The Baroness had been called to the telephone five minutes after
Volterra had gone out with the porter, leaving word that he was going
to the Palazzo Conti and would be back within two hours. The message
she received was from the Russian Embassy, and informed her that the
dowager Princess Conti had arrived at midnight, was the guest of the
Ambassador, and wished her daughter Sabina to come and see her between
eleven and twelve o'clock. In trembling tones the Baroness had
succeeded in saying that Sabina should obey, and had rung off the
connection at once. Then, for the first time in her life, she had felt
for a moment as if she were going to faint.
The facts, which were unknown to her, were simple enough. The
Ambassador had been informed that a treasure had been discovered, and
had telegraphed the fact in cipher to the Minister of Foreign Affairs
in St. Petersburg, who had telegraphed the news to Prince Rubomirska,
who had telegraphed to the Ambassador, who was his intimate friend,
requesting him to receive the Princess for a few days. As the Prince
and his sister were already in the country, in Poland, not far from the
Austrian frontier, it had not taken her long to reach Rome. Of all
this, the poor Baroness was in ignorance. The one fact stared her in
the face, that the Princess had come to claim Sabina, and Sabina had
disappeared.
She had learned that the porter had come to say that the cellars of the
Palazzo Conti were flooded, and she knew that her husband would be
there some time. She found Sassi's card, on which his address was
printed, and she drove there in a cab, climbed the stairs and rang the
bell. The old woman who opened was in terrible trouble, and was just
going out. She showed the Baroness the news of Sassi's mysterious
accident shortly given in a paragraph of the _Messaggero_, the little
morning paper which is universally read greedily by the lower classes.
She was just going to the accident hospital, the "Consolazione," to see
her poor master. He had gone out at half past four on the previous
afternoon, and she had sat up all night, hoping that he would come in.
She was quite sure that he had not returned at all after he had gone
out. She was quite sure, too, that he had been knocked down and robbed,
for he had a gold watch and chain, and always carried money in his
pocket.
The Baroness looked at her, and saw that she was speaking the truth and
was in real distress. It would be quite useless to search the rooms for
Sabina. The old woman-servant had no idea who the Baroness was, and in
her sudden trouble would certainly have confided to her that there was
a young lady in the house, who had not been able to get home.
"For the love of heaven, Signora," she cried, "come with me to the
hospital, if you know him, for he may be dying."
The Baroness promised to go later, and really intended to do so. She
drove to the convent in which Donna Clementina was now a cloistered
nun, and asked the portress whether Donna Sabina Conti had been to see
her sister on the previous day. The portress answered that she had not,
and was quite positive of the fact. The Baroness looked at her watch
and hastened to the Palazzo Conti. When she got there, the porter had
already returned to his lodge, and he led her upstairs and to the door
of the study.
Finding her husband alone, she explained what was the matter, in a few
words and in a low voice. The Princess had come back, and wished to see
Sabina that very morning, and Sabina could not be found. She sank into
a chair, and her sallow face expressed the utmost fright and perplexity.
"Sassi left our house at five o'clock with Sabina," said the Baron,
"and at a quarter to six he was taken from the door of this palace to
the hospital by Malipieri's man. Either Malipieri or his man must have
seen her."
"She is here!" cried the Baroness in a loud tone, something of the
truth flashing upon her. "I know she is here!"
Volterra's mind worked rapidly at the possibility, as at a problem. If
his wife were not mistaken it was easy to explain Malipieri's flat
refusal to let any one enter the bedroom.
"You may be right," he said, rising. "If she is in the palace she is in
the room beyond that one." He pointed to the door. "You must go in," he
said. "Never mind Malipieri. I will manage him."
At that moment the door opened. Malipieri had recovered his senses
enough to attempt a final resistance, and stood there, very pale, ready
for anything.
But the fat Baron knew what he was about, and as he came forward with
his wife he suddenly thrust out his hand at Malipieri's head, and the
latter saw down the barrel of Volterra's revolver.
