Gouache made his way as fast as he could to the bridge of Sant' Angelo,
but his progress was constantly impeded by moving crowds--bodies of
men, women, and children rushing frantically together at the corners of
the streets and then surging onward in the direction of the resultant
produced by their combined forces in the shock. There was loud and
incoherent screaming of women and shouting of men, out of which
occasionally a few words could be distinguished, more often "Viva Pio
Nono!" or "Viva la Repubblica!" than anything else. The scene of
confusion baffled description. A company of infantry was filing out of
the castle of Sant' Angelo on to the bridge, where it was met by a
dense multitude of people coming from the opposite direction. A
squadron of mounted gendarmes came up from the Borgo Nuovo at the same
moment, and half a dozen cabs were jammed in between the opposing
masses of the soldiers and the people. The officer at the head of the
column of foot-soldiers loudly urged the crowd to make way, and the
latter, consisting chiefly of peaceable but terrified citizens,
attempted to draw back, while the weight of those behind pushed them
on. Gouache, who was in the front of the throng, was allowed to enter
the file of infantry, in virtue of his uniform, and attempted to get
through and make his way to the opposite bank. But with the best
efforts he soon found himself unable to move, the soldiers being wedged
together as tightly as the people. Presently the crowd in the piazza
seemed to give way and the column began to advance again, bearing
Gouache backwards in the direction he had come. He managed to get to
the parapet, however, by edging sideways through the packed ranks.
"Give me your shoulder, comrade!" he shouted to the man next to him.
The fellow braced himself, and in an instant the agile Zouave was on
the narrow parapet, running along as nimbly as a cat, and winding
himself past the huge statues at every half-dozen steps. He jumped down
at the other end and ran for the Borgo Santo Spirito at the top of his
speed. The broad space was almost deserted and in three minutes he was
before the gates of the barracks, which were situated on the right-hand
side of the street, just beyond the College of the Penitentiaries and
opposite the church of San Spirito in Sassia.
Meanwhile Donna Faustina Montevarchi was alone in the streets. In
desperate emergencies young and nervously-organised people most
commonly act in accordance with the dictates of the predominant passion
by which they are influenced. Very generally that passion is terror,
but when it is not, it is almost impossible to calculate the
consequences which may follow. When the whole being is dominated by
love and by the greatest anxiety for the safety of the person loved,
the weakest woman will do deeds which might make a brave man blush for
his courage. This was precisely Faustina's case.
If any man says that he understands women he is convicted of folly by
his own speech, seeing that they are altogether incomprehensible. Of
men, it may be sufficient for general purposes to say with David that
they are all liars, even though we allow that they may be all curable
of the vice of falsehood. Of women, however, there is no general
statement which is true. The one is brave to heroism, the next cowardly
in a degree fantastically comic. The one is honest, the other
faithless; the one contemptible in her narrowness of soul, the next
supremely noble in broad truth as the angels in heaven; the one
trustful, the other suspicious; this one gentle as a dove, that one
grasping and venomous as a strong serpent. The hearts of women are as
the streets of a great town--some broad and straight and clean; some
dim and narrow and winding; or as the edifices and buildings of that
same city, wherein there are holy temples, at which men worship in calm
and peace, and dens where men gamble away the souls given them by God
against the living death they call pleasure, which is doled out to them
by the devil; in which there are quiet dwellings, and noisy places of
public gathering, fair palaces and loathsome charnel-houses, where the
dead are heaped together, even as our dead sins lie ghastly and
unburied in that dark chamber of the soul, whose gates open of their
own selves and shall not be sealed while there is life in us to suffer.
Dost thou boast that thou knowest the heart of woman? Go to, thou more
than fool! The heart of woman containeth all things, good and evil; and
knowest thou then all that is?
Donna Faustina was no angel. She had not that lofty calmness which we
attribute to the angelic character. She was very young, utterly
inexperienced and ignorant of the world. The idea which over-towers all
other ideas was the first which had taken hold upon her, and under its
strength she was like a flower before the wind. She was not naturally
of the heroic type either, as Corona d'Astrardente had been, and
perhaps was still, capable of sacrifice for the ideal of duty, able to
suffer torment rather than debase herself by yielding, strong to stem
the torrent of a great passion until she had the right to abandon
herself to its mighty flood. Faustina was a younger and a gentler
woman, not knowing what she did from the moment her heart began to
dictate her actions, willing, above all, to take the suggestion of her
soul as a command, and, because she knew no evil, rejoicing in an
abandonment which might well have terrified one who knew the world.
