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The Heart of Rome: A Tale of the "Lost Water"

by F. Marion Crawford · English · Gutenberg #5847 · 562,424 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Heart of Rome: A Tale of the "Lost Water"

Author: F. Marion Crawford


        
Release date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #5847]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2014

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEART OF ROME: A TALE OF THE "LOST WATER" ***




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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.





CHAPTER II




Signor Pompeo Sassi sat in his dingy office and tore his hair, in the
good old literal Italian sense. His elbows rested on the shabby black
oilcloth glued to the table, and his long knotted fingers twisted his
few remaining locks, on each side of his head, in a way that was
painful to see. From time to time he desisted for an instant, and held
up his open hands, the fingers quivering with emotion, and his watery
eyes were turned upwards, too, as if directing an unspoken prayer to
the dusty rafters of the ceiling. The furrows had deepened of late in
his respectable, trust-inspiring face, and he was as thin as a skeleton
in leather.

His heart was broken. On the big sheet of thick hand-made paper, that
lay on the desk, scribbled over with rough calculations in violet ink,
there were a number of trial impressions of the old stamp he had once
been so proud to use. It bore a rough representation of the Conti
eagle, encircled by the legend: "Eccellentissima Casa Conti." When his
eyes fell upon it, they filled with tears. The Most Excellent House of
Conti had come to a pitiful end, and it had been Pompeo Sassi's unhappy
fate to see its fall. Judging from his looks, he was not to survive the
catastrophe very long.

He loved the family, and yet he disliked every member of it personally
except Sabina. He loved the "Eccellentissima Casa," the checky eagle,
the Velasquez portraits and his dingy office, but he never had spoken
with the Princess, her son, his wife, or his sister Clementina, without
a distinct feeling of disapproving aversion. The old Prince had been
different. In him Sassi had still been able to respect those
traditional Ciceronian virtues which were inculcated with terrific
severity in the Roman youth of fifty years ago. But the Prince had died
prematurely at the age of fifty, and with him the Ciceronian traditions
had ended in Casa Conti, and their place had been taken by the caprices
of the big, healthy, indolent, extravagant Polish woman, by the
miserable weaknesses of a degenerate heir, and the fanatic religious
practices of Donna Clementina.

Sassi was sure that they all three hated him or despised him, or both;
yet they could not spare him. For different reasons, they all needed
money, and they had long been used to believing that no one but Sassi
could get it for them, since no one else knew how deeply the family was
involved. He always made difficulties, he protested, he wrung his
hands, he warned, he implored; but caprice, vice and devotion always
overcame his objections, and year after year the exhausted estate was
squeezed and pressed and mortgaged and sold, till it had yielded the
uttermost farthing.

Then, one day, the whole organization of Casa Conti stood still; the
unpaid servants fled, the unpaid tradesmen refused to trust any longer,
the unpaid holders of mortgages foreclosed, the Princess departed to
Poland, the Prince slunk away to live on what was left of his wife's
small estate, Donna Clementina buried herself in a convent to which she
had given immense sums, the Conti palace was for sale, and Pompeo Sassi
sat alone in his office, tearing his hair, while the old porter sat in
his lodge downstairs peeling potatoes.

It was not for himself that the old steward of the estate was in danger
of being totally bald. He had done for himself what others would not
allow him to do for them, a proceeding which affords some virtuous
people boundless satisfaction, though it procured him none at all. He
was provided for in his old age. During more than thirty years he had
saved and scraped and invested and added to the little sum of money
left him by his father, an honest old notary of the old school, until
he possessed what was a very comfortable competence for a childless old
man. He had a small house of his own near the Pantheon, in which he
occupied two rooms, letting the rest, and he had a hundred thousand
francs in government bonds, besides a few acres of vineyard on the
slope of Monte Mario.

More than once, in the sincerity of his devotion to the family he
served, he had thought of sacrificing all he possessed in an attempt to
stave off final ruin; but a very little reflection had convinced him
that all he had would be a mere drop in the flood of extravagance, and
would forthwith disappear with the rest into the bottomless pit of debt.

Even that generous temptation was gone now. The house having collapsed,
its members appeared to him only in their true natures, a
good-for-nothing young man, tainted with a mortal disease, a foolish
mother, a devout spinster threatened with religious mania, and the last
descendant of the great old race, one little girl-child not likely to
live, and perhaps better dead. In their several ways they had treated
him as the contemptible instrument of their inclinations; they were
gone from his life and he was glad of it, when he thought of each one
separately. Yet, collectively, he wished them all in the palace again,
even a month ago, even on the day before the exodus; good, bad,
indifferent, no matter what, they had been Casa Conti still, to the
end, the family he had served faithfully, honestly and hopelessly for
upwards of a third of a century. That might seem to be inconsistent,
but it was the only consistency he had ever known, and it was loyalty,
of a kind.

But there was one whom he wished back for her own sake; there was Donna
Sabina. When he thought of her, his hands fell from his head at last,
and folded themselves over the scrawled figures on the big sheet of
paper, and he looked long and steadily at them, without seeing them at
all.

He wondered what would become of her. He had seen her on the last day
and he should never forget it. Before going away with the Baroness
Volterra she had found her way to his dark office, and had stood a few
moments before the shabby old table, with a small package in her hand.
He could see the slight figure still, when he closed his eyes, and her
misty hair against the cold light of the window. She had come to ask
him if he would bury her dead canary, somewhere under the sky where
there was grass and it would not be disturbed. Where could she bury it,
down in the heart of Rome? She had wrapped it in a bit of pink satin
and had laid it in a little brown cardboard box which had been full of
chocolates from Ronzi and Singer's in Piazza Colonna. She pushed back
the lid a finger's breadth and he saw the pink satin for a second. She
laid the box before him. Would he please do what she asked? Very
timidly she slipped a simple little ring off her finger, one of those
gold ones with the sacred monogram which foreigners insist upon calling
"Pax." She said she had bought it with her own money, and could give it
away. She wished to give it to him. He protested, refused, but the
fathomless violet eyes gazed into his very reproachfully. He had always
been so kind to her, she said; would he not keep the little ring to
remember her by?

So he had taken it, and that same day he had gone all the way to his
lonely vineyard on Monte Mario carrying the chocolate box in his hands,
and he had buried it under the chestnut-tree at the upper end, where
there was some grass; and the breeze always blew there on summer
afternoons. Then he had sat on the roots of the tree for a while,
looking towards Rome.

He would have plenty of time to go to the vineyard now, for in a little
while he should have nothing to do, as the palace was going to be sold.
When he got home, he wrote a formal letter to Donna Sabina, informing
her that he had fulfilled the commands she had deigned to give him, and
ventured to subscribe himself her Excellency's most devoted, humble and
grateful servant, as indeed he was, from the bottom of his heart. In
twenty-four hours he received a note from her, written in a delicate
tall hand, not without character, on paper bearing the address of Baron
Volterra's house in Via Ludovisi. She thanked him in few words, warmly
and simply. He read the note several times and then put it away in an
old-fashioned brass-bound secretary, of which he always kept the key in
his pocket. It was the only word of thanks he had received from any
living member of the Conti family.

A month had passed since then, but as he sat at his desk it was all as
vivid as if it had happened yesterday.

He was in his office to-day because he had received notice that some
one was coming to look at the palace with a view to buying it, and he
considered it his duty to show it to possible purchasers. Baron
Volterra had sent him word in the morning, and he had come early. Then,
as he sat in his old place, the ruin of the great house had enacted
itself again before his eyes, so vividly that the pain had been almost
physical. And then, he had fallen to thinking of Sabina, and wondering
what was to become of her. That was the history of one half-hour in his
life, on a May afternoon; but the whole man was in it, what he had been
thirty years earlier, and a month ago, what he was to-day and what he
would be to the end of his life.





CHAPTER III




If Sabina had known what was before her when she got into the Baroness
Volterra's carriage and was driven up to the Via Ludovisi, followed by
a cab with her luggage, she would probably have begged leave to go with
her elder sister to the convent. Her mother would most likely have
refused the permission, and she would have been obliged to accept the
Volterras' hospitality after all, but she would have had the
satisfaction of having made an effort to keep her freedom before
entering into what she soon looked upon as slavery.

Her mother would have considered this another evidence of the folly
inherent in all the Conti family. Sabina lived in a luxurious house,
she was treated with consideration, she saw her friends, and desirable
young men saw her. What more could she wish?

All this was true. The Baroness was at great pains to make much of her,
and the Baron's manner to her was at once flattering, respectful and
paternal. During the first few days she had discovered that if she
accidentally expressed the smallest wish it was instantly fulfilled,
and this was so embarrassing that she had since taken endless pains
never to express any wish at all. Moreover not the slightest allusion
to the misfortunes of her family was ever made before her, and if she
was in total ignorance of the state of affairs, she was at least spared
the humiliation of hearing that the palace was for sale, and might be
sold any day, to any one who would pay the price asked.

From time to time the Baroness said she hoped that Sabina had good news
of her mother, but showed no curiosity in the matter, and the girl
always answered that she believed her mother to be quite well. Indeed
she did believe it, for she supposed that if the Princess were ill some
one would let her know. She wrote stiff little letters herself, every
Sunday morning, and addressed them to her uncle's place in Poland; but
no one ever took the least notice of these conscientious
communications, and she wondered why she sent them, after all. It was a
remnant of the sense of duty to her parents instilled into her in the
convent, and she could not help clinging to it still, from habit.

She had a few friends of her own age, and they came to see her now and
then. They were mostly companions of her recent convent days, and they
asked her many questions, to most of which she had no answer. She
noticed that they looked surprised, but they were well brought up
girls, and kept their reflections to themselves, until they were at
home.

The Conti had fewer near relations than most Roman families, for of
late they had not been numerous. The Prince's only sister had died
childless, the dowager Princess was a Pole, and her daughter-in-law was
a Tuscan. Sabina and her generation had therefore no first cousins; and
those who were one degree or more removed were glad that they had not
been asked to take charge of the girl after the catastrophe. It would
have been all very well merely to give her a room and a place at table,
but the older ones shook their heads, and said that before long the
Baroness Volterra would have to dress her too, and give her
pocket-money. Her good-for-nothing brother would not do anything for
her, if he could, and the Princess, who was amusing herself in Poland,
if not in Paris, was capable of forgetting her existence for a year at
a time.

All these things greatly enhanced the outward and visible merit of the
Volterra couple, but made Sabina's position daily less endurable. So
the Baroness laid up treasures in heaven while Sabina unwillingly
stored trouble on earth.

She was proud, to begin with. It was bad enough to have been ordered by
her mother to accept the hospitality of people she did not like, but it
was almost unbearable to realize by degrees that she was living on
their effusive charity. If she had been as vain as she was proud, she
would probably have left their house to take refuge in her sister's
convent, for her vanity could not have borne the certainty that all
society knew what her position was. The foundation of pride is the wish
to respect oneself, whatever others may think; the mainspring of vanity
is the craving for the admiration of others, no matter at what cost to
one's self-respect. In the Conti family these qualities and defects
were unevenly distributed, for while pride seemed to have been left out
in the character of Sabina's brother, who was vain and arrogant, she
herself was as unspoilt by vanity as she was plentifully supplied with
the characteristic which is said to have caused Lucifer's fall, but
which has been the mainstay of many a greatly-tempted man and woman.
Perhaps what is a fault in angels may seem to be almost a virtue in
humanity, compared with the meanness of worse failings.

Sabina was not suspicious, yet she could not help wondering why the
Baroness had been so very anxious to take her in, and sometimes she
thought that the object might be to marry her to one of Volterra's two
sons. One was in a cavalry regiment stationed in Turin, the other was
in the diplomacy and was now in Washington. They were both doing very
well in their careers and their father and mother often talked of them.

The Baron was inclined to be playful now and then.

"Ah, my dear young lady," he would cry, shaking one fat finger at
Sabina across the dinner table, "take care, take care! You will lose
your heart to both my boys and sow discord in my family!"

At this he never failed to laugh, and his wife responded with a smile
of motherly pride, followed by a discreet side glance at Sabina's
delicate face. Then the finely-pencilled eyebrows were just the least
bit more arched for a second, and the slender neck grew slightly
straighter, but that was all, and the Baron did not even see the
change. Sometimes Sabina said nothing, but sometimes she asked if the
sons were coming home on leave. No, they were not coming at present. In
the spring Volterra and his wife generally spent a few weeks in Turin,
to see the elder son, on their way to Aix and Paris, but his brother
could hardly expect to come home for another year. Then the couple
would talk about both the young men, until Sabina's attention wandered,
and she no longer heard what they were saying.

She did not believe that they really thought of trying to marry her to
one of the sons. In her own opinion they could gain nothing by it; she
had no dowry now, and her mother had always talked of marriage as a
business transaction. It did not occur to her that they could care to
be allied with a ruined family, and that her mere name could be worth
anything in their scale of values. They were millionaires, of course,
and even the dowry which she might formerly have expected would have
been nothing compared with their fortune; but her mother had always
said that rich people were the very people who cared the most for
money. That was the reason why they were rich. This explanation was so
logical that Sabina had accepted it as the true one.

