PART FIVE—THE PRIME MINISTER
It was Sunday. The storm threatened by the sunset of the day before had not yet come, but the sun was struggling through a veil of clouds, and a black ridge lay over the horizon.
At eleven o'clock to the moment the Baron arrived. As usual, he was faultlessly dressed, and he looked cool and tranquil.
"I am to show you into this room, Excellency," said Felice, leading the way to the boudoir.
"Thanks!... Anything to tell me, Felice?"
"Nothing, Excellency," said Felice. Then, pointing to the plaster bust on its pedestal in the corner, he added in a lower tone, "Heremained last night after the others had gone, and...."
But at that moment there was the rustle of a woman's dress outside, and, interrupting Felice, the Baron said in a high-pitched voice:
"Certainly; and please tell the Countess I shall not forget to look in upon her before I go."
Roma came into the room with a gloomy and firm-set face. The smile that seemed always to play about her mouth and eyes had given place to a slight frown and an air of defiance. But the Baron saw in a moment that behind the lips so sternly set, and the straight look of the eyes, there was a frightened expression which she was trying to conceal. He greeted her with his accustomed calm and naturalness, kissed her hand, offered her the flower from his button-hole, put her to sit in the arm-chair with its back to the window, took his own seat on the couch in front of it, and leisurely drew off his spotless gloves.
Not a word about the scene of yesterday, not a look of pain or reproof. Only a few casual pleasantries, and then a quiet gliding into the business of his visit.
"What an age since we were here alone before! And what changes you've made! Your pretty nest is like a cell! Well, I've obeyed your mandate, you see. I've stayed away for a month. It was hard to do—bitterly hard—and many a time I've told myself it was imprudent. But you were a woman. You were inexorable. I was forced to submit. And now, what have you got to tell me?"
"Nothing," she answered, looking straight before her.
"Nothing whatever?"
"Nothing whatever."
She did not move or turn her face, and he sat for a moment watching her. Then he rose, and began to walk about the room.
"Let us understand each other, my child," he said gently. "Will you forgive me if I recall facts that are familiar?"
She did not answer, but looked fixedly into the fire, while he leaned on the stove and stood face to face with her.
"A month ago, a certain Deputy, an obstructionist politician, who has for years made the task of government difficult, uttered a seditious speech, and brought himself within the power of the law. In that speech he also attacked me, and—shall I say?—grossly slandered you. Parliament was not in session, and I was able to order his arrest. In due course, he would have been punished, perhaps by imprisonment, perhaps by banishment, but you thought it prudent to intervene. You urged reasons of policy which were wise and far-seeing. I yielded, and, to the bewilderment of my officials, I ordered the Deputy's release. But he was not therefore to escape. You undertook his punishment. In a subtle and more effectual way, you were to wipe out the injury he had done, and requite him for his offence. The man was a mystery—you were to find out all about him. He was suspected of intrigue—you were to discover his conspiracies. Within a month, you were to deliver him into my hands, and I was to knowthe inmost secrets of his soul."
It was with difficulty that Roma maintained her calmness while the Baron was speaking, but she only shook a stray lock of hair from her forehead, and sat silent.
"Well, the month is over. I have given you every opportunity to deal with our friend as you thought best. Have you found out anything about him?"
She put on a bold front and answered, "No."
"So your effort has failed?"
"Absolutely."
"Then you are likely to give up your plan of punishing the man for defaming and degrading you?"
"I have given it up already."
"Strange! Very strange! Very unfortunate also, for we are at this moment at a crisis when it is doubly important to the Government to possess the information you set out to find. Still, your idea was a good one, and I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for suggesting it. And althoughyourefforts have failed, you need not be uneasy. You have given us the clues by whichourefforts are succeeding, and you shall yet punish the man who insulted you so publicly and so grossly."
"How is it possible for me to punish him?"
"By identifying David Rossi as one who was condemned in contumacy for high treason sixteen years ago."
"That is ridiculous," she said. "Sixteen months ago I had never heard the name of David Rossi."
The Baron stooped a little and said:
"Had you ever heard the name of David Leone?"
She dropped back in her chair, and again looked straight before her.
"Come, come, my child," said the Baron caressingly, and moving across the room to look out of the window, he tapped her lightly on the shoulder:
"I told you that Minghelli had returned from London."
"That forger!" she said hoarsely.
"No doubt! One who spends his life ferreting out crime is apt to have the soul of a criminal. But civilisation needs its scavengers, and it was a happy thought of yours to think of this one. Indeed, everything we've done has been done on your initiative, and when our friend is finally brought to justice, the deed will really be due to you, and you alone."
The defiant look was disappearing from her eyes, and she rose with an expression of pain.
"Why do you torture me like this?" she said. "After what has happened, isn't it quite plain that I am his friend, and not his enemy?"
"Perhaps," said the Baron. His face assumed a death-like rigidity. "Sit down and listen to me."
She sat down, and he returned to his place by the stove.
"I say you gave us the clues we have worked upon. Those clues were three. First, that David Rossi knew the life-story of Doctor Roselli in London. Second, that he knew the story of Doctor Roselli's daughter, Roma Roselli. Third, that he was for a time a waiter at the Grand Hotel in Rome. Two minor clues came independently, that David Rossi was once a stable-boy in New York, that his mother drowned herself in the Tiber, and he was brought up in a Foundling. By these five clues the authorities have discovered eight facts. Permit me to recite them."
Leaning his elbow on the stove and opening his hand, the Baron ticked off the facts one by one on his fingers.
"Fact one. Some thirty odd years ago a woman carrying a child presented herself at the office in Rome for the registry of births. She gave the name of Leonora Leone, and wished her child, a boy, to be registered as David Leone. But the officer in attendance discovered that the woman's name was Leonora Rossi, and that she had been married according to the religious rites of the Church, but not according to the civil regulations of the State. The child was therefore registered as David Rossi, son of Leonora Rossi and of a father unknown."
"Shameful!" cried Roma. "Shameful! shameful!"
"Fact two," said the Baron, without the change of a tone. "One night a little later the body of a woman found drowned in the Tiber was recognised as the body of Leonora Rossi, and buried in the pauper part of the Campo Verano under that name. The same night a child was placed by an unknown hand in therotaof Santo Spirito, with a paper attached to its wrist, giving particulars of its baptism and its name. The name given was David Leone."