"You must let my wife pass," cried Volterra coolly, "or I will shoot
you."
Malipieri was as active as a sailor. In an instant he had hurled
himself, bending low, at the Baron's knees, and the fat man fell over
him, while the revolver flew from his hand, half across the room,
fortunately not going off as it fell on its side. While Malipieri was
struggling to get the upper hand, the detective ran forward and helped
Volterra. The two threw themselves upon the younger man, and between
the detective's wiry strength and the Baron's tremendous weight, he lay
panting and powerless on his back for an instant.
The Baroness had possibly assisted at some scenes of violence in the
course of her husband's checkered career. At all events, she did not
stop to see what happened after the way was clear, but ran to the door
of the bedroom, and threw it wide open, for it was not locked. The
light that entered showed her where the window was; she opened it in an
instant, and looked round.
Sabina was sitting up in bed, staring at her with a dazed expression,
her hair in wild confusion round her pale face and falling over her
bare neck. Her clothes lay in a heap on the floor, beside the bed,
Never was any woman more fairly caught in a situation impossible to
explain. Even in that first moment she felt it, when she looked at the
Baroness's face.
The latter did not speak, for she was utterly incapable of finding
words. The sound of a scuffle could be heard from the study in the
distance; she quietly shut the door and turned the key. Then she came
and stood by the bed, facing the window. Sabina had sunk back upon the
pillows, but her eyes looked up bravely and steadily. Of the two she
was certainly the one less disturbed, even then, for she remembered
that Malipieri had meant to go and tell the Baroness the whole truth,
early in the morning. He had done so, of course, and the Baroness had
come to take her back, very angry of course, but that was all. This was
what Sabina told herself, but she guessed that matters would turn out
much worse.
"Did he tell you how it happened that I could not get home?" she asked,
almost calmly.
"No one has told me anything. Your mother arrived in Rome last night.
She is at the Russian Embassy and wishes to see you at eleven o'clock."
"My mother?" Sabina raised herself on one hand in surprise.
"Yes. And I find you here."
The Baroness folded her arms like a man, her brows contracted, and her
face was almost livid.
"Have you the face to meet your mother, after this?" she asked sternly.
"Yes--of course," answered Sabina. "But I must go home and dress. My
frock is ruined."
"You are a brazen creature," said the Baroness in disgust and anger.
"You do not seem to know what shame means."
Sabina's deep young eyes flashed; it was not safe to say such things to
her.
"I have done nothing to be ashamed of," she answered proudly, "and you
shall not speak to me like that. Do you understand?"
"Nothing to be ashamed of!" The Baroness stared at her in genuine
amazement. "Nothing to be ashamed of!" she repeated, and her voice
shook with emotion. "You leave my house by stealth, you let no one know
where you are going, and the next morning I find you here, in your
lover's house, in your lover's room, the door not even locked, your
head upon your lover's pillow! Nothing to be ashamed of! Merciful
heavens! And you have not only ruined yourself, but you have done an
irreparable injury to honest people who took you in when you were
starving!"
The poor woman paused for breath, and in her horror, she hid her face
in her hands. She had her faults, no doubt, and she knew that the world
was bad, but she had never dreamt of such barefaced and utterly
monstrous cynicism as Sabina's. If the girl had been overcome with
shame and repentance, and had broken down entirely, imploring help and
forgiveness, as would have seemed natural, the Baroness, for her own
social sake, might have been at last moved to help her out of her
trouble. Instead, being a person of rigid virtue and judging the
situation in the only way really possible for her to see it, she was
both disgusted and horrified. It was no wonder. But she was not
prepared for Sabina's answer.
"If I were strong enough, I would kill you," said the young girl,
quietly laying her head on the pillow again.
The Baroness laughed hysterically. She felt as if she were in the
presence of the devil himself. She was not at all a hysterical woman
nor often given to dramatic exhibitions of feeling, but she had never
dreamt that a human being could behave with such horribly brazen
shamelessness.
