“Is that you, Hipwell?” he asked. And when I had replied in the
affirmative, he said: “I thought I’d let you know that you’ll have to
leave for London to-morrow night. Sorry, Lionel. But you know in the
service we are not our own masters.”
“Quite all right,” I replied, wondering why his voice seemed so
sympathetic and apologetic.
“I shall see you at the Quirinale to-night. _Addio_,” His Excellency
said.
And I hung up the receiver.
So my visit to Rome was to be cut short. Perhaps, after all, it was
better so.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
THE DOUBLE NOUGHT
I spent the day wandering about the broad, handsome streets of
Rome--Rome under Mussolini. I noted where cobbled piazzas had been
bare and dusty there were now bright flower-beds, shady trees, and
often refreshing fountains. Around me on every side arose great
palatial buildings worthy of the proudest city in the world.
I watched the tourists feeding the pigeons, and took several
_apéritifs_ at the popular cafés.
The idea of the State ball, for which I had already received a card
from the Minister of the Royal Household, nauseated me. I was in no
mood for brilliant throngs, Court etiquette, or dance-music. Yet the
Little Countess attracted me. I felt absolutely certain that we had
once been friends, but to what extent, or in what circumstances, I was
in entire ignorance. My memory concerning her was also a complete
blank.
At ten o’clock that night I put on my uniform, and taking my cocked
hat and gloves, drove to the Palace, where I passed across the red
carpet, and along the great, brilliantly-lit corridor lined by the
Royal servants, and the Guards in their brilliant uniforms. With me
entered several foreign diplomats with their ladies, including Grant,
the secretary of the United States Embassy, whom I recognized as an
old friend I had known in Paris.
Assembled in the great salon with five hundred others, we awaited the
coming of their Majesties. I gazed eagerly around to discover the
Contessina, but was sorely disappointed. She was not present! And yet
she herself had pressed me to come and dance with her.
Of a sudden there came the three resounding bangs upon the great gilt
double doors. The Marshal of the Court, an aged Duke with snow-white
hair and heavy moustache, threw them open, and the King in the
full-dress uniform of a General, walking with the Queen, whose
diamonds flashed with a thousand fires, entered, smiling at the bowing
and curtsying assembly.
Their Majesties, accompanied by the Prince of Savoy and other members
of the Italian Royal Family, made a slow tour of the great gilt
chamber, with its hundred crystal electroliers; and then, after they
had ascended their dais, the dance commenced.
It was not until that moment that, amid the crowd of Roman nobility
and the diplomatic circle, I caught sight of the charming girl I
sought.
She was dressed in a cloth of silver, the skirt embellished with a
broad band of diamanté and pearl embroidery, which reflected the
light from a thousand angles--one of the most striking costumes at the
Court. I saw her accept a tall, slim attaché of the French Embassy as
her partner. Her face, slightly flushed, was as beautiful as the angel
of Lanfranco upon the wall of Sant’ Andrea. Afterwards, as I watched,
I saw her elegant cavalier, in his gold-braided uniform, hand her over
to a well-dressed and rather stiff-looking lady of middle-age; and
presently I noticed her chatting merrily with the Princess
Pallavicini, the Queen’s principal lady-in-waiting.
Later on, as though quite accidentally, I met her, and bowed low over
her hand.
She smiled at me, and expressed satisfaction that we should meet
again. Her attitude was much more cordial than on the previous night.
“Lady Kingscliffe told me that you are always traveling,” she said in
French, as we stood against the wall together watching the dancers. “I
love traveling, but----” And she raised her shoulders expressive of
disappointment.
“You do not travel very much?” I asked in the same language.
“Alas! no,” she replied, with a smile. “I want to see London and New
York--and Athens.”
“Well, if you traveled as constantly as I do, you would, I fear, grow
very tired of trains, Contessina,” I said, noting the exquisite taste
of her gown.
“You have been in Rome before, I suppose?” I remarked.
“Yes. Once before. I go out daily with the tourists to see the
monuments. It is such great fun--I assure you! But, oh! I do so want
to see your London.”
She spoke with an air of greatest refinement, and her eyes, as she
looked at me, seemed so childlike and innocent.
“Yet when one is not one’s own mistress, what can one do?” she added.
“Some young ladies become defiant of parents and chaperons,” I
laughed. “But I would not advise such a course. Will you honor me with
a dance, Contessina, and let us forget all our troubles, eh?”
She accepted my invitation, and a few moments later, we were waltzing
together, while Lady Kingscliffe, who, I knew, had been watching,
turned away with an amused smile.
Angela charlestoned beautifully. As a dancer myself I had been to many
balls, and had had some splendid partners. But this brown-eyed girl of
mystery eclipsed them all.
The Baron de Carbonnel, Ambassador of France, who was dancing with the
young Princess di Forano, daughter of the Duchess di San Donato,
passed us, and I noticed that he smiled at my partner in recognition.
Later, after an enjoyable hour, during which I endeavored, by all the
means in my power, to discover more concerning the mysterious girl, I
took her in to supper, where we sat down to a _tête-à-tête_ repast.
Around us were many people I recognized, for very slowly my memory was
returning. Rospigliosi, with his wife, the Minister Sonnino, Caetani
and his daughter, the pretty Donna Stella, and the ever-popular
Princess Odescalchi with her wonderful emeralds.
From the chatter of the Little Countess it was apparent that she moved
in high circles and was acquainted with many officials.
Later, I led her back to the ballroom.
“M’sieur Hipwell,” whispered the Little Countess just as we were about
to dance, “I wonder if you--well, if I dare ask you to do a very great
favor for me?”
“Most certainly I will,” was my eager reply.
“Well, I cannot tell you here. Could you meet me--to-morrow? I will be
alone.”
“Where?” I asked.
She reflected a moment.
“In the Church of Sant’ Agnese, in the Piazza Navona,” she replied in
a low voice. “Would eleven o’clock suit you?”
“Certainly. I will be there.”
And thus it was arranged.
Punctually at the hour she had named I entered the great, domed
church, with its huge columns of Cottanello, built upon the spot where
Saint Agnes suffered martyrdom. The silent interior was quite dark
after the glare of the sun in the piazza outside; but in a few moments
I saw a slim figure in a neat navy-blue street-suit, which I instantly
recognized as the Contessina’s, standing before the antique statue of
San Sebastian. A whispered, timorous greeting and a warm handshake,
whereupon she suggested in a low voice:
“Let us talk here. If we go outside somebody who knows you may see
us.”
“_Bien!_” I replied. “There are chairs yonder.” And we crossed to
several rush-bottomed chairs near one of the side-altars, before which
the light was burning in its red-glass shade. It was evident that she
meant to preserve the strictest secrecy, and this very fact increased
my interest in her.
“Last night you told me that I could trust you, M’sieur Hipwell,” she
said in a low voice, though we were alone in the great church. “I am a
mystery to you, I know that.”
“But we have met before. Have we not?” I asked, fixing my eyes on her.
She gave vent to a little hysterical laugh.
“You know. But perhaps you have forgotten. You forget many things.”
“But I could never forget you, Contessina!” I declared. “Will you not
enlighten my darkness of mind? You tell me that I forget many things.”
“In life there are many things that are surely best forgotten,” she
remarked, with a slight sigh.