When the train started again, Rossi was a prisoner sitting between two
of the Carabineers with the marshal of Carabineers on the seat in front
of him. His heart felt cold and his chin buried itself in his breast. He
was asking himself how many persons knew of his identity with David
Leone, and could connect him with the trial of eighteen years ago.
_There was but one._
Rossi leapt to his feet with a muttered oath on his lips. The thing that
had flashed through his mind was impossible, and he was himself the
traitor to think of it. But even when the imagined agony had passed
away, a hard lump lay at his heart and he felt sick and ashamed.
The marshal of Carabineers, who had mistaken Rossi's gesture, closed the
carriage window and stood with his back to it until the train arrived at
Milan. A police official was waiting for them there with the latest
instructions from Rome. In order to avoid the possibility of a public
disturbance in the capital on the day of the King's Jubilee, the
prisoner was to be detained in Milan until further notice.
"Seems you're to sleep here to-night, Honourable," said the soldier.
Remembering that it had been his intention to do so when he left Zürich,
Rossi laughed bitterly.
It was now dark. A prison van stood at the end of a line of hotel
omnibuses, and Rossi was marched to it between the measured steps of the
Carabineers. News of his arrest had already been published in Milan, and
crowds of spectators were gathered in the open space outside the
station. He tried to hold up his head when the people peered at him,
telling himself that the arrest of an innocent man was not his but the
law's disgrace; yet a sense of sickness surprised him again and he
dropped his head as he buried himself in the van.
On the dark drive to the prison in the Via Filangeri the Carabineers
grumbled and swore at the hard fate which kept them out of Rome at a
time of public rejoicing. There was to be a dinner on Monday night at
the barracks on the Prati, and on Tuesday morning the King was to
present medals.
Rossi shut his eyes and said nothing. But half-an-hour later, when he
had been put in the "paying" cell, and the marshal of Carabineers was
leaving him, he could not forbear to speak.
"Officer," he said, fumbling his copy of the warrant, "would you mind
telling me where you received this paper?"
"At the Procura, of course," said the soldier.
"Some one had denounced me there--can you tell me who it was?"
"That's no business of mine, Honourable. Still, as you wish to know...."
"Well?"
"A lady was there when the warrant was made out, and if I had to guess
who she was...."
Rossi saw the name coming in the man's face, and he flung out at him in
a roar of wrath.
During the long hours of the night he tried to account for his arrest to
the exclusion of Roma. He thought of every woman whom he had known
intimately in England and America, and finally of Elena and old
Francesca. It was useless. There was only one woman in the world who
knew the secrets of his early life. He had revealed some of them
himself, and the rest she knew of her own knowledge.
No matter! There was no traitor so treacherous as circumstance. He would
not believe the lie that fate was thrusting down his throat. Roma was
faithful, she would die rather than betray him, and he was a
contemptible hound to allow himself to think of her in that connection.
He recalled her letters, her sacrifices, her brave and cheerful
renunciation, and the hard lump that had settled at his heart rose up to
his throat.
Morning broke at last. As the grey dawn entered the cell the Easter
bells were ringing. Rossi remembered in what other conditions he had
expected to hear them, and again his heart grew bitter. A good-natured
warder came with his breakfast of bread and water, and a smuggled copy
of a morning journal called the _Perseveranza_. It contained an account
of his arrest, and a leading article on his career as a thing closed
and ruined. The public would learn with astonishment that a man who had
attained to great prominence in Parliament and lived several years in
the fierce light of the world's eye, had all the time masqueraded in a
false character, being really a criminal convicted long ago for
conspiring against the person of the late King.
The sun shone, the sparrows chirped, the church bells rang the whole day
long. Towards evening the warder came with another newspaper, the
_Corriere della Sera_. It explained that the sensational arrest of the
illustrious Deputy, which had fallen on the country like a thunderbolt,
was not intended as punishment for an offence long past and forgotten,
but as a means of preventing a political crime that was on the eve of
being committed. The Deputy had been abroad since the unhappy riots of
the First of February, and advices from foreign police left no doubt
whatever that he had contemplated a preposterous raid of the combined
revolutionary clubs of Europe against Italy, timed with almost fiendish
imagination to break out on the festival of the King's Jubilee.
Rossi slept as little on Sunday night as on the night before. The
horrible doubts which he had driven away were sucking at his heart like
a vampire. He tried to invent excuses for Roma. She was intimidated; she
was a woman and she could not help herself. Useless, and worse than
useless! "I thought the daughter of Joseph Roselli would have died
first," he told himself.
The good-natured warder brought him another newspaper in the morning,
the _Secolo_, an organ of his own party. Its tone was the bitterest of
all. "We have reason to believe that the unfortunate event, which cannot
but have the effect of setting back the people's cause, is due to the
betrayal of one of their leaders by a certain fashionable woman who is
near to the person of the President of the Council. It is the old story
over again, the story of man's weakness and woman's deception, with
every familiar circumstance of humiliation, folly, and shame."
There could be no doubt of it. It was Roma who had betrayed him.
Whatever her reasons or excuse, the result was the same. She had given
up the deepest secrets of his soul, and his life's work was in the dust.
The marshal of Carabineers came to say that they were to go on to Rome,
and at nine o'clock they were again in the train. People in holiday
dress were promenading the platform and the station was hung with flags.
A gentleman in a white waistcoat was about to step into the compartment
with the Carabineers and their prisoner, when, recognising his
travelling companions, he bowed and stepped back. It was the Sergeant of
the Chamber, returning after the Easter vacation from his villa on one
of the lakes. Rossi sent a ringing laugh after the man, and that brought
him back.
