"MY DEAR DAVID ROSSI,--You will know all about it before this
letter reaches you. It is one of those scandals of the law that
are telegraphed to every part of the civilised world. Poor Bruno!
Yet no, not poor--great, glorious, heroic Bruno! He ended like an
old Roman, and killed himself rather than betray his friend. When
they played upon his jealousy, and tempted him by a forged
letter, he cried, 'Long live David Rossi!' and died. Oh, it was
wonderful. The memory of that moment will be with me always like
the protecting and strengthening hand of God. I never knew until
to-day what human nature is capable of. It is divine.
"But how mean and little I feel when I think of all I went through
in the court this morning! I was really undergoing the same
tortures as Bruno, the same doubt and the same agony. And even
when I saw through the whole miserable machination of lying and
duplicity I was actually in terror for Bruno lest he should betray
you in the end. Betray you! His voice when he uttered that last
cry rings in my ears still. It was a voice of triumph--triumph
over deception, over temptation, over jealousy, and over self.
"Don't think, David Rossi, that Bruno died of a broken heart, and
don't think he went out of the world believing that you were
false. I feel sure he came to that court with the full intention
of doing what he did. All through the trial there was something in
his bearing which left the impression of a purpose unrevealed.
Everybody felt it, and even the judges ceased to protest against
his outbursts. The poor prisoner in convict clothes, with
dishevelled hair and bare neck, made every one else look paltry
and small. Behind him was something mightier than himself. It was
Death. Then remember his last cry, and ask yourself what he meant
by it. He meant loyalty, love, faith, fidelity. He intended to
say, 'You've beaten me, but no matter; I believe in him, and
follow him to the last.'
"As you see, I am here in your own quarters, but I keep in touch
with 'Sister Angelica,' and still have no answer to my letter. I
invent all manner of excuses to account for your silence. You are
busy, you are on a journey, you are waiting for the right moment
to reply to me at length. If I could only continue to think so,
how happy I should be! But I cannot deceive myself any longer.
"It is perhaps natural that you should find it hard to forgive me,
but you might at least write and put me out of suspense. I think
you would do so if you knew how much I suffer. Your great soul
cannot intend to torture me. To-night the burden of things is
almost more than I can bear, and I am nearly heartbroken. It is my
dark hour, dearest, and if you had to say you could never forgive
me, I think I could easier reconcile myself to that. I have been
so happy since I began to love you; I shall always love you even
if I have to lose you, and I shall never, never be sorry for
anything that has occurred.
"Not receiving any new letters from you, I am going back on the
old ones, and there is a letter of only two months ago in which
you speak of just such a case as mine. May I quote what you say?
"'Yet even if she were not so (i.e. worthy of your love and
friendship), even if there were, as you say, a fault in her, who
am I that I should judge her harshly? ... I reject the monstrous
theory that while a man may redeem the past a woman never can....
And if she has sinned as I have sinned, and suffered as I have
suffered, I will pray for strength to say, 'Because I love her we
are one, and we stand or fall together.'
"It is so beautiful that I am even happy while my pen copies the
sweet, sweet words, and I feel as I did when the old priest spoke
so tenderly on the day I confessed, telling me I had committed no
sin and had nothing to repent of. Have I never told you about
that? My confessor was a Capuchin, and perhaps I should have
waited for his advice before going farther. He was to consult his
General or his Bishop or some one, and to send for me again.
"But all that is over now, and everything depends upon you. In any
case, be sure of one thing, whatever happens. Bruno has taught me
a great lesson, and there is not anything your enemies can do to
me that will touch me now. They have tried me already with
humiliation, with poverty, with jealousy, and even with the shadow
of shame itself. There is nothing left but death. _And death
itself shall find me faithful to the last._ Good-bye! Your poor
unforgiven girl, ROMA."
The morning after writing this letter Roma received a visit from one of
the Noble Guard. It was the Count de Raymond.
"I am sent by the Holy Father," he said, "to say that he wishes to see
you."
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