When Corona reached home she went to her own small boudoir, with the intention of remaining there for an hour if she could do so without being disturbed.

There was a prospect of this; for on inquiry she ascertained that her husband was not yet dressed, and his dressing took a very long time.

He had a cosmopolitan valet, who alone of living men understood the art of fitting the artificial and the natural Astrardente together.
Corona believed this man to be an accomplished scoundrel; but she never had any proof that he was anything worse than a very clever servant, thoroughly unscrupulous where his master's interests or his own were concerned.

The old Duca believed in him sincerely and trusted him alone, feeling that since he could never be a hero in his valet's eyes, he might as well take advantage of that misfortune in order to gain a confident.
Corona found three or four letters upon her table, and sat down to read them, letting her fur mantle drop to the floor, and putting her small feet out towards the fire, for the pavement of the church had been cold.
She was destined to pass an eventful day, it seemed.

One of the letters was from Giovanni Saracinesca.