He read the note over twice, and then folded it, addressing it to his wife.  His face expressed the most profound dejection when he had finished his task, and for a long time he leaned back in his chair, gazing at the morning sunlight that slowly crept across the floor, while his hands lay folded passively upon the table.  The end of his love seemed very bitter as he thought of the words he had written.  A few weeks ago to leave Corona thus unexpectedly would have caused her the greatest pain.  Now, he felt that he need say nothing, that it would be useless to say anything, more than he had said.  It was nothing to her, whether he stayed in Rome or went to the ends of the earth; indeed, he suspected that she would be glad to be left alone—­unless she should discover why he had gone, and whither.  This last consideration recalled to him his situation, and for a moment he was horrified at his own rashness.  But the thought did not hold him long, and presently he asked himself apathetically what it could matter in the end.  The hours passed slowly, and still he sat motionless by the table, the folded letter lying before him.

The cardinal had scarcely returned to his study when a second card was brought to him.  The gentleman, said the servant, had assured him that his Eminence would receive him, as he had important information to give concerning the murder of Prince Montevarchi.  The cardinal could not repress a smile as he read the name of Anastase Gouache.

The young man entered the room, and advanced in obedience to the cardinal’s friendly gesture.  He was as pale as death, and his soft dark eyes had an expression of despair in them such as the great man had rarely seen.  For the rest, he wore his uniform, and was as carefully dressed as usual.

“Your Eminence has doubtless heard of this dreadful murder?” began Gouache, forgetting all formality in the extremity of his excitement.

“Yes,” said the cardinal, sitting down.  “You have something to communicate concerning it, I understand.”

“Donna Faustina Montevarchi has been charged with the crime, and is in the prison of the Termini,” answered the Zouave, speaking hurriedly.  “I am here to ask your Eminence to order her release without delay—–­”

“On what grounds?” inquired the statesman, raising his eyebrows a little as though surprised by the way in which the request was made.

“Because she is innocent, because her arrest was due to the mistake of the prefect of police—­the evidence was against her, but it was absurd to suppose that she could have done it—–­”

“The prefect of police received my approval.  Have you any means of showing that she is innocent?”

“Showing it?” repeated Gouache, who looked dazed for a moment, but recovered himself immediately, turning white to the lips.  “What could be easier?” he exclaimed.  “The murderer is before you—­I saw the prince, I asked him for his daughter’s hand in marriage, he insulted me.  I left the room, but I returned soon afterwards.  I found him alone, and I killed him—­I do not know how I did it—–­”