She already loved Anastase intensely. Under the circumstances of his
farewell, the startling effect of the announcement of a revolution, the
necessity under which, as a soldier, he found himself of leaving her
instantly in order to face a real danger, with his first kiss warm upon
her lips, and with the frightful conviction that if he left her it
might be the last--under all the emotions brought about by these
things, half mad with love and anxiety, it was not altogether wonderful
that she acted as she did. She could not have explained it, for the
impulse was so instinctive that she did not comprehend it, and the deed
followed so quickly upon the thought that there was no time for
reflection. She fled from the room and from the palace, out into the
street, wholly unconscious of danger, like a creature in a dream.
The crowd which had impeded Gouache's progress was already thinning
when Faustina reached the pavement. She was born and bred in Rome, and
as a child, before the convent days, had been taken to walk many a time
in the neighbourhood of Saint Peter's. She knew well enough where the
Serristori barracks were situated, and turned at once towards Sant'
Angelo. There were still many people about, most of them either
hurrying in the direction whence the departing uproar still proceeded,
or running homewards to get out of danger. Few noticed her, and for
some time no one hindered her progress, though it was a strange sight
to see a fair young girl, dressed in the fashion of the time which so
completely distinguished her from Roman women of lower station, running
at breathless speed through the dusky streets.
Suddenly she lost her way. Coming down the Via de' Coronari she turned
too soon to the right and found herself in the confusing byways which
form a small labyrinth around the church of San Salvatore in Lauro. She
had entered a blind alley on the left when she ran against two men, who
unexpectedly emerged from one of those underground wine-shops which are
numerous in that neighbourhood. They were talking in low and earnest
tones, and one of them staggered backward as the young girl rushed upon
him in the dark. Instinctively the man grasped her and held her tightly
by the arms.
"Where are you running to, my beauty?" he asked, as she struggled to
get away.
"Oh, let me go! let me go!" she cried in agonised tones, twisting her
slender wrists in his firm grip. The other man stood by, watching the
scene.
"Better let her go, Peppino," he said. "Don't you see she is a lady?"
"A lady, eh?" echoed the other. "Where are you going to, with that
angel's face?"
"To the Serristori barrack," answered Faustina, still struggling with
all her might.
At this announcement both men laughed loudly and glanced quickly at
each other. They seemed to think the answer a very good joke.
"If that is all, you may go, and the devil accompany you. What say you,
Gaetano?" Then they laughed again.
"Take that chain and brooch as a ricordo--just for a souvenir," said
Gaetano, who then himself tore off the ornaments while the other held
Faustina's hands.
"You are a pretty girl indeed!" he cried, looking at her pale face in
the light of the filthy little red lamp that hung over the low door of
the wine-shop. "I never kissed a lady in my life."
With that he grasped her delicate chin in his foul hand and bent down,
bringing his grimy face close to hers. But this was too much. Though
Faustina had hitherto fought with all her natural strength against the
ruffians, there was a reserved force, almost superhuman, in her slight
frame, which was suddenly roused by the threatened outrage. With a
piercing shriek she sprang backwards and dashed herself free, sending
the two blackguards reeling into the darkness. Then, like a flash she
was gone. By chance she took the right turning and in a moment more
found herself in the Via di Tordinona, just opposite the entrance of
the Apollo theatre. The torn white handbills on the wall, and the
projecting shed over the doors told her where she was.
By this time the soldiers who had intercepted Gouache's passage across
the bridge, as well as the dense crowd, had disappeared, and Faustina
ran like the wind along the pavement it had taken the soldier so long
to traverse. Like a flitting bird she sped over the broad space beyond
and up the Borgo Nuovo, past the long low hospital, wherein the sick
and dying lay in their silence, tended by the patient Sisters of Mercy,
while all was in excitement without. The young girl ran past the
corner. A Zouave was running before her towards the gate of the barrack
where a sentinel stood motionless under the lamp, his gray hood drawn
over his head and his rifle erect by his shoulder.
