XI

When Rossi left home he was like a raging madman. He made straight for

the Palazzo Braschi at the other side of the piazza, and going up the

marble staircase on limbs that could scarcely support him, his thoughts

went back in a broken maze to the scene he had left behind.

"Our little boy dead! Dead in his mother's arms! O God! let me meet the

man face to face!... Our innocent darling! The light of our eyes put out

in a moment! Our sweet little Joseph!... Shall there be no retribution?

God forbid! The man who has been the chief cause of this crime shall be

the first to suffer punishment. No use wasting time on the hounds who

executed his orders. They are only delegates of police, and over them is

this Minister of the Interior. He alone is responsible, and he is here!"

When he reached the green baize door to the hall, he stopped to wipe

away the perspiration which stood on his forehead although his face was

flecked with snow. The messengers looked scared when he stepped inside,

and they answered his questions with obvious hesitation. The Minister

was not in his cabinet. He had not been there that night. It was

possible the Honourable might find his Excellency at home.

Rossi turned on his heel instantly, and went hurriedly downstairs. He

would go to the Palazzo Leone. There was no time to lose. Presently the

man would hide himself in the darkness like a toad under a stone.

As he left the Ministry of the Interior he heard the singing of the

Garibaldi Hymn in the distance, and turning into the Corso Victor

Emmanuel, he came upon crowds of people and some noisy and tumultuous

scenes.

One group had broken into a gun-shop and seized rifles and cartridges;

another group had taken possession of two electric tram-cars, and

tumbled them on their sides to make a barricade across the street; and a

third group was tearing up the street itself to use the stones for

missiles. "Our turn now," they were shouting, and there were screams of

delirious laughter.

As Rossi crossed the bridge of St. Angelo the cannon was fired from the

Castle, and he knew that it was meant for a signal. "No matter!" he

thought. "It will be too late when the soldiers arrive."

Notwithstanding the tumult in the city the Piazza of St. Peter's was

silent and deserted. Not the sound of a footfall, not the rattle of a

carriage-wheel; only the swish-swish of the fountains, whose waters were

playing in the lamplight through the falling snow, and the echoing

hammer of the clock of the Basilica.

The porter of the Palazzo Leone was asleep in his lodge, and Rossi

passed upstairs.

"I'll bring the man to justice now," he thought. "He imagined we were

only tame cats and would submit to anything. He was wrong. We'll show

him we know how to punish tyrants. Haven't we always done so, we Romans?

He has a sharp tongue for the people, but I have a sharper one here for

him."

And he felt for the revolver in his breast-pocket to make certain it was

there.

The lackey in knee-breeches and yellow stockings who answered the inside

bell was almost speechless at the sight of the white face which

confronted him at the door. No, the Baron was not at home. He had not

been there since early in the evening. Had he gone to the Prefettura?

Possibly. Or the Consulta? Perhaps.

"Which, man, which?" said Rossi, and to say something the lackey

stammered "The Consulta," and closed the door.

Rossi set his face towards the Foreign Office. There was a light in the

stained-glass windows of the Pope's private chapel--the Holy Father was

at his prayers. A canvas-covered barrow containing a man who had been

injured by the soldiers was being wheeled into the Hospital of Santo

Spirito, and a woman and a child were walking and crying beside it.

The streets were covered with broken tiles which had been thrown on to

the heads of the cavalry as they galloped through the principal

thoroughfares. Carabineers, with revolvers in hand, were dragging

themselves on their stomachs along the roofs, trying to surprise the

rioters who were hiding behind chimney-stacks. Some one shouted: "Cut

the electric wires," and men were clambering up the tall posts and

breaking the electric lamps.

The Consulta, the office of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, stands in

the Piazza of the Quirinal, and when Rossi reached it the great square

of the King was as silent as the great square of the Pope had been.

Two sentries were in boxes on either side of the royal gate, and one

Carabineer was in the doorway. The gardens down the long corridor lay

dark in the shadows, but the fountain with sculptured horses, the

splashing water, and the front of the building were white under the

electric lamps as if from a dazzling moon.

Before turning into the silent courtyard of the Consulta, Rossi paused

and listened to the noises that came from the city. Men were singing and

women were screaming. The rattle of musketry mingled with the cries of

children. And over all were the steady downfall of the snow and the dull

rumble of distant thunder.

Rossi held his head between his hands to prevent his senses from leaving

him. His rage was ebbing away, and he was beginning to tremble.

Nevertheless, he forced himself to go on. As he rang the bell at the

Foreign Office, he was partly conscious of a secret desire that the

Prime Minister might not be there.

The porter was not sure. The Baron's carriage had just gone. Let him ask

on the telephone.... No, there had been a messenger from the Minister of

the Interior, but the Minister himself had not been there that night.

Rossi took a long breath of relief and went away. He had returned to the

bright side of the piazza when the lights seemed to be wiped out as

though by an invisible wing, and the whole city was plunged in darkness.

At the next moment a squadron of cavalry galloped up to the Quirinal,

and the gates of the royal palace and of the Consulta were closed.

Midnight struck.

For two hours the soldiers had been charging the crowds by the light of

lanterns and torches. They had arrested hundreds of persons. Chained

together, two and two, the insurgents had been taken to the places of

detention, amid the cries of their women and children. "Who knows

whether we shall see each other again?" said the prisoners, as they

passed into the "House of Pain." One old woman went on her knees to the

soldiers and begged them to have pity on the people. "They are your

brothers, my sons," she cried.

One o'clock struck.

The streets were still dark, but a searchlight from Monte Mario was

sweeping over the city like a flash of a supernatural eye. With

tottering limbs and his head on his breast, David Rossi was walking down

the Via due Macelli towards the column of the Immaculate Conception,

when a young girl spoke to him.

"Honourable," she said, "is it true that the little boy is dead?... It

is? Oh, dear! I met him in the Corso, and brought him up as far as the

Variétés, and if I had only taken him all the way.... Oh, I shall never

forgive myself!"

The city was quiet and all was hushed on every side when Rossi found

himself on a flight of steps at the back of Roma's apartment. From these

steps a door opened into the studio. One panel of the door was glazed,

and a light was shining from within. Going cautiously forward, Rossi

looked into the room. Roma was seated on a stool with her hands clasped

in her lap and her hair hanging loose. She was very pale. Her face

expressed unutterable sadness.

Rossi listened for a moment, but there was not a sound to be heard

except that of the different clocks chiming the quarter. Then he tapped

lightly on the glass.

"Roma!" he said in a low tone. "Roma!"

She rose up and shrank back. Then coming to the door, and shielding her

eyes from the light, she put her face close to the pane. At the next

moment she threw the door open.

"Is it you?" she said in a tremulous voice, and taking his hand she drew

him hurriedly into the house.