Her knowledge of the world was really limited to what she had learned
from her mother, after she had come back from the convent six months
before the crash, and it was an odd mixture of limitations and
exaggerations. When the Princess was in a good humour she believed in
everybody; when she was not, which was when she had no money to throw
away, she attributed the basest motives to all mankind. According to
her moods, she had encouraged Sabina to look forward to a life of
perpetual pleasure, or had assured her with energy that all men were
liars, and that the world was a wretched place after all. It was true
that the Princess entertained the cheerful view more often than not,
which was perhaps fortunate for her daughter; but in her heart the
young girl felt that she would have to rely on her own common sense to
form any opinion of life, and as her position became more difficult,
while the future did not grow more defined, she tried to think
connectedly about it all, and to reach some useful conclusion.

It was not easy. In her native city, living under the roof of people
who held a strong position in the society to which she belonged, though
they had not been born to it, she was as completely isolated as if she
had been suddenly taken away and set down amongst strangers in
Australia. She was as lonely as she could have been on a desert island.

The Volterra couple were radically, constitutionally, congenitally
different from the men and women she had seen in her mother's house.
She could not have told exactly where the difference lay, for she was
too young, and perhaps too simple. She did not instinctively like them,
but she had never really felt any affection for her mother either, and
her own brother and sister had always repelled her. Her mother had
sometimes treated her like a toy, but more often as a nuisance and a
hindrance in life, to be kept out of the way as much, as possible, and
married off on the first opportunity. Yet Sabina knew that far down in
her nature there was a mysterious tie of some sort, an intuition that
often told her what her mother would say or do, though she herself
would have spoken and acted otherwise. She had felt it even with her
brother and sister, but she could not feel it at all with the Baron or
his wife. She never could guess what they might do or say under the
most ordinary circumstances, nor what things they would like and
dislike, nor how they would regard anything she said or did; least of
all could she understand why they were so anxious to keep her with them.

It was all a mystery, but life itself was mysterious, and she was
little more than a child in years though she had never had what one
calls a real childhood.

She often used to sit by her window, the sliding blinds partly drawn
together, but leaving a space through which she could look down at the
city, with a glimpse of Saint Peter's in the distance against the warm
haze of the low Campagna. Rome seemed as far from her then as if she
saw it in a vision a thousand miles away, and the very faint sounds
from the distance were like voices in a dream. Then, if she closed her
eyes a moment, she could see the dark streets about the Palazzo Conti,
and the one open corner of the palace, high up in the sunlight; she
could smell the acrid air that used to come up to her in the early
morning when the panes were opened, damp and laden with odours not
sweet but familiar in the heart of Rome; odours compounded of cabbages,
stables, cheese and mud, and occasionally varied by the fumes of
roasting coffee, or the sour vapours from a wine cart that was
unloading stained casks, all wet with red juice, at the door of the
wine shop far below, a dark little wine shop with a dry bush stuck out
through a smoky little grated window, and a humble sign displaying the
prices of drink in roughly painted blue and red figures. For her room
had looked upon the narrowest and darkest of the streets, though it had
been stately enough within, and luxuriously furnished, besides
containing some objects of value and beauty over which there would be
much bidding and squabbling of amateurs and experts when the great sale
took place.

It had been gloomy and silent and loveless, the life down there; and
yet she would have gone back to it if she could, from the sunshine of
the Via Ludovisi, and from the overpowering freshness of the Volterra
house, where everything was modern, and polished, and varnished, and in
perfect condition, suggesting that things had been just paid for. She
had not liked the old life, but she liked her present surroundings even
less, and at times she felt a furious longing to leave them suddenly,
without warning; to go out when no one would notice her, and never to
come back; to go she knew not where, out into the world, risking she
knew not what, a high-born, penniless, fair-haired girl not yet
eighteen.

What would happen, if she did? She rarely laughed, but she would laugh
at that, when she thought of the consternation her flight would
produce. How puzzled the fat Baron would look, how the Baroness's thin
mouth would be drawn down at the corners! How the invisible silk
bellows would puff as she ran up and down stairs, searching the house
for Sabina!

There was more than one strain of wild blood in the delicate girl's
veins, and the spring had come suddenly, with a bursting out of blossom
and life and colour, and a twittering of nesting birds in the old
gardens, and a rush of strange longings in her heart.

Then Sabina told herself that there was nothing to keep her where she
was, but her own will, and that no one would really care what became of
her in the wide world; certainly not her mother, who had never written
her so much as a line, nor sent her a message, since they had parted on
the day of the catastrophe; certainly not her brother; probably not
even her sister, whose whole being was absorbed in the tyrannical
government of what she called her soul. Sabina, in her thoughts,
irreverently compared Clementina's soul to a race-horse, and her sister
to a jockey, riding it cruelly with whip and spur to the goal of
salvation, whether it liked it or not.

Sabina rose from her seat by the window, when she thought of liberty,
and she walked up and down her room, driven by something she could not
understand, and yet withheld by something she understood even less. For
it was not fear, nor reflection, nor even common sense nor the thought
of giving pain to any one that hindered her from leaving the house at
such moments. It was not even the memory of the one human being who had
hitherto loved her, and for whom she had felt affection and
gratitude,--one of the nuns at the convent school, a brave, quiet
little lady who made her believe in good. She meant to do no harm if
she were free, and the nun would not really blame her, if she knew the
truth.

It was not that. It was the secret conviction that there was harm in
the world from which mere courage could not protect her; it was the
sort of instinct that warns young animals not to eat plants that are
poisonous; it was the maiden intuition of a strange and unknown danger.

She sat down again disconsolately. It was absurd, of course, and she
could not run away. Where could she go? She had no money, and she would
have to starve or beg before one day was out. She would be homeless,
she would be driven to some house of charity, for a meal and a place to
sleep, or else to sleep out under the sky. That would be delightful for
once. She had always longed to sleep out of doors, to feel the breeze
playing with her feathery hair in the dark, to watch the constellations
turning slowly westwards, to listen to the night sounds, to the low
rhythmical piping of the tree toad, the sorrowful cry of the little
southern owl and the tolling of the hour in a far-off belfry.

But it might rain. At the idea, Sabina laughed again. It would be very
unpleasant to be caught in a shower while napping on a bench in a
public garden. Besides, if the policemen found her there, an extremely
young lady, extremely well dressed but apparently belonging to no one,
they would in all likelihood ask her name, and she would have to tell
them who she was; and then she would be brought back to Baron
Volterra's house, unless they thought it more prudent to take her to a
lunatic asylum.

At that stage in her imaginings it was generally time to go out with
the Baroness for the daily drive, which began with the leaving of cards
and notes, then led to the country or one of the villas, and generally
ended in a turn or two through the Corso before coming home. The worst
part of the daily round was dinner when the Baron was at home. It was
then that she felt most strongly the temptation to slip out of the
house and never to come back. Often, however, he and his wife dined
out, and then Sabina was served alone by two solemn men-servants, so
extremely correct that they reminded her a little of her old home.
These were the pleasantest evenings she spent during that spring, for
when dinner was over she was free to go to her own room and curl
herself up in a big armchair with a book, and read or dream till
bedtime, as she pleased.

When she was alone, her life seemed less objectless, less inexplicably
empty, less stupidly incomprehensible, less lonely than in the company
of those excellent people with whom she had nothing in common, but to
whom she felt that she was under a great obligation. In their company,
it was as if her life had stopped suddenly at the beginning and was
never to go on again, as if she had stuck fast like a fly in a drop of
amber, as if nothing of interest could ever happen to her though she
might live a hundred years.

She could hardly remember anything which had given her great pleasure.
She did not remember to have been ever radiantly happy, though she
could not recall much unhappiness since she had left the convent
school. The last thing that had really hurt her had been the death of
her pet canary, and she had kept her feelings to herself as well as she
could, with the old aristocratic instinct of hiding pain.

It was all idle and strangely empty, and yet hard to understand. She
would have been much surprised if she could have guessed how much its
emptiness interested other people in Rome; how the dowagers chattered
about her over their tea, abusing her mother and all her relations for
abandoning her like a waif; how the men reasoned about Baron Volterra's
deep-laid schemes, trying to make out that his semi-adoption of Sabina,
as they called it, must certainly bode ruin to some one, since he had
never in his life done anything without a financial object; how the
young girls unanimously declared that the Baroness wanted Sabina for
one of her sons, because she was such a dreadful snob; how Cardinal
Della Crusca shook his wise old head knowingly, as he, who knew so
much, always did on the rare occasions when he knew nothing about the
matter in hand; how a romantic young English secretary of Embassy
christened her the Princess in the Tower; and how old Pompeo Sassi went
up to his vineyard on Monte Mario every Sunday and Thursday and sat
almost all the afternoon under the chestnut-tree thinking about her and
making unpractical plans of his own.





CHAPTER IV




If Baron Volterra did not choose to sell the Palazzo Conti to the first
comer, he doubtless knew his own business best, and he was not
answerable to every one for his opinion that the fine old building was
worth a good deal more than the highest offer he had yet received.
Everybody knew that the palace was for sale, and some of the attempts
made to buy it were openly discussed. A speculator had offered four
hundred thousand francs for it, a rich South American had offered half
a million; it was rumoured that the Vatican would give five hundred and
fifty thousand, provided that the timbers of the carved ceilings were
in good condition, but Volterra steadily refused to allow any of the
carvings to be disturbed in order to examine the beams. During several
days a snuffy little man with a clever face poked about with a light in
dark places between floors, trying to find out whether the wood were
sound or rotten, and asking all sorts of questions of the old porter,
and of two workmen who went with him, and who had been employed in
repairs in the palace, as their fathers had been before them, perhaps
for generations. But their answers were never quite satisfactory, and
the snuffy man disappeared to the mysterious regions beyond the Tiber,
and did not come back.

Some people, knowing the ways of the Romans, might have inferred that
the two workmen, a mason and a carpenter, had not been treated by Baron
Volterra in such a way as to make them give a favourable report; and as
he seemed perfectly indifferent about the result this is quite
possible. At all events the carpenter made out that he could not get at
the beams in question, without moving the decorations which covered
them, and the mason affirmed that it was quite impossible to get a view
of the foundations of the north-west corner of the palace, which were
said to be weak, without knocking a hole through a wall upon which
depended such solidity as there was. It was useless, he said. The
snuffy gentleman could ask the Baron, if he pleased, and the Baron
could do what he liked since the property now belonged to him: but he,
the mason, would not lay hand to pick or crowbar without the Baron's
express authorization. The Baron was a Senator of the Kingdom, said the
mason, and could therefore of course send him to penal servitude in the
galleys for life, if he pleased. That is the average Roman workman's
idea of justice. The snuffy expert, who looked very much like a poor
priest in plain clothes, though he evidently knew his business, made no
reply, nor any attempt to help the mason's conscience with money.

But he stood a little while by the wall, with his lantern in his hands,
and presently put his ear to the damp stones, and listened.

"There is running water somewhere not far off," he said, looking keenly
at the workman.

"It is certainly not wine," answered the man, with a rough laugh, for
he thought it a very good joke.

"Are there any 'lost waters' under the palace?" asked the expert.

"I do not know," replied the mason, looking away from the lantern
towards the gloom of the cellars.

"I believe," said the snuffy gentleman, setting down his lantern, and
taking a large pinch from a battered silver snuff-box, on which the
arms of Pius Ninth were still distinguishable, "I believe that the
nearest 'lost water' to this place is somewhere under the Vicolo del
Soldati."

"I do not know."

The expert skilfully inserted the brown dust into his nostrils with his
right thumb, scarcely wasting a grain in the operation.

"You do not seem to know much," he observed thoughtfully, and took up
his lantern again.

"I know what I have been taught," replied the mason without resentment.

The expert glanced at him quickly, but said nothing more. His
inspection was finished, and he led the way out of the intricate
cellars as if he knew them by heart, though he had only passed through
them once, and he left the palace on foot when he had brushed some of
the dust from his shabby clothes.

The porter looked enquiringly at the two men, as they filled little
clay pipes that had cane stems, standing under the deep entrance.

"Not even the price of half a litre of wine," said the mason in answer
to the mute question.

"Church stuff," observed the carpenter discontentedly.

The porter nodded gravely, and the men nodded to him as they went out
into the street. They had nothing more to do that day, and they turned
into the dark little wine shop, where the withered bush stuck out of
the blackened grating. They sat down opposite each other, with the end
of the grimy board of the table between them, and the carpenter made a
sign. The host brought a litre measure of thin red wine and set it down
between them with two tumblers. He was ghastly pale, flabby and sullen,
with a quarter of an inch of stubbly black beard on his unhealthy face.

The carpenter poured a few drops of wine into one of the tumblers,
shook it about, turned it into the other, shook it again, and finally
poured it on the unctuous stone floor beside him. Then he filled both
glasses to the brim, and both men drank in silence.

