Chapter XIV: Part SIX: The Roman of Rome (1)

I

Roma awoke next morning with a feeling of joy. The dangers of last night were over and David Rossi had escaped. Where would he be by this time? She looked at her little round watch and reckoned the hours that had passed against the speed of the train.

Natalina came with the tea and the morning newspaper. The maid's tongue went faster than her hands as she rattled on about the terrors of the night and the news of the morning. Meantime Roma glanced eagerly over the columns of the paper for its references to Rossi. He was gone. The authorities were unable to say what had become of him.

With boundless relief Roma turned to the other items of intelligence. The journal was the organ of the Government, and it contained an extract from the Official Gazette and the text of a proclamation by the Prefect. The first announced that the riot was at an end and Rome was quiet; the second notified the public that by royal decree the city was declared to be in a state of siege, and that the King had nominated a Royal Commissioner with full powers.

Besides this news there was a general account of the insurrection. The ringleaders were anarchists, socialists, and professed atheists, determined on the destruction of both throne and altar by any means, however horrible. Their victims had been drawn, without seeing where they were going, into a vortex of disorder, and the soldiers had defended society and the law. Happily the casualties were few. The only fatal incident had been the death of a child, seven years of age, the son of a workman. The people of Rome had to congratulate themselves on the promptness of a Government which had reinstated authority with so small a loss of blood.

Roma remembered what Rossi had said about Elena--"Think of Elena when she awakes in the morning, alone with her terrible grief"--and putting on a plain dark cloth dress she set off for the Piazza Navona.

It was eleven o'clock, and the sun was shining on the melting snow. Rome was like a dead city. The breath of revolution had passed over it. Broken tiles lay on the pavement of the slushy streets, and here and there were the remains of abandoned barricades. The shops, which are the eyes of a city, were nearly all closed and asleep.

At a flower-shop, which was opened to her knock, Roma bought a wreath of white chrysanthemums. A group of men and women stood at the door in the Piazza Navona, and she received their kisses on her hands. The Garibaldian followed her up the stairs, and his old wife, who stood at the top, called her "Little Sister," and then burst into tears.

The boy lay on the couch, just where Roma had first seen him, when David Rossi was lifting him up asleep. He might have been asleep now, so peaceful was his expression under the mysterious seal of death. The blinds were drawn, and the sun came through them with a yellow light. Four candles were burning on chairs at the head and two at the feet. The little body was still dressed in the gay clothes of the festival, and the cocked hat and gilt-headed mace lay beside it. But the chubby hands were clasped over a tiny crucifix, and the hair of the shock head was brushed smooth and flat.

"There he is," said Elena, in a cracked voice, and she went down on her knees between the candles.

Roma, who could not speak, put the wreath of chrysanthemums on the brave little breast, and knelt by the mother's side. At that they all broke down together.

The old Garibaldian wiped his rheumy eyes and began to talk of David Rossi. He was as fond of Joseph as if the boy had been his own son. But what had become of the Honourable? Before daybreak the police had made a domiciliary perquisition in the apartment, carried off his papers and sealed up his rooms.

"Have no fear for him," said Roma, and then she asked about Bruno. All they knew was that Bruno had been arrested and locked up in the prison called Regina C[oe]li.

"Poor Bruno! He'll be dying to know what is happening here," said Elena.

"I'll see him," said Roma.

It was well she had come early. In the stupefaction of their sorrow the three poor souls were like helpless children and had done nothing. Roma sent the Garibaldian to the sanitary office for the doctor who was to verify the death, to the office of health to register it, and to the municipal office to arrange for the funeral. It was to be a funeral of the third category, with a funeral car of two horses and a coach with liveried coachmen. The grave was to be one of the little vaults, the Fornelli, set apart for children. The priest was to be instructed to buy many candles and order several Frati. The expense would be great, but Roma undertook to bear it, and when she left the house the old people kissed her hands again and loaded her with blessings.

II

The Roman prison with the extraordinary name, "The Queen of Heaven," is a vast yellow building on the Trastevere side of the river. Behind it rises the Janiculum, in front of it runs the Tiber, and on both sides of it are narrow lanes cut off by high walls.

On the morning after the insurrection a great many persons had gathered at the entrance of this prison. Old men, who were lame or sick or nearly blind, stood by a dead wall which divides the street from the Tiber, and looked on with dazed and vacant eyes. Younger men nearer the entrance read the proclamations posted up on the pilasters. One of these was the proclamation of the Prefect announcing the state of siege; another was the proclamation of the Royal Commissioner calling on citizens to consign all the arms in their possession to the Chief of Police under pain of imprisonment.

In the entrance-hall there was a crowd of women, each carrying a basket or a bundle in a handkerchief. They were young and old, dressed variously as if from different provinces, but nearly all poor, untidy, and unkempt.

An iron gate was opened, and an officer, two soldiers, and a warder came out to take the food which the women had brought for their relatives imprisoned within. Then there was a terrible tumult. "Mr. Officer, please!" "Please, Mr. Officer!" "Be kind to Giuseppe, and the saints bless you!" "My turn next!" "No, mine!" "Don't push!" "You're pushing yourself!" "You're knocking the basket out of my hands!" "Getaway!" "You cat! You...."

