CHAPTER I

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the

Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

THE HEART OF ROME

A Tale of the "Lost water"

BY FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD Author of "Cecilia," "Saracinesca," "In the

Palace of the King," Etc.

THE HEART OF ROME

CHAPTER I

The Baroness Volterra drove to the Palazzo Conti in the heart of Rome

at nine o'clock in the morning, to be sure of finding Donna Clementina

at home. She had tried twice to telephone, on the previous afternoon,

but the central office had answered that "the communication was

interrupted." She was very anxious to see Clementina at once, in order

to get her support for a new and complicated charity. She only wanted

the name, and expected nothing else, for the Conti had very little

ready money, though they still lived as if they were rich. This did not

matter to their friends, but was a source of constant anxiety to their

creditors, and to the good Pompeo Sassi, the steward of the ruined

estate. He alone knew what the Conti owed, for none of them knew much

about it themselves, though he had done his best to make the state of

things clear to them.

The big porter of the palace was sweeping the pavement of the great

entrance, as the cab drove in. He wore his working clothes of grey

linen with silver buttons bearing the ancient arms of his masters, and

his third best gold-laced cap. There was nothing surprising in this, at

such an early hour, and as he was a grave man with a long grey beard

that made him look very important, the lady who drove up in the open

cab did not notice that he was even more solemn than usual. When she

appeared, he gave one more glance at the spot he had been sweeping, and

then grounded his broom like a musket, folded his hands on the end of

the broomstick and looked at her as if he wondered what on earth had

brought her to the palace at that moment, and wished that she would

take herself off again as soon as possible.

He did not even lift his cap to her, yet there was nothing rude in his

manner. He behaved like a man upon whom some one intrudes when he is in

great trouble.

The Baroness was rather more exigent in requiring respect from servants

than most princesses of the Holy Roman Empire, for her position in the

aristocratic scale was not very well defined.

She was not pleased, and spoke with excessive coldness when she asked

if Donna Clementina was at home. The porter stood motionless beside the

cab, leaning on his broom. After a pause he said in a rather strange

voice that Donna Clementina was certainly in, but that he could not

tell whether she were awake or not.

"Please find out," answered the Baroness, with impatience. "I am

waiting," she added with an indescribable accent of annoyance and

surprise, as if she had never been kept waiting before, in all the

fifty years of her more or less fashionable life.

There were speaking-tubes in the porter's lodge, communicating with

each floor of the great Conti palace, but the porter did not move.

"I cannot go upstairs and leave the door," he said.

"You can speak to the servant through the tube, I suppose!"

The porter slowly shook his massive head, and his long grey beard

wagged from side to side.

"There are no servants upstairs," he said. "There is only the family."

"No servants? Are you crazy?"

"Oh, no!" answered the man meditatively. "I do not think I am mad. The

servants all went away last night after dinner, with their belongings.

There were only sixteen left, men and women, for I counted them."

"Do you mean to say--" The Baroness stopped in the middle of her

question, staring in amazement.

The porter now nodded, as solemnly as he had before shaken his head.

"Yes. This is the end of the house of Conti."

Then he looked at her as if he wished to be questioned, for he knew

that she was not really a great lady, and guessed that in spite of her

magnificent superiority and coldness she was not above talking to a

servant about her friends.

"But they must have somebody," she said. "They must eat, I suppose!

Somebody must cook for them. They cannot starve!"

"Who knows? Who knows? Perhaps they will starve."

The porter evidently took a gloomy view of the case.

"But why did the servants go away in a body?" asked the Baroness,

descending from her social perch by the inviting ladder of curiosity.

"They never were paid. None of us ever got our wages. For some time the

family has paid nobody. The day before yesterday, the telephone company

sent a man to take away the instrument. Then the electric light was cut

off. When that happens, it is all over."

The man had heard of the phenomenon from a colleague.

"And there is nobody? They have nobody at all?"

The Baroness had always been rich, and was really trying to guess what

would happen to people who had no servants.

"There is my wife," said the porter. "But she is old," he added

apologetically, "and the palace is big. Can she sweep out three hundred

rooms, cook for two families of masters and dress the Princess's hair?