The Baron ticked off the third of his fingers and continued:
"Fact three. Fourteen years afterwards a boy named David Leone, fourteen years of age, was living in the house of an Italian exile in London. The exile was a Roman prince under the incognito of Doctor Roselli; his family consisted of his wife and one child, a daughter named Roma, four years of age. David Leone had been adopted by Doctor Roselli, who had picked him up in the street."
Roma covered her face with her hands.
"Fact four. Four years later a conspiracy to assassinate the King of Italy was discovered at Milan. The chief conspiratorturned out to be, unfortunately, the English exile known as Doctor Roselli. By the good offices of a kinsman, jealous of the honour of his true family name, he was not brought to public trial, but deported by one of the means adopted by all Governments when secrecy or safety is in question. But his confederates and correspondents were shown less favour, and one of them, still in England, being tried in contumacy by a military court which sat during a state of siege, was condemned for high treason to the military punishment of death. The name of that confederate and correspondent was David Leone."
Roma's slippered foot was beating the floor fast, but the Baron went on in his cool and tranquil tone.
"Fact five. Our extradition treaty excluded the delivery of political offenders, but after representations from Italy, David Leone left England. He went to America. There he was first employed in the stables of the Tramway Company in New York, and lived in the Italian quarter of the city, but afterwards he rose out of his poverty and low position and became a journalist. In that character he attracted attention by a new political and religious propaganda. Jesus Christ was lawgiver for the nation as well as for the individual, and the redemption of the world was to be brought to pass by a constitution based on the precepts of the Lord's Prayer. The creed was sufficiently sentimental to be seized upon by fanatics in that country of countless faiths, but it cut at the roots of order, of poverty, even of patriotism, and being interpreted into action, seemed likely to lead to riot."
The Baron twisted the ends of his moustache, and said, with a smile, "David Leone disappeared from New York. From that time forward no trace of him has yet been found. He was as much gone as if he had ceased to exist.David Leone was dead."
Roma's hands had come down from her face, and she was picking at the buttons of her blouse with twitching fingers.
"Fact six," said the Baron, ticking off the thumb of his other hand. "Twenty-five or six years after the registration of the child David Rossi in Rome, a man, apparently twenty-five or six years of age, giving the name of David Rossi, arrived in England from America. He called at a baker's shop in Soho to ask for Roma Roselli, the daughter of Doctor Roselli, left behind in London when the exile returned toItaly. They told him that Roma Roselli was dead and buried."
Roma's face, which had been pale until now, began to glow like a fire on a gloomy night, and her foot beat faster and faster.
"Fact seven. David Rossi appeared in Rome, first as a waiter at the Grand Hotel, but soon afterwards as a journalist and public lecturer, propounding precisely the same propaganda as that of David Leone in New York, and exciting the same interest."
"Well? What of it?" said Roma. "David Leone was David Leone, and David Rossi is David Rossi—there is no more in it than that."
The Baron clasped his hands so tight that his knuckles cracked, and said, in a slightly exalted tone:
"Eighth and last fact. About that time a man called at the office of the Campo Santo to know where he was to find the grave of Leonora Leone, the woman who had drowned herself in the Tiber twenty-six years before. The pauper trench had been dug up over and over again in the interval, but the officials gave him their record of the place where she had once been buried. He had the spot measured off for him, and he went down on his knees before it. Hours passed, and he was still kneeling there. At length night fell, and the officers had to warn him away."
Roma's foot had ceased to beat on the floor, and she was rising in her chair.
"That man," said the Baron, "the only human being who ever thought it worth while to look up the grave of the poor suicide, Leonora Rossi, the mother of David Leone, was David Rossi! Who was David Leone?—David Rossi! Who was David Rossi?—David Leone! The circle had closed around him—the evidence was complete."
"Oh! oh! oh!"
Roma had leapt up and was moving about the room. Her lips were compressed with scorn, her eyes were flashing, and she burst into a torrent of words, which spluttered out of her quivering lips.
"Oh, to think of it! To think of it! You are right! The man who spends his life looking for crime must have the soul of a criminal! He has no conscience, no humanity, no mercy, no pity. And when he has tracked and dogged a man to his mother's grave—his mother's grave—he can dine, hecan laugh, he can go to the theatre! Oh, I hate you! There, I've told you! Now, do with me as you please!"
The death-like rigidity in the Baron's face decomposed into an expression of intense pain, but he only passed his hand over his brow, and said, after a moment of silence:
"My child, you are not only offending me, you are offending the theory and principle of Justice. Justice has nothing to do with pity. In the vocabulary of Justice there is but one word—duty. Duty called upon me to fix this man's name upon him, that his obstructions, his slanders, and his evil influence might be at an end. And now Justice calls upon you to do the same."
The Baron leaned against the stove, and spoke in a calm voice, while Roma in her agitation continued to walk about the room.
"Being a Deputy, and Parliament being in session, David Rossi can only be arrested by the authorisation of the Chamber. In order to obtain that authorisation, it is necessary that the Attorney-General should draw up a statement of the case. The statement must be presented by the Attorney-General to the Government, by the Government to the President, by the President to a Committee, and by the Committee to Parliament. Towards this statement the police have already obtained important testimony, and a complete chain of circumstantial evidence has been prepared. But they lack one link of positive proof, and until that link is obtained the Attorney-General is unable to proceed. It is the keystone of the arch, the central fact, without which all other facts fall to pieces—the testimony of somebody who can swear, if need be, that she knew both David Leone and David Rossi, and can identify the one with the other."
"Well?"
The Baron, who had stopped, continued in a calm voice: "My dear Roma, need I go on? Dead as a Minister is to all sensibility, I had hoped to spare you. There is only one person known to me who can supply that link. That person is yourself."
Roma's eyes were red with anger and terror, but she tried to laugh over her fear.
"How simple you are, after all!" she said. "It was Roma Roselli who knew David Leone, wasn't it? Well, Roma Roselli is dead and buried. Oh, I know all the story. You did that yourself, and now it cuts the ground from under you."