"Silence! Silence! Silence!" cried the officer, shouting the women down, and meantime the men in the street outside curled their lips and tried to laugh.

Into this wild scene, full of the acrid exhalations of human breath, and the nauseating odour of unclean bodies, but moved, nevertheless, by the finger of God Himself, the cab which brought Roma to see Bruno discharged her at the prison door.

The officer on the steps saw her over the heads of the women with their outstretched arms, and judging from her appearance that she came on other business, he called to a Carabineer to attend to her.

"I wish to see the Director," said Roma.

"Certainly, Excellency," said the Carabineer, and with a salute he led the way by a side door to the offices on the floor above.

The Governor of Regina C[oe]li was a middle-aged man with a kindly face, but under the new order he could do nothing.

"Everything relating to the political prisoners is in the hands of the Royal Commissioner," he said.

"Where can I see him, Cavaliere?"

"He is with the Minister of War to-day, arranging for the military tribunals, but perhaps to-morrow at his office in the Castle of St. Angelo...."

"Thanks! Meantime can I send a message into the prison?"

"Yes."

"And may I pay for a separate cell for a prisoner, with food and light, if necessary?"

"Undoubtedly."

Roma undertook the expense of these privileges and then scribbled a note to Bruno.

"DEAR FRIEND,--Don't lose heart! Your dear ones shall be cared for
and comforted. He whom you love is safe and your darling is in
heaven. Sleep well! These days will pass.
"R. V."

III

That night Roma wrote the first part of a letter to David Rossi:

"David--my David! It is early days to call you by a dearer name,
but the sweet word is on the tip of my pen, and I can hardly help
myself from scribbling it. You wished me to tell you what is
happening in Rome, and here I am beginning to write already,
though when and how and where this letter is to reach you, I must
leave it to Fate and to yourself to determine. Fancy! Only
eighteen hours since we parted! It seems inconceivable! I feel as
if I had lived a lifetime.

"Do you know, I did not go to bed when you left me. I had so many
things to think about. And, tired as I was, I slept little, and
was up early. The morning dawned beautifully. It was perfectly
tragic. So bright and sunny after that night of slaughter. No
rattle of cars, no tinkle of trams, no calls of the water-carriers
and of the pedlars in the streets. It was for all the world like
that awful quiet of the sea the morning after a tempest, with the
sun on its placid surface and not a hint of the wrecks beneath.

"I remembered what you said about Elena, and went down to see her.
The poor girl has just parted with her dead child. She did it with
a brave heart, God pity her! taking comfort in the Blessed Virgin,
as the mother in heaven who knows all our sorrows and asks God to
heal them. Ah, what a sweet thing it must be to believe that! Do
you believe it?"

Here she wanted to say something about her great secret. She
tried, but she could not do it.

"I couldn't see Bruno to-day, but I hope to do so to-morrow, and
meantime I have ordered food to be supplied to him. If I could
only do something to some purpose! But five hundred of your
friends are in Regina C[oe]li, and my poor little efforts are a drop
of water in a mighty ocean.

"Rome is a deserted city to-day, and but for the soldiers, who are
everywhere, it would look like a dead one! The steps of the Piazza
di Spagna are empty, not a model is to be seen, not a flower is to
be bought, and the fountain is bubbling in silence. After sunset a
certain shiver passes over the world, and after an insurrection
something of the same kind seems to pass over a city. The churches
and the hospitals are the only places open, and the doctors and
their messengers are the only people moving about.

"Just one of the newspapers has been published to-day, and it is
full of proclamations. Everybody is to be indoors by nine o'clock
and the cafés are to be closed at eight. Arms are to be consigned
at the Questura, and meetings of more than four persons are
strictly forbidden. Rewards of pardon are offered to all rioters
who will inform on the ringleaders of the insurrection, and of
money to all citizens who will denounce the conspirators. The
military tribunals are to sit to-morrow and domiciliary
visitations are already being made. Your own apartments have been
searched and sealed and the police have carried off papers.

"Such are the doings of this evil day, and yet--selfish woman that
I am--I cannot for my life think it is all evil. Has it not given
me you? And if it has taken you away from me as well, I can wait,
I can be patient. Where are you now, I wonder? And are you
thinking of me while I am thinking of you? Oh, how splendid! Think
of it! Though the train may be carrying you away from me every
hour and every minute, before long we shall be together. In the
first dream of the first sleep I shall join you, and we shall be
cheek to cheek and heart to heart. Good-night, my dear one!"

Again she tried to say something about her secret. But no! "Not to-night," she thought, and after switching off the light and kissing her hand in the darkness to the stars that hung over the north, she laughed at her own foolishness and went to bed.

IV

Roma awoke next day with a sense of pain. Thus far she had beaten the Baron--yes! But David Rossi? Had she sinned against God and against her husband? She must confess. There was no help for it. And there must be no hesitation and no delay.

Natalina came into the bedroom and threw open the shutters. She was bringing a telegram, and Roma almost snatched it out of her hands. It was from Rossi and had been sent off from Chiasso. "Crossed frontier safe and well."

