When he was alone, the situation presented itself to his mind in a very disagreeable light.  Corona’s assurance that the mystery was a harmless one seemed wholly inadequate to account for her meeting with Gouache and for her kind treatment of him, especially after she had shown herself so evidently cold to him in the presence of the others.  Either Giovanni was a very silly fellow, or he was being deceived as no man was ever deceived before.  Either conclusion was exasperating.  He asked himself whether he were such a fool as to invent a misconstruction upon occurrences which to any one else would have seemed void of any importance whatsoever; and his heart answered that if he were indeed so senseless he must have lost his intelligence very recently.  On the other hand to suspect Corona of actually entertaining a secret passion for Gouache was an hypothesis which seemed too monstrous to be discussed.  He sat down to think about it, and was suddenly startled by the host of little circumstances which all at once detached themselves from the hazy past and stood out in condemnation of his wife.  Gouache, as he himself had acknowledged, had long worshipped the princess in a respectful, almost reverential way.  He had taken every occasion of talking with her, and had expressed even by his outward manner a degree of devotion he never manifested to other women.  Giovanni was now aware that for some time past, even as far back as the previous winter, he had almost unconsciously watched Corona and Anastase when they were together.  Nothing in her conduct had excited his suspicions in the least, but he had certainly suspected that Gouache was a little inclined to idolise her, and had laughed to himself more than once at the idea of the French artist’s hopeless passion, with something of that careless satisfaction a man feels who sees a less favoured mortal in dangerous proximity to a flame which burns only for himself.  It was rather a contemptible amusement, and Giovanni had never indulged in it very long.  He liked Gouache, and, if anything, pitied him for his hopeless passion.  Corona treated the Zouave in her grand, quiet way, which had an air of protection with it, and Giovanni would have scoffed at the thought that she cared for the man.  Nevertheless, now that matters had taken such a strange turn, he recollected with surprise that Gouache was undeniably the one of all their acquaintance who most consistently followed Corona wherever they met.  The young man was a favourite in society.  His great talent, his modesty, and above all what people were pleased to describe as his harmlessness, made everybody like him.  He went everywhere, and his opportunities of meeting the princess were almost numberless.  Giovanni had certainly watched him very often, though he was hardly conscious of having bestowed so much attention on the French artist-soldier, that he never failed to glance at his wife when Anastase was mentioned.