At that instant a terrific explosion rent the air, followed a moment
later by the dull crash of falling fragments of masonry, and then by a
long thundering, rumbling sound, dreadful to hear, which lasted several
minutes, as the ruins continued to fall in, heaps upon heaps, sending
immense clouds of thick dust up into the night air. Then all was still.
The little piazza before San Spirito in Sassia was half filled with
masses of stone and brickwork and crumbling mortar. A young girl lay
motionless upon her face at the corner of the hospital, her white hands
stretched out towards the man who lay dead but a few feet before her,
crushed under a great irregular mound of stones and rubbish. Beneath
the central heap where the barracks had stood lay the bodies of the
poor Zouaves, deep buried in wreck of the main building, the greater
part of which had fallen across the side street that passes between the
Penitenzieri and the Serristori. All was still for many minutes, while
the soft light streamed from the high windows of the hospital and
faintly illuminated some portion of the hideous scene.
Very slowly a few stragglers came in sight, then more, and then by
degrees a great dark crowd of awestruck people were collected together
and stood afar off, fearing to come near, lest the ruins should still
continue falling. Presently the door of the hospital opened and a party
of men in gray blouses, headed by three or four gentlemen in black
coats--one indeed was in his shirt sleeves--emerged into the silent
street and went straight towards the scene of the disaster. They
carried lanterns and a couple of stretchers such as are used for
bearing the wounded. It chanced that the straight line they followed
from the door did not lead them to where the girl was lying, and it was
not until after a long and nearly fruitless search that they turned
back. Two soldiers only, and both dead, could they find to bring back.
The rest were buried far beneath, and it would be the work of many
hours to extricate the bodies, even with a large force of men.
As the little procession turned sadly back, they found that the crowd
had advanced cautiously forward and now filled the street. In the
foremost rank a little circle stood about a dark object that lay on the
ground, curious, but too timid to touch it.
"Signor Professore," said one man in a low voice, "there is a dead
woman."
The physicians came forward and bent over the body. One of them shook
his head, as the bright light of the lantern fell on her face while he
raised the girl from the ground.
"She is a lady," said one of the others in a low voice.
The men brought a stretcher and lifted the girl's body gently from the
ground, scarcely daring to touch her, and gazing anxiously but yet in
wonder at the white face.
When she was laid upon the coarse canvas there was a moment's pause.
The crowd pressed closely about the hospital men, and the yellow light
of the lanterns was reflected on many strange faces, all bent eagerly
forward and down to get a last sight of the dead girl's features.
"Andiamo," said one of the physicians in a quiet sad voice. The bearers
took up the dead Zouaves again, the procession of death entered the
gates of the hospital, and the heavy doors closed behind like the
portals of a tomb.
The crowd closed again and pressed forward to the ruins. A few
gendarmes had come up, and very soon a party of labourers was at work
clearing away the lighter rubbish under the lurid glare of pitch
torches stuck into the crevices and cracks of the rent walls. The
devilish deed was done, but by a providential accident its consequences
had been less awful than might have been anticipated. Only one-third of
the mine had actually exploded, and only thirty Zouaves were at the
time within the building.
"Did you see her face, Gaetano?" asked a rough fellow of his companion.
They stood together in a dark corner a little aloof from the throng of
people.
"No, but it must have been she. I am glad I have not that sin on my
soul."
"You are a fool, Gaetano. What is a girl to a couple of hundred
soldiers? Besides, if you had held her tight she would not have got
here in time to be killed."
"Eh--but a girl! The other vagabonds at least, we have despatched in a
good cause. Viva la liberta!"
"Hush! There are the gendarmes! This way!"
So they disappeared into the darkness whence they had come.