"I'm sorry for you, Honourable, very sorry," he said. "You've deceived
us all, but now you are seen in your true colours, and apparently
throwing off all disguise."
The Sergeant was so far right that Rossi was another man. Whatever had
been tender and sweet in him was now hard and bitter. The train started
for Rome, and the soldiers drew the straws out of their Tuscan cigars
and smoked. Rossi coiled himself up in his corner and shut his eyes.
Sometimes a sneer curled his lips, sometimes he laughed aloud.
They were travelling by the coast route, and when the train ran into
Genoa a military band at the foot of the monument to Mazzini was playing
the royal hymn. But the festivities of the King's Jubilee were eclipsed
in public interest by the arrest of Rossi and the collapse of the
conspiracy which it was understood to imply. The marshal of the
Carabineers bought the local papers, and one of them was full of details
of "The Great Plot." An exact account was given from a semi-military
standpoint of the plan of the supposed raid. It included the capture of
the arsenal at Genoa and the assassination of the King at Rome.
The train ran through countless tunnels like the air through a flute,
now rumbling in the darkness, now whistling in the light. Rossi closed
his eyes and shut out the torment of passing scenes, and straightway he
was seeing Roma. He could only see her as he had always seen her, with
her golden complexion, her large violet eyes and long curved lashes, her
mouth which had its own gift of smiling, and her glow of health and
happiness. Whatever she had done he knew that he must always love her.
This worked on him like madness, and once again he leapt to his feet and
made for the corridor, whereupon the Carabineers, who had been sleeping,
got up and shut the door.
Night fell, and the moon rose, large and blood-red as a setting sun.
When the train shot on to the Roman Campagna, like a boat gliding into
open sea, the great and solemn desolation seemed more than ever
withdrawn from the sights and sounds of the living world. Rossi
remembered the joy of joys with which he had expected to cross the
familiar country. Then he looked across at the soldiers who were snoring
in their seats.
When the train stopped at Civita Vecchia, the Carabineers opened the
door to the corridor that their prisoner might stretch his legs. Some
evening papers from Rome were handed into the carriage. Rossi put out
his hand to pay for them, and to his surprise it was seized with an
eager grasp. The newsman, who was also carrying a tray of coffee, was a
huge creature, with a white apron and a paper cap.
"Caffé, sir? Caffé?" he called, and then in an undertone, "Don't you
know me, old fellow? Caffé, sir? Thank you."
It was one of Rossi's colleagues in the House of Deputies.
"Milk, sir? With pleasure, sir. Venti centesimi, sir.... All right, old
chap. Keep your eyes open at the station at Rome.... Change, sir?
Certainly sir.... Coupé, waiting on the left side. Look alive. Addio!...
Caffé! Caffé!"
The lusty voice died away down the platform, and the train started
again. Rossi felt giddy. He staggered back to his seat and tried to read
his evening papers.
The _Sunrise_, the paper founded by Rossi himself, seemed to be full of
the Prime Minister. He had that day put the crown on a career of the
highest distinction; the King had conferred the Collar of the Annunziata
upon him; and in view of the continued rumblings of unrest it was even
probable that he would be made Dictator.
The _Avanti_ seemed to Rossi to be full of himself. When the country
recovered from the delirium of that day's ridiculous doings, it would
know how to judge of the infamous methods of a Minister who had
condescended to use the devices of a Delilah for the defeat and
confusion of a political adversary.
Rossi felt as if he were suffocating. He put a hand into a side-pocket,
for his copy of the warrant crinkled there under his twitching fingers.
If he could only meet with Roma for a moment and thrust the damning
document in her face!
When the train ran along the side of the Tiber, they could see a great
framework of fireworks which had been erected on the Pincio. It
represented a gigantic crown and was all ablaze. At length the train
slowed down and entered the terminus at Rome. Rossi remembered how he
had expected to enter it, and he choked with wounded pride.
There were the thumpings and clankings and the blinding flashes of white
light, and then the train stopped. The station was full of people. Rossi
noticed Malatesta among them, the man whose life he had spared in the
duel he had been compelled to fight.
"Now, then, please!" said the marshal of Carabineers, and Rossi stepped
down to the platform. A soldier marched on either side of him; the
marshal walked in front. The people parted to let the four men pass, and
then closed up and came after them. Not a word was spoken.
With pale lips and a fixed gaze which seemed to look at nobody, Rossi
walked to the end of the platform, and there the crush was greatest.
"Room!" cried the marshal of Carabineers, making for the gate at which a
porter was taking tickets. A black van stood outside.
Suddenly the marshal was struck on the shoulder by a hand out of the
crowd. He turned to defend himself, and was struck on the other side.
Then he tried to draw a weapon, but before he could do so he was thrown
to the ground. One of the two other Carabineers stooped to lift him up,
and the third laid hold of Rossi. At the next instant Rossi felt the
soldier's hand fall from his arm as by a sword cut, and somebody was
crying in his ear:
"Now's your time, sir. Leave this to me and fly."
It was Malatesta. Before Rossi fully knew what he was doing, he crossed
the lines to the opposite platform, passed through the barrier by means
of his Deputy's medal permitting him to travel on the railways, and
stepped into a coupé that stood waiting with an open door.
"Where to, signore?"
"Piazza Navona--_presto_."
As the carriage rattled across the end of the Piazza Margherita a
company of Carabineers was going at quick march towards the station.