“Since seven o’clock this morning?  That is impossible.  Unless his Eminence has arrested him on charge of the murder.”  The old gentleman laughed gruffly, little guessing how near his jest lay to the truth.  But Corona looked up quickly.  The mere idea of such a horrible contingency was painful to her, absurd and wildly improbable as it appeared.

“I was going to ask him to go up to Saracinesca to-morrow and see to the changes,” continued the prince.

“Must it be so soon?” asked Corona regretfully.  “Is it absolutely decided?  Have you not yielded too easily?”

“I cannot go over all the arguments again.” returned her father-in-law with some impatience.  “There is no doubt about it.  I expended all my coolness and civility on San Giacinto when he came to see me about it.  It is of no use to complain, and we cannot draw back.  I suppose I might go down on my knees to the Pope and ask his Holiness for another title—­for the privilege of being called something, Principe di Cavolfiore, if you like.  But I will not do it.  I will die as Leone Saracinesca.  You can give Giovanni your old title, if you please—­it is yours to give.”

“He shall have it if he wants it.  What does it matter?  I can be Donna Corona.”

“Ay, what does it matter, provided we have peace?  What does anything matter in this unutterably ridiculous world—­except your happiness, poor child!  Yes.  Everything must be got ready.  I will not stay in this house another week.”

“But in a week it will be impossible to do all there is to be done!” exclaimed Corona, whose feminine mind foresaw infinite difficulties in moving.

“Possible, or impossible, it must be accomplished.  I have appointed this day week for handing over the property.  The lawyers said, as you say, that it would need more time.  I told them that there was no time, and that if they could not do it, I would employ some one else.  They talked of sitting up all night—­as if I cared whether they lost their beauty sleep or not!  A week from to-day everything must be settled, so that I have not in my possession a penny that does not belong to me.”

“And then—­what will you do?” asked Corona, who saw in spite of his vehemence how much he was affected by the prospect.

“And then?  What then?  Live somewhere else, I suppose, and pray for an easy death.”

No one had ever heard Leone Saracinesca say before now that he desired to die, and the wish seemed so contrary to the nature of his character that Corona looked earnestly at him.  His face was discomposed, and his voice had trembled.  He was a brave man, and a very honourable one, but he was very far from being a philosopher.  As he had said, he had expended all his calmness in that one meeting with San Giacinto when he had been persuaded of the justice of the latter’s claims.  Since then he had felt nothing but bitterness, and the outward expression of it was either an unreasonable