Now, and all at once, a hundred details rushed to his recollection, and he was staggered by the vista of incidents that rose before his mind.  Within the last twenty-four hours, especially, the evidence had assumed terrible proportions.  In the first place there had been that scene in the drawing-room, enacted quietly enough and in a corner, while there were twenty persons present, but with the coolness of two people of the world who know what surprising things may be done unobserved in a room full of people.  If Anastase had kissed Corona’s hand a little differently, and with the evident intention of being seen, the action would have been natural.  But there was a look in Gouache’s face which Giovanni remembered, and an expression of kindness in Corona’s eyes that he had not forgotten; above all they had both seemed as though they were sure that no one was watching them.  Indeed, Sant’ Ilario now asked himself how he had chanced to see what passed, and the only answer was that he generally watched them when they were together.  This was a revelation to himself, and told much.  Then there was her midnight expedition with Gouache, a far more serious matter.  After all, he had only Corona’s own assurance that Faustina Montevarchi had been in any way concerned in that extraordinary piece of rashness.  He must indeed have had faith in his wife to pass over such conduct without a word of explanation.  Next came the events of that very afternoon.  Corona had been rude to Gouache, had then suddenly left the room, and in passing out had exchanged a few words with him in a low tone.  She had met him again by accident, if it had been an accident, and fancying herself unseen had behaved very differently to the young man.  There had been a parting which savoured unpleasantly of the affectionate, and which was certainly something more than merely friendly.  Lastly, Corona had evidently been annoyed at Giovanni’s appearance, a fact which seemed to conclude the whole argument with a terrible certainty.

Finding himself face to face with a conclusion which threatened to destroy his happiness altogether, Giovanni started up from his chair and began to walk backwards and forwards in the room, pausing a moment each time he turned, as though to gather strength, or to shake off an evil thought.  In the light of his present reflections an explanation seemed inevitable, but when he thought of that he saw too clearly that any explanation must begin by his accusing his wife, and he knew that if he accused her justly, it would only end in a denial from her.  What woman, however guilty, would not deny her guilt when charged with it.  What man either, where love was concerned?  Giovanni laughed bitterly, then turned pale and sat down again.  To accuse Corona of loving Gouache!  It was too monstrous to be believed.  And yet—­what did all those doings mean?  There must be a reason for them.  If he called her and told her what he felt, and if she were innocent, she would tell