'I hope not!' exclaimed Corona, turning in her chair, and speaking with far more energy than she had yet shown. 'It is bad blood, Giovanni—as bad as any blood in Italy, and though the girl is charming, those brothers—well, you saw them.'
'Bad faces, both of them. And rather doubtful manners.'
'Never mind their manners! But their faces! They are nephews of poor Bianca Corleone's husband, are they not?'
'Yes. They are his brother's children. And they are their grandfather's grandchildren.'
'What did he do?'
'He was chiefly concerned in the betrayal of Gaeta—and took money for the deed, too. They have always been traitors. There was a Pagliuca who received all sorts of offices and honours from Joaquin Murat and then advised King Ferdinand to have him shot when he was caught at Pizzo in Calabria. There was a Pagliuca who betrayed his brother to save his own life in the last century. It is a promising stock.'
'What an inheritance! I have often heard of them, but I have never met any of them excepting Bianca's husband, whom we all hated for her sake.'
'He was not the worst of them, by any means. But I never blamed her much, poor child—and Pietro Ghisleri knew how to turn any woman's head in those days.'
'Why did we ask those people to dinner, after all?' enquired Corona, thoughtfully.
'Because San Giacinto wished it, I suppose. We shall probably know why in two or three years. He never does anything without a reason.'