Roma made a cry of joy and leapt out of bed. All day long that telegram was like wings under her heels and made her walk with an elastic step.

While taking her coffee she remembered the responsibilities she had undertaken the day before--for the boy's funeral and Bruno's maintenance--and for the first time in her life she began to consider ways and means. Her ready money was getting low, and it was necessary to do something.

Then Felice came with a sheaf of papers. They were tradesmen's bills and required immediate payment. Some of the men were below and refused to go away without the cash.

There was no help for it. She opened her purse, discharged her debts, swept her debtors out of the house, and sat down to count what remained.

Very little remained. But what matter? The five words of that telegram were five bright stars which could light up a darker sky than had fallen on her yet.

In this high mood she went down to the studio--silent now in the absence of the humorous voice that usually rang in it, and with Bruno's chisels and mallet lying idle, with his sack on a block of half-hewn marble. Uncovering her fountain, she looked at it again. It was good work; she knew it was good; she could be certain it was good. It should justify her yet, and some day the stupid people who were sheering away from her now would come cringing to her feet afresh.

That suggested thoughts of the Mayor. She would write to him and get some money with which to meet the expenses of yesterday as well as the obligations which she might perhaps incur to-day or in the future.

"Dear Senator Palomba," she wrote, "no doubt you have often wondered why your much-valued commission has not been completed before. The fact is that it suffered a slight accident a few days ago, but a week or a fortnight ought to see it finished, and if you wish to make arrangements for its reception you may count on its delivery in that time. Meantime as I am pressed for funds at the moment, I shall be glad if you can instruct your treasurer at the Municipality to let me have something on account. The price mentioned, you remember, was 15,000 francs, and as I have not had anything hitherto, I trust it may not be unreasonable to ask for half now, leaving the remainder until the fountain is in its place."

Having despatched this challenge by Felice, not only to the Mayor, but also to herself, her pride, her poverty, and to the great world generally, she put on her cloak and hat and drove down to the Castle of St. Angelo.

When she returned, an hour afterwards, there was a dry glitter in her eyes, which increased to a look of fever when she opened the drawing-room door and saw who was waiting there. It was the Mayor himself. The little oily man in patent-leather boots, holding upright his glossy silk hat, was clearly nervous and confused. He complimented her on her appearance, looked out of the window, extolled the view, and finally, with his back to his hostess, began on his business.

"It is about your letter, you know," he said awkwardly. "There seems to be a little misunderstanding on your part. About the fountain, I mean."

"None whatever, Senator. You ordered it. I have executed it. Surely the matter is quite simple."

"Impossible, my dear. I may have encouraged you to an experimental trial. We all do that. Rome is eager to discover genius. But a simple member of a corporate body cannot undertake ... that is to say, on his own responsibility, you know...."

Roma's breath began to come quickly. "Do you mean that you didn't commission my fountain?"

"How could I, my child? Such matters must go through a regular form. The proper committee must sanction and resolve...."

"But everybody has known of this, and it has been generally understood from the first."

"Ah, understood! Possibly! Rumour and report perhaps."

"But I could bring witnesses--high witnesses--the very highest if needs be...."

The little man smiled benevolently.

"Surely there is no witness of any standing in the State who would go into a witness-box and say that, without a contract, and with only a few encouraging words...."

The dry glitter in Roma's eyes shot into a look of anger. "Do you call your letters to me a few encouraging words only?" she said.

"My letters?" the glossy hat was getting ruffled.

"Your letters alluding to this matter, and enumerating the favours you wished me to ask of the Prime Minister."

"My dear," said the Mayor after a moment, "I'm sorry if I have led you to build up hopes, and though I have no authority ... if it will end matters amicably ... I think I can promise ... I might perhaps promise a little money for your loss of time."

"Do you suppose I want charity?"

"Charity, my dear?"

"What else would it be? If I have no right to everything I will have nothing. I will take none of your money. You can leave me."

The little man shuffled his feet, and bowed himself out of the room, with many apologies and praises which Roma did not hear. For all her brave words her heart was breaking, and she was holding her breath to repress a sob. The great bulwark she had built up for herself lay wrecked at her feet. She had deceived herself into believing that she could be somebody for herself. Going down to the studio, she covered up the fountain. It had lost every quality which she had seen in it before. Art was gone from her. She was nobody. It was very, very cruel.

But that glorious telegram rustled in her breast like a captive song-bird, and before going to bed she wrote to David Rossi again.

"Your message arrived before I was up this morning, and not being entirely back from the world of dreams, I fancied that it was an angel's whisper. This is silly, but I wouldn't change it for the greatest wisdom, if, in order to be the most wise and wonderful among women, I had to love you less.

