Ercole walked on when he saw some one come out of No. 16, for he did not
recognise Regina. She followed him at a distance. Even if he should pass
where there might be many people, she would not lose sight of him easily
because he had his dog with him. She noticed that his canvas bag was
hung over one shoulder and that it seemed to be full, and his gun was
slung over the other. He meant to leave Rome that night on foot. He
walked fast through the new streets in the upper quarter, turned to the
right when he reached the Via Venti Settembre, and went straight on,
past the top of the hill, and along the Quirinal Palace; then down and
on, down and on, through moonlight and shadow, winding streets and
straight, till the Colosseum was in sight. He was going towards the
Porta San Sebastiano to take the road to Ardea.
The air was very clear, and the moonlight made the broad space as bright
as if there were daylight. Regina walked fast, and began to overtake her
father, and the dog turned his head and growled at the tall woman in
black. She came up with Ercole by the ruin of the ancient fountain, and
the dog snarled at her. Ercole stopped and looked at her sharply, and
she raised her veil.
"I have followed you," she said. "We are alone here. We can talk in
peace."
"And what am I to say to you?" Ercole asked, in a low and surly voice.
"What you will, little or much, as you please. You shall speak, and I
will listen. But we can walk on under the trees there. Then nobody can
see us."
Ercole began to go on, and Regina walked on his left side. The dog
sniffed at the hem of her long black cloak. They came under the shade of
the trees, and Ercole stopped again, and turned, facing the reflection
of the moonlight on the vast curve of the Colosseum.
"What do you want of me?" he asked. "Why do you follow me in the night?"
"When you saw that the Signore was with me to-day, you said, 'It cannot
be done.' He is not here now."
She stood quite still, looking at him.
"I understand nothing," he said, in the same surly tone as before.
"You wished to kill me to-day," she answered. "I am here. This is a good
place."
Ercole looked about him instinctively, peering into the shadows under
the trees.
"There is no one," Regina said. "This is a good place."
She had not lifted her veil, but she threw back the collar of her cloak,
and with quick fingers undid the fastenings of her dress, opening it
wide. Rays of moonlight fell through the trees upon her bosom, and it
gleamed like fine ivory newly cut.
"I wait," she said.
She stood motionless before him, expecting the knife, but her father's
hands did not move. His eyes were fixed on hers, though he could not see
them through the veil.
"So he has left you?" he said slowly.
"No. I am waiting."
Not a fold of her cloak stirred as she stood there to die. It seemed a
long time, but his hands did not move. Then he heard the sound of her
voice, very low and sweet, repeating a little prayer, but he only heard
the last words distinctly.
"--now, and in the hour of our death!"
His right hand moved slowly and found something in his pocket, and then
there was the sharp click of a strong spring, and a ray of moonlight
fell upon steel, and her voice was heard again.
"--in the hour of our death. Amen!"
An unearthly sound rent the stillness. The huge dog sat upright on his
haunches, his head thrown up and back, his terrible lower jaw trembling
as he howled, and howled again, waking great echoes where the roar of
wild lions had rung long ago.
Regina started, though she did not move a step; but an unreasoning fear
fell upon Ercole. He could not see her face, as the dark veil hung down.
She was so motionless and fearless; only the dead could be as fearless
of death and as still as she. Her breast was so white; her hands were
like marble hands, parting a black shroud upon it. She was something
risen from the grave to haunt him in that lonely place and drive him
mad; and the appalling howl of the great dog robe deafeningly on the
silence and trembled and died away, and began again.
Ercole's hand relaxed, and the knife fell gleaming at his feet. One
instant more and he turned and fled through the trees, towards San
Gregorio, his dog galloping heavily after him.
Regina's hands fell by her sides, and the folds of her cloak closed
together and hung straight down. She stared into the shadowy distance a
moment after her father, and saw his figure twice in the light where the
trees were wider apart, before he disappeared altogether. She looked
down and saw the knife at her feet, and she picked it up and felt the
point. It was as sharp as a needle, for Ercole had whetted it often
since he had sat by the gate in the early morning last August. It was
wet, for the grass under the trees had not dried since the rain.
She felt the point and edge with her hand, and sighed. It would have
been better to have felt it in her breast, but she would not take her
own life. She was not afraid to do it, and her young hand would have
been strong enough and sure enough to do it quickly. It was not the
thought of the pain that made her close the knife; it was the fear of
hell. Nothing she had done in her life seemed very bad to her, because
it had all been for Marcello. If Ercole had killed her, she thought that
God would have forgiven her after a time. But if she killed herself she
would instantly be seized by devils and thrust into real flames, to
burn for ever, without the slightest chance of forgiveness. She had been
taught that, and she believed it, and the thought of the fire made her
shut the clasp-knife and slip it into her dress with a sigh. It would be
a pity to throw it away, for it seemed to be a good knife, and her
father could not have had it very long.