They repeated the operation, and after the second glass there was not
much left in the measure. The flabby host had retired to the gloomy
vaults within, where he played cards with a crony by the light of a
small smoking lamp with a cracked chimney.

"That was the very place, was it not?" asked the carpenter at last, in
a low tone, and almost without moving his lips.

The mason said nothing, but shrugged his shoulders, in a sort of
enigmatic assent. Both drank again, and after a long time the carpenter
smiled faintly.

"He was looking for the 'lost water,'" he said, in a tone of contempt.

The faint smile slowly reflected itself in the mason's face. The two
finished their wine, lit their pipes again, left the price of their
drink on the table without disturbing the host and went away.

So far as any outsider could have judged, the expert's curiosity and
the few words exchanged by the workmen referred to the so-called "lost
water," which might be somewhere under the north-west corner of the
Palazzo Conti, and no one unacquainted with subterranean Rome could
possibly have understood what any of the three meant.

The "lost waters" of Rome are very mysterious. Here and there, under
old streets and far down amongst the foundations of ancient palaces,
there are channels of running water which have no apparent connection
with any of the aqueducts now restored and in use. It is a water that
comes no one knows whence and finds its way to the Tiber, no one knows
how. It is generally clear and very cold, and in the days when the
aqueducts were all broken and most people drank of the river, the "lost
water" was highly prized. It appears in the most unexpected places,
sometimes in great quantities and seriously interfering with any
attempt to lay the foundations of a new building, sometimes black and
silent, under a huge flagstone in an old courtyard, sometimes running
with an audible rush through hidden passages deeper than the deepest
cellars. It has puzzled archaeologists, hydraulic engineers and
architects for generations, its presence has never been satisfactorily
explained, there seems not to be any plan of the city which shows its
whereabouts, and the modern improvements of the Tiber's banks do not
appear to have affected its occult courses. By tradition handed down
from father to son, certain workmen, chiefly masons and always genuine
Romans, claim to know more about it than other people; but that is as
much as can be said. It is known as the "lost water," and it rises and
falls, and seeks different levels in unaccountable ways, as water will
when it is confined under the earth but is here and there confronted by
the pressure of the air.

But though the old-fashioned Roman workman still looks upon all
traditional information about his trade as secret and never to be
revealed, that fact alone might seem insufficient to account for the
behaviour of Gigi the carpenter and of Toto the mason under the
particular circumstances here narrated, still less for the contempt
they showed for the snuffy expert who was apparently looking for the
"lost water." An invisible witness would have gathered that they had
something of more importance to conceal. To the expert, their conduct
and answers must have been thoroughly unsatisfactory, for the Vatican
was even said to have refused to pay the additional fifty thousand
francs, On the ground that the state of the foundations was doubtful
and that the timbers of the upper story were not sound.

Baron Volterra's equanimity was not in the least disturbed by this. On
the contrary, instead of setting the price lower, he frankly told all
applicants, through his agent, that he was in no hurry to sell, as he
had reason to believe that the land about the Palazzo Conti would soon
rise in value. He had settled with the representatives of the Conti
family, and it was said that he had behaved generously. The family had
nothing left after the crash, which might partially account for such an
exhibition of generosity; but it was hinted that Baron Volterra had
given them the option of buying back the palace and some other property
upon which he had foreclosed, if they should be able to pay for it in
ten years.

Soon after the visit of the snuffy expert, Volterra's agent informed
the porter that a gentleman had taken the small apartment on the
intermediate story, which had formerly been occupied by a chaplain but
had been disused for years. It had been part of the Conti's folly that
they had steadily refused to let any part of the vast building since
the old Prince's death.


On the following day, the new-comer moved in, with his belongings,
consisting of a small quantity of new furniture, barely sufficient for
himself and his one servant, and a number of very heavy cases, which
turned out to be full of books. Gigi, the carpenter, was at once sent
for to put up plain shelves for these, and he took stock of the lodger
while the latter was explaining what he wanted.

"He is a gentleman," said Gigi to Toto, that very evening, as they
stood filling their pipes at the corner of the Vicolo del Soldati. "His
name is Malipieri. He is as black as the horses at a funeral of the
first-class, and he is not a Roman."

"Who knows what race of animal this may be?" Toto was not in a good
humour.

"He is of the race of gentlemen," asserted Gigi confidently.

"Then he will end badly," observed Toto. "Let us go and drink. It is
better."

"Let us go and drink," repeated Gigi. "You have a sensible thought
sometimes. I think this man is an engineer, or an architect. He wants a
draughtsman's table."

"Evil befall his little dead ones, whatever he is," returned the other,
by way of welcome to the young man who had moved into the palace.

"He advanced me ten francs to buy wood for the shelves," said Gigi, who
was by far the more cheerful of the two.

"Come and drink," returned Toto, relevantly or irrelevantly. "That is
much better."

So they turned into the wine shop.





CHAPTER V




Baron Volterra introduced Marino Malipieri to the two ladies. The guest
had come punctually, for the Baron had looked at his watch a moment
before he was announced, and it was precisely eight o'clock.

Malipieri bowed to the Baroness, who held out her hand cordially, and
then to Sabina.

"Donna Sabina Conti," said the Baron with extreme distinctness, in
order that his guest should be quite sure of the young girl's identity.

Sabina looked down modestly, as the nuns had told her to do when a
young man was introduced to her. At the same moment Malipieri's eyes
turned quietly and quickly to the Baron, and a look of intelligence
passed between the two men. Malipieri understood that Sabina was one of
the family in whose former palace he was living. Then he glanced again
at the young girl for one moment, before making a commonplace remark to
the Baroness, and after that Sabina felt that she was at liberty to
look at him.

She saw a very dark man of average height, with short black hair that
grew rather far back from his very white forehead, and wearing a
closely clipped black beard and moustache which did not by any means
hide the firm lines of the mouth and chin. From the strongly marked
eyebrows downward his face was almost of the colour of newly cast
bronze, and the dusky hue contrasted oddly with the clear whiteness of
his forehead. He was evidently a man who had lately been living much
out of doors under a burning sun. Sabina thought that his very bright
black eyes and boldly curved features suggested a young hawk, and he
had a look of compact strength and a way of moving which betrayed both
great energy and extreme quickness.

But there was something more, which Sabina recognized at the first
glance. She felt instantly that he was not like the Baron and his wife;
that he belonged in some way to the same variety of humanity as
herself; that she would understand him when he spoke, that she would
often feel intuitively what he was going to say next, and that he would
understand her.

She listened while he talked to the Baroness. He had a slight Venetian
accent, but his voice had not the soft Venetian ring. It was a little
veiled, and though not at all loud it was somewhat harsh. Sabina did
not dislike the manly tone, though it was not musical, nor the Venetian
pronunciation, although that was unfamiliar. In countries like Italy
and Germany, which have had many centres and many historical capital
cities, almost all educated people speak with the accents of their
several origins, and are rather tenacious of the habit than anxious to
get rid of it, generally maintaining that their own pronunciation is
the right one.

"Signor Malipieri," said the Baron to Sabina, as they went in to
dinner, "is the celebrated archaeologist."

"Yes," Sabina answered, as if she knew all about him, though she had
never heard him mentioned.

Malipieri probably overheard the Baron's speech, but he took no notice
of it. At dinner, he seemed inclined to be silent. The Baron asked him
questions about his discoveries, to which he gave rather short answers,
but Sabina gathered that he had found something extraordinary in
Carthage. She did not know where Carthage was, and did not like to ask,
but she remembered that Marius had sat there among some ruins. Perhaps
Malipieri had found his bones, for no one had ever told her that Marius
did not continue to sit among the ruins to his dying day. She connected
him vaguely with AEneas and another person called Regulus. It was all
rather uncertain.

What she saw clearly was that the Baron wished to make Malipieri feel
at his ease, but that Malipieri's idea of being at his ease was
certainly not founded on a wish to talk about himself. So the
conversation languished for some time.

The Baroness, who knew about as much about Carthage as Sabina, made a
few disconnected remarks, interspersed with laudatory allusions to the
young man's immense learning, for she wished to please her husband,
though she had not the slightest idea why Malipieri was asked to
dinner. Finding that he was not perceptibly flattered by what she said,
she began to talk about the Venetian aristocracy, for she knew that his
name was historical, and she recognized in him at once the
characteristics of the nobility she worshipped. Malipieri smiled
politely, and in answer to a direct question admitted that his mother
had been a Gradenigo.

The Baroness was delighted at this information.

"To think," she said, "that by a mere accident you and Donna Sabina
should meet here, the descendants of two of the oldest families of the
Italian aristocracy!"

"I am a republican," observed Malipieri quietly.

"You!" cried the Baroness in amazement. "You, the offspring of such
races as the Malipieri and the Gradenigo a republican, a socialist, an
anarchist!"

"There is a difference," said Malipieri with a smile. "A republican is
not an anarchist!"

"I can never believe it," answered the Baroness solemnly.

She ate a few green peas and shook her head.

"I went to Carthage because I was condemned to three years' confinement
in prison," replied Malipieri with calm.

"Prison!" exclaimed the Baroness in horror, and she looked at her
husband, mutely asking why in the world he had brought a convict to
their table.

The Baron smiled benignly, as he disposed of an ample mouthful of green
peas, before he spoke.

"Signor Malipieri," he said, when he had swallowed the last one,
"founded and edited a republican newspaper in the north of Italy."

"And you were sent to prison for that?" asked Sabina with indignation.

"It is one thing to send a man to prison," said Malipieri. "It is
another to make him go there. I escaped to Switzerland, and I came back
to Italy quite lately, after the amnesty."

"I am amazed!" The Baroness looked at the servants timidly, as if she
expected the butler and the footman to express their disapprobation of
the guest.

"I have left politics for the present," Malipieri replied, looking at
Sabina and smiling.

"Of course!" cried the Baroness. "But--" she stopped short.

"My wife," said the financier with a grin, "is afraid you have dynamite
about you."

"How absurd!" The Baroness felt that she was ridiculous. "But I do not
understand how you can be friends," she added, glancing from her
husband to Malipieri.

"We are at least on good terms of acquaintance," said the younger man a
little markedly.

Sabina liked the speech and the way in which it was spoken.

"We have a common ground for it in our interest in antiquities. Is it
not true, Signer Malipieri?"

The Baron looked at him and smiled again, as if there were a secret
between them, and Malipieri glanced at Sabina.

"It is quite true," he said gravely. "The Baron has read all I have
written about Carthage."

Volterra possessed a sort of rough social tact, together with the
native astuteness and great knowledge of men which had made him rich
and a Senator. He suddenly became voluble and led the conversation in a
new direction, which it followed till the end of dinner.

Several people came in afterwards, as often happened, before the coffee
was taken away. They were chiefly men in politics, and two of them
brought their wives with them. They were not the sort of guests whom
the Baroness preferred, for they were not by any means all noble
Romans, but they were of importance to her husband and she took great
pains to make them welcome. To one she offered his favourite liqueur,
which happened to be a Sicilian ratafia; for another she made the Baron
send for some of those horribly coarse black cigars known as Tuscans,
which some Italians prefer to anything else; for a third, she ordered
fresh coffee to be especially made. She took endless trouble.

Malipieri seemed to know none of the guests, and he took advantage of
the Baroness's preoccupation for their comforts to sit down by Sabina.
He did not look at her, and she thought he looked bored, as he sat a
moment in silence. Then a thin deputy with a magnificent forehead and
thick grey hair began to hold forth on the subject of a projected
divorce law and the guests gathered round him. Sabina had never heard
of Sydney Smith, but she had a suspicion that nobody could be as great
as the speaker looked. While she was thinking of this, Malipieri spoke
to her in a low voice.

"I suppose that you are stopping in the house," he said.

"Yes."

Sabina turned her eyes a little, but did not look straight at him. She
saw, however, that he was still watching the people in the room, and
still looked bored, and she was quite unprepared for what followed.

"Are the affairs of your family finally settled?" he enquired, without
changing his tone.

Sabina was so much surprised that she waited a moment before answering.
Her first instinct was to ask him stiffly why he put such a question,
and she would have replied to it in that way if it had come from any
other guest in the room; but she changed her mind almost instantly.

"No one has told me anything," she said simply, in a low voice.
Malipieri turned his head a little with a quick movement, and clasped
his brown hands over one knee.

"You know nothing?" he asked. "Nothing whatever about the matter?"

"Nothing."

He bit his lip as if he were indignant, and were repressing an
exclamation.

"No one has written to me--for a long time," Sabina said, after a
moment.

She had been on the point of saying that she had never received a line
from any member of her family since the crash, but that seemed to sound
like a confidence, and what she really said was quite true.

"Has not the Senator told you anything either?" Malipieri asked.

"No. I suppose he does not like to speak about our misfortunes before
me."

"Have you, I mean you yourself, any interest in the Palazzo Conti now?
Can you tell me that?"

"I know nothing--nothing!" Sabina repeated the word with a slight
tremor, for just then she felt her position more keenly than ever
before. "Why do you ask?"

