The subject of the Frenchman's denunciation looked harmless enough as he
sat in his hackney carriage under the shadow of old Baron Leone's gloomy
palace. A first glance showed a man of thirty-odd years, tall, slightly
built, inclined to stoop, with a long, clean-shaven face, large dark
eyes, and dark hair which covered the head in short curls of almost
African profusion. But a second glance revealed all the characteristics
that give the hand-to-hand touch with the common people, without which
no man can hope to lead a great movement.
From the moment of David Rossi's arrival there was a tingling movement
in the air, and from time to time people approached and spoke to him,
when the tired smile struggled through the jaded face and then slowly
died away. After a while, as if to subdue the sense of personal
observation, he took a pen and oblong notepaper and began to write on
his knees.
Meantime the quick-eyed facile crowd around him beguiled the tedium of
waiting with good-humoured chaff. One great creature with a shaggy mane
and a sanguinary voice came up, bottle in hand, saluted the downcast
head with a mixture of deference and familiarity, then climbed to the
box-seat beside the driver, and in deepest bass began the rarest
mimicry. He was a true son of the people, and under an appearance of
ferocity he hid the heart of a child. To look at him you could hardly
help laughing, and the laughter of the crowd at his daring dashes showed
that he was the privileged pet of everybody. Only at intervals the
downcast head was raised from its writing, and a quiet voice of warning
said:
"Bruno!"
Then the shaggy head on the box-seat slewed round and bobbed downward
with an apologetic gesture, and ten seconds afterwards plunged into
wilder excesses.
"Pshaw!" mopping with one hand his forehead under his tipped-up
billicock, and holding the bottle with the other. "It's hot! Dog of a
Government, it's hot, I say! Never mind! here's to the exports of Italy,
brother; and may the Government be the first of them."
"Bruno!"
"Excuse me, sir; the tongue breaks no bones, sir! All Governments are
bad, and the worst Government is the best."
A feeble old man was at that moment crushing his way up to the cab.
Seeing him approach, David Rossi rose and held out his hand. The old man
took it, but did not speak.
"Did you wish to speak to me, father?"
"I can't yet," said the old man, and his voice shook and his eyes were
moist.
David Rossi stepped out of the cab, and with gentle force, against many
protests, put the old man in his place.
"I come from Carrara, sir, and when I go home and tell them I've seen
David Rossi, and spoken to him, they won't believe me. 'He sees the
future clear,' they say, 'as an almanack made by God.'"
Just then there was a commotion in the crowd, an imperious voice cried,
"Clear out," and the next instant David Rossi, who was standing by the
step of his cab, was all but run down by a magnificent equipage with two
high-stepping horses and a fat English coachman in livery of scarlet
and gold.
His face darkened for a moment with some powerful emotion, then resumed
its kindly aspect, and he turned back to the old man without looking at
the occupant of the carriage.
It was a lady. She was tall, with a bold sweep of fulness in figure,
which was on a large scale of beauty. Her hair, which was abundant and
worn full over the forehead, was raven black and glossy, and it threw
off the sunshine that fell on her face. Her complexion had a golden
tint, and her eyes, which were violet, had a slight recklessness of
expression. Her carriage drew up at the entrance of the palace, and the
porter, with the silver-headed staff, came running and bowing to receive
her. She rose to her feet with a consciousness of many eyes upon her,
and with an unabashed glance she looked around on the crowd.
There was a sulky silence among the people, almost a sense of
antagonism, and if anybody had cheered there might have been a counter
demonstration. At the same time, there was a certain daring in that
marked brow and steadfast smile which seemed to say that if anybody had
hissed she would have stood her ground.
She lifted from the blue silk cushions of the carriage a small
half-clipped black poodle with a bow of blue ribbon on its forehead,
tucked it under her arm, stepped down to the street, and passed into the
courtyard, leaving an odour of ottar of roses behind her.
Only then did the people speak.
"Donna Roma!"
The name seemed to pass over the crowd in a breathless whisper,
soundless, supernatural, like the flight of a bat in the dark.