"Business first and other things afterwards. Most of the newspapers have been published to-day, and some of them are blowing themselves out of breath in abuse of you, and howling louder than the wolves of the Capitol before rain. The military courts began this morning, and they have already polished off fifty victims. Rewards for denunciations have now deepened to threats of imprisonment for non-denunciation. General Morra, Minister of War, has sent in his resignation, and there is bracing weather in the neighbourhood of the Palazzo Braschi. An editor has been arrested, many journals and societies have been suppressed, and twenty thousand of the contadini who came to Rome for the meeting in the Coliseum have been despatched to their own communes. Finally, the Royal Commissioner has written to the Pope, calling on him to assist in the work of pacifying the people, and it is rumoured that the Holy Office is to be petitioned by certain of the Bishops to denounce the 'Republic of Man' as a secret society (like the Freemasons) coming within the ban of the Pontifical constitutions.

"So much for general news, and now for more personal intelligence. I went down to the Castle of St. Angelo this morning, and was permitted to speak to the Royal Commissioner. Recognised him instantly as a regular old-timer at the heels of the Baron, and tackled him on our ancient terms. The wretch--he squints, and he smoked a cigarette all through the interview--couldn't allow me to see Bruno during the private preparation of the case against him, and when I asked if the instruction would take long he said, 'Probably, as it is complicated by the case of some one else who is not yet in custody.' Then I asked if I might employ separate counsel for the defence, and he shuffled and said it was unnecessary. This decided me, and I walked straight to the office of the great lawyer Napoleon Fuselli, promised him five hundred francs by to-morrow morning, and told him to go ahead without delay.

"But heigh-ho, nonny! Coming home I felt like the witches in 'Macbeth.' 'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.' It was Senator Tom-tit, the little fat Mayor of Rome. His great ambition is to wear the green ribbon of St. Maurice and Lazarus, as none know better than myself. Wanting money on my fountain, I had written to the old wretch, but the moment we met I could see what was coming, so I braved it out, bustled about and made a noise. It was a mistake! There had been no commission at all! But if a little money would repay me for a loss of time....

"It wasn't so much that I cared about the loss of the fees, badly as I needed them. It was mainly that I had allowed the summer flies who buzzed about me for the Baron's sake to flatter me into the notion that I was an artist, when I was really nobody for myself at all.

"This humour lasted all afternoon, and spoiled my digestion for dinner, which was a pity, for there was some delicious wild asparagus. But then I thought of you and your work, and the future when you will come back with all Rome at your feet, and my vexation disappeared and I was content to be nothing and nobody except somebody whom you loved and who loved you, and that was to be everything and everybody in the world.

"I don't care a rush about the matter now, but what do you think I've done? Sold my carriage and horses! Actually! The little job-master, with his tight trousers, close-cropped head, and chamois-leather waistcoat, has just gone off after cheating me abominably. No matter! What do I want with a grand carriage while you are going about as an exile and an outcast? I want nothing you have not got, and all I have I wish you to have too, including my heart and my soul and everything that is in them...."

She stopped. This was the place to reveal her great secret. But she could not find her way to begin. "To-morrow will do," she thought, and so laid down the pen.

V

Early next morning Roma received a visit from the lawyer who conducted the business of her landlord. He was a middle-aged man in pepper-and-salt tweeds, and his manner was brusque and aggressive.

"Sorry to say, Excellency, that I've had a letter from Count Mario at Paris saying that he will require this apartment for his own use. He regrets to be compelled to disturb you, but having frequently apprised you of his intention to live here himself...."

"When does he want to come?" said Roma.

"At Easter."

"That will do. My aunt is ill, but if she is fit to be moved...."

"Thanks! And may I perhaps present...."

A paper in the shape of a bill came from the breast-pocket of the pepper-and-salt tweeds. Roma took it, and, without looking at it, replied:

"You will receive your rent in a day or two."

"Thanks again. I trust I may rely on that. And meantime...."

"Well?"

"As I am personally responsible to the Count for all moneys due to him, may I ask your Excellency to promise me that nothing shall be removed from this apartment until my arrears of rent have been paid?"

"I promise that you shall receive what is due from me in two days. Is not that enough?"

The pepper-and-salt tweeds bowed meekly before Roma's flashing eyes.

"Good-morning, sir."

"Good-morning, Excellency."

The man was hardly out of the house when a woman was shown in. It was Madame Sella, the fashionable modiste.

"So unlucky, my dear! I'm driven to my wits' end for money. The people I deal with in Paris are perfect demons, and are threatening all sorts of pains and penalties if I don't send them a great sum straight away. Of course if I could get my own money in, it wouldn't matter. But the dear ladies of society are so slow, and naturally I don't like to go to their gentlemen, although really I've waited so long for their debts that if...."

"Can you wait one day longer for mine?"

"Donna Roma! And we've always been such friends, too!"

"You'll excuse me this morning, won't you?" said Roma, rising.

"Certainly. I'm busy, too. So good of you to see me. Trust I've not been _de trop_. And if it hadn't been for those stupid bills of mine...."

Roma sat down and wrote a letter to one of the _strozzini_ (stranglers), who lend money to ladies on the security of their jewels.

"I wish to sell my jewellery," she wrote, "and if you have any desire to buy it, I shall be glad if you can come to see me for this purpose at four o'clock to-morrow."

"Roma!" cried a fretful voice.

She was sitting in the boudoir, and her aunt was calling to her from the adjoining room. The old lady, who had just finished her toilet, and was redolent of perfume and scented soap, was propped up on pillows between the mirror and her Madonna, with her cat purring on the cushion at the foot of her bed.