She could not help putting the question which rose to her lips the
second time, but there was no coldness in her voice. She was very
lonely, and she felt that Malipieri was speaking from some honourable
motive.

"I am living in the palace," Malipieri answered.

Sabina looked up quickly, with an expression of interest in her pale
young face. The thought that the man beside her was living in her old
home was like a bond of acquaintance.

"Really?" she cried. "In which part of the house?"

"Do not seem interested, please," said Malipieri, suddenly looking very
bored again. "If you do, we shall not be allowed to talk. I am living
in the little apartment on the intermediate story. They tell me that a
chaplain once lived there."

"I know where it is," answered Sabina, "but I was never in the rooms.
They used to be shut up, I think."

The deputy who was haranguing on the subject of divorce seemed to be
approaching his peroration. His great voice filled the large room with
incessant noise, and everybody seemed anxiously waiting for a chance to
contradict him. Malipieri was in no danger of being overheard.

"If it happens," he said, "that I wish to communicate with you on a
matter of importance, how can I reach you best?"

He asked the question quite naturally, as if he had known Sabina all
his life. At first she was so much surprised that she could hardly
speak.

"I--I do not know," she stammered.

She had never received letters from any one but her own family or her
school friends, and a very faint colour rose in her pale cheek.
Malipieri looked more bored and weary than ever.

"It may be absolutely necessary for me to write to you before long," he
said. "Shall I write by post?"

Sabina hesitated.

"Is there no one in all Rome whom you can trust to bring a note and
give it to you when you are alone?"

"There is Signor Sassi," Sabina answered almost instinctively. "But
really, why should you--"

"How can I find Sassi?" asked Malipieri, interrupting the question.
"Who is he?"

"He was our agent. Is he gone? The old porter will know where to find
him. I think he lived near the palace. But perhaps the porter has been
sent away too."

"He is still there. Have you been made to sign any papers since you
have been here?"

"No."

"Will you promise me something?"

Sabina could not understand how it was that a man who had been a
stranger two hours earlier was speaking to her almost as if he were an
intimate friend, still less why she no longer felt that she ought to
check him and assert her dignity.

"If it is right, I will promise it," she answered quietly, and looking
down.

"It is right," he said. "If the Senator, or any one else asks you to
sign a paper, will you promise to consult me before doing so?"

"But I hardly know you!" she laughed, a little shyly.

"It is of no use to waste time and trouble on social conventions," said
Malipieri. "If you do not trust me, can you trust this Sassi?"

"Oh yes!"

"Then consult him. I will make him consult me, and it will be the
same--and ten times more conventional and proper."

He smiled.

"Will you promise that?" he asked.

"Yes. I promise. But I wish you would tell me more."

"I wish I could. But I hardly know you!" He smiled again, as he
repeated her own words.

"Never mind that! Tell me!"

"No. I cannot. If there is trouble I will tell you everything--through
Sassi, of course."

Sabina laughed, and all at once she felt as if she had known him for
years.

At that moment the deputy finished his speech, and all who had anything
to say in answer said it at once, in order to lose no time, while the
speaker relighted his villainous black cigar, puffing tremendously.

The Baroness suddenly remembered Sabina and Malipieri in the corner,
and after screaming out several incoherent phrases, which might have
been taken for applause or dissent and were almost lost in the general
din, she moved across the room.

"It is atrocious!" she cried, as she reached Sabina. "I hope you have
not heard a word he said!"

"When a man has such a voice as that, it is impossible not to hear
him," said Malipieri, rising and answering before Sabina had time to
speak.

Sabina rose, too, rather reluctantly.

"And of course you agreed with everything he said," the Baroness
replied. "All anarchists do!"

"I beg your pardon. I do not agree with him at all, and I am really not
an anarchist."

He smiled politely, and Sabina noticed with an unaccountable little
thrill of satisfaction that the smile was quite different from the one
she had seen in his face more than once while they had been talking
together. As for the deputy's discourse, she had not heard a word of it.

The Baroness sat down on the sofa, and Sabina slipped away. She was not
supposed to be in society yet, as she was not quite eighteen, and there
was certainly no reason why she should stay in the drawing-room that
evening, while there were many reasons why she should go away. The
Baroness breathed an audible sigh of relief when she was gone, for it
was never possible to predict what some excited politician might say
before her in the heat of argument.

In the silence of her own room she sat down to think over the
unexpected events of the evening. Very young girls love to look forward
to the moment when they shall be able to "think" of what has happened,
after they have met men they are inclined to like, and who interest
them. But when the time really comes they hardly ever think at all.
They see pictures, they hear voices, they feel again what they have
felt, they laugh, they shed tears all alone, and they believe they are
thinking, or even reasoning. Their little joys come back to them, the
little triumphs of their vanity, and also all the little hurts their
sensitiveness has suffered, and which men do not often guess and still
more rarely understand.

There must be some original reason why all boys call girls silly, and
all girls think boys stupid. It must be part of the first manifestation
of that enormous difference which exists between the point of view of
men and women in after life.

Women are, in a sense, the embodiment of practice, while men are the
representatives of theory. In practice, in a race for life, the runner
who jumps everything in his way is always right, unless he breaks his
neck. In theory, he is as likely to break his neck at the first jump as
at the second, and the chances of his coming to grief increase quickly,
always in theory, as he grows tired. So theory says that it is safer
never to jump at all, but to go round through the gates, or wade
ignominiously through the water. Women jump; men go round. The
difference is everything. Women believe in what often succeeds in
practice, and they take all risks and sometimes come down with a crash.
Men theorize about danger, make elaborate calculations to avoid it and
occasionally stick in the mud. When women fall at a stone wall they
scream, when men are stuck in a bog they swear. The difference is
fundamental. In nine cases out of ten it is the woman who enjoys the
ecstatic delight of saying "I told you so," and there are plenty of
women who would ask no greater joy in paradise than to say so to their
husbands for ever and ever. Indeed, eternal reward and punishment could
thus be at once combined and distributed in a simple manner.

Sabina took her first fence that evening, for when she put out her
candle she was sure that Malipieri was already her friend, and that she
could trust him in any emergency. Moreover, though she would not have
acknowledged it, she inwardly hoped that some emergency might not be
far in the future.

But Malipieri walked all the way from the Via Ludovisi to the Palazzo
Conti, which is more than a mile, without noticing that he had
forgotten to light the cigar he had taken out on leaving Volterra's
house.





CHAPTER VI




Malipieri had the Palazzo Conti to himself. The main entrance was
always shut now, and only a small postern, cut in one side of the great
door, was left ajar. The porter loafed about in the great court with
his broom and his pipe; in the morning his wife went upstairs and
opened a few windows, merely as a formality, and late in the afternoon
she shut them again. Malipieri's man generally went out twice every
day, carrying a military dinner-pail, made in three sections, which he
brought back half an hour later. Malipieri sometimes was not seen for
several days, but frequently he went out in the morning and did not
come back till dark. Now and then, things were delivered for him at the
door,--a tin of oil for his lamps, a large box of candles, packages of
odd shapes, sometimes very heavy, and which the porter was told to
handle with care.

The old man tried to make acquaintance with Malipieri's man, but found
it less easy than he had expected. In the first place, Masin came from
some outlandish part of Italy where an abominable dialect was spoken,
and though he could speak school Italian when he pleased, he chose to
talk to the porter in his native jargon, when he talked at all. He
might just as well have spoken Greek. Secondly, he refused the porter's
repeated offers of a litre at the wine shop, always saying something
which sounded like a reference to his delicate health. As he was
evidently as strong as an ox, and as healthy as a savage or a street
dog, the excuse carried no conviction. He was a big, quiet fellow, with
china-blue eyes and a reddish moustache. The porter was not used to
such people, nor to servants who wore moustaches, and was inclined to
distrust the man. On the other hand, though Masin would not drink, he
often gave the porter a cigar, with a friendly smile.

One day, in the morning, Baron Volterra came to see Malipieri, and
stayed over an hour, a part of which time the two men spent in the
courtyard, walking up and down in the north-west corner, and then
taking some measurements with a long tape which Malipieri produced from
his pocket. When the Baron went away he stopped and spoke with the
porter. First he gave him five francs; then he informed him that his
wages would be raised in future by that amount; and finally he told him
that Signor Malipieri was an architect and would superintend the
repairs necessary to the foundations at the north-west corner, that
while the work was going on even the little postern door was to be kept
shut all day, and no one was to be admitted on any condition without
Signor Malipieri's express permission. The fat Baron fixed his eyes on
the porter's with an oddly hard look, and said that he himself might
come at any moment to see how the work was going on, and that if he
found anybody inside the gate without Signor Malipieri's authority, it
would be bad for the porter. During this conversation, Malipieri stood
listening, and when it ended he nodded, as if he were satisfied, and
after shaking hands with the Baron he went up the grand staircase
without a word.

It was all very mysterious, and the porter shook his head as he turned
into his lodge after fastening the postern; but he said nothing to his
wife about what had passed.

From what he had been told, he now naturally expected that a number of
masons would come in a day or two in order to begin the work of
strengthening the foundations; but no one came, and everything went on
as usual, except that the postern was kept shut. He supposed that
Malipieri was not ready, but he wisely abstained from asking questions.
Then Malipieri asked him for the address of Pompeo Sassi, and wrote it
down in his pocket-book, and went out. That was on the morning after he
had dined at the Baron's house, for it was not his habit to waste time
when he wanted information.

Sassi received Malipieri in a little sitting-room furnished with a
heterogeneous collection of utterly useless objects, all of which the
old agent treasured with jealous affection, and daily recommended to
the care of the elderly woman who was his only servant. The sofa and
chairs had been new forty years ago, and though the hideous
red-and-green stuffs with which they were covered were still tolerably
vivid in colours the legs did not look safe, and Malipieri kept his
feet well under him and sat down cautiously. Two rickety but
well-dusted tables were loaded with ancient nicknacks, dating from the
early part of the second French Empire, with impossibly ugly little
figures carved out of cheap alabaster, small decayed photograph albums,
and ingeniously bad wax flowers under glass shades. On the walls hung
bad lithographs of Pius Ninth, Napoleon Third and Metternich, with a
large faded photograph of old Prince Conti as a young man. Malipieri
looked at it curiously, for he guessed that it represented Sabina's
father. The face was clean-shaven, thin and sad, with deep eyes and
fair hair that looked almost white now, as if the photograph had grown
old with the man, while he had lived.

Sassi sat down opposite his visitor. He wore a black cloth cap with a
green tassel, and rubbed his hands slowly while he waited for Malipieri
to speak. The latter hesitated a moment and then went to the point at
once.

"You were the agent of the Conti estate for many years," he said. "I
know the Senator Volterra and have met Donna Sabina. I understand that
her mother has left her under the charge of the Senator's wife, and
seems to have forgotten her existence. The young lady is apparently
without resources of her own, and it is not clear what would become of
her if the Volterra couple should not find it convenient to keep her
with them. Is that the state of affairs?"

Sassi nodded gravely. Then he looked keenly at the young man, and asked
him a question.

"May I enquire why you take an interest in Donna Sabina Conti?"

Malipieri returned the other's gaze quietly.

"I am an architect, called in by the Senator to superintend some work
on the palace. The Senator, as you know, took over the building when he
foreclosed the mortgage, and he has not yet sold it, though he has
refused several good offers. I have an idea that he believes it to be
very valuable property. If this should turn out to be true, and if he
should have made a very profitable transaction, he ought in honour, if
not in law, to make over a part of the profits to Donna Sabina, who has
practically been cheated of her share in her father's estate. Her
mother, and her brother and sister, spent everything they could lay
hands on, whereas she never had anything. Is that true?"

"Quite true, quite true," repeated Sassi sadly.

"And if Donna Sabina were to call them to account, I fancy the law
would take a rather unpleasant view of what they did. I have heard that
sort of thing called stealing when the persons who did it were not
princes and princesses, but plain people like you and me. Do you happen
to think of any better word?"

Sassi was silent. He had eaten the bread of the Conti all his life. He
glanced at the faded photograph of the Prince, as if to explain, and
Malipieri understood.

"You are an honorable man," he said. "I can no more tell you why I wish
to help Donna Sabina to her rights, if she has any, than I can explain
a great many things I have done in my life. When I see a dog kicked, I
always kick the man, if I can, and I do not remember to have regretted
any momentary unpleasantness that has followed in such cases. I have
only seen Donna Sabina once, but I mean to help her if possible. Now
tell me this. Has she any legal claim in the value of the palace or
not?"

"I am afraid not," Sassi answered.

"Do you know whether she was ever induced to sign any release of her
guardians?"

"She never did."

"That might be bad for them. That is all I wished to know. Thank you."

Malipieri rose to take his leave.

"If anything of importance happens, can you communicate with Donna
Sabina?" he asked.

"I can write to her," Sassi answered. "I suppose she would receive me
if I went to the house."

"That would be better."

"Excuse me," said the old man, before opening the door to let his
visitor out, "am I right in supposing that the work the Baron wishes
done is connected with the foundations?"

