“Because—­” she hesitated a little.

“Because I am not a Roman prince, you mean.”  Anastase glanced quickly at her.

“No.  He wants me to marry Frangipani.”

“Why did you never tell me that?”

“I did not know it when we last met.  My mother told me of it last night.”

“Is the match settled?” asked Gouache.  He was very pale.

“I think it has been spoken of,” answered Faustina in a low voice.  She shivered a little and pressed her hands together.  There was a short silence, during which Anastase did not take his eyes from her, while she looked down, avoiding his look.

“Then there is no time to be lost,” said Gouache at last.  “I will go to your father to-morrow morning.”

“Oh—­don’t, don’t!” cried Faustina, suddenly, with an expression of intense anxiety.

“Why not?” The artist seemed very much surprised.

“You do not know him!  You do not know what he will say to you!  You will be angry and lose your temper—­he will be cruel and will insult you, and you will resent it—­then I shall never see you again.  You do not know—­”

“This is something new,” said Gouache.  “How can you be sure that he will receive me so badly?  Have your people talked about me?  After all, I am an honest man, and though I live by my profession I am not poor.  It is true, I am not such a match for you as Frangipani.  Tell me, do they abuse me at your house?”

“No—­what can they say, except that you are an artist?  That is not abuse, nor calumny.”

“It depends upon how it is said.  I suppose it is San Giacinto who says it.”  Gouache’s face darkened.

“San Giacinto has guessed the truth,” answered Faustina, shaking her head.  “He knows that we love each other, and just now he is very powerful with my father.  It will be worse if he wins the suit and is Prince Saracinesca.”

“Then that is another reason for acting at once.  Faustina—­you followed me once—­will you not go with me, away, out of this cursed city?  I will ask for you first.  I will behave honourably.  But if he will not consent, what is there left for us to do?  Can we live apart?  Can you marry Frangipani?  Have not many people done before what we think of doing?  Is it wrong?  Heaven knows, I make no pretence to sanctity.  But I would not have you do anything—­ what shall I say?  Anything against your conscience.”  There was a shade of bitterness in the laugh that accompanied the last words.

“You do not know what things he will say,” repeated Faustina, in despairing tones.

“This is absurd,” said Gouache.  “I can bear anything he can say well enough.  He is an old man and I am a young one, and have no intention of taking offence.  He may say what he pleases, call me a villain, a brigand—­that is your favourite Italian expression—­a thief, a liar, anything he pleases.  I will not be angry.  There shall be no violence.  But I cannot endure this state of things any longer.  I must try my luck.”