Roma reached home in a glow of joy. She told herself that Rossi would
come to her in obedience to her command. He must dine with her to-night.
Seven was now striking on all the clocks outside, and to give him time
to arrive she put back the dinner until eight. Her aunt would dine in
her own room, so they would be quite alone. The conventions of life had
fallen absolutely away, and she considered them no more.
Meantime she must dress and perhaps take a bath. A certain sense of
soiling which she could not conquer had followed her up from that
glorious meeting. She felt a little ashamed of it, but it was there, and
though she told herself "They were _his_ people, poor things," she was
glad to take off the clothes she had worn at the Coliseum.
She combed out the curls of her glossy black hair, put herself into a
loose tea gown and red slippers, took one backward glance at herself in
the glass, and then going into the drawing-room, she stood by the window
to dream and wait. The snow still fell in thin flakes, but the city was
humming on, and the piazza down below was full of people.
After a while the electric bell of the outer door was rung, and her
heart beat against her breast. "It's he," she thought, and in the
exquisite tumult of the moment she lifted her arms and turned to meet
him.
But when the door was opened it was the Baron Bonelli who was shown into
the room. He was in evening dress, with black tie and studs which had a
chilling effect, and his manner was as cold and calm as usual.
"I regret," he said, "that we must enter on a painful interview."
"As you please," she answered, and sitting on a stool by the fire she
rested her elbows on her knees, and looked straight before her.
"Your letter of last night, my dear, produced the result you desired. I
sent for Commendatore Angelelli, invented some plausible excuses, and
reversed my orders. I also sent for Minghelli and told him to take care
of you on your reckless errand. The matter has thus far ended as you
wished, and I trust you are satisfied."
She nodded her head without turning round, and bore herself with a
certain air of defiance.
"But it is necessary that we should come to an understanding," he
continued. "You have driven me hard, my child. With all the tenderness
and sympathy possible, I am compelled to speak plainly. I wished to
spare your feelings. You will not permit me to do so."
The incisiveness of his speech cut the air like ice dropping from a
glacier, and Roma felt herself turning pale with a sense of something
fearful whirling around her.
"According to your own plans, Rossi is to marry you within a week,
although a month ago he spoke of you in public as an unworthy woman.
Will you be good enough to tell me how this miracle has come to pass?"
She laughed, and tried to carry herself bravely.
"If it is a miracle, how can I explain it?" she said.
"Then permit me to do so. He is going to marry you because he no longer
thinks as he thought a month ago; because he believes he was wrong in
what he said, and would like to wipe it out entirely."
"He is going to marry me because he loves me," she answered hotly;
"that's why he is going to marry me."
At the next moment a faintness came over her, and a misty vapour flashed
before her sight. In her anger she had torn open a secret place in her
own heart, and something in the past of her life seemed to escape as
from a tomb.
"Then you have not told him?" said the Baron in so low a voice that he
could scarcely be heard.
"Told him what?" she said.
"The truth--the fact."
She caught her breath and was silent.
"My child, you are doing wrong. There is a secret between you already.
That is a bad basis to begin life upon, and the love that is raised on
it will be a house built on the sand."
Her heart was beating violently, but she turned on him with a burning
glance.
"What do you mean?" she said, while the colour increased in her cheeks
and forehead. "I am a good woman. You know I am."
"To me, yes! The best woman in the world."
She had risen to her feet, and was standing by the chimney-piece.
"Understand me, my child," he said affectionately. "When I say you are
doing wrong, it is only in keeping a secret from the man you intend to
marry. Between you and me ... there is no secret."
She looked at him with haggard eyes.
"For me you are everything that is sweet and good, but for another who
knows? When a man is about to marry a woman, there is one thing he can
never forgive. Need I say what that is?"
The glow that had suffused her face changed to the pallor of marble, and
she turned to the Baron and stood over him with the majesty of a statue.
"Is it you that tell me this?" she said. "You--you? Can a woman never be
allowed to forget? Must the fault of another follow her all her life?
Oh, it is cruel! It is merciless.... But no matter!" she said in another
voice; and turning away from him she added, as if speaking to herself:
"He believes everything I tell him. Why should I trouble?"
The Baron followed her with a look that pierced to the depths of her
soul.
"Then you have told him a falsehood?" he said.
She pressed her lips together and made no answer.
"That was foolish. By-and-by somebody may come along who will tell him
the truth."
"What can any one tell him that he has not heard already? He has heard
everything, and put it all behind his back."
"Could nobody bring conviction to his mind? Nobody whatever? Not even
one who had no interest in slandering you?"
"You don't mean that you...."
"Why not? He has come between us. What could be more natural than that I
should tell him so?"