"Yes."

"At the north-west corner within the courtyard?"

"Yes," answered Malipieri, looking at him attentively. "Do you happen
to know anything about the condition of that part of the palace?"

"Most people," Sassi replied, "have now forgotten that a good deal of
work was done there long ago, under Pope Gregory Sixteenth."

"Indeed? I did not know that. What was the result?"

"The workmen came across the 'lost water.' It rose suddenly one day and
one of them was drowned. I believe his body was never recovered.
Everything was filled in again after that. For my own part I do not
think the building is in any danger."

"Perhaps not," said Malipieri, suddenly looking bored. "I only carry
out the Senator's wishes," he added, as if with an afterthought. "It is
my business to find out whether there is danger or not."

He took his leave and went away, convinced that the old agent knew
about other things besides Sabina's friendless condition, but unwilling
to question him just then. The information Sassi had volunteered was
interesting but not useful. Malipieri thought he himself knew well
enough where the "lost water" was, under the Palazzo Conti.

It was not far from Sassi's house to the palace, but he walked very
slowly through the narrow streets, and stopped more than once,
deliberately looking back, as if he were trying to keep the exact
direction of some point in his mind, and he seemed interested in the
gutters, and in the walls, at their base, just above the pavement. At
the corner of the Vicolo dei Soldati he saw a little marble tablet let
into the masonry and yellow with age. He stopped a moment and read the
inscription. Then he turned away with a look of annoyance, for it set
forth that "by order of the most Eminent Vicar all persons were warned
not to empty garbage there, on pain of a fine." It was a forgotten
document of the old papal administration, as he could have told without
reading it if he had known Rome better. From the corner he counted his
paces and then stopped again and examined the wall and the pavement
minutely.

There was nothing to be seen at all different from the pavement and the
wall for many yards further on and further back, and Malipieri
apparently abandoned the search, for he now walked on quickly till he
reached the entrance of the palace, on the other side, and went in.

From the low door of the wine shop, Toto, the mason, had seen him, and
stood watching him till he was out of sight.

"He does not know where it is," Toto said, sitting down again opposite
Gigi.

"Engineers know everything," retorted the carpenter.

"If this one knew anything, he would not have stood there looking at
the stones. I do not suppose the municipality is going to put up a
monument to my grandfather, whom may the Lord preserve in glory!"

At this Gigi laughed, for he knew that Toto's grandfather had been
drowned in the "lost water" somewhere deep down under that spot, and
had never been found. The two men drank in silence. After a long time
Toto spoke again.

"A woman," he said, with a shrug of the shoulders.

"A woman drowned him?" asked Gigi. "How could a woman do it?"

"A man did it. But it was for jealousy of a woman."

"The man was a mason, I suppose," suggested Gigi.

"Of course. He was working with the others in the morning, and he knew
where they would be after dinner. He did not come back with them, and
half an hour after they had gone down the water came. How many times
have I told you that?"

"It is always a new tale," answered Gigi. "It gives me pleasure to hear
it. Your father was a young man then, was he not?"

"Eighteen." Toto lighted his pipe.

"And the man who did it died soon afterwards?" Gigi said.

"Of course," said Toto. "What else could my father do? He killed him.
It was the least he could have done. My father is also in Paradise."

"Requiescat!" ejaculated the carpenter devoutly.

"Amen," answered Toto. "He killed him with a mattock."

"It was well done," observed Gigi with satisfaction. "I suppose," he
continued after a pause, "that if anybody went down there now, you
could let in the water."

"Why should I? I do not care what they do. If they send for me, I may
serve them. If they think they can do without me, let them try. I do
not care a cabbage!"

"Perhaps not," Gigi answered thoughtfully. "But it must be a fine
satisfaction to know that you can drown them all, like rats in a hole."

"Yes," said Toto, "it is a fine satisfaction."

"And even to know that you can make the water come before they begin,
so that they can never do anything without you."

"That too," assented the mason.

"They would pay you a great deal to help them, if they could not pump
the water out. There is no one else in Rome who knows how to turn it
off."

Gigi made the remark tentatively, but Toto did not answer.

"You will need some one to help you," suggested the carpenter in an
insinuating tone.

"I can do it alone."

"It is somewhere in the cellars of number thirteen, is it not?" asked
Gigi.

He would have given all he had to know what Toto knew, and the bargain
would have been a very profitable one, no doubt. But though the mason
was his closest friend there were secrets of the trade which Toto would
not reveal to him.

"The numbers in the street were all changed ten years ago," Toto
answered.

He rose from his seat by the grimy table, and Gigi followed his example
with a sigh of disappointment. They were moderate men, and hardly ever
drank more than their litre of their wine. Toto smelt of mortar and his
fustian clothes and hairy arms were generally splashed with it. Gigi
smelt of glue and sawdust, and there were plentiful marks of his
calling on his shiny old cloth trousers and his coarse linen shirt.
Toto's face was square, stony and impenetrable; Gigi's was sharp as a
bill and alive with curiosity. Gigi wore a square paper cap; Toto wore
a battered felt hat of no shape at all. On Sundays and holidays they
both shaved and turned out in immaculate white shirts, well brushed
broadcloth and decent hats, recognizable to each other but not to their
employers.

Malipieri was accosted by a stranger at the gate of the palace. The
porter, faithfully obedient to his orders, was standing inside the open
postern, completely blocking it with his bulk, and when Malipieri came
up the visitor was still parleying with him.

"This gentleman is asking for you, sir," said the old man.

The individual bowed politely and stepped back a little. He had a
singularly worthy appearance, Malipieri thought, and he would have
inspired confidence if employed in a bank; his thick grey hair was
parted in the middle, and at first sight Malipieri felt perfectly sure
that it was parted down the back. His brown eyes were very wide open,
and steady, his slightly grizzled moustache was neither twisted
straight up at the ends in the imperial German manner, nor straight out
like a cat's whiskers, nor waxed to fine points in the old French
fashion. It grew naturally and was rather short, but it hid his mouth
almost completely. The man was extremely well dressed in half-mourning,
wore dark grey gloves and carried a plain black stick. He spoke quietly
and Malipieri thought he recognized the Genoese accent.

"Signor Marino Malipieri?"

"Yes," answered the architect, in a tone that asked the visitor's name
in return.

"My name is Vittorio Bruni. May I have a few words with you?"

"Certainly," Malipieri answered, with considerable coolness.

"Thank you. I have been much interested by your discoveries in
Carthage, and if you would allow me to ask you one or two questions--"

"Pray come in."

"Thanks. After you."

"After you," insisted Malipieri, standing aside.

They went in. Before shutting the postern, the porter looked out into
the street. It was almost deserted. Two men were standing together near
the corner, apparently arguing some question, and stopping in their
walk in order to talk more at their ease, as Romans often do. The
porter shut the little door with a clang, and went back to his lodge.
Malipieri and his visitor were already on the stairs.

Malipieri let himself in with a small latch-key, for he had ordered a
modern patent lock to be put on his door as soon as he moved into the
house. Masin appeared almost at once, however, and stood waiting for
his master at the door of the sitting-room, like a large, placid
mastiff. Malipieri nodded to him, and went in with Signor Bruni.

They sat down by the open window and Signor Bruni began to talk. In a
few minutes it became evident that whether the man knew anything of the
subject or not he had read everything that Malipieri had written, and
remembered most of it by heart. He spoke fluently and asked intelligent
questions. He had never been to Carthage, he said, but he thought of
making the trip to Tunis during the following winter. Yes, he was a man
of leisure, though he had formerly been in business; he had a taste for
archaeology, and did not think it was too late to cultivate it, in a
modest way, for his own pleasure. Of course, he could never hope to
accomplish anything of importance, still less to become famous like
Malipieri. It was merely a taste, and was better than nothing as an
interest in life.

Malipieri protested that he was not famous, but agreed with Signor
Bruni about other matters. It was better to follow a serious pursuit
than to do nothing with one's life.

"Or to dash into politics," suggested Bruni carelessly, as if he had
thought of trying that.

Perhaps he had heard of Malipieri's republican newspaper, but if he had
thought of drawing the young man into conversation about it, he was
disappointed. Malipieri continued to agree with him, listening
attentively to all he said without once looking bored.

"And now," continued Bruni presently, "if it is not indiscreet, may I
ask whether you have any new field of discovery in view?"

The phrases ran along as if they had been all prepared beforehand. The
accent was now decidedly Genoese, and Malipieri, who was a Venetian,
disliked it.

"Not at present," he said. "I have undertaken a little professional
work in Rome, and I am trying to learn more about the Phoenician
language."

"That is beyond me!" Bruni smiled pleasantly.

Malipieri looked at him a moment.

"If you are going to look into Carthaginian antiquities," he said, with
much gravity, "I strongly advise you to study Phoenician."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Bruni with a sigh of regret, "I had hoped it might
not be necessary."

He rose to take his leave, but as if seeing the bookshelves for the
first time, asked permission to look at their contents. Malipieri saw
that his glance ran sharply along the titles of the volumes, and that
he was reading them as quickly as he could.

"I suppose you live here quite alone," he said.

"Yes. I have a servant."

"Of course. They tell me that Baron Volterra has not decided what he
will do with the palace, and will not give a lease of it to any one."

"I do not know what he means to do," answered Malipieri, looking at the
straight part down the back of his worthy visitor's hair, as the latter
bent to look at the books.

"I suppose he lends you this apartment, as a friend," said Bruni.

"No. I pay rent for it."

Signor Bruni was becoming distinctly inquisitive, thought Malipieri,
who answered coldly. Possibly the visitor perceived the hint, for he
now finally took his leave. In spite of his protestations Malipieri
went all the way downstairs with him, and let him out himself, just as
the porter came out of his lodge at the sound of their footsteps.

Signor Bruni bowed a last time, and then walked briskly away. By force
of habit, the porter looked up and down the street before shutting the
door after him, and he was somewhat surprised to see that the two men
whom he had noticed half an hour earlier had only just finished their
argument and turned to go on as Signor Bruni passed them. Then the
porter watched them all three till they disappeared round the corner.
At the same moment, from the opposite direction, Toto reached the door
of the palace, and greeted the porter with a rough good-evening.

"I have forgotten the name of this palace," he added, by way of a joke,
meaning that he had not been called to do any work for a long time.
"Perhaps you can tell me what it is called."

"It used to be a madhouse," returned the porter in the same strain.
"Now that the madmen are gone, a mole lives here. I kept the door open
for the lunatics, and they all got out. I keep it shut for the mole,
when he does not shut it himself."

"I will come in and smoke a pipe with you," said Toto. "We will talk of
old times."

The porter shook his head, and blocked the way.

"Not if you were the blessed soul of my father come back from the
dead," he said. "The Baron's instructions are to let no one in without
the mole's orders."

"But I am an old friend," objected Toto.

"Not if you were my mother, and the Holy Father, and Saint Peter, and
all the souls of Purgatory at once," answered the porter.

"May an apoplexy seize you!" observed Toto pleasantly, and he went off,
his pipe in his mouth.

The porter shrugged his shoulders at the imprecation, shut the door
reluctantly, and went in to supper. Upstairs, Malipieri stood at his
open window, smoking and watching the old fountain in the court. It was
evening, and a deep violet light filled the air and was reflected in
the young man's bronzed face. He was very thoughtful now, and was not
aware that he heard the irregular splash of the water in the dark basin
at the feet of the statue of Hercules, and the eager little scream of
the swallows as they shot past him, upward to the high old eaves, where
their young were, and downwards almost to the gravel of the court, and
in wide circles and madly sudden curves. The violet light faded softly,
and the dusk drank the last drop of it, and the last swallow
disappeared under the eaves; but still Malipieri leaned upon the stone
window-sill, looking down.

For a long time he thought of Signor Bruni. He wondered whether he had
ever seen the man before, or whether the face only seemed familiar
because it was the type of a class of faces all more or less alike, all
intensely respectable and not without refinement, expressing a grave
reticence that did not agree with the fluent speech, and a polite
reserve at odds with the inquisitive nature that revealed itself.

Malipieri was inclined to think he had never met Bruni, but somehow the
latter recalled the hot times in Milan, and his short political career,
and the association was not to the man's advantage. He could not recall
the name at all. It was like any other, and rather especially
unobtrusive. Anybody might be called Vittorio Bruni, and Vittorio Bruni
might be anybody, from a senator to a shoemaker; but if he had been a
senator, or any political personage, Malipieri would have heard of him.

There was something very odd, too, about his knowledge of Carthaginian
antiquities, which was entirely limited to the contents of Malipieri's
own pamphlets. He knew nothing of the Egyptians and very little about
the Greeks, beyond what Malipieri had necessarily written about both.
He had talked much as a man does who has read up an unfamiliar subject
in order to make a speech about it, and though the speech is skilful,
an expert can easily detect the shallowness of attainment behind it.