"My dear Roma," said the Baron, with a hard and angry face, "if I did anything in that matter, it was done for your welfare, but whatever it was, it need not disturb me now. Roma Roselli isnotdead, and it would be easy to bring people from England to say so."
"You daren't! You know you daren't! It would expose them to persecution for perpetrating a crime."
"In England, not in Italy."
Roma's red eyes fell, and the Baron began to speak in a caressing voice:
"My child, don't fence with me. It is so painful to silence you.... It is perhaps natural that you should sympathise with the weaker side. That is the sweet and tender if illogical way of all women. But you must not imagine that when David Rossi has been arrested he will be walked off to his death. As a matter of fact, he must go through a new trial, he must be defended, his sentence would in any case be reduced to imprisonment, and it may even be wiped out altogether. That's all."
"All? And you ask me to help you to do that?"
"Certainly."
"I won't!"
"Then you could if you would?"
"I can't!"
"Your first word was the better one, my child."
"Very well, I won't! I won't! Aren't you ashamed to ask me to do such a thing? According to your own story, David Leone was my father's friend, yet you wish me to give him up to the law that he may be imprisoned, perhaps for life, and at least turned out of Parliament. Do you suppose I am capable of treachery like that? Do you judge of everybody by yourself?... Ah, I know that story too! For shame! For shame!"
The Baron was silent for a moment, and then said in an impassive voice:
"I will not discuss that subject with you now, my child—you are excited, and don't quite know what you are saying. I will only point out to you that even if David Leone was your father's friend, David Rossi was your own enemy."
"What of that? It's my own affair, isn't it? If I choose to forgive him, what matter is it to anybody else? Idoforgive him! Now, whose business is it except my own?"
"My dear Roma, I might tell you that it's mine also, andthat the insult that went through you was aimed at me. But I will not speak of myself.... That you should change your plans so entirely, and setting out a month ago to ... to ... shall I say betray ... this man Rossi, you are now striving to save him, is a problem which admits of only one explanation, and that is that ... that you...."
"That I love him—yes, that's the truth," said Roma boldly, but flushing up to the eyes and trembling with fear.
There was a death-like pause in the duel. Both dropped their heads, and the silent face in the bust seemed to be looking down on them. Then the Baron's icy cheeks quivered visibly, and he said in a low, hoarse voice:
"I'm sorry! Very sorry! For in that case I may be compelled to justify your conclusion that a Minister has no humanity and no pity. If David Rossi cannot be arrested by the authorisation of Parliament, he must be arrested when Parliament is not in session, and then his identity will have to be established in a public tribunal. In that event you will be forced to appear, and having refused to make a private statement in the secrecy of a magistrate's office, you will be compelled to testify in the Court of Assize."
"Ah, but you can't make me do that!" cried Roma excitedly, as if seized by a sudden thought.
"Why not?"
"Never mind why not. You can't do it, I tell you," she cried excitedly.
He looked at her as if trying to penetrate her meaning, and then said:
"We shall see."
At that moment the fretful voice of the Countess was heard calling to the Baron from the adjoining room.
Roma went to her bedroom when the Baron left her, and remained there until late in the afternoon. In spite of the bold front she had put on, she was quaking with terror and tortured by remorse. Never before had she realised David Rossi's peril with such awful vividness, and seen her own position in relation to him in its hideous nakedness.
Was it her duty to confess to David Rossi that at the beginning of their friendship she had set out to betray him?Only so could she be secure, only so could she be honest, only so could she be true to the love he gave her and the trust he reposed in her.
Yet why should she confess? The abominable impulse was gone. Something sweet and tender had taken its place. To confess to him now would be cruel. It would wound his beautiful faith in her.
And yet the seeds she had sown were beginning to fructify. They might spring up anywhere at any moment, and choke the life that was dearer to her than her own. Thank God, it was still impossible to injure him except by her will and assistance. But her will might be broken and her assistance might be forced, unless the law could be invoked to protect her against itself. It could and it should be invoked! When she was married to David Rossi no law in Italy would compel her to witness against him.
But if Rossi hesitated from any cause, if he delayed their marriage, if he replied unfavourably to the letter in which she had put aside all modesty and asked him to marry her soon—what then? How was she to explain his danger? How was she to tell him that he must marry her before Parliament rose, or she might be the means of expelling him from the Chamber, and perhaps casting him into prison for life? How was she to say: "I was Delilah; I set out to betray you, and unless you marry me the wicked work is done!"
The afternoon was far spent; she had eaten nothing since morning, and was lying face down on the bed, when a knock came to the door.
"The person in the studio to see you," said Felice.
It was Bruno in Sunday attire, with little Joseph in top-boots, and more than ever like the cub of a young lion.
"A letter from him," said Bruno.
It was from Rossi. She took it without a word of greeting, and went back to her bedroom. But when she returned a moment afterwards her face was transformed. The clouds had gone from it and the old radiance had returned. All the brightness and gaiety of her usual expression were there as she came swinging into the drawing-room and filling the air with the glow of health and happiness.
"That'sall right," she said. "Tell Mr. Rossi I shall expect to see him soon ... or no, don't say that ... say that as he is over head and ears in work this week, he is not to think it necessary.... Oh, say anything you like," she said,and the pearly teeth and lovely eyes broke into an aurora of smiles.
Bruno, whose bushy face and shaggy head had never once been raised since he came into the room, said:
"He's busy enough, anyway—what with this big meeting coming off on Wednesday, and the stairs to his room as full of people as the Santa Scala."
"So you've brought little Joseph to see me at last?" said Roma.
"He has bothered my life out to bring him ever since you said he was to be your porter some day."
"And why not? Gentlemen ought to call on the ladies, oughtn't they, Joseph?"
And Joseph, whose curly poll had been hiding behind the leg of his father's trousers, showed half of a face that was shining all over.
"See! See here—do you know whothisis? This gentleman in the bust?"
"Uncle David," said the boy.
"What a clever boy you are, Joseph!"
"Doesn't want much cleverness to know that, though," said Bruno. "It's wonderful! it's magnificent! And it will shut up all their damned ... excuse me, miss, excuseme."
"And Joseph still intends to be a porter?"
"Dead set on it, and says he wouldn't change his profession to be a king."
"Quite right, too! And now let us look at something a little birdie brought me the other day. Come along, Joseph. Here it is. Down on your knees, gentleman, and help me to drag it out. One—two—and away!"