She cannot do it."

This was stated with gloomy gravity. The Baroness also shook her head

in sympathy.

"There were sixteen servants in the house yesterday," continued the

porter. "I remember when there were thirty, in the times of the old

Prince."

"There would be still, if the family had been wise," said the Baroness

severely. "Is your wife upstairs?"

"Who knows where she is?" enquired the porter by way of answer, and

with the air of a man who fears that he may never see his wife again.

"There are three hundred rooms. Who knows where she is?"

The Baroness was a practical woman by nature and by force of

circumstances; she made up her mind to go upstairs and see for herself

how matters stood. The name of Donna Clementina might not just now

carry much weight beside those of the patronesses of a complicated

charitable organization; in fact the poor lady must be in a position to

need charity herself rather than to dispense it to others. But the

Baroness had a deep-rooted prejudice in favour of the old aristocracy,

and guessed that it would afterwards be counted to her for

righteousness if she could be the first to offer boundless sympathy and

limited help to the distressed family.

It would be thought distinctly smart, for instance, if she should take

the Princess, or even one of the unmarried daughters, to her own house

for a few days, as a refuge from the sordid atmosphere of debt and

ruin, and beyond the reach of vulgar creditors, one of whom, by the

way, she knew to be her own excellent husband. The Princess was

probably not aware of that fact, for she had always lived in sublime

ignorance of everything connected with money, even since her husband's

death; and when good Pompeo Sassi tried to explain things, telling her

that she was quite ruined, she never listened to what he said. If the

family had debts, why did he not borrow money and pay them? That was

what he was paid for doing, after all. It was true that he had not been

paid for a year or two, but that was a wretched detail. Economy? Had

not the Princess given up her second maid, as an extravagance? What

more did the man expect?

The Baroness knew all this and reflected upon what she knew, as she

deliberately got out of her cab at the foot of the grand staircase.

"I will go upstairs myself," she said.

"Padrona," observed the porter, standing aside with his broom.

He explained in a single word that she was at liberty to go upstairs if

she chose, that it was not of the least use to go, and that he would

not be responsible for any disappointment if she were afterwards not

pleased. There is no language in the world which can say more in one

word than the Italian, or less in ten thousand, according to the humour

of the speaker.

The Baroness took no notice as she went up the stairs. She was not very

tall, and was growing slowly and surely stout, but she carried her

rather large head high and had cultivated importance, as a fine art,

with some success. She moved steadily, with a muffled sound as of

voluminous invisible silk bellows that opened and shut at each step;

her outer dress was sombre, but fashionable, and she wore a long gold

chain of curious and fine workmanship to carry her hand-glass, for she

was near-sighted. Her thick hair was iron-grey, her small round eyes

were vaguely dark with greenish lights, her complexion was like weak

coffee and milk, sallow, but smooth, even and healthy. She was a strong

woman of fifty years, well used to the world and its ways; acquisitive,

inquisitive and socially progressive; not knowing how to wish back

anything from the past, so long as there was anything in the future to

wish for; a good wife for an ambitious man.

The magnificent marble staircase already looked neglected; there were

deep shadows of dust in corners that should have been polished, there

was a coat of grey dust on the head and shoulders of the colossal

marble statue of Commodus in the niche on the first landing; in the

great window over the next, the armorial crowned eagle of the Conti,

cheeky, argent and sable, had a dejected look, as if he were moulting.

It was in March, and though the sun was shining brightly outside, and

the old porter wore his linen jacket, as if it were already spring,

there was a cold draught down the staircase, and the Baroness

instinctively made haste up the steps, and was glad when she reached

the big swinging door covered with red baize and studded with smart

brass nails, which gave access to the grand apartment.

By force of habit, she opened it and went in. There used to be always

two men in the outer hall, all day long, and sometimes four, ready to

announce visitors or to answer questions, as the case might be. It was

deserted now, a great, dismal, paved hall, already dingy with dust. One

of the box-benches was open, and the tail of a footman's livery

greatcoat which had been thrown in carelessly, hung over the edge and

dragged on the marble floor.

