Corona uttered an exclamation of horror.
"And they say Del Ferice is dead, or just dying"—his cracked voice rose at every word; "and they say," he almost screamed, laying his withered hand roughly upon his wife's shoulder,—"they say that the duel was about you—you, do you understand?"
"That is not true," said Corona, firmly. "Calm yourself—I beseech you to be calm. Tell me connectedly what has happened—who told you this story."
"What right has any man to drag your name into a quarrel?" cried the old man, hoarsely. "Everybody is saying it—it is outrageous, abominable—"
Corona quietly pushed her husband into a chair, and sat down beside him.
"You are excited—you will harm yourself,—remember your health," she said, endeavouring to soothe him. "Tell me, in the first place, who told you that it was about me."
"Valdarno told me; he told me that every one was saying it—that it was the talk of the town."
"But why?" insisted Corona. "You allow yourself to be furious for the sake of a piece of gossip which has no foundation whatever. What is the story they tell?"
"Some nonsense about Giovanni Saracinesca's going away last week. Del
Ferice proposed to call him before you, and Giovanni was angry."
"That is absurd," said Corona. "Don Giovanni was not the least annoyed.
He was with me afterwards—"