From the knee-hole of the desk came a large cardboard box, and Joseph's eyes glistened like big black beads.
"Now, what do you think is in this box, Joseph? Can't guess? Give it up? Sure? Well, listen! Are you listening? Which do you think you would like best—a porter's cocked hat, or a porter's long coat, or a porter's mace with a gilt hat and a tassel?"
Joseph's face, which had gleamed at every item, clouded and cleared, cleared and clouded at the cruel difficulty of choice, and finally looked over at Bruno for help.
"Choose now—which?"
But Joseph only sidled over to his father, and whispered something which Roma could not hear.
"What does he say?"
"He says it is his birthday on Wednesday," said Bruno.
"Bless him! He shall have them all, then," said Roma, and Joseph's legs as well as his eyes began to dance.
The cords were cut, the box was opened, the wonderful hat and coat and mace were taken out, and Joseph was duly invested. In the midst of this ceremony Roma's black poodle came bounding into the room, and when Joseph strutted out of the boudoir into the drawing-room the dog went leaping and barking beside him.
"Dear little soul!" said Roma, looking after the child; but Bruno, who was sitting with his head down, only answered with a groan.
"What is the matter, Bruno?" she asked.
Bruno brushed his coat-sleeve across his eyes, set his teeth, and said with a savage fierceness:
"What's the matter? Treason's the matter, telling tales and taking away a good woman's character—that's what is the matter! A man who has been eating your bread for years has been lying about you, and he is a rascal and a sneak and a damned scoundrel, and I would like to kick him out of the house."
"And who has been doing all this, Bruno?"
"Myself! It was I who told Mr. Rossi the lies that made him speak against you on the day of the Pope's Jubilee, and when you asked him to come here, I warned him against you, and said you were only going to pay him back and ruin him."
"So you said that, did you?"
"Yes, I did."
"And what did Mr. Rossi say to you?"
"Say to me? 'She's a good woman,' says he, 'and if I have ever said otherwise, I take it all back, and am ashamed.'"
Roma, who had turned to the window, heaved a sigh and said: "It has all come out right in the end, Bruno. If you hadn't spoken against me to Mr. Rossi, he wouldn't have spoken against me in the piazza, and then he and I should never have met and known each other and been friends. All's well that ends well, you know."
"Perhaps so, but the miracle doesn't make the saint, and you oughtn't to keep me any longer."
"Do you mean that I ought to dismiss you?"
"Yes."
"Bruno," said Roma, "I am in trouble just now, and I may be in worse trouble by-and-by. I don't know how long I may be able to keep you as a servant, but I may want you as a friend, and if you leave me now...."
"Oh, put it like that, miss, and I'll never leave you, and as for your enemies...."
Bruno was doubling up the sleeve of his right arm, when Joseph and the poodle came back to the room. Roma received them with a merry cry, and there was much noise and laughter. At length the gorgeous garments were taken off, the cardboard box was corded, and Bruno and the boy prepared to go.
"You'll come again, won't you, Joseph?" said Roma, and the boy's face beamed.
"I suppose this little man means a good deal to his mother, Bruno?"
"Everything! I do believe she'd die, or disappear, or drown herself if anything happened to that boy."
"And Mr. Rossi?"
"He's been a second father to the boy ever since the young monkey was born."
"Well, Joseph must come here sometimes, and let me try and be a second mother to him too.... What is he saying now?"
Joseph had dragged down his father's head to whisper something in his ear.
"He says he's frightened of your big porter downstairs."
"Frightened ofhim! He is only a man, my precious! Tell him you are a little Roman boy, and he'llhaveto let you up. Will you remember? You will? That's right! By-bye!"
Before going to sleep that night, Roma switched on the light that hung above her head and read her letter again. She had been hoarding it up for that secret hour, and now she was alone with it, and all the world was still.
"Saturday Night.
"My Dear One,—Your sweet letter brought me the intoxication of delight, and the momentous matter you speak of is under way. It is my turn to be ashamed of all the great to-do I made about the obstacles to our union when I see how courageous you can be. Oh, how brave women are—everywoman who ever marries a man! To take her heart into her hands, and face the unknown in the fate of another being, to trust her life into his keeping, knowing that if he falls she falls too, and will never be the same again! Whatmancould do it? Not one who was ever born into the world. Yet some woman does it every day, promising some man that she will—let me finish your quotation—
"'Meet, if thou require it,Both demands,Laying flesh and spiritIn thy hands.'
"Don't think I am too much troubled about the Minghelli matter, and yet it is pitiful to think how merciless the world can be even in the matter of a man's name. A name is only a word, but it is everything to the man who bears it—honour or dishonour, poverty or wealth, a blessing or a curse. If it is a good name, everybody tries to take it away from him, but if it's a bad name and he has attempted to drop it, everybody tries to fix it on him afresh.
"The name I was compelled to leave behind me when I returned to Italy was a bad name in nothing except that it was the name of my father, and if the spies and ferrets of authority ever fix it upon me God only knows what mischief they may do. But one thingIknow—that if they do fix my father's name upon me, and bring me to the penalties which the law has imposed on it, it will not be by help of my darling, my beloved, my brave, brave girl with the heart of gold.
"Dearest, I wrote to the Capitol immediately on receiving your letter, and to-morrow morning I will go down myself to see that everything is in train. I don't yet know how many days are necessary to the preparations, but earlier than Thursday it would not be wise to fix the event, seeing that Wednesday is the day of the great mass meeting in the Coliseum, and, although the police have proclaimed it, I have told the people they are to come. There is some risk at the outset, which it would be reckless to run, and in any case the time is short.
"Good-night! I can't take my pen off the paper. Writing to you is like talking to you, and every now and then I stop and shut my eyes, and hear your voice replying. Only it is myself who make the answers, and they are not half sosweet as they would be in reality. Ah, dear heart, if you only knew how my life was full of silence until you came into it, and now it is full of music! Good-night, again!
"D. R.
"Sunday Morning.
"Just returned from the Capitol. The legal notice for the celebration of a marriage is longer than I expected. It seems that the ordinary term must be twelve days at least, covering two successive Sundays (on which the act of publication is posted on the board outside the office) and three days over. Only twelve days more, my dear one, and you will be mine, mine, mine, and all the world will know!"
