But Giovanni did not see her as she was.  Even in the extremity of his anger and suffering his courtesy did not forsake him, and he knocked at his wife’s door before entering the room.  Corona moved from her position, and turned her head to see who was about to enter.

“Come in,” she said.

She started when she saw Giovanni’s face.  Dazzled as she was by the fire, he looked to her like a dead man.  She laid one hand upon the arm of the couch as though she would rise to meet him.  He shut the door behind him and advanced towards her till only a couple of paces separated them.  She was so much amazed by his looks that she sat quite still while he fixed his eyes upon her and began to speak.

“You have wrecked my life,” he said in a strange, low voice.  “I have come to tell you my decision.”

She thought he was raving mad, and, brave as she was, she shrank back a little upon her seat and turned pale.

“You need not be afraid of me,” he continued, as he noticed the movement.  “I am not going to kill you.  I am sorry to say I am fool enough to love you still.”

“Giovanni!” cried Corona in an agonised tone.  She could find no words, but sprang to her feet and threw her arms about him, gazing imploringly into his face.  His features did not relax, for he was prepared for any sort of acting on her part.  Without hurting her, but with a strength few men could have resisted, he forced her back to her seat, and then retreated a step before he spoke again.  She submitted blindly, feeling that any attempt to thwart him must be utterly useless.

“I know what you have done,” he said.  “You can have nothing to say.  Be silent and listen to me.  You have destroyed the greatest happiness the world ever knew.  You have dishonoured me and mine.  You have dragged my faith in you—­God knows how great—­into the mire of your infamous life.  And worse than that—­I could almost have forgiven that, I am so base—­you have destroyed yourself—­”

Corona uttered a wild cry and sank back upon the cushions, pressing her hands over her ears so that she might not hear the fearful words.

“I will not listen!” she gasped.  “You are mad—­mad!” Then springing up once more she again clasped him to her breast, so suddenly that he could not escape her.  “Oh, my poor Giovanni!” she moaned.  “What has happened to you?  Have you been hurt?  Are you dying?  For Heaven’s sake speak like yourself!”

He seized her wrists and held her before him so that she was forced to hear what he said.  Even then his grasp did not hurt her.  His hands were like manacles of steel in which hers could turn though she could not withdraw them.

“I am hurt to death,” he said, between his teeth.  “I have been to Gouache’s rooms and have brought away your letter—­and your pin—­ the pin I gave you, Corona.  Do you understand now, or must I say more?”

“My letter?” cried Corona in the utmost bewilderment.