And to-day she would not see him; very possibly she would not know where he was.  And to-morrow?  And the next day?  And all the days after that?  He supposed that he would be allowed to write to her, perhaps to see her, but it would be hard to explain his position.  She did not love him any longer, and she would not understand.  He wondered how much she would care, if she really cared at all, beyond a discreet anxiety for his safety.  She would certainly not comprehend a love like his, which had chosen such a sacrifice, rather than allow her wish to remain ungratified.  How could she, since she did not love him?  And yet, it was imperatively necessary that she should be informed of what had happened.  She might otherwise suppose, naturally enough, that some accident had befallen him, and she would in that case apply to the police, perhaps to the cardinal himself, to find out where he was.  Such a contingency must be prevented, by some means, before night.  Until then, she would not be frightened by his absence.  There would be time, perhaps, when he was removed to the prison—­to the place of safety and secrecy, of which the cardinal had spoken, and which in all probability was the Holy Office.  No questions were asked there.

There were writing materials on the broad table, and Giovanni began a letter to his wife.  After a few minutes, however, he stopped, for he saw from what he had written that he was in no condition to attempt such a task.  The words came quickly and fluently, but they expressed what he had no intention of telling Corona again.  His love for her was still uppermost in his mind, and instead of trying to explain what had occurred, he found himself setting down phrases that told of nothing but a mad passion.  The thought of her cold face when she should read the lines arrested his hand, and he threw down the pen impatiently, and returned to his meditations for a while.  What he wanted to do was to tell her in the fewest possible words that he was alive and well.  What else should he tell her?  The statement would allay any anxiety she might feel, and his absence would doubtless be a relief to her.  The thought was bitter, but he knew that nothing exasperates a woman like the constant presence of a man she has loved, who loves her more than ever, and for whom she no longer feels anything.  At last he took another sheet of paper and tried again.

“Dear Corona—­When you get this, Faustina will be at liberty, according to your wish.  Do not be anxious if you do not see me for a few days, as I am called away on urgent business.  Tell my father, and any of our friends who ask about me, that I am at Saracinesca, superintending the removal of such effects as are not to go to San Giacinto.  I will let you know when I am coming back—­Your affectionate Giovanni.”