It took Roma a good three-quarters of an hour to read this letter, for nearly every word seemed to be written out of a lover's lexicon, which bore secret meanings of delicious import, and imperiously demanded their physical response from the reader's lips. At length she put it between the pillow and her cheek, to help the sweet delusion that she was cheek to cheek with some one and had his strong, protecting arms about her. Then she lay a long time, with eyes open and shining in the darkness, trying in vain to piece together the features of his face. But in the first dream of her first sleep she saw him plainly, and then she ran, she raced, she rushed to his embrace.
Next day brought a message from the Baron:
"Dear Roma,—Come to the Palazzo Braschi to-morrow (Tuesday) morning at eleven o'clock. Don't refuse, and don't hesitate. If you do not come, you will regret it as long as you live, and reproach yourself for ever afterwards.—Yours,
"Bonelli."
The Palazzo Braschi is a triangular palace, whereof one front faces to the Piazza Navona and the two other fronts to side streets. It is the official palace of the Minister of the Interior, usually the President of the Council and Prime Minister of Italy.
Roma arrived at eleven o'clock, and was taken to the Minister's room immediately, by way of an outer chamber,in which colleagues and secretaries were waiting their turn for an interview. The Baron was seated at a table covered with books and papers. There was a fur rug across his knees, and at his right hand lay a small ivory-handled revolver. He rose as Roma entered, and received her with his great but glacial politeness.
"How prompt! And how sweet you look to-day, my child! On a cheerless morning like this you bring the sun itself into a poor Minister's gloomy cabinet. Sit down."
"You wished to see me?" said Roma.
The Baron rested his elbow on the table, leaned his head on his hand, looked at her with his never-varying smile, and said:
"I hear you are to be congratulated, my dear."
She changed colour slightly.
"Are you surprised that I know?" he asked.
"Why should I be surprised?" she answered. "You know everything. Besides, this is published at the Capitol, and therefore common knowledge."
His smiling face remained perfectly impassive.
"Now I understand what you meant on Sunday. It is a fact that a wife cannot be called as a witness against her husband."
She knew he was watching her face as if looking into the inmost recesses of her soul.
"But isn't it a little courageous of you to think of marriage?"
"Why courageous?" she asked, but her eyes fell and the colour mounted to her cheek.
"Whycourageous?" he repeated.
He allowed a short time to elapse, and then he said in a a low tone, "Considering the past, and all that has happened...."
Her eyelids trembled and she rose to her feet.
"If this is all you wish to say to me...."
"No, no! Sit down, my child. I sent for you in order to show you that the marriage you contemplate may be difficult, perhaps impossible."
"I am of age—there can be no impediment."
"There may be the greatest of all impediments, my dear."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean ... But wait! You are not in a hurry? A number of gentlemen are waiting to see me, and if you willpermit me to ring for my secretary.... Don't move. Colleagues merely! They will not object toyourpresence. My ward, you know—almost a member of my own household. Ah, here is the secretary. Who now?"
"The Minister of War, the Prefect, Commendatore Angelelli, and one of his delegates," replied the secretary.
"Bring the Prefect first," said the Baron, and a severe-looking man of military bearing entered the room.
"Come in, Senator. You know Donna Roma. Our business is urgent—she will allow us to go on. I am anxious to hear how things stand and what you are doing."
The Prefect began on his report. Immediately the new law was promulgated by royal decree, he had sent out a circular to all the Mayors in his province, stating the powers it gave the police to dissolve associations and forbid public meetings.
"But what can we expect in the provincial towns, your Excellency, while in the capital we are doing nothing? The chief of all subversive societies is in Rome, and the directing mind is at large among ourselves. Listen to this, sir."
The Prefect took a newspaper from his pocket and began to read:
"Romans,—The new law is an attempt to deprive us of liberties which our fathers made revolutions to establish. It is, therefore, our duty to resist it, and to this end we must hold our meeting on the 1st of February according to our original intention. Only thus can we show the Government and the King what it is to oppose the public opinion of the world.... Meet in the Piazza del Popolo at sundown and walk to the Coliseum by way of the Corso. Be peaceful and orderly, and God put it into the hearts of your rulers to avert bloodshed."
"That is from theSunrise?"
"Yes, sir, the last of many manifestoes. And what is the result? The people are flocking into Rome from every part of the province."
"And how many political pilgrims are here already?"
"Fifty thousand, sixty, perhaps a hundred thousand. It cannot be allowed to go on, your Excellency."
"It is alevée-en-massecertainly. What do you advise?"
"That the enemies of the Government and the State,whose erroneous conceptions of liberty have led to this burst of anarchist feelings, be left to the operation of the police laws."
The Baron glanced at Roma. Her face was flushed and her eyes were flashing.
"That," he said, "may be difficult, considering the number of the discontented. What is the strength of your police?"
"Seven hundred in uniform, four hundred in plain clothes, and five hundred and fifty municipal guards. Besides these, sir, there are three thousand Carabineers and eight thousand regular troops."
"Say twelve thousand five hundred armed men in all?"
"Precisely, and what is that against fifty, a hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty thousand people?"
"You want the army at call?"
"Exactly! but above everything else we want the permission of the Government to deal with the greater delinquents, whether Deputies or not, according to the powers given us by the statute."
The Baron rose and held out his hand. "Thanks, Senator! The Government will consider your suggestions immediately. Be good enough to send in my colleague, the Minister of War."
When the Prefect left the room Roma rose to go.
"You cannot suppose this is very agreeable to me?" she said in an agitated voice.
"Wait! I shall not be long ... Ah, General Morra! Roma, you know the General, I think. Sit down, both of you.... Well, General, you hear of thislevée-en-masse?"
"I do."
"The Prefect is satisfied that the people are moved by a revolutionary organisation, and he is anxious to know what force we can put at his service to control it."
The General detailed his resources. There were sixteen thousand men always under arms in Rome, and the War Office had called up the old-timers of two successive years—perhaps fifty thousand in all.
"As a Minister of State and your colleague," said the General, "I am at one with you in your desire to safeguard the cause of order and protect public institutions, but as a man and a Roman I cannot but hope that you will not call upon me to act without the conditions required by law."
