Giovanni sank into a chair before the table and buried his face in his hands.  San Giacinto stood looking at him in silence, beginning to comprehend what had happened, and really distressed that his comparatively harmless stratagem should have caused so much trouble.  He looked at things from a lower point of view than Giovanni, but he was a very human man, after all.  It was hard for him to believe that his cousin could have really suspected Corona of loving Gouache; but Giovanni’s behaviour left no other explanation.  On the other hand, he felt that whatever might be thought of his own part in the affair, it was Giovanni’s own fault that things had turned out as they had, seeing that he had been guilty of a very serious indiscretion in entering Gouache’s rooms unbidden and in reading what was meant for the Zouave.

Giovanni rose and his face was pale again, but the expression had utterly changed in the course of a few seconds.  He suffered horribly, but with a pain more easy to bear than that which had tortured him during the past week.  Corona was innocent, and he knew it.  Every word she had spoken a week ago, when he had accused her, rang again in his ears, and as though by magic the truth of her statement was now as clear as the day.  He could never forgive himself for having doubted her.  He did not know whether he could ever atone for the agony he must have caused her.  But it was a thousand times better that he should live long years of bitter self-reproach, than that the woman he so loved should have fallen.  He forgot San Giacinto and the petty scheme which had brought about such dire consequences.  He forgot his anger of a moment ago in the supreme joy of knowing that Corona had not sinned, and in the bitter contrition for having so terribly wronged her.  If he felt anything towards San Giacinto it was gratitude, but he stood speechless under his great emotion, not even thinking what he should say.

“If you doubt the truth of my explanation,” said San Giacinto, “go to the Palazzo Montevarchi.  Opposite the entrance you will see some queer things painted on the wall.  There are Gouache’s initials scrawled a hundred times, and the words ‘Sunday’ and ‘Mass’ very conspicuous.  A simple way, too, would be to ask him whether he did not actually meet Faustina last Sunday morning.  When a man advertises his meetings with his lady-love on the walls of the city, no one can be blamed for reading the advertisement.”

He laughed at the conceit and at his own astuteness; but Giovanni scarcely heeded him or his words.

“Good-bye,” said the latter, holding out his hand.

“You do not want to fight any more, then?” asked San Giacinto.

“Not unless you do.  Good-bye.”

Without another word he left the room and descended into the street.  The cold gray dawn was over everything and the air was raw and chilly.  There is nothing more dismal than early dawn in a drizzling rain when a man has been up all night, but Giovanni was unconscious of any discomfort, and there were wings under his feet as he hastened homeward along the slippery pavements.