The Baroness realized that the porter had spoken the truth and that all

the servants had left the house, as the rats leave a sinking ship. One

must really have seen an old ship sink in harbour to know how the rats

look, black and grey, fat and thin, old and young, their tiny beads of

eyes glittering with fright as they scurry up the hatches and make for

every deck port and scupper, scrambling and tumbling over each other

till they flop into the water and swim away, racing for safety, each

making a long forked wake on the smooth surface, with a steady quick

ripple like the tearing of thin paper into strips.

The strong middle-aged woman who stood alone in the empty hall knew

nothing of sinking vessels or the ways of rats, but she had known

incidentally of more than one catastrophe like this, in the course of

her husband's ascendant career, and somehow he had always been

mysteriously connected with each one. An evil-speaking old diplomatist

had once said that he remembered Baron Volterra as a pawn-broking

dealer in antiquities, in Florence, thirty years earlier; there was

probably no truth in the story, but after Volterra was elected a

Senator of the Kingdom, a member of the opposition had alluded to it

with piquant irony and the result had been the exchange of several

bullets at forty paces, whereby honour was satisfied without bloodshed.

The seconds, who were well disposed to both parties, alone knew how

much or how little powder there was in the pistols, and they were

discreet men, who kept the secret.

The door leading to the antechamber was wide open, and the Baroness

went on deliberately, looking about through her hand-glass, in the half

light, for the shutters were not all open. Dust everywhere, the dust

that falls silently at night from the ancient wooden ceilings and

painted beams of Roman palaces, the dust of centuries accumulated above

and sifting for ever to the floors below. It was on the yellow marble

pier tables, on the dim mirrors in their eighteenth century frames, on

the high canopy draped with silver and black beneath which the effigy

of another big cheeky eagle seemed to be silently moulting under his

antique crown, the emblem of a race that had lived almost on the same

spot for eight hundred years, through good and bad repute, but in

nearly uninterrupted prosperity. The Baroness, who hankered after

greatness, felt that the gloom was a twilight of gods. She stood still

before the canopy, the symbol of princely rank and privilege, the

invisible silk bellows were silent for a few seconds, and she wondered

whether there were any procurable sum which she and her husband would

grudge in exchange for the acknowledged right to display a crowned

eagle, cheeky, argent and sable, in their hall, under a canopy draped

with their own colours. She sighed, since no one could hear her, and

she went on. The sigh was not only for the hopelessness of ever

reaching such social greatness; it was in part the outward show of a

real regret that it should have come to an untimely end. Her admiration

of princes was as sincere as her longing to be one of them; she had at

least the melancholy satisfaction of sympathizing with them in their

downfall. It brought her a little nearer to them in imagination if not

in fact.

The evolution of the snob has been going on quickly of late, and

quicker than ever since vast wealth has given so many of the species

the balance of at least one sort of power in society. His thoughts are

still the same, but his outward shape approaches strangely near to that

of the human being. There are snobs now, who behave almost as nicely in

the privacy of their homes as in the presence of a duchess. They are

much more particular as to the way in which others shall behave to

them. That is a test, by the bye. The snob thinks most of the treatment

he receives from the world; the gentleman thinks first how he shall act

courteously to others.

The Baroness went on and entered the outer reception room, and looking

before her she could see through the open doors of the succeeding

drawing-rooms, where the windows had been opened or perhaps not closed

on the previous evening. It was all vast, stately and deserted. Only

ten days earlier she had been in the same place at a great reception,

brilliant with beautiful women and handsome men, alive with the

flashing of jewels and decorations in the vivid light, full of the

discreet noise of society in good-humour, full of faces she knew, and

voices familiar, and of the moonlight of priceless pearls and the

sunlight of historic diamonds; all of which manifestations she dearly

loved.

Her husband had perhaps known what was coming, and how soon, but she

had not. There was something awful in the contrast. As she went through

one of the rooms a mouse ran from under the fringe of a velvet curtain

and took refuge under an armchair. She had sat in that very chair ten

days ago and the Russian ambassador had talked to her; she remembered

how he had tried to extract information from her about the new issue of

three and a half per cent national bonds, because her husband was one

of the financiers who were expected to "manipulate" the loan.