There could be only one reason why any one should take so much trouble;
the object was evidently to make Malipieri's acquaintance, in the
absence of an ordinary introduction. And yet Signor Bruni had quite
forgotten to give his card with his address, as almost any Italian
would have done under the circumstances, whether he expected the
meeting to be followed by another or not. Malipieri spent most of his
time in his rooms, but he knew very well that he might go about Rome
for weeks and not come across the man again.

He recalled the whole conversation. He had in the first place expected
that Bruni would be inquisitive about the palace, and perhaps ask to be
shown over it, but it was only at the last that he had put one or two
questions which suggested an interest in the building, and then he had
at once taken the hint given him by Malipieri's cold tone, and had not
persisted. On the other hand he had looked carefully at the titles of
the books on the shelves, as if in search of something.

Then Malipieri was conscious again of the association, in his own mind,
between the man's personality and his own political experiences, and he
suddenly laughed aloud.

"What a precious fool I am!" he thought. "The man is nothing but a
detective!"

The echo of his laugh came back to him from across the dusky court in
rather a ghostly way.

The evening air was all at once chilly, and he shut his window and
called for Masin, who instantly appeared with a lamp. Masin was always
ready, and, indeed, possessed many qualities excellent in a faithful
servant, among which gratitude to Malipieri held a high place.

He had something to be grateful for, which is not, however, always a
cause of gratitude in the receiver of favours and mercies. He had been
a convict, and had served a term of several years in penal servitude.
The sentence had been passed upon him for having stabbed a man in the
back, in a drunken brawl, but Masin had steadily denied the charge, and
the evidence against him had been merely circumstantial. It had
happened in Rome, where Masin had worked as a mason during the
construction of the new Courts of Justice. He was from the far north of
Italy, and was, of course, hated by his companions, as only Italians of
different parts of the country can hate one another. To shield one of
themselves, they unanimously gave evidence against Masin; the jury was
chiefly composed of Romans, the judge was a Sicilian, and Masin had no
chance. Fortunately for him, the man lived, though much injured; if he
had died, Masin would have got a life sentence. It was an old story;
false witnesses, a prejudiced jury, and a judge who, though willing to
put his prejudices aside, had little choice but to convict.

Masin had been sent to Elba to the penitentiary, had been a
"good-behaviour man" from first to last, and his term had been slightly
abridged in consequence. When he was discharged, he went back to the
north. Malipieri had found him working as a mason when some repairs
were being made in the cathedral of Milan, and had taken a fancy to
him. Masin had told his story simply and frankly, explaining that he
found it hard to get a living at all since he had been a convict, and
that he was trying to save enough money to emigrate to New York.
Malipieri had thought over the matter for a week, speaking to him now
and then, and watching him, and had at last proposed to take him into
his own service. Later, Masin had helped Malipieri to escape, had
followed him into exile, and had been of the greatest use to him during
the excavations in Carthage, where he had acted as body-servant,
foreman, and often as a trusted friend.

He was certainly not an accomplished valet, but Malipieri did not care
for that. He was sober, he was honest, he was trustworthy, he was cool
in danger, and he was very strong. Moreover, he was an excellent and
experienced mason, a fact of little or no use in the scientific
treatment of shoes, trousers, silk hats, hair-brushes and coffee, but
which had more than once been valuable to Malipieri during the last few
years. Finally, his gratitude to the man who had believed in his
innocence was deep and lasting. Masin would really have given his life
to save Malipieri's, and would have been glad to give it.

He set the lamp down on the table, and waited for orders, his blue eyes
quietly fixed on his master.

"I never saw that gentleman before," said Malipieri, setting some
papers in order, under the bright light, but still standing. "Did you
look at his face?"

"Yes, sir," answered Masin, and waited.

"What sort of man should you take him to be?"

"A spy, sir," replied Masin promptly.

"I think you are right," Malipieri answered. "We will begin work
to-morrow morning."

"Yes, sir."

Malipieri ate his supper without noticing what Masin brought him, and
then installed himself with his shaded lamp at his work-table. He took
from the drawer a number of sketches of plans and studied them
attentively, by a rather odd process.

He had drawn only one plan on heavy paper, in strong black lines. An
architect would have seen at once that it represented a part of the
foundations of a very large building; and two or three persons then
living in Rome might have recognized the plan of the cellars under the
north-west corner of the Palazzo Conti--certainly not more than two or
three, one of whom was the snuffy expert who had come from beyond the
Tiber, and another was Baron Volterra. Toto, the mason, could have
threaded the intricate ways in the dark, but could assuredly have made
nothing of the drawings. On the other hand, the persons who were
acquainted with them did not know what Toto knew, and he was not at all
inclined to impart his knowledge to any one, for reasons best known to
himself.

Furthermore, an architect would have understood at a glance that the
plan was incomplete, and that there was some reason why it could not be
completed. A part of it was quite blank, but in one place the probable
continuation of a main wall not explored, or altogether inaccessible,
was indicated by dotted lines.

Besides this main drawing, Malipieri had several others made on tracing
paper to the same scale, which he laid over the first, and moved about,
trying to make the one fit the other, and in each of these the part
which was blank in the one underneath was filled in according to
different imaginary plans. Lastly, he had a large transparent sheet on
which were accurately laid out the walls and doors of the ground floor
of the palace at the north-west corner, and in this there was marked a
square piece of masonry, shaded as if to represent a solid pilaster,
and which came over the unexplored part of the cellars. Sometimes
Malipieri placed this drawing over the first, and then one of the
others on both, trying to make the three agree. It was like an odd
puzzle, and there was not a word written on any of the plans to explain
what they meant. On most of the thin ones there were blue lines,
indicating water, or at least its possible course.

The imaginary architect, if he could have watched the real one, would
have understood before long that the latter was theorizing about the
probable construction of what was hitherto inaccessible, and about the
probable position of certain channels through which water flowed, or
might be expected to flow. He would also have gathered that Malipieri
could reach no definite conclusion unless he could break through one of
two walls in the cellar, or descend through an opening in the floor
above, which would be by far the easiest way. He might even have
wondered why Malipieri did not at once adopt the latter expedient. It
is not a serious matter to make an aperture through a vault, large
enough to allow the passage of a man's body, and it could not be
attended with any danger to the building. It would be much less safe
and far more difficult to cut a hole through one of the main foundation
walls, which might be many feet thick and yet not wholly secure.
Nevertheless the movements made by the point of Malipieri's pencil
showed that he was contemplating that method of gaining an entrance.





CHAPTER VII




Sabina had been more than two months in Baron Volterra's house, when
she at last received a line from her mother. The short letter was
characteristic and was, after all, what the girl had expected, neither
more nor less. The Princess told her that for the present she must stay
with the "kind friends" who had offered her a home; that everything
would be right before long; that if she needed any advice she had
better send for Sassi, who had always served the family faithfully;
that gowns were going to be short next year, which would be becoming to
Sabina when she "came out," because she had small feet and admirable
ankles; and that the weather was heavenly. The Princess added that she
would send her some pocket-money before long, and that she was trying
to find the best way of sending it.

In spite of her position Sabina smiled at the last sentence. It was so
like her mother to promise what she would never perform, that it amused
her. She sat still for some time with the letter in her hand and then
took it to the Baroness, for she felt that it was time to speak out and
that the interview could not be put off any longer. The Baroness was
writing in her boudoir. She wrote her letters on large sheets of an
especial paper, stamped with her initials, over which appeared a very
minute Italian baron's coronet, with seven points; it was so small that
one might easily have thought that it had nine, like a count's, but it
was undeniably smart and suggested an assured position in the
aristocracy. No one quite remembered why the late King had made
Volterra a baron, but he undoubtedly had done so, and no one disputed
Volterra's right to use the title.

Sabina read her letter aloud, and the Baroness listened attentively,
with a grave expression.

"Your dear mother--" she began in a soothing tone.

"She is not my 'dear mother' at all," said Sabina, interrupting her.
"She is not any more 'dear' to me than I am to her."

"Oh!" exclaimed the Baroness, affecting to be shocked by the girl's
heartlessness.

"If it were not for my 'dear mother,' I should not be a beggar," said
Sabina.

"A beggar! What a word!"

"There is no other, that I know of. I am living on your charity."

"For heaven's sake, do not say such things!" cried the Baroness.

"There is nothing else to say. If you had not taken me in and lodged me
and fed me, I should like to know where I should be now. I am quite
sure that my 'dear mother' would not care, but I cannot help wondering
what is to become of me. Are you surprised?"

"Are you not provided for here?" The question was put in a tone almost
of deprecation.

"Provided for! I am surrounded with every sort of luxury, when I ought
to be working for my living."

"Working!" The Baroness was filled with horror. "You, my dear, the
daughter of a Roman Prince! You, working for your living! You, a Conti!"

Sabina smiled and looked down at her delicate hands.

"I cannot see what my name has to do with it," she said. "It is not
much to be proud of, considering how my relatives behave."

"It is a great name," said the Baroness solemnly and emphatically.

"It was once," Sabina answered, leaning back in the low chair she had
taken, and looking at the ceiling. "My mother and my brother have not
added lustre to it, and I would much rather be called Signorina Emilia
Moscetti and be a governess, than be Sabina Conti and live on charity.
I have no right to what I do not possess and cannot earn."

"My dear child! This is rank socialism! I am afraid you talked too long
with Malipieri the other night."

"There is a man who works, though he has what you call a great name,"
observed Sabina. "I admire that. He was poor, I suppose--perhaps not so
poor as I am--and he made up his mind to earn his living and a
reputation."

"You are quite mistaken," said the Baroness drily.

Sabina looked at her in surprise.

"I thought he was a distinguished architect and engineer," she answered.

"Yes. But he was never poor, and he will be very rich some day."

"Indeed!" Sabina seemed rather disappointed at the information.

There was a little pause, and the Baroness looted at her unfinished
letter as if she wished that Sabina would go away. She had foreseen
that before long the girl would make some protest against her position
as a perpetual guest in the house, but had no clear idea of how to meet
it. Sabina seemed so very decided.

"We have done our best to make you feel at home, like one of the
family," the Baroness said presently, in a rather injured tone.

Sabina did not wish to be one of the family at all, but she knew that
she was under great obligations to her hosts, and she did not wish to
be thought ungrateful.

"You have been more than kind," she answered gently, "and I shall never
forget it. You have taken more trouble with me in two or three months
than my mother in all my life. Please do not imagine that I am not
thankful for all you have done."

The words were spoken sincerely, and when Sabina was very much in
earnest there was something at once convincing and touching in her
voice. The Baroness's sallow cheek actually flushed with pleasure, and
she was impelled to leave her seat and kiss Sabina affectionately. She
was restrained by a reasonable doubt as to the consequences of such
demonstrative familiarity, though she would not have hesitated to kiss
the girl's mother under like circumstances.

"It was the least we could do," she said, knowing very well that the
phrase meant nothing.

"Excuse me," Sabina objected, "but there was no reason in the world why
you should do anything at all for me! In the natural course of things I
should either have been sent to the country with my sister-in-law, or
to the convent with Clementina."

"You would have been very unhappy, my dear child."

"I do not know which would have been worse," said Sabina frankly. "They
both hate me, and I hate them."

"Dear me!" exclaimed the Baroness, shocked again, or pretending to be.

"In our family," Sabina answered calmly, "we all hate each other."

"I am sure your sister Clementina is far too religious to feel hatred
for any one."

"You do not know her!" Sabina laughed, and looked at the ceiling. "She
hates 'the wicked' with a mortal hatred!"

"Perhaps you mean that she hates wickedness, my dear," suggested the
Baroness in a moralizing tone.

"Not at all!" laughed the young girl. "She would like to destroy
everybody who is not like her, and she would begin with her own family.
She used to tell me that I was doomed to eternal flames because I loved
my canary better than I loved her. I did. It was quite true. As for my
brother, she said he was wicked, too. I quite believe he is, but she
had a friendly understanding with him, because they used to make Signor
Sassi get money for them both. In the end they got so much that there
was nothing left. Her share all went to convents and extraordinary
charities, and his went heaven knows where!"

"And yours?" asked the Baroness, to see what she would say.

"I suppose it went to them too, like everything else, and to my mother,
who spent a great deal of money. At all events, none of us have
anything now. That is why I want to work."

"It is an honourable impulse, no doubt," the Baroness said, in a tone
of meditative disapproval.

Sabina leaned forward, her chin on her hand.

"You think I am too young," she said. "And I really know nothing,
except bad French and dancing. I cannot even sew, at least, not very
well, and I cannot cook." She laughed. "I once made some very good
toast," she added thoughtfully.

"You must marry," said the Baroness. "You must make a good marriage."

"No one will marry me, because I have no dowry," answered Sabina with
perfect simplicity.

"Some men marry girls who have none. You are very pretty, you know."

"So my mother used to tell me when she was in a good humour. But
Clementina always said I was hideous, that my eyes were like a little
pig's, quite inside my head, and that my hair was grey, like an old
woman's, and that I was as thin as a grasshopper."

"You are very pretty," the Baroness repeated with conviction; "and I am
sure you would make a good wife."