"Indeed, no," said the Baron; "and in order to make sure that our instructions are carried out with wisdom and humanity, let these be the orders you issue to your staff: First, that in case of disturbance to-morrow night, whether at the Coliseum or elsewhere, the officers must wait for the proper signal from the delegate of police."
"Good!"
"Next, that on receiving the order to fire, the soldiers must be careful that their first volley goes over the heads of the people."
"Excellent!"
"If that does not disperse the crowds, if they throw stones at the soldiers or otherwise resist, the second volley—I see no help for it—the second volley, I say, must be fired at the persons who are leading on the ignorant and deluded mob."
"Ah!"
The General hesitated, and Roma, whose breathing came quick and short, gave him a look of tenderness and gratitude.
"You agree, General Morra?"
"I'm afraid I see no alternative. But if the blood of their leader only infuriates the people, is the third volley...."
"That," said the Baron, "is a contingency too terrible to contemplate. My prediction would be that when their leader falls, the poor, misguided people will fly. But in all human enterprises the last word has to be left to destiny. Let us leave it to destiny in the present instance. Adieu, dear General! Be good enough to tell my secretary to send in the Chief of Police."
The Minister of War left the room, and once more Roma rose to go.
"You cannot possibly imagine that a conversation like this...." she began, but the Baron only interrupted her again.
"Don't go yet. I shall be finished presently. Angelelli cannot keep me more than a moment. Ah, here is the Commendatore."
The Chief of Police came bowing and bobbing at every step, with the extravagant politeness which differentiates the vulgar man from the well-bred.
"About this meeting at the Coliseum, Commendatore—has any authorisation been asked for it?"
"None whatever, your Excellency."
"Then we may properly regard it as seditious?"
"Quite properly, your Excellency."
"Listen! You will put yourself into communication with the Minister of War immediately. He will place fifty thousand men at the disposition of your Prefect. Choose your delegates carefully. Instruct them well. At the first overt act of resistance, let them give the word to fire. After that, leave everything to the military."
"Quite so, your Excellency."
"Be careful to keep yourself in touch with me until midnight to-morrow. It may be necessary to declare a state of siege, and in that event the royal decree will have to be obtained without delay. Prepare your own staff for a general order. Ask for the use of the cannon of St. Angelo as a signal, and let it be understood that if the gun is fired to-morrow night, every gate of the city is to be closed, every outward train is to be stopped, and every telegraph office is to be put under control. You understand me?"
"Perfectly, Excellency."
"After the signal has been given let no one leave the city, and let no telegraphic message of any kind be despatched. In short, let Rome from that hour onward be entirely under the control of the Government."
"Entirely, your Excellency."
"The military have already received their orders. After the call of the delegate of police, the first volley is to be fired over the heads of the people, and the second at the ringleaders. But if any of these should escape...."
The Baron paused, and then repeated in a low tone with the utmost deliberation:
"I say,ifany of these should escape, Commendatore...."
"They shall not escape, your Excellency."
There was a moment of profound silence, in which Roma felt herself to be suffocating, and could scarcely restrain the cry that was rising in her throat.
"Let me go," she said, when the Chief of Police had backed and bowed himself out; but again the Baron pretended to misunderstand her.
"Only one more visitor! I shall be finished in a few minutes," and then Charles Minghelli was shown into the room.
The man's watchful eyes blinked perceptibly as he cameface to face with Roma, but he recovered himself in a moment, and began to brush with his fingers the breast of his frockcoat.
"Sit down, Minghelli. You may speak freely before Donna Roma. You owe your position to her generous influence, you may remember, and she is abreast of all our business. You know all about this meeting at the Coliseum?"
Minghelli bent his head.
"The delegates of police have received the strictest orders not to give the word to the military until an overt act of resistance has been committed. That is necessary as well for the safety of our poor deluded people as for our own credit in the eyes of the world. But an act of rebellion in such a case is a little thing, Mr. Minghelli."
Again Minghelli bent his head.
"A blow, a shot, a shower of stones, and the peace is broken and the delegate is justified."
A third time Minghelli bent his head.
"Unfortunately, in the sorrowful circumstances in which the city is placed, an overt act of resistance is quite sure to be committed."
Minghelli flecked a speck of dust from his spotless cuff and said:
"Quite sure, your Excellency."
There was another moment of profound silence, in which Roma felt her heart beat violently.
"Adieu, Mr. Minghelli. Tell my secretary as you pass out that I wish to dictate a letter."
The letter was to the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
"Dear colleague," dictated the Baron, "I entirely approve of the proposal you have made to the Governments of Europe and America to establish a basis on which anarchists should be suppressed by means of an international net, through which they can hardly escape. My suggestion would be the universal application of the Belgian clause in all existing extradition treaties, whereby persons guilty of regicide may be dealt with as common murderers. In any case please say that the Government of Italy intends to do its duty to the civilised world, and will look to the Governments of other countries to allow it to follow up and arrest the criminals who are attempting to reconstruct society by burying it under ruins."
Notwithstanding all her efforts to appear calm, Roma felt as if she must go out into the streets and scream. Now she knew why she had been sent for. It was in order that the Baron might talk to her in parables—in order that he might show her by means of an object lesson, as palpable as pitiless, what was the impediment which made her marriage with David Rossi impossible.
The marriage could not be celebrated until after eleven days, but the meeting at the Coliseum must take place to-morrow, and as surely as it did so it must result in riot and David Rossi must be shot.
The secretary gathered up his note-book and left the room, and then the Baron turned to Roma with beaming eyes and lips expanding to a smile.
"Finished at last! A thousand apologies, my dear! Twelve o'clock already! Let us go out and lunch somewhere."
"Let me go home," said Roma.
She was trembling violently, and as she rose to her feet she swayed a little.
"My dear child! you're not well. Take this glass of water."
"It's nothing. Let me go home."
The Baron walked with her to the head of the staircase.
"I understand you perfectly," she said in a choking voice, "but there is something you have not counted upon, and you are quite mistaken."
And making a great call on her resolution, she threw up her head and walked firmly down the stairs.
Immediately on reaching home she wrote to David Rossi:
"Imustsee you to-night. Where can it be? To-night! Mind, to-night. To-morrow will be too late.