A portrait of a Conti in black velvet, by Velasquez, looked down,

coldly supercilious, at the empty armchair under which the mouse was

hiding. It could make no difference, great or small, to him, whether

the Baroness Volterra ever sat there again to talk with an ambassador;

he had sat where he pleased, undisturbed in his own house, to the end

of his days, and no one can take the past from the dead, except a

modern German historian.

Not a sound broke the stillness, except the steady plash of the water

falling into the fountain in the wide court, heard distinctly through

the closed windows. The Baroness wondered if any one were awake except

the old porter downstairs. She knew the house tolerably well. Only the

Princess and her two unmarried daughters slept in the apartment she had

entered, far off, at the very end, in rooms at the corner overlooking

the small square and the narrow street. The rest of the old palace was

surrounded by dark and narrow streets, but the court was wide and full

of sunshine. The only son of the house, though he was now the Prince,

lived on the floor above, with his young wife and their only child, in

what had been a separate establishment, after the old Roman custom.

The Baroness went to one of the embrasures of the great drawing-room

and looked through the panes at the windows of the upper story. All

that she could see were shut; there was not a sign of life in the huge

building. Ruin had closed in upon it and all it held, softly, without

noise and without pity.

It was their own fault, of course, but the Baroness was sorry for them,

for she was not quite heartless, in spite of her hard face. The

gloomiest landscape must have a ray of light in it, somewhere. It was

all their own fault; they should have known better; they should have

counted what they had instead of spending what they had not. But their

fall was great, as everything had been in their prosperity, and it was

interesting to be connected with it. She faintly hoped Volterra would

keep the palace now that they could certainly never pay any more

interest on the mortgage, and it was barely possible that she might

some day live in it herself, though she understood that it would be in

very bad taste to occupy it at once. But this was unlikely, for her

husband had a predilection for a new house, in the new part of the

city, full of new furniture and modern French pictures. He had a

pronounced dislike for old things, including old pictures and old

jewellery, though he knew much about both. Possibly they reminded him

of that absurd story, and of his duel at forty paces.

Volterra would sell the palace to the Vatican, with everything in it,

and would look about for another lucrative investment. The Vatican

bought all the palaces in the market for religious institutions, and

when there were not enough "it" built the finest buildings in Rome for

its own purposes. Volterra was mildly anti-clerical in politics, but he

was particularly fond of dealing with the Vatican for real estate. The

Vatican was a most admirable house of business, in his estimation,

keen, punctual and always solvent; it was good for a financier to be

associated with such an institution. It drove a hard bargain, but there

was never any hesitation about fulfilling its obligations to the last

farthing. Dreaming over one of his enormous Havanas after a perfect

dinner, Baron Volterra, Senator of the Kingdom of Italy, often wondered

whether the prosperity of the whole world would not be vastly increased

if the Vatican would consent to be the general financial agent for the

European nations. Such stability as there would be, such order! Above

all, such guarantees of good faith! Besides all that, there were its

cordial relations with the United States, that is to say, with the

chief source of the world's future wealth! The Senator's

strongly-marked face grew sweetly thoughtful as he followed his own

visions in the air, and when his wife spoke of living in an antiquated

Roman palace and buying an estate with an old title attached to it,

which the King might graciously be pleased to ratify, he playfully

tapped his wife's sallow cheek with two fat fingers and smiled in a way

that showed how superior he was to such weakness. It was not even worth

while to say anything.

Once more the Baroness sighed as she turned from the window. She meant

to have her own way in the end, but it was hard to wait so long. She

turned from the window, glanced at a beautiful holy family by Bonifazio

which hung on the opposite wall above an alabaster table, estimated its

value instinctively and went on into the next drawing-room.