It was not only in the Borgo Nuovo that there was confusion and
consternation. The first signal for the outbreak had been given in the
Piazza Colonna, where bombs had been exploded. Attacks were made upon
the prisons by bands of those sinister-looking, unknown men, who for
several days had been noticed in various parts of the city. A compact
mob invaded the capitol, armed with better weapons than mobs generally
find ready to their hands. At the Porta San Paolo, which was rightly
judged to be one of the weakest points of the city, a furious attack
was made from without by a band of Garibaldians who had crept up near
the walls in various disguises during the last two days. More than one
of the barracks within the city were assaulted simultaneously, and for
a short time companies of men paraded the streets, shouting their cries
of "Viva Garibaldi, Viva la liberta!" A few cried "Viva Vittorio!" and
"Viva l'Italia!" But a calm observer--and there were many such in Rome
that night--could easily see that the demonstration was rather in
favour of an anarchic republic than of the Italian monarchy. On the
whole, the population showed no sympathy with the insurrection. It is
enough to say that this tiny revolution broke out at dusk and was
entirely quelled before nine o'clock of the same evening. The attempts
made were bold and desperate in many cases, but were supported by a
small body of men only, the populace taking no active part in what was
done. Had a real sympathy existed between the lower classes of Romans
and the Garibaldians the result could not have been doubtful, for the
vigour and energy displayed by the rioters would inevitably have
attracted any similarly disposed crowd to join in a fray, when the
weight of a few hundreds more would have turned the scale at any point.
There was not a French soldier in the city at the time, and of the
Zouaves and native troops a very large part were employed upon the
frontier. Rome was saved and restored to order by a handful of
soldiers, who were obliged to act at many points simultaneously, and
the insignificance of the original movement may be determined from this
fact.
It is true that of the two infernal schemes, plotted at once to destroy
the troops in a body and to strike terror into the inhabitants, one
failed in part and the other altogether. If the whole of the gunpowder
which Giuseppe Monti and Gaetano Tognetti had placed in the mine under
the Serristori barracks had exploded, instead of only one-third of the
quantity, a considerable part of the Borgo Nuovo would have been
destroyed; and even the disaster which actually occurred would have
killed many hundreds of Zouaves if these had chanced to be indoors at
the time. But it is impossible to calculate the damage and loss of life
which would have been recorded had the castle of Sant' Angelo and the
adjacent fortifications been blown into the air. A huge mine had been
laid and arranged for firing in the vaults of one of the bastions, but
the plot was betrayed at the very last moment by one of the
conspirators. I may add that these men, who were tried, and condemned
only to penal servitude, were liberated in 1870, three years later, by
the Italian Government, on the ground that they were merely political
prisoners. The attempt in which they had been engaged would, however,
even in time of declared war, have been regarded as a crime against the
law of nations.
Rome was immediately declared under a state of siege, and patrols of
troops began to parade the streets, sending all stragglers whom they
met to their homes, on the admirable principle that it is the duty of
every man who finds himself in a riotous crowd to leave it instantly
unless he can do something towards restoring order. Persons who found
themselves in other people's houses, however, had some difficulty in at
once returning to their own, and as it has been seen that the
disturbance began precisely at the time selected by society for holding
its confabulations, there were many who found themselves in that
awkward situation.
As the sounds in the street subsided, the excitement in the
drawing-room at the Palazzo Saracinesca diminished likewise. Several of
those present announced their intention of departing at once, but to
this the old prince made serious objections. The city was not safe, he
said. Carriages might be stopped at any moment, and even if that did
not occur, all sorts of accidents might arise from the horses shying at
the noises, or running over people in the crowds. He had his own views,
and as he was in his own house it was not easy to dispute them.
"The gates are shut," he said, with a cheerful laugh, "and none of you
can get out at present. As it is nearly dinner-time you must all dine
with me. It will not be a banquet, but I can give you something to eat.
I hope nobody is gone already."
Every one, at these words, looked at everybody else, as though to see
whether any one were missing.
"I saw Monsieur Gouache go out," said Flavia Montevarchi.
"Poor fellow!" exclaimed the princess, her mother. "I hope nothing will
happen to him!" She paused a moment and looked anxiously round the
room. "Good Heavens!" she cried suddenly, "where is Faustina?"
"She must have gone out of the room with my wife," said Sant' Ilario,
quietly. "I will go and see."