Roma."
Bruno delivered the note by hand, and brought back an answer:
"Dearest,—Come to the office at nine o'clock. Sorry I cannot go to you. It is impossible.
D. R.
"P.S.—You have converted Bruno, and he would die for you. As for the 'little Roman boy,' he is in the seventh heaven over your presents, and says he must go up to Trinità de' Monti to begin work at once."
The office of theSunriseat nine o'clock that night tingled with excitement. A supplement had already gone to press, and the machines in the basement were working rapidly. In the business office on the first floor people were constantly coming and going, and the footsteps on the stairs of the composing-room sounded through the walls like the irregular beat of a hammer.
The door of the editor's room was frequently swinging open, as reporters with reports, messengers with telegrams, and boys with proofs came in and laid them on the desk at which the sub-editor sat at work.
David Rossi stood by his desk at the farther end of the room. This was the last night of his editorship of theSunrise, and by various silent artifices the staff were showing their sympathy with the man who had made the paper and was forced to leave it.
The excitement within the office of theSunrisecorresponded to the commotion outside. The city was in a ferment, and from time to time unknown persons, the spontaneous reporters of tumultuous days, were brought in from the outer office to give the editor the latest news of the night. Another trainful of people had arrived from Milan! Still another from Bologna and Carrara! The storm was growing! Soon would be heard the crash of war! Their faces were eager and their tone was one of triumph. They pitched their voices high, so as to be heard above the reverberation of the machines, whose deep thud in the rooms below made the walls vibrate like the side of a ship at sea.
David Rossi did not catch the contagion of their joy. At every fresh announcement his face clouded. The unofficial head of the surging and straining democracy, which was filling itself hourly with hopes and dreams, was unhappy and perplexed. He was trying to write his last message to his people, and he could not get it clear because his own mind was confused.
"Romans," he wrote first, "your rulers are preparing to resist your right of meeting, and you will have nothing to oppose to the muskets and bayonets of their soldiers but the bare breasts of a brave but peaceful people. No matter. Fifty, a hundred, five hundred of you killed at the first volley,and the day is won! The reactionary Government of Italy—all the reactionary Governments of Europe—will be borne down lay the righteous indignation of the world."
It would not do! He had no right to lead the people to certain slaughter, and he tore up his manifesto and began again.
"Romans," he wrote the second time, "when reforms cannot be effected without the spilling of blood, the time for them has not yet come, and it is the duty of a brave and peaceful people to wait for the silent operation of natural law and the mighty help of moral forces. Therefore at the eleventh hour I call upon you, in the names of your wives and children...."
It was impossible! The people would think he was afraid, and the opportune moment would be lost.
One man in the office of theSunrisewas entirely outside the circle of its electric currents. This was the former day-editor, who had been appointed by the proprietors to take Rossi's place, and was now walking about with a silk hat on his head, taking note of everything and exercising a premature and gratuitous supervision.
David Rossi was tearing up the second of his manifestoes when this person came to say that a lady in the outer office was asking to see him.
"Show her into the private waiting-room," said Rossi.
"But may I suggest," said the man, "that considering who the lady is, it would perhaps be better to see her elsewhere?"
"Show her into the private room, sir," said Rossi, and the man shrugged his shoulders and disappeared.
As David Rossi opened the door of a small room at his right hand, something rustled lightly in the corridor outside, and a moment afterwards Roma glided into his arms. She was pale and nervous, and after a moment she began to cry.
"Dear one," said Rossi, pressing her head against his breast, "what has happened? Tell me! Something has frightened you. You look anxious."
"No wonder," she said, and then she told him of her summons to the Palazzo Braschi, and of the business she saw done there.
There was to be a riot at the meeting at the Coliseum, because, if need be, the Government itself would provokeviolence. The object was to killhim, not the people, and if he stayed in Rome until to-morrow night there would be no possibility of escape.
"You must fly," she said. "You are the victim marked out by all these preparations—you, you, nobody but you."
"It is the best news I've heard for days," he said. "If I am the only one who runs a risk...."
"Risk! My dearest, don't you understand? Your life is aimed at, and you must fly before it is quite impossible."
"It is already impossible," he answered.
He drew off one of her white gloves and kissed her finger-tips. "My dear one," he said, "if there were nothing else to think of, do you suppose I could go away and leave you behind me? That is just what somebody expected me to do when he permitted you to witness his preparations. But he was mistaken. I cannot and I will not leave you."
Her pale face was suddenly overspread by a burning blush, and she threw both arms about his neck.
"Very well," she said, "I will go with you."
"Darling!" he cried, and he clasped her to his breast again. "But no! That is impossible also. Our marriage cannot take place for ten days."
"No matter! I'll go without it."
"My dear child, you don't know what you are saying. You are too good, too pure...."
"Hush! Our marriage is nothing to anybody but ourselves, and if we choose to go without it...."
"My dear girl!"
"I can't hear you," she said. Loosening her hands from his neck, she had covered her ears.
"Dearest, I know what you are thinking of, but it must not be."
"I can't hear a word you're saying," she said, beating her hands over her ears. "I'm ready to go now, this very minute—and if you don't take me, it is because you love other things better than you love me."
"My darling, don't tempt me. If you only knew what it costs me ... but I would rather die...."
"I don't want you to die. That's just it! I want you to live, and I am willing to risk everything—everything...."
Her warm and lovely form was quivering in his arms, and his heart was labouring wildly.
"Dearest," he whispered over her head, "you are sogood, so pure, so noble, that you don't know how evil tongues can wag at a woman because she is brave and true. But I must remember my mother—and if your poor father is to rest in his grave...."
His voice broke and he stopped.
"See how much I love you," he whispered again, "when I would rather lose you than see you lower yourself in your own esteem.... And then think of my people! my poor people who trust me and look up to me so much more than I deserve. I called them and they have come. They are here now, tens of thousands of them. And they will be here to-morrow wherever I may be. Shall I desert them in their hour of need, thinking of my own safety, my own happiness? No! You cannot wish it! You do not wish it! I know you too well!"
She lifted her head from his breast. "You are right," she said. "You must stay."
"My sweet girl!"
