In her violent agitation of mind, only half conscious of her words and acts, she moved into the corridor, beating her temples and wailing.
“Riccardo! Oh, my brother, where are you in this most terrible of moments?” she cried out with all the voice she could muster. “Calamity has befallen us! Search for him, everybody. Search for Don Riccardo!”
It was an outburst that startled the domestics above and below stairs, and carried ominously to the Duke himself, who had just entered the house and was about to greet Tarsis in the reception hall. Guessing that the trouble concerned his appointed son-in-law, he turned away from him, dreading an appeal for assistance. To his sister’s resonant signals of distress, however, he started to respond, but with more deliberation than eagerness. He could not have made his way up the staircase with less haste if the wonted calm of the villa had been undisturbed. Instinctively he paused in the ante-chamber of Donna Beatrice’s apartments, hesitating to become a part of the catastrophe, whatever it might be.
“What is the meaning of this awful affair?” he heard his sister ask of Hera.
“It means that my love is for Mario Forza. To be the wife of another is impossible unless he bids me do so.”
“Unless who bids you do so?” Donna Beatrice gasped.
“Mario Forza.”
“Heaven and the saints!” exclaimed the elder woman. “What new madness is this? And when do you expect to have his permission?” she asked, with all the sarcasm she could summon to the words.
“Signor Tarsis says we may have his answer by midnight.”
“Signor Tarsis! Oh, spare me these mysteries!”