for some years as the presiding genius of the most agreeable seen in Florence, was about to bestow her hand upon Count Camerino, a distinguished Bolognese.  Ah, my dear boy, it was a tremendous escape!  I had been ready to marry the woman who was capable of that!  But my instinct had warned me, and I had trusted my instinct.”