"Can you ever forgive me for being frightened at the first note of danger and telling you to fly?"
"I will always love you for it."
"And you will never think the worse of me for offering to go with you?"
"I will love you for that too."
"I must be brave," she said, drawing herself up proudly, though her lips were trembling, her voice was breaking, and her eyes were wet. "Whether you are right or wrong in what you are doing it is not for me to decide, but if your heart tells you to do it youmustdo it, and I must be your soldier, ready and waiting for my captain's call."
"My brave girl!"
"It is not for nothing that I am my father's daughter.Herisked everything and so will I, and if they come to me to-morrow night and say that ... that you ... that you are...."
The proud face had fallen on his breast again. But after a moment it was raised afresh, and then it was shining all over.
"That's right! How beautiful your face is when it smiles, Roma! Roma, do you know what I'm going to do when this is all over? I'm going to spend my life in making you smile all the time."
She gave him a sudden kiss, and then broke out of his arms.
"I must be going. I've stayed too long. I may not see you before the meeting, but I won't say 'good-bye.' I've thought of something, and now I know what I'm going to do."
"What is it?"
"Don't ask me."
She opened the door.
"Come to me to-morrow night—I shall expect you," she whispered, and waving her glove to him over her head she disappeared from the room.
He stood a moment where she had left him, trying to think what she intended to do, and then he returned to his desk in the outer office. His successor was there, looking sour and stubborn.
"Mr. Rossi," he said, "this afternoon I was told at the Press Club that the authorities were watching for a plausible excuse for suppressing the paper; and considering the relations of this lady to the Minister of the Interior, and the danger of spies...."
"Listen to this carefully, sir," interrupted Rossi. "When you come into possession of the chair I occupy, you may do as you think well, but to-night it is mine, and I shall conduct the paper as I please."
"Still, you will allow me to say...."
"Not one word."
"Permit me to protest...."
"Leave the room immediately."
When the man was gone, David Rossi wrote a third and last version of his manifesto:
"Romans.—Have no fear. Do not allow yourselves to be terrified by the military preparations of your Government. Believe a man who has never deceived you—the soldiers will not fire upon the people! Violate no law. Assail no enemy. Respect property. Above all, respect life. Do not allow yourself to be pushed into the doctrine of physical force. If any man tries to provoke violence, think him an agent of your enemies and pay no heed. Be brave, be strong, be patient, and to-morrow night you will send up such a cry as will ring throughout the world. Romans, remember your fathers and be great."
Rossi was handing his manuscript to the sub-editor, that it might be sent upstairs, when all at once the air seemed to become empty and the world to stand still. The machine inthe basement had ceased to work. There was a momentary pause, such as comes on a steamship at sea when the engines are suddenly stopped, and then a sound of frightened voices and the noise of hurrying feet. Somebody ran along the corridor outside and rapped sharply at the door.
At the next moment the door opened and four men entered the room. One of them was an inspector, another was a delegate, and the others were policemen in plain clothes.
"The journal is sequestered," said the inspector to David Rossi. And turning to one of his men, he said, "Go up to the composing-room and superintend the distribution of the type."
"Allow no one to leave the building," said the delegate to the other policeman.
"Gentlemen," said the inspector, "we are charged to make a perquisition, and must ask you for the keys of your desks."
"What is this?" said the delegate, taking the manifesto out of Rossi's fingers, and proceeding to read it.
At that moment the editor-elect came rushing into the room with a face like the rising sun.
"I demand to see a list of the things sequestered," he cried.
"You shall do so at the police-office," said the inspector.
"Does that mean that we are all arrested?"
"Not all. The Honourable Rossi, being a Deputy, is at liberty to leave."
"Thought as much," said the new editor, with a contemptuous snort. And turning to Rossi, and showing his teeth in a bitter smile, he said: "What did I say would happen? Has it followed quickly enough to satisfy you?"
The inspector and the delegate opened the editors' desks and were rummaging among their papers when David Rossi put on his hat and went home.
At the door of the lodge the old Garibaldian was waiting in obvious excitement.
"Old John has been here, sir," he said. "Something to tell you. Wouldn't tell me. But Bruno got it out of him at last. Must be something serious, for the big booby has been drinking ever since. Hear him in the café, sir. I'll send him up."
Half-an-hour afterwards Bruno staggered into Rossi's room. He had a tearful look in his drink-deadened eyes, andwas clearly struggling with a desire to put his arms about Rossi's neck and weep over him.
"D'ye know wha'?" he mumbled in a maudlin voice. "Ole Vampire is a villain! Ole John—'member ole John?—well, ole John heard his grandson, the d'ective, say that if you go to the Coliseum to-morrow night...."
"I know all about it, Bruno. You may go to bed."
"Stop a minute, sir," said Bruno, with a melancholy smile. "You don't unnerstand. They're going t' shoot you. See? Ole John—'member ole John? Well, ole John...."
"I know, Bruno. But I'm going nevertheless."
Bruno fought with the vapour in his brain, and said: "You don' mean t' say you inten' t' let yourself be a target...."
"That's what I do mean, Bruno."
Bruno burst into a loud laugh. "Well, I'll be ... wha' the devil.... But you sha'n't go. I'll ... I'll see you damned first!"
"You're drunk, Bruno. Go and put yourself to bed."
The drink-deadened eyes flashed, and to grief succeeded rage. "Pu' mysel t' bed! D'ye know wha' I'd like t' do t' you for t' nex' twenty-four hours? I'd jus' like—yes, by Bacchus—I'd jus' like to punch you in t' belly and putyout' bed."
And straightening himself up with drunken dignity, Bruno stalked out of the room.
The Baron Bonelli in the Piazza Leone was rising from his late and solitary dinner when Felice entered the shaded dining-room and handed him a letter from Roma. It ran:
"This is to let you know that I intend to be present at the meeting in the Coliseum to-morrow night. Therefore, if any shots are to be fired by the soldiers at the crowd or their leader, you will know beforehand that they must also be fired at me."
As the Baron held the letter under the red shade of the lamp, the usual immobility of his icy face gave way to a rapturous expression.
"The woman is magnificent! And worth fighting for to the bitter end."
Then, turning to Felice, he told the man to ring up the Commendatore Angelelli and tell him to send for Minghelli without delay.