As she passed through the door, a low cry of pain made her start and

hesitate, and she stood still. The degree of her acquaintance with the

members of the family was just such that she would not quite dare to

intrude upon them if they had given way to an expression of pardonable

weakness under their final misfortune, whereas if they were bearing it

with reasonable fortitude she could allow herself to offer her sympathy

and even some judicious help.

She stood still and the sound was repeated, the pitiful little tearless

complaint of a young thing suffering alone. It was somewhere in the big

room, hidden amongst the furniture; which was less stiffly arranged

here than in the outer apartments. There were books and newspapers on

the table, the fireplace was half-full of the ashes of a burnt-out

fire, there were faded flowers in a tall vase near the window, there

was the undefinable presence of life in the heavier and warmer air. At

first the Baroness had thought that the cry came from some small

animal, hurt and forgotten there in the great catastrophe; a moment

later she was sure that there was some one in the room.

She moved cautiously forward in the direction whence the sound had

come. Then she saw the edge of a fawn-coloured cloth skirt on the red

carpet by an armchair. She went on, hesitating no longer. She had seen

the frock only a day or two ago, and it belonged to Sabina Conti.

A very fair young girl was kneeling in the shadow, crouching over

something on the floor. Her hair was like the pale mist in the morning,

tinged with gold. She was very slight, and as she bent down, her

slender neck was dazzling white above the collar of her frock. She was

trembling a little.

"My dear Sabina, what has happened?" asked the Baroness Volterra,

leaning over her with an audible crack in the region of the waist.

At the words the girl turned up her pale face, without the least start

of surprise.

"It is dead," she said, in a very low voice.

The Baroness looked down, and saw a small bunch of yellow feathers

lying on the floor at the girl's knees; the poor little head with its

colourless beak lay quite still on the red carpet, turned upon one

side, as if it were resting.

"A canary," observed the Baroness, who had never had a pet in her life,

and had always wondered how any one could care for such stupid things.

But the violet eyes gazed up to hers reproachfully and wonderingly.

"It is dead."

That should explain everything; surely the woman must understand. Yet

there was no response. The Baroness stood upright again, grasping her

parasol and looking down with a sort of respectful indifference. Sabina

said nothing, but took up the dead bird very tenderly, as if it could

still feel that she loved it, and she pressed it softly to her breast,

bending her head to it, and then kissing the yellow feathers. When it

was alive it used to nestle there, almost as it lay now. It had been

very tame.

"I suppose a cat killed it," said the Baroness, wishing to say

something.

Sabina shook her head. She had found it lying there, not wounded, its

feathers not torn--just dead. It was of no use to answer. She rose to

her feet, still holding the tiny body against her bosom, and she looked

at the Baroness, mutely asking what had brought her there, and wishing

that she would go away.

"I came to see your sister," said the elder woman, with something like

apology in the tone.

Sabina was still very pale, and her delicate lips were pressed

together, but there were no tears in her eyes, as she waited for the

Baroness to say more.

"Then I heard the bad news," the latter continued. "I heard it from the

porter."

Sabina looked at her quietly. If she had heard the bad news, why had

she not gone away? The Baroness began to feel uncomfortable. She almost

quailed before the pale girl of seventeen, slender as a birch sapling

in her light frock.

"It occurred to me," she continued nervously, "that I might be of use."

"You are very kind," Sabina answered, with the faintest air of

surprise, "but I really do not see that you could do anything."

"Perhaps your mother would allow you to spend a few days with me--until

things are more settled," suggested the Baroness.

"Thank you very much. I do not think she would like that. She would not

wish me to be away from her just now, I am sure. Why should I leave

her?"

The Baroness Volterra did not like to point out that the Princess Conti

might soon be literally homeless.

"May I ask your mother?" she enquired. "Should you like to come to me

for a few days?"

"If my mother wishes it."

"But should you like to come?" persisted the elder woman.

"If my mother thinks it is best," answered Sabina, avoiding the

Baroness's eyes, as she resolutely avoided answering the direct

question.