"I am afraid not!" Sabina laughed. "We are none of us good, you know.
Why should I be?"

The Baroness disapproved.

"That is a flippant speech," she said severely.

"I do not feel flippant at all. I am very serious. I wish to earn my
living."

"But you cannot--"

"But I wish to," answered Sabina, as if that settled the question.

"Have you always done what you wished?" asked the Baroness wisely.

"No, never. That is why I mean to begin at once. I am sure I can learn
to be a maid, or to make hats, or feed babies with bottles. Many girls
of eighteen can."

The Baroness shrugged her shoulders in a decidedly plebeian way.
Sabina's talk seemed very silly to her, no doubt, but she felt slightly
foolish herself just then. At close quarters and in the relative
intimacy that had grown up between them, the descendant of all the
Conti had turned out to be very different from what the financier's
wife had expected, and it was not easy to understand her. Sometimes the
girl talked like a woman of the world, and sometimes like a child. Her
character seemed to be a compound of cynicism and simplicity,
indifference and daring, gentleness, hardness and pride, all
wonderfully amalgamated under a perfectly self-possessed manner, and
pervaded by the most undeniable charm. It was no wonder that the poor
Baroness was as puzzled as a hen that has hatched a swan.

Sabina had behaved perfectly, so far; the Baroness admitted this, and
it had added considerably to her growing social importance to be
regarded as the girl's temporary guardian. Even royalty had expressed
its approval of her conduct and its appreciation of her generosity, and
it was one of the Baroness's chief ambitions to be noticed by royalty.
She had shown a good deal of tact, too, for she was woman enough to
guess what the girl must feel, and how hard it must be to accept so
much without any prospect of being able to make a return. So far,
however, matters had gone very well, and she had really begun to look
forward to the glory of presenting Sabina in society during the
following winter, and of steering her to a rich marriage, penniless
though she was.

But this morning she had received a new impression which disturbed her.
It was not that she attached much importance to Sabina's wild talk
about working for a living, for that was absurd, on the face of it; but
there was something daring in the tone, something in the little
careless laugh which made her feel that the delicate girl might be
capable of doing very unexpected and dangerous things. The sudden
conviction came upon her that Sabina was of the kind that run away and
make love matches, and otherwise break through social conventions in a
manner quite irreparable. And if Sabina did anything of that sort, the
Baroness would not only lose all the glory she had gained, but would of
course be severely blamed by Roman society, which would be an awful
calamity if it did not amount to a social fall. She alone knew how hard
she had worked to build up her position, and she guessed how easily an
accident might destroy it. Her husband had his politics and his finance
to interest him, but what would be left to his wife if she once lost
her hold upon the aristocracy? Even the smile of royalty would not make
up for that, and royalty would certainly not smile if Sabina, being in
her charge, did anything very startlingly unconventional.

Sabina was quite conscious that the Baroness did not understand;
indeed, she had not really expected to be understood, and when she saw
the shrug of the shoulders that answered her last speech she rose
quietly and went to the window. The blinds were drawn together, for it
was now late in May, but she could see down to the street, and as she
looked she started a little.

"There is Signor Malipieri!" she cried, and it was clear that she was
glad.

The Baroness uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

Yes, Sabina was quite sure. He had just driven up to the door in a cab.
Now he was paying the cabman, too, instead of making him wait. The
Baroness glanced at the showy little clock set in turquoises, which
stood on her writing-table, and she put away her unfinished letter.

"We will ask him to stay to luncheon," she said, in a decided tone.

After sending up to ask if he would be received, Malipieri entered the
room with an apology. He said that he had hoped to find the Baron in,
and had been told that he might come at any moment. The Baroness
thereupon asked the visitor to stay to luncheon, and Malipieri
accepted, and sat down.

It had always amused Sabina to watch how the Baroness's manner changed
when any one appeared whom she did not know very well. Her mouth
assumed a stereotyped smile, she held her head a little forward and on
one side, and she spoke in quite another tone. But just now Sabina did
not notice these things. She was renewing her impression of Malipieri,
whom she had only seen once and in evening dress. She liked him even
better now, she thought, and it would have pleased her to look at him
longer.

Their eyes met in a glance as he told the Baroness that he had come to
see Volterra on a matter of business. He did not explain what the
business was, and at once began to talk of other things, as if to
escape possible questions. Sabina thought he was paler than before, or
less sunburnt, perhaps; at all events, the contrast between his very
white forehead and his bronzed face was less strong. She could see his
eyes more distinctly, too, than she had seen them in the evening, and
she liked their expression better, for he did not look at all bored
now. She liked his voice, too, for the slight harshness that seemed
always ready to command. She liked the man altogether, and was
conscious of the fact, and wished she could talk with him again, as she
had talked that evening on the sofa in the corner, without fear of
interruption.

That was impossible, and she listened to what he said. It was merely
the small talk of a man of the world who knows that he is expected to
say something not altogether dull, and takes pains to be agreeable, but
Sabina felt all through it a sort of sympathy which she missed very
much in the Volterra household, the certainty of fellowship which
people who have been brought up in similar surroundings feel when they
meet in an atmosphere not their own.

A few minutes after he had come, a servant opened the door and said
that the Baron wished to speak to the Baroness at the telephone. She
rose, hesitated a moment and went out, leaving the two young people
together.

"I have seen Sassi," said Malipieri in a low voice, as soon as the door
was shut.

"Yes," answered Sabina, with a little interrogation.

She was very much surprised to hear a slight tremor in her own voice as
she uttered the one word.

"I like him very much," Malipieri continued. "He is a good friend to
you. He said that if anything of importance happened he would come and
see you."

"I shall be glad," Sabina said.

"Something is happening, which may bring him. Be sure to see him alone,
when he comes."

"Yes, but what is it? What can possibly happen that can make a
difference?"

Malipieri glanced at the door, fearing that the Baroness might enter
suddenly.

"Can you keep a secret?" he asked quickly.

"Of course! Tell me!" She leaned forward with eager interest, expecting
his next words.

"Did you ever hear that something very valuable is said to be hidden
somewhere under the palace?"

Sabina's face fell and the eagerness faded from her eyes instantly. She
had often heard the story from her nurses when she had been a little
girl, and she did not believe a word of it, any more than she believed
that the marble statue of Cardinal Conti in the library really came
down from its pedestal on the eve of All Souls' and walked through the
state apartments, or the myth about the armour of Francesco Conti, of
which the nurses used to tell her that on the anniversary of the night
of his murder his eyes could be seen through the bars of the helmet,
glowing with the infernal fire. As for any hidden treasure, she was
quite positive that if it existed her brother and sister would have got
at it long ago. Malipieri sank in her estimation as soon as he
mentioned it. He was only a Venetian, of course, and could not be
expected to know much about Rome, but he must be very weak-minded if he
could be imposed upon by such nonsense. Her delicate lip curled with a
little contempt.

"Is that the great secret?" she asked. "I thought you were in earnest."

"The Senator is," observed Malipieri drily.

"If the old gentleman has made you believe that he is, he must have
some very deep scheme. He does not like to seem foolish."

Malipieri did not answer at once, but he betrayed no annoyance. In the
short silence, he could hear the Baroness's powerful voice yelling at
the telephone. It ceased suddenly, and he guessed that she was coming
back.

"If I find anything, I wish you to see it before any one else does," he
said quickly.

"That would be very amusing!" Sabina laughed incredulously, just as the
door opened.

The Baroness heard the light laughter, and stood still with her hand on
the latch, as if she had forgotten something. She was not a woman of
sudden intuitions nor much given to acting on impulses, and when a new
idea crossed her mind she almost always paused to think it over, no
matter what she chanced to be doing. It was as if she had accidentally
run against something which stunned her a little.

"What is it?" asked Sabina, very naturally.

The Baroness beckoned silently to her, and she rose.

"Only one moment, Signor Malipieri," said the Baroness, apologizing for
leaving him alone.

When she and Sabina were out of the room, she shut the door and went on
a few paces before speaking.

"My husband has telephoned that he cannot leave the Senate," she said.

"Well?" Sabina did not understand.

"But Malipieri has come expressly to see him."

"He can see him at the Senate," suggested Sabina.

"But I have asked Malipieri to stay to luncheon. If I tell him that my
husband is not coming, perhaps he will not stay after all."

"Perhaps not," echoed Sabina with great calmness.

"You do not seem to care," said the Baroness.

"Why should I?"

"I thought you liked him. I thought it would amuse you if he lunched
with us."

Sabina looked at her with some curiosity.

"Did you tell the Baron that Signor Malipieri is here?" she asked
carelessly.

"No," answered the Baroness, looking away. "As my husband said he could
not come to luncheon, it seemed useless."

Sabina understood now, and smiled. This was the direct consequence of
the talk which had preceded Malipieri's coming; the Baroness had at
once conceived the idea of marrying her to Malipieri.

"What shall we do?" asked the Baroness.

"Whatever you think best," answered Sabina, with sudden meekness. "I
think you ought at least to tell Signor Malipieri that the Baron is not
coming. He may be in a hurry, you know. He may be wasting time."

The Baroness smiled incredulously.

"My dear," she said, "if he had been so very anxious to see my husband,
he would have gone to the Senate first. It is near the palace."

She said no more, but led the way back to the morning room, while
Sabina reflected upon the possible truth of the last suggestion, and
wondered whether Malipieri had really made his visit for the sake of
exchanging a few words with her rather than in order to see Volterra.
The Baroness spoke to him as she opened the door.

"My husband has not come yet," she said. "We will not wait for him."

She rang the bell to order luncheon, and Malipieri glanced at Sabina's
face, wondering what the Baroness had said to her, for it was not
reasonable to suppose that the two had left the room in order to
consult in secret upon the question of waiting for Volterra. But Sabina
did not meet his look, and her pale young face was impenetrably calm,
for she was thinking about what she had just discovered. She was as
certain that she knew what had passed in the Baroness's thoughts, as if
the latter had spoken aloud. The knowledge, for it amounted to that,
momentarily chased away the recollection of what Malipieri had said.

It was rather amusing to be looked upon as marriageable, and to a man
she already knew. Her mother had often talked to her with cynical
frankness, telling her that she was to make the best match that could
be obtained for her, naming numbers of young men she had never seen and
assuring her that likes and dislikes had nothing to do with matrimony.
They came afterwards, the Princess said, and it generally pleased
Providence to send a mild form of aversion as the permanent condition
of the bond. But Sabina had never believed her mother, who had cheated
her when she was a child, as many foolish and heartless women do,
promising rewards which were never given, and excursions which were
always put off and little joys which always turned to sorrows less
little by far.

Moreover, her sister Clementina had told her that there was only one
way to treat the world, and that was to leave it with the contempt it
deserved; and she had heard her brother tell his wife in one of his
miserable fits of weakly brutal anger that marriage was hell, and
nothing else; to which the young princess had coldly replied that he
was only where he deserved to be. Sabina had not been brought up with
the traditional pious and proper views about matrimony, and if she did
not think even worse of it, the merit was due to her own nature, in
which there was much good and hardly any real evil.

But she could not escape from a little inherited and acquired cynicism
either, and while Malipieri chatted quietly during luncheon, an
explanation of the whole matter occurred to her which was not pleasant
to contemplate. The story about the treasure might or might not be
true, but he believed in it, and so did Volterra. The Baron was
therefore employing him to discover the prize. But Malipieri showed
plainly that he wished her to possess it, if it were ever found, and
perhaps he meant it to be her dowry, in which case it would come into
his own hands if he could marry her. This was ingenious, if it was
nothing else, and though Sabina felt that there was something mean
about it, she resented the idea that he should expect her to think him
a model of generosity when she hardly knew him.

She was therefore very quiet, and looked at him rather coldly when he
spoke to her, but the Baroness put this down to her admirably correct
manners, and was already beginning to consider how she could approach
Malipieri on the subject of his marrying Sabina. She was quite in
ignorance of the business which had brought him and her husband
together, as Sabina now knew from many remarks she remembered. Volterra
was accustomed to tell his wife what he had been doing when the matter
was settled, and she had long ago given up trying to make him talk of
his affairs when he chose to be silent.

On the whole, so far as Sabina was concerned, the circumstances were
not at first very favourable to the Baroness's newly formed plan on
this occasion, though she did not know it. On the other hand, Malipieri
discovered before luncheon was over, that Sabina interested him very
much, that she was much prettier than he had realized at his first
meeting with her, and that he had unconsciously thought about her a
good deal in the interval.





