When the Baron awoke on Saturday he remembered Roma with a good deal of
self-reproach, and everything that happened during the following days
made him think of her with tenderness. During the morning an
aide-de-camp brought him the casket containing the Collar of the
Annunziata, and spoke a formal speech. He fingered the jewelled band and
golden pendant as he made the answer prescribed by etiquette, but he was
thinking of Roma and the joy she might have felt in hailing him cousin
of the King.
Towards noon he received the telegram which announced the death of his
maniac wife, and he set off instantly for his castle in the Alban Hills.
He remained long enough to see the body removed to the church, and then
returned to Rome. Nazzareno carried to the station the little hand-bag
full of despatches with which he had occupied the hour spent in the
train. They passed by the tree which had been planted on the first of
Roma's Roman birthdays. It was covered with white roses. The Baron
plucked one of them, and wore it in his button-hole on the return
journey.
Before midnight he was back in the Piazza Leone, where the Commendatore
Angelelli was waiting with news of the arrest of Rossi. He gave orders
to have the editor of the _Sunrise_ sent to him so that he might make a
tentative suggestion. But in spite of himself his satisfaction at
Rossi's complete collapse and possible extermination was disturbed by
pity for Roma.
Sunday was given up to the interview with the journalist, the last
preparations for the Jubilee, and various secular duties. Monday's
ceremonials began with the Mass. The Piazza of the Pantheon was lined
with a splendid array of soldiers in glistening breastplates and
helmets, a tall bodyguard through which the little King passed to his
place amid the playing of the national hymn. In the old Pantheon itself,
roofed with an awning of white silk which bore the royal arms, flares
were burning up to the topmost cornice of the round walls. A temporary
altar decorated in white and gold was ablaze with candles, and the
choir, conducted by a fashionable composer of opera, were in a golden
cage. The King and Queen and royal princes sat in chairs under a velvet
canopy, and there were tribunes for cabinet ministers, senators,
deputies, and foreign ambassadors. Religion was necessary to all state
functions, and the Mass was a magnificent political demonstration
carried out on lines arranged by the Baron himself. He had forgotten
God, but he had remembered the King, and he had thought of Roma also.
She wept at all religious ceremonies, and would have shed tears if she
had been present at this one.
From the Pantheon they passed to the Capitol, amid the playing of bands
of music which showered through the streets their hail of sound. The
magnificent hall was crowded by a brilliant company in silk dresses and
decorations. An address was read by the Mayor, reciting the early
misfortunes of Italy, and closing with allusions to the prosperity of
the nation under the reigning dynasty. In his reply the King extolled
the army as the hope of peace and unity, and ended with a eulogy of the
President of the Council, whose powerful policy had dispelled the
vaporous dreams of unpractical politicians who were threatening the
stability of the throne and the welfare of its loyal subjects.
The Baron answered briefly that he had done no more than his duty to his
King, who was almost a republican monarch, and to his country, which was
the freest in the world. As for the visionaries and their visions, a few
refugees in Zürich, cheered on by the rabble abroad, might dream of
constructing a universal republic out of the various nations and races,
with Rome as their capital, but these were the delirious dreams of weak
minds.
"Dangerous!" said the Baron, with a smile. "To think of the eternal
dreamer being dangerous!"
The King laughed, the senators cheered, the ladies waved their
handkerchiefs, and again the Baron remembered Roma.
The procession to the Quirinal was a prolonged triumph. Every house was
hung with flags, every window with red and yellow damask. The clubs in
the Corso were crowded with princes, nobles, diplomats, and
distinguished foreigners. Civil guards by hundreds in their purple
plumes lined the streets, and the pavements were packed with loyal
people. It was a glorious pageant, such as Roma loved.
The mayors of the province, followed by citizens under their appointed
leaders and flags, came up to the Quirinal as the Baron had appointed,
and called the King on to the balcony. The King accepted the call and
made a sign of thanks.
Returning to the house the King ordered that papers should be prepared
immediately creating the Baron Bonelli by royal decree Dictator of Italy
for a period of six months from that date. "If Roma were here now,"
thought the Baron.
Then night came, and the state dinner at the royal palace was a moving
scene of enchantment. One princess came after another, apparently
clothed in diamonds. The Baron wore the Collar of the Annunziata, and
the foreign ambassadors, who as representatives of their sovereigns were
entitled to precedence, gave place to him, and he sat on the right of
the Queen.
After dinner he led the Queen to an embroidered throne under a velvet
baldachino in a gorgeous chamber which had been the chapel of the Popes.