For some moments there was silence. Then Sabina spoke, in a quietly
scornful tone, while the Baroness turned her back on her and stood
quite still, looking out of the window.
"I suppose you have a right to be surprised," Sabina said, "but you
have no right to insult me and say things that are not true. Perhaps
Signor Malipieri likes me very much. I do not know. He has never told
me he loved me."
The Baroness's large figure shook with fury, but she did not turn
round. What more was the girl going to say? That she did not even care
a little for the man with whom she had ruined herself? Yes. That was
what she was going on to explain. It was beyond belief.
"I have only seen him a few times," Sabina said. "I daresay I shall be
very fond of him if I see him often. I think he is very like my ideal
of what a man should be."
The Baroness turned her face half round with an expression that was
positively savage. But she said nothing, and again looked through the
panes. She remembered afterwards that the room smelt slightly of stale
cigar smoke, soap and leather.
"He wished me to see the things he has found before any one else
should," Sabina continued. "So he got Sassi to bring me here. While we
were in the vaults, the water came, and we could not get out. He worked
for hours to break a hole, and it was two o'clock in the morning when
we were free. I had not had any dinner, and of course I could not go
with him to your house at that hour, even if I had not been worn out.
So he brought me here and gave me something to eat, and his room to
sleep in. As for the door not being locked, he told me twice to lock
it, and I was so sleepy that I forgot to. That is what happened." After
an ominous silence, the Baroness turned round. Her face was almost
yellow now.
"I do not believe a word you have told me," she said, half choking.
"Then go!" cried Sabina, sitting up with flashing eyes. "I do not care
a straw whether you believe the truth or not! Go! Go!"
She stretched out one straight white arm and pointed to the door, in
wrath. The Baroness looked at her, and stood still a moment. Then she
shrugged her shoulders in a manner anything but aristocratic, and left
the room without deigning to turn her head. The instant she was gone
Sabina sprang out of bed and locked the door after her.
Meanwhile, the struggle between Malipieri and his two adversaries had
come to an end very soon. Malipieri had not really expected to prevent
the Baroness from going to Sabina, but he had wished to try and explain
matters to her before she went. He had upset Volterra, because the
latter had pointed a revolver at his head, which will seem a sufficient
reason to most hot-tempered men. The detective had suggested putting
handcuffs on him, while they held him down, but Volterra was anxious to
settle matters amicably.
"It was my fault," he said, drawing back. "I thought that you were
going to resist, and I pulled out my pistol too soon. I offer you all
my apologies."
He had got to his feet with more alacrity than might have been expected
of such a fat man, and was adjusting his collar and tie, and smoothing
his waistcoat over his rotundity. Malipieri had risen the moment he was
free. The detective looked as if nothing had happened out of the common
way, and the neatness of his appearance was not in the least disturbed.
"I offer you my apologies, Signor Malipieri," repeated the Baron
cordially and smiling in a friendly way. "I should not have drawn my
pistol on you. I presume you will accept the excuses I make?"
"Do not mention the matter," answered Malipieri with coolness, but
civilly enough, seeing that there was nothing else to be done. "I trust
you are none the worse for your fall."
"Not at all, not at all," replied Volterra. "I hope," he said, turning
to the detective, "that you will say nothing about this incident, since
no harm has been done. It concerns a private matter,--I may almost say,
a family matter. I have some little influence, and if I can be of any
use to you, I shall always be most happy."
The gratitude of so important a personage was not to be despised, as
the detective knew. He produced a card bearing his name, and handed it
to the Senator with a bow.
"Always at your service, sir," he said. "It is very fortunate that the
revolver did not go off and hurt one of us," he added, picking up the
weapon and handing it to Volterra. "I have noticed that these things
almost invariably kill the wrong person, when they kill anybody at all,
which is rare."
Volterra smiled, thanked him and returned the revolver to his pocket.