She fastened her frock under her mantle and went a few steps down the
little slope towards the Colosseum. To go on meant to go home, and she
stopped again. The place was very lonely and peaceful, and the light on
the great walls was quiet and good to see. Though she had stood so
still, waiting to die, and had said her little prayer so calmly, her
brave heart had been beating slow and hard as if it were counting the
seconds before it was to stop; and now it beat fast and softly, and
fluttered a little, so that she felt faint, as even brave people do
after a great danger is past. I have seen hundreds of men together, just
escaped from destruction by earthquake, moving about listlessly with
veiled eyes, yawning as if they were dropping with sleep, and saying
childish things when they spoke at all. Man's body is the part of
himself which he least understands, unless he has spent half his life in
studying its ways. Its many portions can only telegraph to the brain two
words, 'pain' and 'pleasure,' with different degrees of energy; but that
is all. The rest of their language belongs to science.
Regina felt faint and sat down, because there was no reason for making
any effort to go home. Perhaps a cab would pass, returning from some
outlying part of the city, and she would take it. From the place where
she sat she could see one far off, if any came.
She sank down on the wet ground, and drew up her knees and pulled her
cloak round her; and gradually her head bent forward and rested upon her
hands, till she sat there like a figure of grief outlined in black
against the moonlight on the great wall. She had forgotten where she
was, and that there was any time in the world.
Half an hour passed, and the moon sank low, and an hour, and the deadly
white mist began to rise in the shadow round the base of the Colosseum,
and crept up under the trees; and if any one had come upon her then, he
would have seen its dull whiteness crawling round her feet and body, a
hand-breadth above the wet ground. But she did not know; she had
forgotten everything.
Nothing was real any more. She could have believed that her father had
killed her and left her corpse there, strangely sitting, though quite
dead.
Then she knew that the light had gone out; and suddenly she felt her
teeth chatter, and a chill ran through her bones that was bad to feel.
She raised her head and saw that the great walls were dark against the
starry sky, and she rose with an effort, as if her limbs had suddenly
become lead. But she could walk, though it was like walking in sleep.
She did not afterwards remember how she got home, but she had a vague
recollection of having lost her way, and of finding a cab at last, and
then of letting herself into the little apartment in the dark.
When she was next aware of anything it was broad daylight, and she was
lying on her bed, still dressed and wearing her cloak; and Kalmon was
bending over her, his eyes on hers and his fingers on her pulse, while
old Teresa watched her anxiously from the foot of the bed.
"I'm afraid it is a 'perniciosa,'" he said. "Put her to bed while I call
a regular doctor."
Regina looked up at him.
"I have fever, have I not?" she asked quite quietly.
"Yes. You have a little fever," he answered, but his big brown eyes were
very grave.
When Marcello came, an hour later, she did not know him. She stared at
him with wide, unwinking eyes, and there were bright patches of colour
in her cheeks. Already there were hollows in them, too, and at her
temples, for the perniciosa fever is frightfully quick to waste the
body. In the Campagna, where it is worst, men have died of it in less
than four hours after first feeling it upon them. Great men have
discovered wonderful remedies for it, but still it kills.
Kalmon got one of the great men, who was his friend, and they did what
they could. A nursing sister came and was installed. Marcello was
summoned away soon after noon by an official person, who brought a
carriage and said that Corbario was now conscious and able to speak, and
that it was absolutely necessary that Marcello should be confronted
with him, as he might not live another day. It was easier to go than it
would have been if Regina had been conscious, but even so it was very
hard. The nun and Teresa stayed with her.
[Illustration: "SHE SAT THERE LIKE A FIGURE OF GRIEF OUTLINED IN BLACK
AGAINST THE MOONLIGHT ON THE GREAT WALL."]
She said little in her delirium, and nothing that had any meaning for
either of the women. Twice she tried to tear away the linen and lace
from her throat.
"I wait!" she cried each time, and her eyes fixed themselves on the
ceiling, while she held her breath.
The women could not tell what she was waiting for, and they soothed her
as best they could. She seemed to doze after that, and when Marcello
came back she knew him, and took his hand. He sent away the nurses and
sat by the bedside, and she spoke to him in short sentences, faintly. He
bent forward, near the pillow, to catch the words.
She was telling him what she had done last night.
"But you promised that I should find you here to-day!" Marcello said,
with gentle reproach.
