away the short afternoon undisturbed, letting her girlish thoughts wander among the rose gardens of the future with the image of the man she loved so dearly, and who was yet so far removed from her.  Now she could not think of him without reflecting that her father’s death had removed one very great obstacle to her marriage.  She was by no means of a very devout or saintly character, but, on the other hand, she had a great deal of what is called heart, and to be heartless seemed to her almost worse than to be bad.  In excuse of such very untheological doctrines it must be allowed that her ideas concerning wickedness in general were very limited indeed, if not altogether childish in their extreme simplicity.  It is certain, however, that she would have thought it far less wrong to run away with Gouache in spite of her family than to entertain any thought which could place her father’s tragic death in the light of a personal advantage.  If she had nothing to do she could not help thinking of Anastase, and if she thought of him, she could not escape the conclusion that it would be far easier for her to marry him, now that the old prince was out of the way.  It was therefore absolutely necessary to find some occupation.

At first she wandered aimlessly about the house until she was struck, almost for the first time, by the antiquated stiffness of the arrangement, and began to ask herself whether it would be respectful to the memory of her father, and to her mother, to try and make a few changes.  Corona’s home was very different.  She would like to take that for a model.  But one or two attempts showed her the magnitude of the task she had undertaken.  She was ashamed to call the servants to help her—­it would look as though there were to be a reception in the house.  Her ideas of what could take place in the Palazzo Montevarchi did not go beyond that staid form of diversion.  She was ashamed, however, and reflected, besides, that she was only the youngest of the family and had no right to take the initiative in the matter of improvements.  The time hung very heavily upon her hands.  She tried to teach herself something about painting by looking at the pictures on the walls, spending a quarter of an hour before each with conscientious assiduity.  But this did not succeed either.  The men in the pictures all took the shape of Monsieur Gouache in his smartest uniform and the women all looked disagreeably like Flavia.  Then she thought of the library, which was the only place of importance in the house which she had not lately visited.  She hesitated a moment only, considering how she could best reach it without passing through the study, and without going up the grand staircase to the outer door.  A very little reflection showed her that she could get into the corridor from a passage near her own room.  In a few minutes she was at the entrance to the great hall, trying to turn the heavy carved brass handle of the latch.  To her surprise she could not open the door, which was evidently fastened from within.  Then as she shook it in the hope that some one would hear her, a strange cry reached her ears, like that of a startled animal, accompanied by the shuffling of feet.  She remembered Meschini’s walk, and understood that it was he.