But the Baroness was determined if possible to take in one of the

family, and it had occurred to her that Sabina would really be less

trouble than her mother or elder sister. Clementina was the eldest and

was already looked upon as an old maid. She was intensely devout, and

that was always troublesome, for it meant that she would insist upon

going to church at impossibly early hours, and must have fish-dinners

on Fridays. But it would certainly be conferring a favour on the

Princess to take Sabina off her hands at such a time. The devout

Clementina could take care of herself. With her face, the Baroness

reflected, she would be safe among Cossacks; besides, she could go into

a retreat, and stay there, if necessary. Sabina was quite different.

The Princess thought so too, as it turned out. Sabina took the visitor

to her mother's door, knocked, opened and then went away, still

pressing her dead canary to her bosom, and infinitely glad to be alone

with it at last.

There was confusion in the Princess Conti's bedroom, the amazing

confusion which boils up about an utterly careless woman of the great

world, if she be accidentally left without a maid for twenty-four

hours. It seemed as if everything the Princess possessed in the way of

clothes, necessary and unnecessary, had been torn from wardrobes and

chests of drawers by a cyclone and scattered in every direction, till

there was not space to move or sit down in a room which was thirty feet

square.

Princess Conti was a very stout woman of about the same age as her

visitor, but not resembling her in the least. She had been beautiful,

and still kept the dazzling complexion and magnificent eyes for which

she had been famous. It was her boast that she slept eight hours every

night, without waking, whatever happened, and she always advised

everybody to do the same, with an airy indifference to possibilities

which would have done credit to a doctor.

She was dressed, or rather wrapped, in a magnificent purple velvet

dressing-gown, trimmed with sable, and tied round her ample waist with

a silver cord; her rather scanty grey hair stood out about her head

like a cloud in a high wind; and her plump hands were encased in a pair

of old white gloves, which looked oddly out of place. She was standing

in the middle of the room, and she smiled calmly as the Baroness

entered. On a beautiful inlaid table beside her stood a battered brass

tray with an almost shapeless little brass coffee-pot, a common

earthenware cup, chipped at the edges, and three pieces of

doubtful-looking sugar in a tiny saucer, also of brass. The whole had

evidently been brought from a small cafe near by, which had long been

frequented by the servants from the palace.

Judging from her smile, the Princess seemed to think total ruin rather

an amusing incident. She had always complained that the Romans were

very dull; for she was not a Roman herself, but came of a very great

old Polish family, the members of which had been distinguished for

divers forms of amiable eccentricity during a couple of centuries.

She looked at the Baroness, and smiled pleasantly, showing her still

perfect teeth.

"I always said that this would happen," she observed. "I always told my

poor husband so."

As the Prince had been dead ten years, the Baroness thought that he

might not be wholly responsible for the ruin of his estate, but she

discreetly avoided the suggestion. She began to make a little apology

for her visit.

"But I am delighted to see you!" cried the Princess. "You can help me

to pack. You know I have not a single maid, not a woman in the house,

nor a man either. Those ridiculous servants fled last night as if we

had the plague!"

"So you are going out of town?" enquired the Baroness, laying down her

parasol.

"Of course. Clementina has decided to be a nun, and is going to the

convent this morning. So sensible of her, poor dear! It is true that

she has made up her mind to do it three or four times before now, but

the circumstances were different, and I hope this will be final. She

will be much happier."

The Princess stirred the muddy coffee in the chipped earthenware cup,

and then sipped it thoughtfully, sipped it again, and made a face.

"You see my breakfast," she said, and then laughed, as if the shabby

brass tray were a part of the train of amusing circumstances. "The

porter's wife went and got it at some dirty little cafe," she added.

"How dreadful!" exclaimed the Baroness, with more real sympathy in her

voice than she had yet shown.

"I assure you," the Princess answered serenely, "that I am glad to have

any coffee at all. I always told poor dear Paolo that it would come to

this."

She swallowed the rest of the coffee with a grimace, and set down the

cup. Then, with the most natural gesture in the world, she pushed the

tray a little way across the inlaid table, towards the Baroness, as she

would have pushed it towards her maid, and as if she wished the thing

taken away. She did it merely from force of habit, no doubt.