"Yes. I did not mean to break my word. But I thought he would do it. It
seemed so easy."
Her voice was weak with the fever, and sank almost to a whisper. He
stroked her hand affectionately, hoping that she would go to sleep; and
so a long time passed. Then Kalmon came in with his friend the great
doctor. They saw that she was not yet any better; the doctor ordered
several things to be done and went away. Kalmon drew Marcello out of the
room.
"You can do nothing," he said. "She has good care, and she is very
strong. Go home and come back in the morning."
"I must stay here," Marcello answered.
"That is out of the question, on account of the Sister of Charity. But
you can send for your things and camp in my rooms downstairs. There is a
good sofa. You can telephone to the villa for what you want."
"Thank you." Marcello's voice dropped and shook. "Will she live?" he
asked.
"I hope so. She is very strong, and it may be only fever."
"What else could it be?"
"Pneumonia."
Marcello bit his lip and closed his eyes as if he were in bodily pain,
and a moment later he turned away and went down to Kalmon's apartment.
The Professor went back to Regina's side, and stood quietly watching
her, with a very sad look in his eyes. She opened hers and saw him, and
she brought one hand to her chest.
"It burns," she said, almost in a whisper, but with a strange sort of
eagerness, as if she were glad.
"I wish I could bear it for you, my poor child," Kalmon answered.
She shook her head, and turned uneasily on the pillow. He did not
understand.
"What is it?" he asked gently. "What can I do for you? Tell me."
"I want to see some one very much. How long shall I live?"
"You will get quite well," said Kalmon, in a reassuring tone. "But you
must be very quiet." Again she moved her burning cheek on the pillow.
"Do you want to see a priest?" asked the Professor, thinking he had
guessed. "Is that it?"
"Yes--there is time for that--some one else--could you? Will you?"
"Yes." Kalmon bent down quickly, for he thought the delirium was coming
again. "Who is it?" he asked.
"Aurora--I mean, the Signorina--can you? Oh, do you think you could?"
"I'll try," Kalmon answered in great surprise.
But now the hoarseness was suddenly gone, and her sweet voice was softly
humming an old song of the hills, forgotten many years, and the
Professor saw that she did not know him any more. He nodded to Teresa,
who was in the room, and went out.
He wondered much at the request, but he remembered that it had been made
in the full belief that he would say nothing of it to Marcello. If she
had been willing that Marcello should know, she would have spoken to
him, rather than to Kalmon. He had seen little enough of Regina, but he
was sure that she could have no bad motive in wishing to see the young
girl. Yet, from a social point of view, it was not exactly an easy thing
to propose, and the Contessa would have a right to be offended at the
mere suggestion that her daughter should speak to "Consalvi's Regina";
and there could not be anything clandestine in the meeting, if Aurora
consented to it. Kalmon was too deeply attached to the Contessa herself
to be willing to risk her displeasure, or, indeed, to do anything of
which she would not approve.
He went to her house by the Forum of Trajan, and he found her at home.
It was late in the afternoon, and the lamp was lighted in the little
drawing-room, which did not seem at all shabby to Kalmon's accustomed
eyes and not very exigent taste. The Contessa was reading an evening
paper before the fire. She put out her hand to the Professor.
"It is a bad business," she said, glancing at the newspaper, which had a
long account of Corbario's arrest and of the murder of his old
accomplice. "Poor Marcello!"
"Poor Marcello! Yes, indeed! I'm sorry for him. There is something more
than is in the papers, and more than I have written to you and told you.
Regina has the perniciosa fever, complicated with pneumonia, and is not
likely to live."
"I am sorry," the Contessa answered. "I am very sorry for her. But after
all, compared with what Marcello has learned about his mother's
death--and other things Corbario did--"
She stopped, implying by her tone that even if Regina died, that would
not be the greatest of Marcello's misfortunes. Besides, she had long
foreseen that the relations of the two could not last, and the simplest
solution, and the happiest one for the poor devoted girl, was that she
should die before her heart was broken. Maddalena dell' Armi had often
wished that her own fate had been as merciful.
"Yes," Kalmon answered. "You are right in that. But Regina has made a
rather strange request. It was very unexpected, and perhaps I did wrong
to tell her that I would do my best to satisfy her. I don't think she
will live, and I felt sorry for her. That is why I came to you. It
concerns Aurora."
"Aurora?" The Contessa was surprised.
"Yes. The girl knows she is dying, and wishes very much to see Aurora
for a moment. I suppose it was weak of me to give her any hope."
The Contessa dropped her newspaper and looked into the fire thoughtfully
before she answered.
