Then there was a crash and the opera was over, and she was going out in
a crowd on David Rossi's arm, and feeling as if she would fall if she
dropped it.
The magnificent English carriage drew up under the portico and all four
of them got into it.
"Grand Hotel!" cried Don Camillo. Then dropping back to his place he
laughed and chanted:
"And the dead he slew at his death were more than he slew in his
life ... and he judged Israel twenty years."
V
A marshy air from the Campagna shrouded the city as with a fog, and
pierced through the closed windows of the carriage, but there was warmth
and glow in the Grand Hotel.
One woman after another came in clothed in diamonds under the fur cloak
which hung over her bare arms and shoulders, until the room was a
dazzling blaze of jewels.
People caught each other's eyes through lorgnettes and eye-glasses, and
there were constant salutations. The men chattered, the women laughed,
and there was an affectation of baby-talk at nearly every table. Then
supper was served, glasses were held up as signals, and bright eyes
began to play about the room, until the atmosphere was tingling with
electric currents and heated by human passion.
Roma sat facing the Princess. She was still confused and preoccupied,
but when rallied upon her silence she brightened up for a moment and
tried to look buoyant and happy. David Rossi, who was on her left, was
still quiet and collected, but bore the same air as before, of a man
going through a penance.
This was observed by Don Camillo, who sat on the right of the Princess,
and led to various little scenes.
"Very good company here, Mr. Rossi. Always sure of seeing some beautiful
young women," said Don Camillo.
"And beautiful young men, apparently," said David Rossi.
The beautiful young man called Lu-lu was there, and reaching over to Don
Camillo, and speaking in a whisper between the puff of a cigarette and a
sip of coffee, he said:
"Why doesn't the Minister buy the man up? Easy enough to buy the press
these days."
"He's doing better than that," said Don Camillo. "He's drawing him from
opposition by the allurements of...."
"Office?"
"No, the lady," whispered Don Camillo, but Roma heard him.
She was ashamed. The innuendoes which belittled David Rossi were
belittling herself as well, and she wanted to get up and fly.
Rossi himself seemed to be unconscious of anything hurtful. Although
silent, he was calm and cheerful, and his manner was natural and polite.
The wife of one of the royal aides-de-camp sat next to him, and talked
constantly of the King.
Roma found herself listening to every word that was said to David Rossi,
but she also heard a conversation that was going on at the other end of
the table.
"Wants to be another Cola di Rienzi, doesn't he?" said Lu-lu.
"Another Christ," said Don Camillo. "He'll be asking for a crown of
thorns by-and-by, and calling on the world to immolate him for the sake
of humanity. Look! He's talking to the little Baroness, but he is
fifteen thousand miles above the clouds at this moment."
"Where does he come from, I wonder?" said Lu-lu, and then the two hands
of Don Camillo played the invisible accordion.
"Madame de Trop says his father was Master of the House to Prince
Petrolium--vice-prince, you know, and brought up in the little palace,"
said the Princess.
"Don't believe a word of it," said Don Camillo, "and I'll wager he never
supped at a decent hotel before."
"I'll ask him! Listen now! Some fun," said the Princess. "Honourable
Rossi!"
"Yes, Princess," said David Rossi.
The eyes of the little Princess swept the table with a sparkling light.
"Beautiful room, isn't it?"
"Beautiful."
"Never been here before, I suppose?"
David Rossi looked steadfastly into her eyes and answered, "Oh yes,
Princess. When I first returned to Italy eight years ago I was a waiter
in this house for a month."
The sparkling face of the little Princess broke up like a snowball in
the sun, and the two other men dropped their heads.
Roma hardly knew what her own feelings were. Humiliation, shame,
confusion, but above all, pride--pride in David Rossi's courage and
strength.
The white mist from the Campagna pierced to the bone as they came out by
the glass-covered hall, and an old woman with an earthenware scaldino,
crouching by the marble pillars in the street, held out a chill, damp
hand and cried:
"A penny for God's sake! May I die unconfessed if I've eaten anything
since yesterday!... God bless you, my daughter! and the Holy Virgin and
all the saints!"