The princess thought this explanation perfectly natural and waited till
he should return. He did not come back, however, so soon as might have
been expected. He found his wife just leaving the nursery. Her first
impulse had been to go to the child, and having satisfied herself that
he had not been carried off by a band of Garibaldians but was sound
asleep in his cradle, she was about to rejoin her guests.
"Where is Faustina Montevarchi?" asked Giovanni, as though it were the
most natural question in the world.
"Faustina?" repeated Corona. "In the drawing-room, to be sure. I have
not seen her."
"She is not there," said Sant' Ilario, in a more anxious tone. "I
thought she had come here with you."
"She must be with the rest. You have overlooked her in the crowd. Come
back with me and see your son--he does not seem to mind revolution in
the least!"
Giovanni, who had no real doubt but that Faustina was in the house,
entered the nursery with his wife, and they stood together by the
child's cradle.
"Is he not beautiful?" exclaimed Corona, passing her arm affectionately
through her husband's, and leaning her cheek on his shoulder.
"He is a fine baby," replied Giovanni, his voice expressing more
satisfaction than his words. "He will look like my father when he grows
up."
"I would rather he should look like you," said Corona.
"If he could look like you, dear, there would be some use in wishing."
Then they both gazed for some seconds at the swarthy little boy, who
lay on his pillows, his arms thrown back above his head and his two
little fists tightly clenched. The rich blood softly coloured the
child's dark cheeks, and the black lashes, already long, like his
mother's, gave a singularly expressive look to the small face.
Giovanni tenderly kissed his wife and then they softly left the room.
As soon as they were outside Sant' Ilario's thoughts returned to
Faustina.
"She was certainly not in the drawing-room," he said, "I am quite sure.
It was her mother who asked for her and everybody heard the question. I
dare not go back without her."
They stopped together in the corridor, looking at each other with grave
faces.
"This is very serious," said Corona. "We must search the house. Send
the men. I will tell the women. We will meet at the head of the stairs."
Five minutes later, Giovanni returned in pursuit of his wife.
"She has left the house," he said, breathlessly. "The porter saw her go
out."
"Good Heavens! Why did he not stop her?" cried Corona.
"Because he is a fool!" answered Sant' Ilario, very pale in his
anxiety. "She must have lost her head and gone home. I will tell her
mother."
When it was known in the drawing-room that Donna Faustina Montevarchi
had left the palace alone and on foot every one was horrorstruck. The
princess turned as white as death, though she was usually very red in
the face. She was a brave woman, however, and did not waste words.
"I must go home at once," said she. "Please order my carriage and have
the gates opened."
Giovanni obeyed silently, and a few minutes later the princess was
descending the stairs, accompanied by Flavia, who was silent, a
phenomenon seldom to be recorded in connection with that vivacious
young lady. Giovanni went also, and his cousin, San Giacinto.
"If you will permit me, princess, I will go with you," said the latter
as they all reached the carriage. "I may be of some use."
Just as they rolled out of the deep archway, the explosion of the
barracks rent the air, the tremendous crash thundering and echoing
through the city. The panes of the carriage-windows rattled as though
they would break, and all Rome was silent while one might count a
score. Then the horses plunged wildly in the traces and the vehicle
struck heavily against one of the stone pillars which stood before the
entrance of the palace. The four persons inside could hear the coachman
shouting.
"Drive on!" cried San Giacinto, thrusting his head out of the window.
"Eccellenza--" began the man in a tone of expostulation.
"Drive on!" shouted San Giacinto, in a voice that made the fellow obey
in spite of his terror. He had never heard such a voice before, so
deep, so strong and so savage.
They reached the Palazzo Montevarchi without encountering any serious
obstacle. In a few minutes they were convinced that Donna Faustina had
not been heard of there, and a council was held upon the stairs. Whilst
they were deliberating, Prince Montevarchi came out, and with him his
eldest son, Bellegra, a handsome man about thirty years old, with blue
eyes and a perfectly smooth fair beard. He was more calm than his
father, who spoke excitedly, with many gesticulations.
"You have lost Faustina!" cried the old man in wild tones. "You have
lost Faustina! And in such times as these! Why do you stand there? Oh,
my daughter! my daughter! I have so often told you to be careful,
Guendalina--move, in the name of God--the child is lost, lost, I tell
you! Have you no heart? no feeling? Are you a mother? Signori miei, I
am desperate!"