"Ah, you do come to me sometimes, don't you?" she said, with her embroidered handkerchief at her lips. "What is this I hear about the carriage and horses? Sold them! It is incredible. I will not believe it unless you tell me so yourself."

"It is quite true, Aunt Betsy. I wanted money for various purposes, and among others to pay my debts," said Roma.

"Goodness! It's true! Give me my salts. There they are--on the card-table beside you.... So it's true! It's really true! You've done some extraordinary things already, miss, but this ... Mercy me! Selling her horses! And she isn't ashamed of it!... I suppose you'll sell your clothes next, or perhaps your jewels."

"That's just what I want to do, Aunt Betsy."

"Holy Virgin! What are you saying, girl? Have you lost all sense of decency? Sell your jewels! Goodness! Your ancestral jewels! You must have grown utterly heartless as well as indifferent to propriety, or you wouldn't dream of selling the treasures that have come down to you from your own mother's breast, as one might say."

"My mother never set eyes on any of them, auntie, and if some of them belonged to my grandmother, she must have been a good woman because she was the mother of my father, and she would rather see me sell them all than live in debt and disgrace."

"Go on! Go on with your English talk! Or perhaps it's American, is it? You want to kill me, that's what it is! You will, too, and sooner than you expect, and then you'll be sorry and ashamed ... Go away! Why do you come to worry me? Isn't it enough ... Natalina! Nat-a-_lina_!"

Late that night Roma resumed her letter to David Rossi:

"DEAREST,--You are always the last person I speak to before I go
to bed, and if only my words could sail away over Monte Mario in
the darkness while I sleep, they would reach you on the wings of
the morning.

"You want to know all that is happening, and here goes again. The
tyrannies of military rule increase daily, and some of its
enormities are past belief. Military court sat all day yesterday
and polished off eighty-five poor victims. Ten of them got ten
years, twenty got five years, and about fifty got periods of one
month to twelve.

"Lawyer Napoleon F. was here this afternoon to say that he had
seen Bruno and begun work in his defence. Strangely enough he
finds a difficulty in a quarter from which it might least be
expected. Bruno himself is holding off in some unaccountable way
which gives Napoleon F. an idea that the poor soul is being got
at. Apparently--you will hardly credit it--he is talking
doubtfully about you, and asking incredible questions about his
wife. Lawyer Napoleon actually inquired if there was 'anything in
it,' and the thing struck me as so silly that I laughed out in his
face. It was very wrong of me not to be jealous, wasn't it? Being
a woman, I suppose I ought to have leapt at the idea, according to
all the natural laws of love. I didn't, and my heart is still
tranquil. But poor Bruno was more human, and Napoleon has an idea
that something is going on inside the prison. He is to go there
again to-morrow and to let me know.

"Such doings at home too! I've been two years in debt to my
landlord, and at the end of every quarter I've always prayed like
a modest woman to be allowed to pass by unnoticed. Celebrity has
fallen on me at last, though, and I'm to go at Easter. Madame de
Trop, too, has put the screw on, and everybody else is following
suit. Yesterday, for example, I had the honour of a call from
every one in the world to whom I owed twopence. Remembering how
hard it used to be to get a bill out of these people, I find their
sudden business ardour humorous. They do not deceive me
nevertheless. I see the die is cast, the fact is known. I have
fallen from my high estate of general debtor to everybody and
become merely an honest woman.

"Do I suffer from these slings of fortune? Not an atom. When I was
rich, or seemed to be so, I was often the most miserable woman in
the world, and now I'm happy, happy, happy!

"There is only one thing makes me a little unhappy. Shall I tell
you what it is? Yes, I _will_ tell you because your heart is so
true, and like all brave men you are so tender to all women. It is
a girl friend of mine--a very close and dear friend, and she is in
trouble. A little while ago she was married to a good man, and
they love each other dearer than life, and there ought to be
nothing between them. But there is, and it is a very serious thing
too, although nobody knows about it but herself and me. How shall
I tell you? Dearest, you are to think my head is on your breast
and you cannot see my face while I tell you my poor friend's
secret. Long ago--it seems long--she was the victim of another
man. That is really the only word for it, because she did not
consent. But all the same she feels that she has sinned and that
nothing on earth can wash away the stain. The worst fact is that
her husband knows nothing about it. This fills her with
measureless regret and undying remorse. She feels that she ought
to have told him, and so her heart is full of tears, and she
doesn't know what it is her duty to.

"I thought I would ask you to tell me, dearest. You are kind, but
you mustn't spare her. I didn't. She wanted to draw a veil over
her frailty, but I wouldn't let her. I think she would like to
confess to her husband, to pour out her heart to him, and begin
again with a clean page, but she is afraid. Of course she hasn't
really been faithless, and I could swear on my life she loves her
husband only. And then her sorrow is so great, and she is
beginning to look worn with lying awake at nights, though some
people still think she is beautiful. I dare say you will say,
serve her right for deceiving a good man. So do I sometimes, but I
feel strangely inconsistent about my poor friend, and a woman has
a right to be inconsistent, hasn't she? Tell me what I am to say
to her, and please don't spare her because she is a friend of
mine."

