She was sorry for him in her heart and repented a little of having treated him so harshly.  And yet, as soon as he was gone she began to doubt again, wondering vaguely whether she had not been deceived.  There was an odd fascination about the soldier-artist which somehow influenced her in his favour when he was present, and of which she was not conscious until he was out of her sight.  Now that she was alone, she found herself considering how this peculiar charm which he possessed would be likely to affect a young girl like Faustina, and she was obliged to acknowledge that it would account well enough for the latter’s foolish doings.  She could not look into Gouache’s eyes and doubt what he said, but she found it hard afterwards to explain the faith she put in him.

She was roused from her short reflection by her husband who, without being observed by her, had come to her side.  Seeing that she did not return to the sitting-room when Gouache was gone he had come in search of her, and by the merest chance had overheard the last words which had passed between her and Anastase, and had seen how the latter fervently kissed her hand.  The phrase in which she had wished him good luck rang unpleasantly in his ears and startled the inmost sensibilities of his nature.  He remembered how she had blessed him once, in her calm, gentle way, on that memorable night of the Frangipani ball nearly three years before, and there was a similarity between the words she had used then and the simple expression which had now fallen from her lips.

Giovanni stood beside her now and laid his hand upon her arm.  It was not his nature to break out suddenly as his father did, when anything occurred to disturb his peace of mind.  The Spanish blood he had inherited from his mother had imparted a profound reserve to his character, which gave it depth rather than coldness.  It was hard for him to speak out violently when under the influence of emotion, but this very difficulty of finding words and his aversion to using them made him more sincere, more enduring and less forgiving than other men.  He could wait long before he gave vent to his feelings, but they neither grew cool nor dull for the waiting.  He detested concealment and secrecy more than most people, but his disinclination to speak of any matter until he was sure of it had given him the reputation of being both reticent and calculating.  Giovanni now no longer concealed from himself the fact that he was annoyed by what was passing, but he denied, even in his heart, that he was jealous.  To doubt Corona would be to upset the whole fabric of his existence, which he had founded upon her love and which had been built up to such great proportions during the past three years.  His first impulse was to ask an explanation, and it carried him just far enough to lay his hand on his wife’s arm, when it was checked by a multitude of reflections and unconscious arguments which altogether changed his determination.