And indeed he seemed to be, as he stood wringing his hands, stamping
his feet, and vociferating incoherently, while the tears began to flow
down his cheeks.
"We are going in search of your daughter," said Sant' Ilario. "Pray
calm yourself. She will certainly be found."
"Perhaps I had better go too," suggested Ascanio Bellegra, rather
timidly. But his father threw his arms round him and held him tightly.
"Do you think I will lose another child?" he cried. "No, no, no--figlio
mio--you shall never go out into the midst of a revolution."
Sant' Ilario looked on gravely, though he inwardly despised the poor
old man for his weakness. San Giacinto stood against the wall, waiting,
with, a grim smile of amusement on his face. He was measuring Ascanio
Bellegra with his eye and thought he would not care for his assistance.
The princess looked scornfully at her husband and son.
"We are losing time," said Sant' Ilario at last to his cousin. "I
promise you to bring you your daughter," he added gravely, turning to
the princess. Then the two went away together, leaving Prince
Montevarchi still lamenting himself to his wife and son. Flavia had
taken no part in the conversation, having entered the hall and gone to
her room at once.
The cousins left the palace together and walked a little way down the
street, before either spoke. Then Sant' Ilario stopped short.
"Does it strike you that we have undertaken rather a difficult
mission?" he asked.
"A very difficult one," answered San Giacinto.
"Rome is not the largest city in the world, but I have not the
slightest idea where to look for that child. She certainly left our
house. She certainly has not returned to her own. Between the two,
practically, there lies the whole of Rome. I think the best thing to
do, will be to go to the police, if any of them can be found."
"Or to the Zouaves," said San Giacinto.
"Why to the Zouaves? I do not understand you."
"You are all so accustomed to being princes that you do not watch each,
other. I have done nothing but watch, you all the time. That young lady
is in love with Monsieur Gouache."
"Really!" exclaimed Sant' Ilario, to whom the idea was as novel and
incredible as it could have been to old Montevarchi himself, "really,
you must be mistaken. The thing is impossible."
"Not at all. That young man took Donna Faustina's hand and held it for
some time there by the piano while I was shutting the windows in your
drawing-room." San Giacinto did not tell all he had seen.
"What?" cried Sant' Ilario. "You are mad--it is impossible!"
"On the contrary, I saw it. A moment later Gouache left the room. Donna
Faustina must have gone just after him. It is my opinion that she
followed him."
Before Sant' Ilario could answer, a small patrol of foot-gendarmes came
up, and peremptorily ordered the two gentlemen to go home. Sant' Ilario
addressed the corporal in charge. He stated his name and that of his
cousin.
"A lady has been lost," he then said. "She is Donna Faustina
Montevarchi--a young lady, very fair and beautiful. She left the
Palazzo Saracinesca alone and on foot half an hour ago and has not been
heard of. Be good enough to inform the police you meet of this fact and
to say that a large reward will be paid to any one who brings her to
her father's house--to this palace here."
After a few more words the patrol passed on, leaving the two cousins to
their own devices. Sant' Ilario was utterly annoyed at the view just
presented to him, and could not believe the thing true, though he had
no other explanation to offer.
"It is of no use to stand here doing nothing," said San Giacinto rather
impatiently. "There is another crowd coming, too, and we shall be
delayed again. I think we had better separate. I will go one way, and
you take the other."
"Where will you go?" asked Sant' Ilario. "You do not know your way
about---"
"As she may be anywhere, we may find her anywhere, so that it is of no
importance whether I know the names of the streets or not. You had best
think of all the houses to which she might have gone, among her
friends. You know them better than I do. I will beat up all the streets
between here and your house. When I am tired I will go to your palace."
"I am afraid you will not find her," replied Sant' Ilario. "But we must
try for the sake of her poor mother."
"It is a question of luck," said the other, and they separated at once.
San Giacinto turned in the direction of the crowd which was pouring
into the street at some distance farther on. As he approached, he heard
the name "Serristori" spoken frequently in the hum of voices.
"What about the Serristori?" he asked of the first he met.