Baroness Volterra understood well enough, and for a moment she affected

not to see. The Princess had the blood of Polish kings in her veins,

mingled with that of several mediatized princes, but that was no reason

why she should treat a friend like a servant; especially as the

friend's husband practically owned the palace and its contents, and had

lent the money with which the high and mighty lady and her son had

finally ruined themselves. Yet so overpowering is the moral domination

of the born aristocrat over the born snob, that the Baroness changed

her mind, and humbly took the obnoxious tray away and set it down on

another table near the door.

"Thank you so much," said the Princess graciously. "It smells, you

know."

"Of course," answered the Baroness. "It is not coffee at all! It is

made of chicory and acorns."

"I do not know what it is made of," said the Princess, without

interest, "but it has an atrociously bad smell, and it has made a green

stain on my handkerchief."

She looked at the bit of transparently fine linen with which she had

touched her lips, and threw it under the table.

"And Sabina?" began the Baroness. "What shall you do with her?"

"I wish I knew! You see, my daughter-in-law has a little place

somewhere in the Maremma. It is an awful hole, I believe, and very

unhealthy, but we shall have to stay there for a few days. Then I shall

go to Poland and see my brother. I am sure he can arrange everything at

once, and we shall come back to Rome in the autumn, of course, just as

usual. Sassi told me only last week that two or three millions would be

enough. And what is that? My brother is so rich!"

The stout Princess shrugged her shoulders carelessly, as if a few

millions of francs more or less could really not be such a great

matter. Somebody had always found money for her to spend, and there was

no reason why obliging persons should not continue to do the same. The

Baroness showed no surprise, but wondered whether the Princess might

not have to lunch, and dine too, on some nauseous little mess brought

to her on a battered brass tray. It was quite possible that she might

not find five francs in her purse; it was equally possible that she

might find five thousand; the only thing quite sure was that she had

not taken the trouble to look, and did not care a straw.

"Can I be of any immediate use?" asked the Baroness with unnecessary

timidity. "Do you need ready money?"

"Ready money?" echoed the Princess with alacrity. "Of course I do! I

told you, Sassi says that two or three millions would be enough to go

on with."

"I did not mean that. I am afraid--"

"Oh!" ejaculated the Princess with a little disappointment. "Nothing

else would be of any use. Of course I have money for any little thing I

need. There is my purse. Do you mind looking? I know I had two or three

thousand francs the other day. There must be something left. Please

count it. I never can count right, you know."

The Baroness took up the mauve morocco pocket-book to which the

Princess pointed. It had a clasp in which a pretty sapphire was set;

she opened it and took out a few notes and silver coins, which she

counted.

"There are fifty-seven francs," she said.

"Is that all?" asked the Princess with supreme indifference. "How very

odd!"

"You can hardly leave Rome with so little," observed the Baroness.

"Will you not allow me to lend you five hundred? I happen to have a

five hundred franc note in my purse, for I was going to pay a bill on

my way home."

"Thanks," said the Princess. "That will save me the trouble of sending

for Sassi. He always bores me dreadfully with his figures. Thank you

very much."

"Not at all, dear friend," the Baroness answered. "It is a pleasure, I

assure you. But I had thought of asking if you would let Sabina come

and stay with me for a little while, until your affairs are more

settled."

"Oh, would you do that?" asked the Princess with something like

enthusiasm. "I really do not know what to do with the girl. Of course,

I could take her to Poland and marry her there, but she is so peculiar,

such a strange child, not at all like me. It really would be immensely

kind of you to take her, if your husband does not object."

"He will be delighted."

"Yes," acquiesced the Princess calmly. "You see," she continued in a

meditative tone, "if I sent her to stay with any of our cousins here, I

am sure they would ask her all sorts of questions about our affairs,

and she is so silly that she would blurt out everything she fancied she

knew, whether it were true or not--about my son and his wife, you know,

and then, the money questions. Poor Sabina! she has not a particle of

tact! It really would be good of you to take her. I shall be so

grateful."

"I will bring my maid to pack her things," suggested the Baroness.

"Yes. If she could only help me to pack mine too! Do you think she

would?"

"Of course!"