Then the ball began. What torrents of light! What a dazzling blaze of
diamonds! What lovely faces and pure white skins! What soft bosoms and
full round forms! What gleams of life and love in a hundred pairs of
beautiful eyes! But there was a lovelier face and form in the mind of
the Baron than any his eyes could see, and excusing himself to the King
on the ground of Rossi's expected arrival, he left the palace.
Fireflies in the dark garden of the Quirinal were emitting drops of
light as the Baron passed through the echoing courts, and the big square
in front, bright with electric light, was silent save for the footfall
of the sentries at the gate.
The Baron walked in the direction of the Piazza Navona. His
self-reproach was becoming poignant. He remembered the threats he had
made, and told himself he had never intended to carry them out. They
were only meant to impress the imagination of the person played upon, as
might happen in any ordinary affair of public life.
The Baron's memory went back to the last state ball before this one, and
he felt some pangs of shame. But the disaster of that night had not been
due to the cold calculation to which he had attributed it. The cause was
simpler and more human--love of a beautiful woman who was slipping away
from him, the girding sense of being bound body and soul to a wife that
was no wife, and the mad intoxication of a moment.
No matter! Roma should not lose by what had happened. He would make it
up to her. Considering her unconventional conduct, it was no little
thing he intended to do, but he would do it, and she would see that
others were capable of sacrifice.
The people were on the Pincio and the streets were quiet. When the Baron
reached the Piazza Navona there was hardly anybody about, and he had
difficulty in finding the house. No one saw him enter, and he met with
nobody on the stairs. So much the better. He was half ashamed.
After he had knocked twice a voice which he did not recognise told him
to come in. When he pushed the door open Roma, in hat and veil, stood
before him, with her back to a bureau. He thought she looked frightened
and ill.
V
"My dear Roma," said the Baron, "I bring you good news. Everything has
turned out well. Nothing could have been managed better, and I come to
congratulate you."
He was visibly excited, and spoke rapidly and even loudly.
"The man was arrested on the frontier--you must have heard of that. He
was coming by the night train on Saturday, and to prevent a possible
disturbance they kept him in Milan until this morning."
Roma continued to stand with her back to the bureau.
"The news was in all the journals yesterday, my dear, and it had a
splendid effect on the opening of the Jubilee. When the King went to
Mass this morning the plot had received its death-blow, and our anxiety
was at an end. To-night the man will arrive in Rome, and within an hour
from now he will be safely locked up in prison."
Every nerve in Roma's body was palpitating, but she did not attempt to
speak.
"It is all your doing, my child--yours, not mine. Your clever brain has
brought it all to pass. 'Leave the man to me,' you said. I left him to
you, and you have accomplished everything."
Roma drew her lips together and tried to control herself.
"But what things you have gone through in order to achieve your purpose!
Slights, slurs, insults! No wonder the man was taken in by it. Society
itself was taken in. And I--yes, I myself--was almost deceived."
"Shall it be now?" thought Roma. The Baron was on the hearthrug
directly facing her.
"But you knew what you were doing, my dear. It was all a part of your
scheme. You drew the man on. In due time he delivered himself up to you.
He surrendered every secret of his soul. And when your great hour came
you were ready. You met it as you had always intended. 'At the top of
his hopes he shall fall,' you said."
Roma's heart was beating as if it would burst its bounds.
"He _has_ fallen. Thanks to you, this enemy of civil society, this
slanderer of women, is down. Then the Pope too! And the confession to
the Reverend Father! Who but a woman could have thought of a thing like
that?---making your denunciation so defensible, so pardonable, so
plausible, so inevitable! What skill! What patience! What diplomacy! And
what will and nerve too! Who shall say now that women are incapable of
great things?"
The Baron had thrown open his overcoat, revealing the broad expanse of
his shirt-front, crossed by the glittering collar of the Annunziata, and
was promenading the hearthrug without a thought of his peril.
"The journals of half Europe will have accounts of the failure of the
'Great Plot.' There was another plot, my dear, which did not fail.
Europe will hear of that also, and by to-morrow morning the world will
know what a woman may do to punish the man who traduces and degrades
her!"
"Why don't I do it?" thought Roma. She was fingering the revolver on the
bureau behind her, and breathing fast and audibly.
"You shall have everything back, my dear. Carriages, jewellery,
apartments, exactly as you parted with them. I have kept all under my
own control, and in a single day you can be reinstated."
Roma's palpitating heart was hurting her.
"But won't you sit down, my child? I have something to tell you. It is
important news. The Baroness is dead. Yes, she died on Saturday, poor
soul. Should I play the hypocrite and weep? Why should I? For fifteen
years a cruel law, which I dare not attempt to repeal by divorce in a
Catholic country, has tied me to a living corpse. Shall I pretend to
mourn because my burden has fallen away?... Roma, sit down, my dear;
don't continue to stand there.... Roma, I am free, and we can now carry
out our marriage, as we always hoped and intended."