She lifted her pen from the paper. "He'll understand," she thought. "He'll remember our other letters and read between the lines. Well, so much the better, and God be good to me!"

"Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! I feel like a child--as if
the years had gone back with me, or rather as if they had only
just begun. You have awakened my soul and all the world is
different. Nearly everything that seemed right to me before seems
wrong to me now, and _vice versa_. Life? That wasn't life. It was
only existence. I fancy it must have been some elder sister of
mine who went through everything. Think of it! When you were
twenty and I was only ten! I'm glad there isn't as much difference
now. I'm catching up to you--metaphorically, I mean. If I could
only do so physically! But what nonsense I'm talking! In spite of
my poor friend's trouble I can't help talking nonsense to-night."

VI

Two days later Natalina, coming into Roma's bedroom, threw open the shutters and said:

"Letter with a foreign postmark, Excellency--'Sister Angelica, care of the Porter.' It was delivered at the Convent, and the porter sent it over here."

"Give it to me," said Roma eagerly. "It's quite right. I know whom it is for, and if any more letters come for the same person bring them to me immediately."

Almost before the maid had left the room Roma had torn the letter open. It was dated from a street in Soho.

"MY DEAR WIFE,--As you see, I have reached London, and now I am
thinking of you always, wondering what sufferings are being
inflicted upon you for my sake and how you meet and bear them. To
think of you there, in the midst of our enemies, is a spur and an
inspiration. Only wait! If my absence is cruel to you it is still
more hard to me. I will see your lovely eyes again before long,
and there will be an end of all our sadness. Meantime continue to
love me, and that will work miracles. It will make all the slings
and slurs of life seem to be a long way off and of no account.
Only those who love can know this law of the human heart, but how
true it is and how beautiful!

"We reached London in the early morning, when the grey old city
was beginning to stir after its sleepless rest. I had telegraphed
the time of my arrival to the committee of our association, and
early as it was some hundreds of our people were at Charing Cross
to meet me. They must have been surprised to see a man step out of
the train in the disguise of driver of a wine-cart on the
Campagna, but perhaps that helped them to understand the position
better, and they formed into procession and marched to Trafalgar
Square as if they had forgotten they were in a foreign country.

"To me it was a strange and moving spectacle. The mist like a
shroud over the great city, some stars of leaden hue paling out
overhead, the day dawning over the vast square, the wide silence
with the far-off hum of awakening life, the English workmen
stopping to look at us as they went by to their work, and our
company of dark-bearded men, emigrants and exiles, sending their
hearts out in sympathy to their brothers in the south. As I spoke
from the base of the Gordon statue and turned towards St. Martin's
Church, I could fancy I saw your white-haired father on the steps
with his little daughter in his arms.

"I will write again in a day or two, telling you what we are
doing. Meantime I enclose a Proclamation to the People, which I
wish you to get printed and posted up. Take it to old Albert
Pelegrino in the Stamperia by the Trevi. Tell him to mention the
cost and the money shall follow. Call at the Piazza Navona and see
what is happening to Elena. Poor girl! Poor Bruno! And my poor
dear little darling!

"Take care of yourself, my dear one. I am always thinking of you.
It is a fearful thing to have taken up the burden of one who is
branded as an outcast and an outlaw. I cannot help but reproach
myself. There was a time when I saw my duty to you in another way,
but love came like a hurricane out of the skies and swept all
sense of duty away. My wife! my Roma! You have hazarded everything
for me, and some day I will give up everything for you. D. R."

VII

"DEAREST,--Your letter to Sister Angelica arrived safely, and
worked more miracles in her cloistered heart than ever happened to
the 'Blessed Bambino.' Before it came I was always thinking,
'Where is he now? Is he having his breakfast? Or is it dinner,
according to the difference of time and longitude?' All I knew was
that you had travelled north, and though the sun doesn't
ordinarily set in that direction, the sky over Monte Mario used to
glow for my special pleasure like the gates of the New Jerusalem.

"Your letters are so precious that I will ask you not to fill them
with useless things. Don't tell me to love you. The idea! Didn't I
say I should think of you always? I do! I think of you when I go
to bed at night, and that is like opening a jewel-case in the
moonlight. I think of you when I am asleep, and that is like an
invisible bridge which unites us in our dreams; and I think of you
when I wake in the morning, and that is like a cage of song-birds
that sing in my breast the whole day long.

"But you are dying to hear what is really happening in Rome, so
your own special envoy must send off her budget as a set-off
against those official telegrams. 'Not a day with out a line,' so
my letter will look like words shaken out of a literary pepper-box.
Let me bring my despatches up to date.

"Military rule severer than ever, and poverty and misery on all
sides. Families of reserve soldiers starving, and meetings of
chief citizens to succour them. Donation from the King and from
the 'Black' Charity Circle of St. Peter. Even the clergy are
sending francs, so none can question their sincerity. Bureau of
Labour besieged by men out of work, and offices occupied by
Carabineers. People eating maize in polenta and granturco with the
certainty of sickness to follow. Red Cross Society organised as in
time of war, and many sick and wounded hidden in houses.