Malipieri had watched the two in silence. Fate had taken matters out of
his hands, and there was absolutely nothing to be done. In due time,
Sabina would come out with the Baroness, but he could not guess what
would happen then. Volterra would probably not speak out before the
detective, who would not recognize Sabina, even if he knew her by
sight. The Baroness would take care that he should not see the girl's
face, as both Volterra and Malipieri knew.
The three men sat down and waited in silence after the detective had
last spoken. Volterra lit a fresh cigar, and offered one to the
detective a few moments later. The latter took it with a bow and put it
into his pocket for a future occasion.
The door opened at last, and the Baroness entered, her face discoloured
to a blotchy yellowness by her suppressed anger. She stood still a
moment after she had come in, and glared at Malipieri. He and the
detective rose, but Volterra kept his seat.
"Were you right, my dear?" the latter enquired, looking at her.
"Yes," she answered in a thick voice, turning to him for an instant,
and then glaring at Malipieri again, as if she could hardly keep her
hands from him in her righteous anger.
He saw clearly enough that she had not believed the strange story which
Sabina must have told her, and he wondered whether any earthly power
could possibly make her believe it in spite of herself. During the
moments of silence that followed, the whole situation rose before him,
in the only light under which it could at first appear to any ordinary
person. It was frightful to think that what had been a bit of romantic
quixotism on his part, in wishing Sabina to see the statues which
should have been hers, should end in her social disgrace, perhaps in
her utter ruin if the Baroness and her husband could not be mollified.
He did not know that there was one point in Sabina's favour, in the
shape of the Princess's sudden return to Rome, though he guessed the
Baroness's character well enough to have foreseen, had he known of the
new complication, that she would swallow her pride and even overlook
Sabina's supposed misdeeds, rather than allow the Princess to accuse
her of betraying her trust and letting the young girl ruin herself.
"I must consult with you," the Baroness said to her husband,
controlling herself as she came forward into the room and passed
Malipieri. "We cannot talk here," she added, glancing at the detective.
"This gentleman," said Volterra, waving his hand towards the latter,
"is here officially, to make an enquiry about Sassi's accident."
"I shall be happy to wait outside if you have private matters to
discuss," said the detective, who wished to show himself worthy of the
Baron's favour, if he could do so without neglecting his duties.
"You are extremely obliging," Volterra said, in a friendly tone.
The detective smiled, bowed and left the room by the door leading
towards the hall.
"It seems to me," the Baroness said, still suppressing her anger, as
she turned her face a little towards Malipieri and spoke at him over
her shoulder, "it seems to me that you might go too."
It was not for Malipieri to resent her tone or words just then, and he
knew it, though he hated her for believing the evidence of her senses
rather than Sabina's story. He made a step towards the door.
"No," Volterra said, without rising, "I think he had better stay, and
hear what we have to say about this. After all, the responsibility for
what has happened falls upon him."
"I should think it did!" cried the Baroness, breaking out at last, in
harsh tones. "You abominable villain, you monster of iniquity, you
snake, you viper--"
"Hush, hush, my dear!" interposed the Baron, realizing vaguely that his
wife's justifiable excitement was showing itself in unjustifiably
vulgar vituperation.
"You toad!" yelled the Baroness, shaking her fist in Malipieri's face.
"You reptile, you accursed ruffian, you false, black-hearted, lying son
of Satan!"
She gasped for breath, and her whole frame quivered with fury, while
her livid lips twisted themselves to hiss out the epithets of abuse.
Volterra feared lest she should fall down in an apoplexy, and he rose
from his seat quickly. He gathered her to his corpulent side with one
arm and made her turn away towards the window, which he opened with his
free hand.
"I should be all that, and worse, if a tenth of what you believe were
true," Malipieri said, coming nearer and then standing still.