"Have you not heard?" cried the fellow. "It is blown up with gunpowder!
There are at least a thousand dead. Half the Borgo Nuovo is destroyed,
and they say that the Vatican will go next---"
The man would have run on for any length of time, but San Giacinto had
heard enough and dived into the first byway he found, intending to
escape the throng and make straight for the barracks. He had to ask his
way several times, and it was fully a quarter of an hour before he
reached the bridge. Thence he easily found the scene of the disaster,
and came up to the hospital of Santo Spirito just after the gates had
closed behind the bearers of the dead. He mixed with the crowd and
asked questions, learning very soon that the first search, made by the
people from the hospital, had only brought to light the bodies of two
Zouaves and one woman.
"And I did not see her," said the man who was speaking, "but they say
she was a lady and beautiful as an angel," "Rubbish!" exclaimed
another. "She was a little sewing woman who lived in the Borgo Vecchio.
And I know it is true because her innamorato was one of the dead
Zouaves they picked up."
"I don't believe there was any woman at all," said a third. "What
should a woman be doing at the barracks?"
"She was killed outside," observed the first speaker, a timid old man.
"At least, I was told so, but I did not see her."
"It was a woman bringing a baby to put into the Rota," [Footnote: The
Rota was a revolving box in which foundlings were formerly placed. The
box turned round and the infant was taken inside and cared for. It
stands at the gate of the Santo Spirito Hospital, and is still visible,
though no longer in use.] cried a shrill-voiced washerwoman. "She got
the child in and was running away, when the place blew up, and the
devil carried her off. And serve her right, for throwing away her baby,
poor little thing!"
In the light of these various opinions, most of which supported the
story that some woman had been carried into the hospital, San Giacinto
determined to find out the truth, and boldly rang the bell. A panel was
opened in the door, and the porter looked out at the surging crowd.
"What do you want?" he inquired roughly, on seeing that admittance had
not been asked for a sick or wounded person.
"I want to speak with the surgeon in charge," replied San Giacinto.
"He is busy," said the man rather doubtfully. "Who are you?"
"A friend of one of the persons just killed."
"They are dead. You had better wait till morning and come again,"
suggested the porter.
"But I want to be sure that it is my friend who is dead."
"Then why do you not give your name? Perhaps you are a Garibaldian. Why
should I open?"
"I will tell the surgeon my name, if you will call him. There is
something for yourself. Tell him I am a Roman prince and must see him
for a moment."
"I will see if he will come," said the man, shutting the panel in San
Giacinto's face. His footsteps echoed along the pavement of the wide
hall within. It was long before he came back, and San Giacinto had
leisure to reflect upon the situation.
He had very little doubt but that the dead woman was no other than
Donna Faustina. By a rare chance, or rather in obedience to an
irresistible instinct, he had found the object of his search in half an
hour, while his cousin was fruitlessly inquiring for the missing girl
in the opposite direction. He had been led to the conclusion that she
had followed Gouache by what he had seen in the Saracinesca's
drawing-room, and by a process of reasoning too simple to suggest
itself to an ordinary member of Roman society. What disturbed him most
was the thought of the consequences of his discovery, and he resolved
to conceal the girl's name and his own if possible. If she were indeed
dead, it would be wiser to convey her body to her father's house
privately; if she were still alive, secrecy was doubly necessary. In
either case it would be utterly impossible to account to the world for
the fact that Faustina Montevarchi had been alone in the Borgo Nuovo at
such an hour; and San Giacinto had a lively interest in preserving the
good reputation of Casa Montevarchi, since he had been meditating for
some time past a union with Donna Flavia.
At last the panel opened again, and when the porter had satisfied
himself that the gentleman was still without, a little door in the
heavy gate was cautiously unfastened and San Giacinto went in, bending
nearly double to pass under the low entrance. In the great vestibule he
was immediately confronted by the surgeon in charge, who was in his
shirt sleeves, but had thrown his coat over his shoulders and held it
together at the neck to protect himself from the night air. San
Giacinto begged him to retire out of hearing of the porter, and the two
walked away together.
"There was a lady killed just now by the explosion, was there not?"
inquired San Giacinto.