"And now for more personal matters. The proclamation is in hand,
and paid for, and will be posted first thing in the morning. From
the printer's I went on to the Piazza Navona and found a
wilderness of woe. Elena has gone away, leaving an ambiguous
letter behind her, saying that she wished her Madonna to be given
to me, as she would have no need of it in the place she was going
to. This led the old people to believe that for the loss of her
son and husband she had become demented and had destroyed herself.
I pretended to think differently, and warned them to say nothing
of their daughter's disappearance, thinking that Bruno might hear
of it, and find food for still further suspicions.

"Lawyer Napoleon F. has seen the poor soul again, and been here
this evening to tell me the result. It will seem to you
incredible. Bruno will do nothing to help in his own defence.
Talks of 'treachery' and the 'King's pardon.' Napoleon F. thinks
the Camorra is at work with him, and tells how criminals in the
prisons of Italy have a league of crime, with captains, corporals,
and cadets. My own reading of the mystery is different. I think
the Camorra in this case is the Council, and the only design is to
entrap by treachery one of the 'greater delinquents not in
custody.' I want to find out where Charles Minghelli is at
present. Nobody seems to know.

"As for me, what do you suppose is my last performance? I've sold
my jewels! Yesterday I sent for one of the _strozzini_, and the
old Shylock came this evening and cheated me unmercifully. No
matter! What do I want with jewellery, or a fine house, and
servants to follow me about as if I were a Cardinal? If _you_ can
do without them so can I. But you need not say you are anxious
about what is happening to me. I'm as happy as the day is long. I
am happy because I love you, and that is everything.

"Only one thing troubles me--the grief of the poor girl I told you
of. She follows me about, and is here all the time, so that I feel
as if I were possessed by her secret. In fact, I'm afraid I'll
blab it out to somebody. I think you would be sorry to see her.
She tries to persuade herself that because her soul did not
consent she was really not to blame. That is the thing that women
are always saying, isn't it? They draw this distinction when it is
too late, and use it as a quibble to gloss over their fault. Oh, I
gave it her! I told her she should have thought of that in time,
and died rather than yield. It was all very fine to talk of a
minute of weakness--mere weakness of bodily will, not of virtue,
but the world splits no straws of that sort. If a woman has fallen
she has fallen, and there is no question of body or soul.

"Oh dear, how she cried! When I caught sight of her red eyes, I
felt she ought to get herself forgiven. And after all I'm not so
sure that she should tell her husband, seeing that it would so
shock and hurt him. She thinks that after one has done wrong the
best thing to do next is to say nothing about it. There _is_
something in that, isn't there?

"One thing I must say for the poor girl--she has been a different
woman since this happened. It has converted her. That's a shocking
thing to say, but it's true. I remember that when I was a girl in
the convent, and didn't go to mass because I hadn't been baptized
and it was agreed with the Baron that I shouldn't be, I used to
read in the Lives of the Saints that the darkest moments of 'the
drunkenness of sin' were the instants of salvation. Who knows?
Perhaps the very fact by which the world usually stamps a woman as
bad is in this case the fact of her conversion. As for my friend,
she used to be the vainest young thing in Rome, and now she cares
nothing for the world and its vanities.

"Two days hence my letter will fall into your hands--why can't I
do so too? Love me always. That will lift me up to your own level,
and prove that when you fell in love with me love wasn't quite
blind. I'm not so old and ugly as I was yesterday, and at all
events nobody could love you more. Good-night! I open my window to
say my last good-night to the stars over Monte Mario, for that's
where England is! How bright they are to-night! How beautiful!
ROMA."

VIII

Next morning the Countess was very ill, and Roma went to her immediately.

"I must have a doctor," she said. "It's perfectly heartless to keep me without one all this time."

"Aunt Betsy," said Roma, "you know quite well that but for your own express prohibition you would have had a doctor all along."

"For mercy's sake, don't nag, but send for a doctor immediately. Let it be Dr. Fedi. Everybody has Dr. Fedi now."

Fedi was the Pope's physician, and therefore the most costly and fashionable doctor in Rome.

Dr. Fedi came with an assistant who carried a little case of instruments. He examined the Countess, her breast, her side, and the glands under her arms, shot out a solemn under-lip, put two fingers inside his collar, twisted his head from side to side, and announced that the patient must have a nurse immediately.

"Do you hear that, Roma? Doctor says that I must have a nurse. Of course I must have a nurse. I'll have one of the English nursing Sisters. Everybody has them now. They're foreigners, and if they talk they can't do much mischief."

The Sister was sent for. She was a mild and gentle creature, in blue and white, but she talked perpetually of her Mother Superior, who had been bedridden for fifteen years, yet smiled sweetly all day long. That exasperated the Countess and fretted her. When the doctor came again the patient was worse.

"Your aunt must have dainties to tempt her appetite and so keep up her strength."

"Do you hear, Roma?"

"You shall have everything you wish for, auntie."

"Well, I wish for strawberries. Everybody eats them who is ill at this season."

