IX

Roma went home full of uncertainty, and wrote in a nervous and

straggling hand a hasty letter to Rossi.

"My dearest," she said, "your letter reached me safely last evening, and

though I cannot answer it properly at the present moment, I must send a

brief reply by mid-day's mail, because there are two or three things it

is imperative I should say immediately.

"The first is that I wrote you a very important letter to London twelve

days ago, and it is clear that you have not yet received it. The

contents were of the greatest seriousness and also of the greatest

secrecy, and I should die if any other eye than yours were to read

them; therefore do not lose a moment until you ask for the letter to be

sent after you to Paris. Write to London by the first post, and when the

letter has come to your hand, do telegraph to me saying so. 'Received,'

that will be sufficient, but if you can add one other little word

expressing your feeling on reading what I wrote--'Forgiven,' for

instance--my feeling will not be happiness, it will be delirium.

"The next thing I have to say, dearest, is about your letters. You know

they are more precious to me than my heart's blood, and there is not a

word or a line of them I would sacrifice for a queen's crown. But they

are so full of perilous opinions and of hints of programmes for

dangerous enterprises, that for your sake I am afraid. It is so good of

you to tell me what you are thinking and doing, and I am so proud to be

the woman who has the confidence as well as the love of the

most-talked-of man in Europe, that it cuts at my heart to ask you to

tell me no more about your political plans. Nevertheless, I must. Think

what would happen if the police took it into their heads to make a

domiciliary visitation in this house. And then think of what a fearful

weapon it puts into the hands of your enemies, if, hearing that I know

so much, they put pressure upon me that I cannot withstand! Of course,

that is impossible. I would die first. But still....

"My last point, dearest...."

Her pen stopped. How was she to put what she wished to say next? David

Rossi was in danger--a double danger--danger from within as well as

danger from without. His last letter showed plainly that he was engaged

in an enterprise which his adversaries would call a plot. Roma

remembered her father, doomed to a life-long exile and a lonely death,

and asked herself if it was not always the case that the reformer partly

reformed his age, and was partly corrupted by it.

If she could only draw David Rossi away from associations that were

always reeking of revolution, if she could bring him back to Rome before

he was too far involved in plots and with plotters! But how could she do

it? To tell him the plain truth that he was going headlong to _domicilio

coatto_ was useless. She must resort to artifice. A light shot through

her brain, her eyes gleamed, and she began again:

"My last point, dearest, is that I am growing jealous. Yes, indeed,

jealous! I know you love me, but knowing it doesn't help me to forget

that you are always meeting women who must admire and love you. I

tremble to think you may be happy with them. I want you to be happy, yet

I feel as if it would be treason for you to be happy without me. What an

illogical thing love is! But where Love reigns jealousy is always the

Prime Minister, and in order to banish my jealousy you must come back

immediately...."

Her pen stopped again. The artifice was too trivial, too palpable, and

he would certainly see through it. She tore up the sheet and began

afresh.

"My last point, dearest, is that I fear you are forgetting me in your

work. While thinking of the revolution you are making in Europe, you

forget the revolution you have already made in this poor little heart.

Of course I love your glory more than I love myself, yet I am afraid it

is taking you away from me, and will end by leading you up, up, up, out

of a woman's reach. Why didn't I give you my portrait to put in your

watch-case when you went away? Don't let this folly disgust you,

dearest. A woman is a foolish thing, isn't she? But if you don't want me

to make a torment of everything you will hasten back in time to...."

She threw down the pen and began to cry. Hadn't she promised him that,

come what would, her love for him should never stand in his way? In the

midst of her tears a little stab at her heart made her think of

something else, and she took up the pen again.

"My last point, dearest, is that I am ill, and very, very anxious to see

you soon. My health has been failing ever since you left Rome. Perhaps

the anxieties I have gone through have been partly the cause of this,

but I am sure that your absence is chiefly responsible, and that no

doctor and no medicine would be so good for me as one rush into your

arms. Therefore come and give me back all my health and happiness. Come,

I beg of you. Leave it to others to do your work abroad. Come at once

_before things have gone too far_; come, come, come!"

She hesitated, wanting to say, "Not that I am _very_ ill...." And then,

"You mustn't come if there is any risk to yourself...." And again, "I

would never forgive myself if...." But she crushed down her qualms,

sealed her letter, and sent the Garibaldian to post it.