A look of dismay came over her face, and it was followed by an
expression of terror.
"But you wouldn't do that," she stammered. "You couldn't do it. It is
impossible. You are only trying me."
His face remained perfectly passive, and she seized him by the arm.
"Think! Only think! You would do no good for yourself. You might stop
the marriage--yes! But you wouldn't carry out your political purpose.
You couldn't! And while you would do no good for yourself, think of the
harm you would do for me. He loves me, and you would hurt his beautiful
faith in me, and I should die of grief and shame."
"You are cruel, my child," said the Baron, speaking with dignity. "You
think _I_ am hard and unrelenting, but _you_ are selfish and cruel. You
are so concerned about your own feelings that you don't even suspect
that perhaps you are wounding mine."
"Ah, yes, it is too bad," she said, dropping to her knees at his feet.
"After all, you have been very good to me thus far, and it was partly my
own fault if matters ended as they did. Yes, I confess it. I was vain
and proud. I wanted all the world. And when you gave me everything,
being so tied yourself, I thought I might forgive you.... But I was
wrong--I was to blame--nothing in the world could excuse you--I saw that
the moment afterwards. I really hadn't thought at all until then--but
then my soul awoke. And then...."
She turned her head aside that he might not see her face.
"And then love came, and I was like a woman who had married a man thirty
years older than herself--married without love--just for the sake of her
pride and vanity. But love, real love, drove all that away. It is gone
now; I only wish to lead a good life, however simple and humble it may
be. Let me do so!... Do not take him away from me! Do not...."
She stammered and stopped, with a sudden consciousness of what she was
doing.
"What a fool I am!" she said, leaping to her feet. "What fresh story can
you tell him that he is likely to believe?"
"I can tell him that, according to the law of nature and of reason, you
belong to me," said the Baron.
"Very well! It will be your word against mine, will it not? Tell him,
and he will fling your insult in your face."
The Baron rose and began to walk about the room, and there were some
moments in which nothing could be heard but the slight creaking of his
patent-leather boots. Then he said:
"In that case I should be compelled to challenge him."
"Challenge him!" She repeated the words with scorn. "Is it likely? Do
you forget that duelling is a crime, that you are a Minister, that you
would have to resign, and expose yourself to penalties?"
"If a man insults me grievously in my affections and my honour, I will
challenge him," said the Baron.
"But he will not fight--it would be contrary to his principles," said
Roma.
"In that event he will never be able to lift his head in Italy again.
But make no mistake on that point, my child. The man who is told that
the woman he is going to marry is secretly the wife of another must
either believe it or he must not. If he believes it, he casts her off
for ever. If he does not believe it, he fights for her name and his own
honour. If he does neither, he is not a man."
Roma had returned to the stool, and was resting her elbows on her knees
and gazing into the fire.
"Have you thought of that?" said the Baron. "If the man fights a duel,
it will be in defence of what you have told him. In the blindness of his
belief in your word he will be ready to risk his life for it. Are you
going to stand by and see him fight for a lie?"
Roma hid her face in her hands.
"Say he is wounded--it will be for a lie! Say he wounds his
adversary--that will be for a lie too! Say that David Rossi kills
me--what then? He must fly from Italy, and his career is at an end. If
he is alone, he is a miserable exile who has earned what he may not
enjoy. If you are with him, you are both miserable, for a lie stands
between you. Every hour of your life is poisoned by the secret you
cannot share with him. You are afraid of blurting it out in your sleep.
At last you go to him and confess everything. What then? The idol he
worshipped has turned to clay. What he thought an act of retribution is
a crime. The dead man had told the truth, and he committed murder on the
word of a woman who was a deceiver--a drab."
Roma raised her hands to her head as if to avert a blow.
"Stop! stop!" she cried in a choking voice, and lifting her face,
distorted with suffering, tears rose in her eyes. To see Roma cry
touched the only tenderness of which his iron nature was capable. He
patted the beautiful head at his feet, and said in a caressing tone:
"Why will you make me seem so hard, my child? There is really no need to
talk of these things. They will not occur. How can I have any desire to
degrade you since I must degrade myself at the same time? I have no wish
to tell any one the secret which belongs only to you and me. In that
matter you were not to blame either. It was all my doing. I was
sweltering under the shameful law which tied me to a dead body, and I
tried to attach you to me. And then your beauty--your loveliness...."
At that moment Felice announced Commendatore Angelelli. Roma walked over
to the window and leaned her face against the glass. Snow was still
falling, and there were some rumblings of thunder. Sheets of light shone
here and there in the darkness, but the world outside was dark and
drear. Would David Rossi come to-night? She almost hoped he would not.