The strawberries were bought, but the Countess scarcely touched them, and they were finally consumed in the kitchen.

When the doctor came a third time the patient was much emaciated and her skin had become sallow and earthy.

"It would not be right to conceal from you the gravity of your condition, Countess," he said. "In such a case we always think it best to tell a patient to make her peace with God."

"Oh, don't say that, doctor," whimpered the poor withered creature on the bed.

"But while there's life there's hope, you know; and meantime I'll send you an opiate to relieve the pain."

When the doctor was gone, the Countess sent for Roma.

"That Fedi is a fool," she said. "I don't know what people see in him. I should like to try the Bambino of Ara C[oe]li. The Cardinal Vicar had it, and why shouldn't I? They say it has worked miracles. It may be dear, but if I die you will always reproach yourself. If you are short of money you can sign a bill at six months, and before that the poor maniac woman will be gone and you'll be the wife of the Baron."

"If you really think the Bambino will...."

"It will! I know it will."

"Very well, I will send for it."

Roma sent a letter to the Superior of the Franciscans at the Friary of Ara C[oe]li asking that the little figure of the infant Christ, which is said to restore the sick, should be sent to her aunt, who was near to death.

At the same time she wrote to an auctioneer in the Via due Macelli, requesting him to call upon her. The man came immediately. He had little beady eyes, which ranged round the dining-room and seemed to see everything except Roma herself.

"I wish to sell up my furniture," said Roma.

"All of it?"

"Except what is in my aunt's room and the room of her nurse, and such things in the kitchen, the servants' apartments, and my own bedroom as are absolutely necessary for present purposes."

"Quite right. When?"

"Within a week if possible."

The Bambino came in a carriage with two horses, and the people in the street went down on their knees as it passed. One of the friars in priest's surplice carried it in a box with the lid open, and two friars in brown habits walked before it with lifted candles. But as the painted image in its scarlet clothes and jewels entered the Countess's bedroom with its grim and ghostly procession, and was borne like a baby mummy to the foot of her bed, it terrified her, and she screamed.

"Take it away!" she shrieked. "Do you want to frighten me out of my life? Take it away!"

The grim and ghostly procession went out. Its visit had lasted thirty seconds and cost a hundred francs.

When the doctor came again the outline of the Countess's writhing form had shrunk to the lines of a skeleton under the ruffled counterpane.

"It's not the Bambino you want--it's the priest," he said, and then the poor mortal who was still afraid of dying began to whimper.

"And, Sister," said the doctor, "as the Countess suffers so much pain, you may increase the opiate from a dessert-spoonful to a tablespoonful, and give it twice as frequently."

That evening the Sister went home for a few hours' leave, and Roma took her place by the sick-bed. The patient was more selfish and exacting than ever, but Roma had begun to feel a softening towards the poor tortured being, and was trying her best to do her duty.

It was dusk, and the Countess, who had just taken her opiate in the increased doses, was out of pain, and wished to make her toilet. Roma brought up the night-table and the mirror, the rouge-pot, the rabbit's foot, the puff, the pencil, and the other appurtenances of her aunt's toilet-box. And when the fragile thing, so soon to be swallowed up by the earth in its great earthquake, had been propped by pillows, she began to paint her wrinkled face as if going to dance a minuet with death. First the black rings about the languid eyes were whitened, then the earthen cheeks were rouged, and finally the livid lips and nostrils were pencilled with the rosy hues of health and youth.

Roma had turned on the electric light, but the glare oppressed the patient, and she switched it off again. The night had now closed in, and the only light in the room came from the little red oil-lamp which burned before the shrine.

The drug began to operate, and its first effect was to loosen the old lady's tongue. She began to talk of priests in a tone of contempt and braggadocio.

"I hate priests," she said, "and I can't bear to have them about me. Why so? Because they are always about the dead. Their black cassocks make me think of funerals. The sight of a graveyard makes me faint. Besides, priests and confessions go together, and why should a woman confess if she can avoid it? When people confess they have to give up the thing they confess to, or they can't get absolution. Fedi's a fool. Give it up indeed! I might as well talk of giving up the bed that's under me."

Roma sat on a stool by the bedside, listening intently, yet feeling she had no right to listen. The drug was rapidly intoxicating the Countess, who went on to talk as if some one else had been in the room.

"A priest would be sure to ask questions about that girl. I would have to tell him why the Baron put me here to look after her, and then he would prate about the Sacraments and want me to give up everything."

The Countess laughed a hard, evil laugh, and Roma felt an icy shudder pass over her.

"'I'm tied,' said the Baron. 'But you must see that she waits for me. Everything depends upon you, and if all comes out well....'"

The old woman's tongue was thickening, and her eyes in the dull red light were glazed and stupid.

Roma sat motionless and silent, watching with her own dilated eyes the grinning sinner, as she poured out the story of the plot for her capture and corruption. At that moment she hated her aunt, the unclean, malignant, unpitying thing who had poisoned her heart against her father and tried to break down every spiritual impulse of her soul.

The diabolical horse-laughter came again, and then the devil who had loosened the tongue of the dying woman in the intoxication of the drug made her reveal the worst secret of her tortured conscience.