The letter bore the Berlin postmark.
"MY DEAR WIFE,--I left Paris rather unexpectedly three days ago
and arrived here on Tuesday. The reason of this sudden flight was
the announcement in the Paris papers of the festivities intended
in Rome in honour of the King's accession. Such a shameless
outrage on the people's sufferings in the hour of their greatest
need seemed to call for immediate and effectual protest, and it
was thought wise to push on the work of organisation with every
possible despatch...."
"There is a train north at 9.30," thought Roma. "I must leave to-night,
not in the morning."
"Oh, Roma, Roma, my dear Roma, I understand your father now, and
can sympathise with him at last. He held that even regicide might
become a necessary weapon in the warfare of humanity, and though I
knew that some of the greatest spirits had recourse to it, I
always thought this belief the defect of your father's quality as
a prophet and the limit of his vision. But now I see that the only
difference between us was that his heart was bigger than mine, and
that in those cruel crises where the people are helpless and can
do nothing by constitutional means, revolution, not evolution,
may _seem_ to be their only hope...."
Roma felt hysterical. There could no longer be any doubt of Rossi's
intention.
"I don't tell you anything definite about our plans, dearest,
partly because of the danger of this letter going astray, and
partly because I don't think it right to saddle my wife with the
responsibility of knowing a programme that is weighted with issues
of such immense importance to so many. I know there is not a drop
of blood in her veins that isn't ready to flow for me, but that is
no reason for exposing her to the danger of even the prick of her
little finger.
"Briefly our cry is 'Unite! Unite! Unite!' As soon as our scheme
is complete, and associates all over Europe receive the word to
commence concerted movement, the tyrants at the heads of the
States will find the old edifices riddled and honeycombed, and
ready to fall."
Roma imagined she could see everything as it was intended to be--the
signal, the rising, the regicide. "There is a train at 2.30; I must
catch that one," she thought.
"Dearest, don't attempt to reply to this letter, for I may leave
Berlin at any moment, but whether for Geneva or Zürich I don't yet
know. I can give you no address for letter or telegram, and
perhaps it is best that at the critical moment I should cut myself
off from all connection with Rome. Before many days I shall be
with you; my absence will be over, and, God willing, I shall never
leave your side again...."
Roma was growing dizzy. Rossi was rushing on his death, and there was no
help for him. It was like the awful hand of the Almighty driving him
blindly on.
"Adieu, my darling. Keep well. A friend writes that letters from
Rome are following me from London. They must be yours, but before
they overtake me I shall be holding you in my arms. How I long for
it! I am more than ever full of love for you, and if I have filled
my letter with business I have other things to say to you the very
moment that we meet. Don't expect me until you see me in your
room. Be brave! Now is the moment for all your courage. Remember
you promised to be my soldier as well as my wife--'ready and waiting
when her captain calls.' D."
Roma was standing with Rossi's letter in her hand--her face and lips
white, and her head full of a roaring noise--when a knock came to the
bedroom door. Before answering she thrust the letter into the stove and
set a match to it.
"Donna Roma! Are you there, Signora?"
"Wait ... come in."
The old woman's head, in its coloured handkerchief, appeared through the
half-opened door.
"A Frate in the sitting-room to see you, Signora."
It was Father Pifferi. The old man's gentle face looked troubled. Roma
gave him a rapid, penetrating, and fearful glance.
"The Holy Father wishes to see you again," he said.
Roma thought for a moment; then she said, "Very well, let us go," and
she went back to her room to make ready. The last of the letter was
burning in the stove.