Check.
Tito’s clever arrangements had been unpleasantly frustrated by trivial
incidents which could not enter into a clever man’s calculations. It
was very seldom that he walked with Romola in the evening, yet he had
happened to be walking with her precisely on this evening when her
presence was supremely inconvenient. Life was so complicated a game
that the devices of skill were liable to be defeated at every turn by
air-blown chances, incalculable as the descent of thistle-down.
It was not that he minded about the failure of Spini’s plot, but he
felt an awkward difficulty in so adjusting his warning to Savonarola on
the one hand, and to Spini on the other, as not to incur suspicion.
Suspicion roused in the popular party might be fatal to his reputation
and ostensible position in Florence: suspicion roused in Dolfo Spini
might be as disagreeable in its effects as the hatred of a fierce dog
not to be chained.
If Tito went forthwith to the monastery to warn Savonarola before the
monks went to rest, his warning would follow so closely on his delivery
of the forged letters that he could not escape unfavourable surmises.
He could not warn Spini at once without telling him the true reason,
since he could not immediately allege the discovery that Savonarola had
changed his purpose; and he knew Spini well enough to know that his
understanding would discern nothing but that Tito had “turned round”
and frustrated the plot. On the other hand, by deferring his warning to
Savonarola until the morning, he would be almost sure to lose the
opportunity of warning Spini that the Frate had changed his mind; and
the band of Compagnacci would come back in all the rage of
disappointment. This last, however, was the risk he chose, trusting to
his power of soothing Spini by assuring him that the failure was due
only to the Frate’s caution.
Tito was annoyed. If he had had to smile it would have been an unusual
effort to him. He was determined not to encounter Romola again, and he
did not go home that night.
She watched through the night, and never took off her clothes. She
heard the rain become heavier and heavier. She liked to hear the rain:
the stormy heavens seemed a safeguard against men’s devices, compelling
them to inaction. And Romola’s mind was again assailed, not only by the
utmost doubt of her husband, but by doubt as to her own conduct. What
lie might he not have told her? What project might he not have, of
which she was still ignorant? Every one who trusted Tito was in danger;
it was useless to try and persuade herself of the contrary. And was not
she selfishly listening to the promptings of her own pride, when she
shrank from warning men against him? “If her husband was a malefactor,
her place was in the prison by his side”—that might be; she was
contented to fulfil that claim. But was she, a wife, to allow a husband
to inflict the injuries that would make him a malefactor, when it might
be in her power to prevent them? Prayer seemed impossible to her. The
activity of her thought excluded a mental state of which the essence is
expectant passivity.
The excitement became stronger and stronger. Her imagination, in a
state of morbid activity, conjured up possible schemes by which, after
all, Tito would have eluded her threat; and towards daybreak the rain
became less violent, till at last it ceased, the breeze rose again and
dispersed the clouds, and the morning fell clear on all the objects
around her. It made her uneasiness all the less endurable. She wrapped
her mantle round her, and ran up to the loggia, as if there could be
anything in the wide landscape that might determine her action; as if
there could be anything but roofs hiding the line of street along which
Savonarola might be walking towards betrayal.
If she went to her godfather, might she not induce him, without any
specific revelation, to take measures for preventing Fra Girolamo from
passing the gates? But that might be too late. Romola thought, with new
distress, that she had failed to learn any guiding details from Tito,
and it was already long past seven. She must go to San Marco: there was
nothing else to be done.
She hurried down the stairs, she went out into the street without
looking at her sick people, and walked at a swift pace along the Via
de’ Bardi towards the Ponte Vecchio. She would go through the heart of
the city; it was the most direct road, and, besides, in the great
Piazza there was a chance of encountering her husband, who, by some
possibility to which she still clung, might satisfy her of the Frate’s
safety, and leave no need for her to go to San Marco. When she arrived
in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, she looked eagerly into the pillared
court; then her eyes swept the Piazza; but the well-known figure, once
painted in her heart by young love, and now branded there by eating
pain, was nowhere to be seen. She hurried straight on to the Piazza del
Duomo. It was already full of movement: there were worshippers passing
up and down the marble steps, there were men pausing for chat, and
there were market-people carrying their burdens. Between those moving
figures Romola caught a glimpse of her husband. On his way from San
Marco he had turned into Nello’s shop, and was now leaning against the
door-post. As Romola approached she could see that he was standing and
talking, with the easiest air in the world, holding his cap in his
hand, and shaking back his freshly-combed hair. The contrast of this
ease with the bitter anxieties he had created convulsed her with
indignation: the new vision of his hardness heightened her dread. She
recognised Cronaca and two other frequenters of San Marco standing near
her husband. It flashed through her mind—“I will compel him to speak
before those men.” And her light step brought her close upon him before
he had time to move, while Cronaca was saying, “Here comes Madonna
Romola.”
A slight shock passed through Tito’s frame as he felt himself face to
face with his wife. She was haggard with her anxious watching, but
there was a flash of something else than anxiety in her eyes as she
said—
“Is the Frate gone beyond the gates?”
“No,” said Tito, feeling completely helpless before this woman, and
needing all the self-command he possessed to preserve a countenance in
which there should seem to be nothing stronger than surprise.
“And you are certain that he is not going?” she insisted.
“I am certain that he is not going.”
“That is enough,” said Romola, and she turned up the steps, to take
refuge in the Duomo, till she could recover from her agitation.
Tito never had a feeling so near hatred as that with which his eyes
followed Romola retreating up the steps.
There were present not only genuine followers of the Frate, but Ser
Ceccone, the notary, who at that time, like Tito himself, was secretly
an agent of the Mediceans.
Ser Francesco di Ser Barone, more briefly known to infamy as Ser
Ceccone, was not learned, not handsome, not successful, and the reverse
of generous. He was a traitor without charm. It followed that he was
not fond of Tito Melema.