danger whatever, and he was tired of staying
at home. But he would dine with his father as usual. He loved his
father's company, and when the two omitted to quarrel over trifles they
were very congenial. To tell the truth, the differences between them
arose generally from the petulant quickness of the Prince; for in his son
his own irascible character was joined with the melancholy gravity which
Giovanni inherited from his mother, and in virtue of which, being
taciturn, he was sometimes thought long-suffering.

As usual, they sat opposite each other, and the ancient butler Pasquale
served them. As the man deposited Giovanni's soup before him, he spoke. A
certain liberty was always granted to Pasquale; Italian servants are
members of the family, even in princely houses. Never assuming that
confidence implies familiarity, they enjoy the one without ever
approaching the latter. Nevertheless it was very rarely that Pasquale
spoke to his masters when they were at table.

"I beg your Excellencies' pardon--" he began, as he put down the
soup-plate.

"Well, Pasquale?" asked old Saracinesca, looking sharply at the old
servant from under his heavy brows.

"Have your Excellencies heard the news?"

"What news? No," returned the Prince.

"The Duca d'Astrardente--"

"Well, what of him?"

"Is dead."

"Dead!" repeated Giovanni in a loud voice, that echoed to the vaulted
roof of the dining-room.

"It is not true," said old Saracinesca; "I saw him in the street this
morning."

"Nevertheless, your Excellency," replied Pasquale, "it is quite true. The
gates of the palace were already draped with black before the Ave Maria
this evening; and the porter, who is a nephew of mine, had _crepe_ upon
his hat and arm. He told me that the Duca fell down dead of a stroke in
the Signora Duchessa's room at half-past twelve to-day."

"Is that all you could learn?" asked the Prince.

"Except that the Signora Duchessa was overcome with grief," returned the
servant, gravely.

"I should think so--her husband dead of an apoplexy! It is natural," said
the Prince, looking at Giovanni. The latter was silent, and tried to eat
as though, nothing had happened--inwardly endeavouring not to rejoice too
madly at the terrible catastrophe. In his effort to control his features,
the blood rushed to his forehead, and his hand trembled violently. His
father saw it, but made no remark.

"Poor Astrardente!" he said. "He was not so bad as people thought