"You are really the kindest person in the world," said the Princess. "I

was quite in despair, when you came. Just look at those things!"

She pointed to the chairs and sofas, covered with clothes and dresses.

"But your boxes, where are they?" asked the Baroness.

"I have not the least idea! I sent the porter's wife to try and find

them, but she has never come back. She is so stupid, poor old thing!"

"I think I had better bring a couple of men-servants," said the

Baroness. "They may be of use. Should you like my carriage to take you

to the station? Anything I can do--"

The Princess stared, as if quite puzzled.

"Thanks, but we have plenty of horses," she said.

"Yes, but you said that all your servants had left last night. I

supposed the coachman and grooms were gone too."

"I daresay they are!" The Princess laughed. "Then we will go in cabs.

It will be very amusing. By the bye, I wonder whether those brutes of

men thought of leaving the poor horses anything to eat, and water! I

must really go and see. Poor beasts! They will be starving. Will you

come with me?"

She moved towards the door, really very much concerned, for she loved

horses.

"Will you go down like that?" asked the Baroness aghast, glancing at

the purple velvet dressing-gown, and noticing, as the Princess moved,

that her feet, on which she wore small kid slippers, were stockingless.

"Why not? I shall not catch cold. I never do."

The Baroness would have given anything to be above caring whether any

one should ever see her, or not, on the stairs of her house in a purple

dressing-gown, without stockings and with her hair standing on end; and

she pondered on the ways of the aristocracy she adored, especially as

represented by her Excellency Marie-Sophie-Hedwige-Zenaide-Honorine-Pia

Rubomirska, Dowager Princess Conti. Ever afterwards she associated

purple velvet and bare feet with the idea of financial catastrophe,

knowing in her heart that even ruin would seem bearable if it could

bring her such magnificent indifference to the details of commonplace

existence.

At that moment, however, she felt that she was in the position of a

heaven-sent protectress to the Princess.

"No," she said firmly. "I will go myself to the stables, and the porter

shall feed the horses if there is no groom. You really must not go

downstairs looking like that!"

"Why not?" asked the Princess, surprised. "But of course, if you will

be so kind as to see whether the horses need anything, it is quite

useless for me to go myself. You will promise? I am sure they are

starving by this time."

The Baroness promised solemnly, and said that she would come back

within an hour, with her servants, to take away Sabina and to help the

Princess's preparations. In consideration of all she was doing the

Princess kissed her on both her sallow cheeks as she took her leave.

The Princess attached no importance at all to this mark of affectionate

esteem, but it pleased the Baroness very much.

Just as the latter was going away, the door opened suddenly, and a

weak-looking young man put in his head.

"Mamma! Mamma!" he cried, in a thin tone of distress, almost as if he

were going to cry.

He was nearly thirty years old, though he looked younger. He was thin,

and pale, with a muddy and spotted complexion, and his scanty black

hair grew far back on his poorly developed forehead. His eyes had a

look that was half startled, half false. Though he was carefully

dressed he had not shaved, because he could not shave himself and his

valet had departed with the rest of the servants. He was the Princess's

only son, himself the present Prince, and the heir of all the Conti

since the year eleven hundred.

"Mamma!"

"What is the matter, sweetheart?" asked the Princess, with ready

sympathy. "Your hands are quite cold! Are you ill?"

"The child! Something has happened to it--we do not know--it looks so

strange--its eyes are turned in and it is such a dreadful colour--do

come--"

But the Princess was already on her way, and he spoke the last words as

he ran after her. She turned her head as she went on.

"For heaven's sake send a doctor!" she cried to the Baroness, and in a

moment she was gone, with the weak young man close at her side.

The Baroness nodded quickly, and when all three reached the door she

left the two to go upstairs and ran down, with a tremendous puffing of

the invisible silk bellows.

"The Prince's little girl is very ill," she said, as she passed the

porter, who was now polishing the panes of glass in the door of his

lodge, because he had done the same thing every morning for twenty

years.

He almost dropped the dingy leather he was using, but before he could

answer, the cab passed out, bearing the Baroness on her errand.