He was very pale, and he was conscious of a cowardly wish that
Volterra's revolver might have killed him ten minutes earlier. But he
was ashamed of the mere thought when he remembered what Sabina would
have to face. Volterra, while holding his wife firmly against the
window sill, to force her to breathe the outer air, turned his head
towards Malipieri.
"She is quite beside herself, you see," he said apologetically.
The Baroness was a strong woman, and after the first explosion of her
fury she regained enough self-control to speak connectedly. She turned
round, in spite of the pressure of her husband's arm.
"He is not even ashamed of what he has done!" she said. "He stands
there--"
The Baron interrupted her, fearing another outburst.
"Let me speak," he said in the tone she could not help obeying. "What
explanation have you to offer of Donna Sabina's presence here?" he
asked.
As he put the question, he nodded significantly to Malipieri, over his
wife's shoulder, evidently to make the latter understand that he must
at least invent some excuse if he had none ready. The Baron did not
care a straw what became of him, or of Sabina, and wished them both out
of his way for ever, but he had always avoided scandal, and was
especially anxious to avoid it now.
Malipieri resented the hint much more than the Baroness's anger, but he
was far too much in the wrong, innocent though he was, to show his
resentment.
He told his story firmly and coolly, and it agreed exactly with
Sabina's.
"That is exactly what happened last night," he concluded. "If you will
go down, you will find the breach I made, and the first vaults full of
water. I have nothing more to say."
"You taught her the lesson admirably," said the Baroness with withering
scorn. "She told me the same story almost word for word!"
"Madam," Malipieri answered, "I give you my word of honour that it is
true."
"My dear," Volterra said, speaking to his wife, "when a gentleman gives
his word of honour, you are bound to accept it."
"I hope so," said Malipieri.
"Any man would perjure himself for a woman," retorted the Baroness with
contempt.
"No, my dear," the Baron objected, trying to mollify her. "Perjury is a
crime, you know."
"And what he has done is a much worse crime!" she cried.
"I have not committed any crime," Malipieri answered. "I would give all
I possess, and my life, to undo what has happened, but I have neither
said nor done anything to be ashamed of. For Donna Sabina's sake, you
must accept my explanation. In time you will believe it."
"Yes, yes," urged Volterra, "I am sure you will, my dear. In any case
you must accept it as the only one. I will go downstairs with Signor
Malipieri and we will take the porter to the cellars. Then you can go
out with Sabina, and if you are careful no one will ever know that she
has been here."
"And do you mean to let her live under your roof after this?" asked the
Baroness indignantly.
"Her mother is now in Rome," answered Volterra readily. "When she is
dressed, you will take her to the Princess, and you will say that as we
are going away, we are reluctantly obliged to decline the
responsibility of keeping the young girl with us any longer. That is
what you will do."
"I am glad you admit at least that she cannot live with us any longer,"
the Baroness answered. "I am sure I have no wish to ruin the poor girl,
who has been this man's unhappy victim--"
"Hush, hush!" interposed Volterra. "You must really accept the
explanation he has given."
"For decency's sake, you may, and I shall have to pretend that I do. At
least," she continued, turning coldly to Malipieri, "you will make such
reparation as is in your power."
"I will do anything I can," answered Malipieri gravely.
"You will marry her as soon as possible," the Baroness said with frigid
severity. "It is the only thing you can do."
Malipieri was silent. The Baron looked at him, and a disagreeable smile
passed over his fat features. But at that moment the door opened, and
Sabina entered. Without the least hesitation she came forward to
Malipieri, frankly holding out her hand.
"Good morning," she said. "Before I go, I wish to thank you again for
saving my life, and for taking care of me here."
He held her hand a moment.
"I ask your pardon, with all my heart, for having brought you into
danger and trouble," he answered.
"It was not your fault," she said. "It was nobody's fault, and I am
glad I saw the statues before any one else. You told me last night that
you were probably going away. If we never meet again, I wish you to
remember that you are not to reproach yourself for anything that may
happen to me. You might, you know. Will you remember?"