At the door of her house Roma parted from the Princess, and said to
Rossi, as the carriage drove away, "Come early to-morrow. I've not yet
been able to work properly somehow."
She was restless and feverish, and she would have gone to bed
immediately, but crossing the drawing-room she heard the fretful voice
of her aunt saying, "Is that you, Roma?" and she had no choice but to go
into the Countess's bedroom.
A red lamp burned before the shrine, and the old lady was in an
embroidered nightdress, but she was wide awake, and her eyes flashed and
her lips trembled.
"Ah, it's you at last! Sit down! I want to speak to you. Natalina!"
cried the Countess. "Oh, dear me, the girl has gone to bed. Give me the
cognac. There it is--on the dressing-table."
She sipped the brandy, fidgeted with her cambric handkerchief, and said:
"Roma, I'm surprised at you! You hadn't used to be so stupid! How? Don't
you see what that woman is doing? What woman? The Princess, of course.
Inviting you to share her box at the opera so that you may be seen in
public with that man. She hates him like poison, but she would swallow
anything to throw you and this Rossi together. Do you expect the Baron
to approve of that? His enemy, and you on such terms with the man? Here,
take back this cognac. I feel as if I would choke--Natalina...."
"You're quite mistaken, Aunt Betsy," said Roma. "The Baron was at the
opera and came into the box himself, and he approved of everything."
"Tut! Don't tell me! Because he has some respect for himself and keeps
his own counsel you are simple enough to think he will not be offended."
The old lady's voice was dying down to a choking whisper, but she went
on without a pause.
"If you've no thought for yourself, you might have some for me. You are
young, and anything may come to you, but I'm old and I'm tied down to
this mattress, and what is to happen if the Baron takes offence? The
income he allows us from your father's estates is under his own control
still. He can cut it off at any moment, and if he does, what is to
become of me?"
Roma's bosom was swelling under her heavy breathing, her heart was
beating violently and her head was dizzy. All the bitterness of the
evening was boiling in her throat, and it burst out at length in a
flood.
"So that is all your moral protestations come to, is it?" she said.
"Because the Baron is necessary to you and you cannot exist without him,
you expect me to buy and sell myself according to your necessities."
"Roma! What are you saying? Aren't you ashamed...."
"Aren't _you_ ashamed? You've been trying to throw me into the arms of
the Baron, and you haven't cared what would happen so long as I kept up
appearances."
"Oh, dear! I see what it is. You want to be the death of me! You will,
too, before you've done. Natalina! Where is...."
"More than that, you've poisoned my mind against my father, and because
I couldn't remember him, you've brought me up to think of him as selfish
and vain and indifferent to his own daughter. But my father wasn't that
kind of man at all."
"Who told you that, miss?"
"Never mind who told me. My father was a saint and a martyr, and a great
man, and he loved me with all his heart and soul."
"Oh, my head! My poor head!... A martyr indeed! A socialist, a
republican, a rebel, an anarchist, you mean!"
"Never mind what his politics were. He was my father--that is
enough--and you had no right to make _me_ think ill of him, whatever the
world might do."
Roma was superb at that moment, with her head thrown back, her eyes
flaming, and her magnificent figure swelling and heaving under her
clinging gown.
"You'll kill me, I tell you. The cognac ... Natalina...." cried the
Countess, but Roma was gone.
Before going to bed Roma wrote to the Baron:
"Certain you are wrong. Why waste time sending Charles Minghelli
to London? Why? Why? Why? The forger will find out nothing, and if
he does, it will only be by exercise of his Israelitish art of
making bricks without straw. Stop him at once if you wish to save
public money and spare yourself personal disappointment. Stop him!
Stop him! Stop him!
"P.S.--To show you how far astray your man has gone, D. R.
mentioned to-night that he was once a waiter at the Grand Hotel!"