"Now!" thought Roma, moving a little forward.
"Ah, don't be afraid of anything. I am not afraid, and you needn't be
afraid either. Certainly rumour has coupled our names already. But what
matter about that? No one shall insult you, whatever has occurred.
Wherever I go you shall go too. If they cannot do without me they shall
not do without you, and in spite of everything you shall be received
everywhere."
"Is that all you had to say?" said Roma.
"Not all. There is something else, and I couldn't wait for the
newspapers to tell you. The King has appointed me Dictator for six
months. That means that you will be more courted than the Queen. What a
revenge! The women who have been turning their backs upon you will bend
their backs before you. You will break down every barrier. You will...."
"Wait," said Roma.
The Baron had been approaching her, and she lifted her hand.
"You expect me to acquiesce in this lie?"
"What lie, my child?"
"That I denounced David Rossi in order to destroy him. It is true that I
did denounce him--unhappy woman that I am--but you know perfectly why I
did it. I did it because I was forced to do it. _You_ forced me."
At the sound of her own voice, her eyes had begun to fill.
"And now you ask me to pretend that it was all done from an evil motive,
and you offer me the rewards of guilt. Do you think I'm a murderer that
you can offer me the price of blood? Have you any shame? You come here
to ask me to marry you, knowing that I am married already--here of all
places, in the house of my husband."
Her eyes were blinded with tears, but her voice thickened with anger.
"My child," said the Baron, "if I have asked you to acquiesce in the
idea that what you did was from a certain motive it was only to spare
you pain. I thought it would be easier for you to do so now, things
being as they are. It was only going back to your original purpose,
forgetting all that has intervened."
His voice softened, and he said in a low tone: "If _I_ am so much to
blame for what has been done, perhaps it was because you were first of
all at fault! At the beginning my one offence consisted in agreeing to
your proposal. It was the _statesman_ who committed that error, and the
_man_ has suffered for it ever since. You know nothing of jealousy, my
child--how can you?--but its pains are as the pains of hell."
He tried to approach her once more.
"Come, dear, try to be yourself again. Forget this moment of
fascination, and rise afresh to your old strength and wisdom. I am
willing to forget ... whatever has happened--I don't ask what. I am
ready to wipe it all away, just as if it had never been."
In spite of his soft words and gentle tones, Roma was gazing at him with
an aversion she had never felt before for any human being.
"Have no qualms about your marriage, my child. I assure you it is no
marriage at all. In the eye of the civil law it is frankly invalid, and
the Church could annul it at any moment, being no sacrament, because you
are unbaptized and therefore not in her sense a Christian."
He took another step towards her and said:
"But if you have lost one husband another is waiting for you--a more
devoted and more faithful husband--one who can give you everything in
the place of one who can give you nothing.... And then that man has gone
out of your life for good. Whatever happens now, it is impossible that
you and he can ever come together again. But I am here still.... Don't
answer hastily, Roma. Isn't it something that I am ready to face the
opprobrium that will surely come of marrying the most criticised woman
in Rome?"
Roma felt herself to be suffocating with indignation and shame.
"You see I am suing to you, Roma--I who have never sued to any human
being. Even when I was a child I would not sue to my own mother. Since
then I have done something in life--I have justified myself, I have
given my country a place among the nations, I stand for it in the eye of
the world--and yet--"
"And yet I despise you," said Roma.
There was a moment of silence, and then, recovering himself, the Baron
tried to laugh.
"As you will. I must needs accept the only possible interpretation of
your words. I thought my devotion in spite of every provocation might
burn away your bitterness. But if...." (he was getting excited) "if you
have no respect for the past, you may have some regard for the future."
She looked at him with a new fear.
"Naturally, I have no desire to humiliate myself further by suing to a
woman who despises me. It will be sufficient to punish the man who is
responsible for my loss of esteem in the eyes of one who has so many
reasons to respect me."
"You mean that you will persuade the King to break his promise?"
"The King need not be persuaded after he has appointed his Dictator."
"So the King's promise to pardon Mr. Rossi will be set aside by his
successor?"
"If I leave this room without a better answer ... yes."
Roma drew from behind the revolver she had held in her hand.
"Then you will never leave this room," she said.
The Baron stood perfectly still, and there was a moment of deadly
silence.
Then came the rattle of carriage wheels on the stones of the piazza,
followed immediately by a hurried footstep on the stairs.
Roma heard it. She was trembling all over.
A moment afterwards there was a knock at the door. Then another knock,
and another. It was imperative, irregular knocking.
Roma, who had forgotten all about the Baron, was rooted to the spot on
which she stood. The Baron, who had understood everything, was also
transfixed.