She spoke quite naturally and without the least fear of Volterra and
his wife, who looked on and listened in dumb surprise at her
self-possession. She meant every word she said, and more too, but she
had thought out the little speech while she was dressing, for she had
guessed what must be happening in the study. Malipieri fixed his eyes
on hers gratefully, but did not find an answer at once.
"Will you remember?" she repeated.
"I shall never forget," he answered, not quite steadily,
By one of those miracles which are the birthright of certain women, she
had made her dress look almost fresh again. The fawn-coloured hat was
restored to its shape, or nearly. The mud that had soiled her skirt had
dried and she had brushed it away, though it had left faint spots on
the cloth, here and there; pins hid the little rents so cleverly that
only a woman's eye could have detected anything wrong, and the russet
shoes were tolerably presentable. The Baroness saw traces of the
adventure to which the costume had been exposed, but Volterra smiled
and was less inclined than ever to believe the story which both had
told, though he did not say so.
"My wife and I," he said cordially, "quite understand what has
happened, and no one shall ever know about it, unless you speak of it
yourself. She will go home with you now, and will then take you to the
Russian Embassy to see your mother."
Sabina looked at him in surprise, for she had expected a disagreeable
scene. Then she glanced at the Baroness's sallow and angry face, and
she partly understood the position.
"Thank you," she said proudly, "but if you do not mind, I will go to my
mother directly. You will perhaps be so kind as to have my things sent
to the Embassy, or my mother's maid will come and get them."
"You cannot go looking like that," said the Baroness severely.
"On the contrary," Volterra interposed, "I think that considering your
dangerous adventure, you look perfectly presentable. Of course, we
quite understand that as the Princess has returned, you should wish to
go back to her at once, though we are very sorry to let you go."
Sabina paused a moment before answering. Then she spoke to the
Baroness, only glancing at Volterra.
"Until to-day, you have been very kind to me," she said with an effort.
"I thank you for your kindness, and I am sorry that you think so badly
of me."
"My dear young lady," cried the Baron, lying with hearty cordiality,
"you are much mistaken! I assure you, it was only a momentary
misapprehension on the part of my wife, who had not even spoken with
Signor Malipieri. His explanation has been more than satisfactory. Is
it not so, my dear?" he asked, turning to the Baroness for confirmation
of his fluent assurances.
"Of course," she answered, half choking, and with a face like thunder;
but she dared not disobey.
"If my mother says anything about my frock, I shall tell her the whole
story," said Sabina, glancing at her skirt.
"If you do," said the Baroness, "I shall deny it from beginning to end."
"I think that it would perhaps be wiser to explain that in some other
way," the Baron suggested. "Signor Malipieri, will you be so very kind
as to go down first, and take the porter with a light to the entrance
of the cellars? He knows Donna Sabina, you see. I will come down
presently, for I shall stay behind and ask the detective to look out of
the window in the next room, while my wife and Donna Sabina pass
through. In that way we shall be quite sure that she will not be
recognized. Will you do that, Signor Malipieri? Unless you have a
better plan to suggest, of course."
Malipieri saw that the plan was simple and apparently safe. He looked
once more at Sabina, and she smiled, and just bent her head, but said
nothing. He left the room. The detective was sitting in a corner of the
room beyond, and the two men exchanged a silent nod as Malipieri passed.
Everything was arranged as the Baron had planned, and ten minutes later
the Baroness and Sabina descended the stairs together in silence and
reached the great entrance. The two soldiers were standing by the open
door of the lodge, and saluted in military fashion. Gigi, the
carpenter, sprang forward and opened the postern door, touching his
paper cap to the ladies.
They did not exchange a word as they walked to the Piazza Sant'
Apollinare to find a cab. Sabina held her head high and looked straight
before her, and the Baroness's invisible silk bellows were distinctly
audible in the quiet street.
"By the hour," said the Baroness, as they got into the first cab they
reached on the stand. "Go to the Russian Embassy, in the Corso."