“Where is Faustina Montevarchi?” asked Giovanni, as though it were the most natural question in the world.

“Faustina?” repeated Corona.  “In the drawing-room, to be sure.  I have not seen her.”

“She is not there,” said Sant’ Ilario, in a more anxious tone.  “I thought she had come here with you.”

“She must be with the rest.  You have overlooked her in the crowd.  Come back with me and see your son—­he does not seem to mind revolution in the least!”

Giovanni, who had no real doubt but that Faustina was in the house, entered the nursery with his wife, and they stood together by the child’s cradle.

“Is he not beautiful?” exclaimed Corona, passing her arm affectionately through her husband’s, and leaning her cheek on his shoulder.

“He is a fine baby,” replied Giovanni, his voice expressing more satisfaction than his words.  “He will look like my father when he grows up.”

“I would rather he should look like you,” said Corona.

“If he could look like you, dear, there would be some use in wishing.”

Then they both gazed for some seconds at the swarthy little boy, who lay on his pillows, his arms thrown back above his head and his two little fists tightly clenched.  The rich blood softly coloured the child’s dark cheeks, and the black lashes, already long, like his mother’s, gave a singularly expressive look to the small face.

Giovanni tenderly kissed his wife and then they softly left the room.  As soon as they were outside Sant’ Ilario’s thoughts returned to Faustina.

“She was certainly not in the drawing-room,” he said, “I am quite sure.  It was her mother who asked for her and everybody heard the question.  I dare not go back without her.”

They stopped together in the corridor, looking at each other with grave faces.

“This is very serious,” said Corona.  “We must search the house.  Send the men.  I will tell the women.  We will meet at the head of the stairs.”

Five minutes later, Giovanni returned in pursuit of his wife.

“She has left the house,” he said, breathlessly.  “The porter saw her go out.”

“Good Heavens!  Why did he not stop her?” cried Corona.

“Because he is a fool!” answered Sant’ Ilario, very pale in his anxiety.  “She must have lost her head and gone home.  I will tell her mother.”

When it was known in the drawing-room that Donna Faustina Montevarchi had left the palace alone and on foot every one was horrorstruck.  The princess turned as white as death, though she was usually very red in the face.  She was a brave woman, however, and did not waste words.

“I must go home at once,” said she.  “Please order my carriage and have the gates opened.”

Giovanni obeyed silently, and a few minutes later the princess was descending the stairs, accompanied by Flavia, who was silent, a phenomenon seldom to be recorded in connection with that vivacious young lady.  Giovanni went also, and his cousin, San Giacinto.