"You and I are very good friends," she said. "You would not ask me to do
anything you would not do yourself, would you? If you had a daughter of
Aurora's age, should you let her go and see this poor woman, unless it
were an act of real charity?"
"No," Kalmon answered reluctantly. "I don't think I should."
"Thank you for being so honest," Maddalena answered, and looked at the
fire again.
Some time passed before she spoke again, still watching the flames.
Kalmon sighed, for he was very sorry for Regina.
"On the other hand," the Contessa said at last, "it may be a real
charity. Have you any idea why she wishes to see Aurora?"
"No. I cannot guess."
"I can. At least, I think I can." She paused again. "You know
everything about me," she continued presently. "In the course of years I
have told you all my story. Do you think I am a better woman than
Regina?"
"My dear friend!" cried Kalmon, almost angrily. "How can you suggest--"
She turned her clear, sad eyes to him, and her look cut short his
speech.
"What has her sin been?" she asked gently. "She has loved Marcello. What
was mine? That I loved one man too well. Which is the better woman? She,
the peasant, who knew no better, who found her first love dying, and
saved him, and loved him--knowing no better, and braving the world? Or
I, well born, carefully brought up, a woman of the world, and
married--no matter how--not braving the world at all, but miserably
trying to deceive it, and my husband, and my child? Do you think I was
so much better than poor Regina? Would my own daughter think so if she
could know and understand?"
"If you were not a very good woman now," Kalmon said earnestly, "you
could not say what you are saying."
"Never mind what I am now. I am not as good as you choose to think. If I
were, there would not be a bitter thought left. I should have forgiven
all. Leave out of the question what I am now. Compare me as I was with
Regina as she is. That is how I put it, and I am right."
"Even if you were," Kalmon answered doubtfully, "the situation would be
the same, so far as Aurora is concerned."
"But suppose that this poor woman cannot die in peace unless she has
asked Aurora's pardon and obtained her forgiveness, what then?"
"Her forgiveness? For what?"
"For coming between her and Marcello. Say that, so far as Regina knows,
my daughter is the only human being she has ever injured, what then?"
"Does Aurora love Marcello?" asked Kalmon, instead of answering the
question.
"I think she does. I am almost sure of it."
Kalmon was silent for a while.
"But Marcello," he said at last, "what of him?"
"He has always loved Aurora," the Contessa answered. "Do you blame him
so much for what he has done? Why do you blame some people so easily, my
dear friend, and others not at all? Do you realise what happened to him?
He was virtually taken out of the life he was leading, by a blow that
practically destroyed his memory, and of which the consequences
altogether destroyed his will for some time. He found himself saved and
at the same time loved--no, worshipped--by one of the most beautiful
women in the world. Never mind her birth! She has never looked at any
other man, before or since, and from what I have heard, she never will.
Ah, if all women were like her! Marcello, weak from illness, allowed
himself to be worshipped, and Corbario did the rest. I understand it
all. Do you blame him very much? I don't. With all your strength of
character, you would have done the same at his age! And having taken
what she offered, what could he do, when he grew up and came to himself,
and felt his will again? Could he cast her off, after all she had done
for him?"
"He could marry her," observed Kalmon. "I don't see why he should not,
after all."
"Marriage!" There was a little scornful sadness in Maddalena's voice.
"Marriage is always the solution! No, no, he is right not to marry her,
if he has ever thought of it. They would only make each other miserable
for the rest of their lives. Miserable, and perhaps faithless too. That
is what happens when men and women are not saints. Look at me!"
"You were never in that position. Others were to blame, who made you
marry when you were too young to have any will of your own."
"Blame no one," said the Contessa gravely. "I shall give Aurora Regina's
message, and if she is willing to go and see her, I shall bring her
to-morrow morning--to-night, if there is no time to be lost. The world
need never know. Go and tell Regina what I have said. It may comfort her
a little, poor thing."
"Indeed it will!"
Kalmon's brown eyes beamed with pleasure at the thought of taking the
kindly message to the dying girl. He rose to his feet at once.
"There is no one like you," he said, as he took her hand.
"It is nothing. It is what Marcello's mother would have done, and she
was my best friend. All I do is to take the responsibility upon myself,
however Aurora may choose to act. I will send you word, in either case.
If Aurora will not go, I will come myself, if I can be of any use, if it
would make Regina feel happier. I will come, and I will tell her what I
have told you. Good-night, dear friend."
Kalmon was not an emotional man, but as he went out he felt a little
lump in his throat, as if he could not swallow.
He had not doubted his friend's kindness, but he had doubted whether she
would feel that she had a right to "expose her daughter," as the world
would say, to meeting such a "person," as the world called
Regina--"Consalvi's Regina."