"She is not dead," replied the surgeon. "Do you know her?"
"I think so. Had she anything about her to prove her identity?"
"The letter M embroidered on her handkerchief. That is all I know. She
has not been here a quarter of an hour. I thought she was dead myself,
when we took her up."
"She was not under the ruins?"
"No. She was struck by some small stone, I fancy. The two Zouaves were
half buried, and are quite dead."
"May I see them? I know many in the corps. They might be acquaintances."
"Certainly. They are close by in the mortuary chamber, unless they have
been put in the chapel."
The two men entered the grim place, which was dimly lighted by a
lantern hanging overhead. It is unnecessary to dwell upon the ghastly
details. San Giacinto bent down curiously and looked at the dead men's
faces. He knew neither of them, and told the surgeon so.
"Will you allow me to see the lady?" he asked.
"Pardon me, if I ask a question," said the surgeon, who was a man of
middle age, with a red beard and keen grey eyes. "To whom have I the
advantage of speaking?"
"Signor Professore," replied San Giacinto, "I must tell you that if
this is the lady I suppose your patient to be, the honour of one of the
greatest families in Rome is concerned, and it is important that strict
secrecy should be preserved."
"The porter told me that you were a Roman prince," returned the surgeon
rather bluntly. "But you speak like a southerner."
"I was brought up in Naples. As I was saying, secrecy is very
important, and I can assure you that you will earn the gratitude of
many by assisting me."
"Do you wish to take this lady away at once?"
"Heaven forbid! Her mother and sister shall come for her in half an
hour."
The surgeon thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood staring for a
moment or two at the bodies of the Zouaves.
"I cannot do it," he said, suddenly looking up at San. Giacinto. "I am
master here, and I am responsible. The secret is professional, of
course. If I knew you, even by sight, I should not hesitate. As it is,
I must ask your name."
San Giacinto did not hesitate long, as the surgeon was evidently master
of the situation. He took a card from his case and silently handed it
to the doctor. The latter took it and read the name, "Don Giovanni
Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto." His face betrayed no emotion,
but the belief flashed through his mind that there was no such person
in existence. He was one of the leading men in his profession, and knew
Prince Saracinesca and Sant' Ilario, but he had never heard of this
other Don Giovanni. He knew also that the city was in a state of
revolution and that many suspicious persons were likely to gain access
to public buildings on false pretences.
"Very well," he said quietly. "You are not afraid of dead men, I see.
Be good enough to wait a moment here--no one will see you, and you will
not be recognised. I will go and see that there is nobody in the way,
and you shall have a sight of the young lady."
His companion nodded in assent and the surgeon went out through the
narrow door. San Giacinto was surprised to hear the heavy key turned in
the lock and withdrawn, but immediately accounted for the fact on the
theory that the surgeon wished to prevent any one from finding his
visitor lest the secret should be divulged. He was not a nervous man,
and had no especial horror of being left alone in a mortuary chamber
for a few minutes. He looked about him, and saw that the room was high
and vaulted. One window alone gave air, and this was ten feet from the
floor and heavily ironed. He reflected with a smile that if it pleased
the surgeon to leave him there he could not possibly get out. Neither
his size nor his phenomenal strength could assist him in the least.
There was no furniture in the place. Half a dozen slabs of slate for
the bodies were built against the wall, solid and immovable, and the
door was of the heaviest oak, thickly studded with huge iron nails. If
the dead men had been living prisoners their place of confinement could
not have been more strongly contrived.
San Giacinto waited a quarter of an hour, and at last, as the surgeon
did not return, he sat down upon one of the marble slabs and, being
very hungry, consoled himself by lighting a cigar, while he meditated
upon the surest means of conveying Donna Faustina to her father's
house. At last he began to wonder how long he was to wait.
"I should not wonder," he said to himself, "if that long-eared
professor had taken me for a revolutionist."
He was not far wrong, indeed. The surgeon had despatched a messenger
for a couple of gendarmes and had gone about his business in the
hospital, knowing very well that it would take some time to find the
police while the riot lasted, and congratulating himself upon having
caught a prisoner who, if not a revolutionist, was at all events an
impostor, since he had a card printed with a false name.