Then she gathered up the entire body of David Rossi's letters, and

putting some light firewood into the stove she sat on the ground to burn

them. It was necessary to remove all evidence that could be used against

him in the event of a domiciliary visitation. One by one as the letters,

were passed into the fire she read parts of them, and some of the

passages seemed to stand out afresh in the flames. "Your friend must be

a true woman, and it was very sweet of you to be so tender with

her." ... "There is always a little twinge when I read between the lines

of your letters. Are you not dissimulating?... to keep up my

spirits?" ... "You shall smile and recover all your girlish spirits....

I shall hear your silvery laugh again as I did on that glorious day in

the Campagna." ... "It shows how rightly I judged the moral elevation

of your soul, your impeccability, your spirit of fire and your heart of

gold."

While the letters were burning she felt herself to be under the

influence of a kind of delirium. It was almost as though she were

committing murder.

X

The Pope had begun the day with the long task of administering the

sacrament to the lay members of his household, yet at eight o'clock he

was back in his library in the midst of his morning receptions

surrounded by a bevy of camerieri, monsignori, and messengers. First

came a Cardinal Prefect of Propaganda to report the doings of his

congregation; then an ambassador from Spain to tell of the suppression

of religious orders; and finally the majordomo to recite the official

programme for the public ceremonies which the Pope had ordered for Holy

Thursday.

It was now ten o'clock, and Cortis, the valet, brought the usual plate

of soup. Then came a large man with bold features and dark complexion,

wearing a purple robe edged with red and a red biretta. It was the

Cardinal Secretary of State.

"What news this morning, your Eminence?" said the Pope.

"The Government," said the Cardinal Secretary, "has just published a

proclamation announcing a jubilee in honour of the King's accession. It

is to begin on Monday next, and there are to be great feasts and

rejoicings."

"A jubilee at a time like this! What a wild mockery of the people's

woes! How many poor women and children must go hungry before this royal

orgy has been paid for! God be with us! Such injustice and tyranny in

the Satanic guise of clemency and indulgence is almost enough to explain

the homicidal theories of the demagogues and to justify men like

Rossi.... Any further news of him?"

"Yes. He is at present in Paris, in close intercourse with the leaders

of every abominable sect."

"You have seen this man Rossi, your Eminence?"

"Once. I saw him on the morning of the jubilee of your Holiness, when he

attempted to present a petition."

"What is he like to look upon--the typical demagogue; no?"

"No. I am bound to say no, your Holiness. And his conversation, though

it is full of the jargon of modern Liberalism, has none of the

obscenities of Voltaire."

"Some one said ... who was it, I wonder?... some one said he resembled

the Holy Father."

"Now that you mention it, your Holiness, there is perhaps a remote

resemblance."

"Ah! who knows what service for God and humanity even such a man might

have done if in early life his lines had been cast in better places."

"They say he was an orphan from his infancy, your Holiness."

"Then he never knew a father's care and guidance! Unhappy son! Unhappy

father!"

"Monsignor Mario," said the low voice of a chamberlain, and at the next

moment the Pope's messenger to the Prime Minister was kneeling in the

middle of the floor.

In nervous tones and broken sentences the Monsignor told his story. The

Pope listened intently, the vertical lines on his forehead deepening and

darkening every moment, until at length he burst out impatiently:

"But, my son, you do not say that you said all this in addition to your

message?"

"I was drawn into doing so in defence of your Holiness."

"You told the Minister that my information came through the channel of a

simple confidence?"

"He insinuated that the Holy Father was perhaps breaking the seal of the

confessional...."

"That my informant was a non-Catholic and a woman?"

"He implied that your Holiness had only to command her to reveal the

conspiracy to the civil authorities, and therefore...."

"And you said she was here on Saturday morning?"

"He hinted that the Holy Father was an accomplice of criminals if he had

known this without revealing it before, and that was why...."

"And she came in at that moment, you say?"

"At that very moment, your Holiness, and said she had met me on Saturday

morning."

"Man, man, what have you done?" cried the Pope, rising from his seat and

pacing the room.

The chamberlain continued to kneel in utter humility, until the Pope,

recovering his composure, put both hands on his shoulders and raised him

to his feet.

"Forgive me, my son. I was more to blame than you were. It was wrong to

trust any one with a verbal message in the cabinet of a fox. The Holy

Father should have no intercourse with such persons. But this is God's

hand. Let us leave everything to the Holy Spirit."

At that moment the Papal Majordomo returned with a letter. It was the

Baron's letter to the Pope. After the Pope had read it he stepped into a

little adjoining room which contained nothing but a lounge and an

easy-chair. There he lay on the lounge and turned his face to the wall.