CHAPTER VIII




Malipieri was convinced before long that his doings interested some one
who was able to employ men to watch him, and he connected the fact with
Bruni's visit. He was not much disturbed by it, however, and was
careful not to show that he noticed it at all. Naturally enough, he
supposed that his short career as a promoter of republican ideas had
caused him to be remembered as a dangerous person, and that a careful
ministry was anxious to know why he lived alone in a vast palace, in
the heart of Rome, knowing very few people and seeing hardly any one
except Volterra. The Baron himself was apparently quite indifferent to
any risk in the matter, and yet, as a staunch monarchist and supporter
of the ministry then in office, it might have been expected that he
would not openly associate with the monarchy's professed enemies. That
was his affair, as Malipieri had frankly told him at the beginning. For
the rest, the young architect smiled as he thought of the time and
money the government was wasting on the supposition that he was
plotting against it, but it annoyed him to find that certain faces of
men in the streets were becoming familiar to him, quiet, blank faces of
respectable middle-aged men, who always avoided meeting his eyes, and
were very polite in standing aside to let him pass them on the
pavement. There were now three whom he knew by sight, and he saw one of
them every time he went out of the house. He knew what that meant. He
had not the smallest doubt but that all three reported what they saw of
his movements to Signor Vittorio Bruni, every day, in some particularly
quiet little office in one of the government buildings connected with
the Ministry of the Interior. It troubled him very little, since he was
quite innocent of any political machinations for the present.

He had determined from the first not to employ any workmen to help him
unless it should be absolutely necessary. He was strong and his
practical experience in Carthage had taught him the use of pick and
crowbar. Masin was equal to two ordinary men for such work, and could
be trusted to hold his tongue.

Malipieri told the porter that he was exploring the foundations before
attempting to strengthen them, and from time to time he gave him a
little money. At first the old man offered to call Toto, who had always
served the house, he said; but Malipieri answered that no help was
needed in a mere preliminary exploration, and that another man would
only be in the way. He made no secret of the fact that he was working
with his own hands, however. Every morning, he and his servant went
down into the north-west cellars by a winding staircase that was
entered from a passage between the disused stables and the empty
coach-house. Like every large Roman palace, the Palazzo Conti had two
arched entrances, one of which had never been opened except on
important occasions, when the carriages that drove in on the one side
drove out at the other after their owner had alighted. This second gate
was at the west end of the court, not far from the coach-house. To
reach their work Malipieri and Masin had to go down the grand staircase
and pass the porter's lodge. Masin wore the rough clothes of a working
mason and Malipieri appeared in overalls and a heavy canvas jacket.
Very soon the garments of both were so effectually stained with mud,
green mould and water that the two men could hardly have been
distinguished from ordinary day labourers, even in broad daylight.

They began work on the very spot at which the snuffy little expert had
stopped to listen to the water. It was evidently out of the question to
break through the wall at the level of the cellar floor, for the water
could be heard running steadily through its hidden channel, and if this
were opened the cellars might be completely flooded. Besides, Malipieri
knew that the water might rise unexpectedly to a considerable height.

It was therefore best to make the opening as high as possible, under
the vault, which at that point was not more than ten feet from the
ground. The simplest plan would have been to put up a small scaffolding
on which to work, but there was no timber suitable for the purpose in
the cellar, and Malipieri did not wish to endanger the secrecy of his
operations by having any brought down. He therefore set to work to
excavate an inclined aperture, like a tunnel, which began at a height
of about five feet and was intended to slope upwards so as to reach the
interior chamber at the highest point practicable.

It was very hard work at first, and it was not unattended by danger.
Masin declared at the outset that it was impracticable without
blasting. The wall appeared to be built of solid blocks of travertine
stone, rough hewn on the face but neatly fitted together. It would take
two men several days to loosen a single one of these blocks, and if
they finally succeeded in moving it, it must fall to the ground at
once, for their united strength would not have sufficed to lower it
gently.

"The facing is stone," said Malipieri, "but we shall find bricks behind
it. If we do not, we must try to get in by some other way."

In order to get any leverage at all, it was necessary to chisel out a
space between the first block to be moved and those that touched it, an
operation which occupied two whole days. Masin worked doggedly and
systematically, and Malipieri imitated him as well as he could, but
more than once nearly blinded himself with the flying chips of stone,
and though he was strong his hands ached and trembled at the end of the
day, so that he could hardly hold a pen. To Masin it was easy enough,
and was merely a question of time and patience. He begged Malipieri to
let him do it alone, but the architect would not hear of that, since
there was room for two to use their tools at the same time, at opposite
ends of the block. He was in haste to get over the first obstacle,
which he believed to be by far the most difficult, and he was not the
kind of man to sit idly watching another at work without trying to help
him.

On the third day they made an attempt to use a crowbar. They had two
very heavy ones, but they did not try to use both, and united their
strength upon one only. They might as well have tried to move the whole
palace, and it looked as if they would be obliged to cut the block
itself away with hammer and chisel, a labour of a fortnight, perhaps,
considering the awkward position in which they had to work.

"One dynamite cartridge would do it!" laughed Malipieri, as he looked
at the huge stone.

"Thank you, sir," answered Masin, taking the suggestion seriously. "I
have been in the galleys seven years, and that is enough for a
lifetime. We must try and split it with wedges."

"There is no other way."

They had all the tools necessary for the old-fashioned operation; three
drilling irons, of different sizes, and a small sledge-hammer, and they
went to work without delay. Malipieri held the iron horizontally
against the stone with both hands, turning it a little after Masin had
struck it with the sledge. It was very exhausting after a time, as the
whole weight of the tool was at first carried by Malipieri's uplifted
hands. Moreover, if he forgot to grasp it very firmly, the vibration of
the blow made the palms of his hands sting till they were numb. At
regular intervals the men changed places, Masin held the drill and
Malipieri took the hammer. Every now and then they raked out the dust
from the deepening hole with a little round scoop made for the purpose
and riveted to the end of a light iron rod a yard long.

Hour after hour they toiled thus together, far down under the palace,
in the damp, close air, that was cold and yet stifling to breathe. The
hole was now over two feet deep.

Suddenly, as Masin delivered a heavy blow, the drill ran in an inch
instead of recoiling in Malipieri's tight hold.

"Bricks," said Masin, resting on the haft of the long hammer.

Malipieri removed the drill, took the scoop and drew out the dust and
minute chips. Hitherto the stuff had been grey, but now, as he held his
hand under the round hole to catch what came, a little bit of dark red
brick fell into his palm. He picked it out carefully and held it close
to the bright unshaded lamp.

"Roman brick," he said, after a moment.

"We are not in Milan," observed Masin, by way of telling his master
that he did not understand.

"Ancient Roman brick," said Malipieri. "It is just what I expected.
This is part of the wall of an old Roman building, built of bricks and
faced with travertine. If we can get this block out, the worst will be
over."

"It is easier to drill holes in stone than in water," said Masin, who
had put his ear to the hole. "I can hear it much louder now."

"Of course you can," answered Malipieri. "We are wasting time," he
added, picking up the drill and holding it against the block at a point
six inches higher than before.

Masin took his sledge again and hammered away with dogged regularity.
So the work went on all that day, and all the next. And after that they
took another tool and widened the holes, and then a third till they
were two inches in diameter.

Masin suggested that they might drive an iron on through the brickwork,
and find out how much of it there was beyond the stone, but Malipieri
pointed out that if the "lost water" should rise it would pour out
through the hole and stop their operations effectually. The entrance
must incline upwards, he said.

They made long round plugs of soft pine to fit the holes exactly, each
one scored with a channel a quarter of an inch deep, which was on the
upper side when they had driven the plugs into their places, and was
intended to lead the water along the wood, so as to wet it more
thoroughly. To do this Malipieri poked long cotton wicks into each
channel with a wire, as far as possible. He made Masin buy half-a-dozen
coarse sponges and tied one upon the upper end of each projecting plug.
Finally he wet all the sponges thoroughly and wound coarse cloths
loosely round them to keep in as much of the water as possible. By
pouring on water from time to time the soft wood was to be ultimately
wet through, the wicks leading the moisture constantly inward, and in
the end the great block must inevitably be split into halves. It is the
prehistoric method, and there never was any other way of cleaving very
hard stone until gunpowder first brought in blasting. It is slow, but
it is quite sure.

The place where the two men had been working was many feet below the
level of the courtyard, but the porter could now and then hear the
sound of blows echoing underground through the vast empty cellars, even
when he stood near the great entrance.

Toto heard the noise too, one day, as he was standing still to light
his pipe in the Vicolo dei Soldati. When it struck his ear he let the
match burn out till it singed his horny fingers. His expression became
even more blank than usual, but he looked up and down the street, to
see if he were alone, and upward at the windows of the house opposite.
Nobody was in sight, but in order to place his ear close to the wall
and listen, he made a pretence of fastening his shoe-string. The sound
came to him from very far beneath, regular as the panting of an engine.
He knew his trade, and recognized the steady hammering on the end of a
stone drill, very unlike the irregular blows of a pickaxe or a crowbar.
The "moles" were at work, and knew their business; sooner or later they
would break through. But Toto could not guess that the work was being
actually done by Malipieri and his servant, without help. One man alone
could not do it, and the profound contempt of the artisan for any
outsider who attempts his trade, made Toto feel quite sure that one or
more masons had been called in to make a breach in the foundation wall.
As he stood up and lighted his pipe at last, he grinned all alone, and
then slouched on, his heart full of very evil designs. Had he not
always been the mason of the Palazzo Conti? And his father before him?
And his grandfather, who had lost his life down there, where the moles
were working? And now that he was turned out, and others were called in
to do a particularly confidential job, should he not be revenged? He
bit his pipe and thrust his rough hands deep into the pockets of his
fustian trousers, and instead of turning into the wine shop to meet
Gigi, he went off for a walk by himself through all the narrow and
winding streets that lie between the Palazzo Conti and Monte Giordano.

He came to no immediate conclusion, and moreover there was no great
hurry. He knew well enough that it would take time to pierce the wall,
after the drilling was over, and he could easily tell when that point
was reached by listening every day in the Vicolo dei Soldati. It would
still be soon enough to play tricks with the water, if he chose that
form of vengeance, and he grinned again as he thought of the vast
expense he could force upon Volterra in order to save the palace. But
he might do something else. Instead of flooding the cellars and
possibly drowning the masons who had ousted him, he could turn informer
and defeat the schemes of Volterra and Malipieri, for he never doubted
but that if they found anything of value they meant to keep the whole
profit of it to themselves.

He had the most vague notions of what the treasure might be. When the
fatal accident had happened his grandfather had been the only man who
had actually penetrated into the innermost hiding-place; the rest had
fled when the water rose and had left him to drown. They had seen
nothing, and their story had been handed down as a mere record of the
catastrophe. Toto knew at least that the vaults had then been entered
from above, which was by far the easier way, but a new pavement had
long ago covered all traces of the aperture.

There was probably gold down there, gold of the ancients, in earthen
jars. That was Toto's belief, and he also believed that when it was
found it would belong to the government, because the government took
everything, but that somehow, in real justice, it should belong to the
Pope. For Toto was not only a genuine Roman of the people, but had
always regarded himself as a sort of hereditary retainer of an ancient
house.

His mind worked slowly. A day passed, and he heard the steady hammering
still, and after a second night he reached a final conclusion. The Pope
must have the treasure, whatever it might be.

That, he decided, was the only truly moral view, and the only one which
satisfied his conscience. It would doubtless be very amusing to be
revenged on the masons by drowning them in a cellar, with the absolute
certainty of never being suspected of the deed. The plan had great
attractions. The masons themselves should have known better than to
accept a job which belonged by right to him, and they undoubtedly
deserved to be drowned. Yet Toto somehow felt that as there was no
woman in the case he might some day, in his far old age, be sorry for
having killed several men in cold blood. It was really not strictly
moral, after all, especially as his grandfather's death had been
properly avenged by the death of the murderer.

As for allowing the government to have a share in the profits of the
discovery, that was not to be thought of. He was a Roman, and the
Italian government was his natural enemy. If he could have turned all
the "lost water" in the city upon the whole government collectively, in
the cellars of the Palazzo Conti, he would have felt that it was
strictly moral to do so. The government had stolen more than two years
of his life by making him serve in the army, and he was not going to
return good for evil. With beautiful simplicity of reasoning he cursed
the souls of the government's dead daily, as if it had been a family of
his acquaintance.

But the Pope was quite another personage. There had always been popes,
and there always would be till the last judgment, and everything
connected with the Vatican would last as long as the world itself. Toto
was a conservative. His work had always kept him among lasting things
of brick and stone, and he was proud of never having taken a day's
wages for helping to put up the modern new-fangled buildings he
despised. The most lasting of all buildings in the world was the
Vatican, and the most permanent institution conceivable was the Pope.
Gigi, who made wretched, perishable objects of wood and nails and glue,
such as doors and windows, sometimes launched into modern ideas. Toto
would have liked to know how many times the doors and windows of the
Palazzo Conti had been renewed since the walls had been built! He
pitied Gigi always, and sometimes he despised him, though they were
good friends enough in the ordinary sense.

The Pope should have the treasure. That was settled, and the only
question remaining concerned the means of transferring it to him when
it was discovered.





CHAPTER IX




One evening it chanced that the Volterra couple were dining out, and
that Sabina, having gone up to her room to spend the evening, had
forgotten the book she was reading and came downstairs half-an-hour
later to get it. She opened the drawing-room door and went straight to
the table on which she had left the volume. As she turned to go back
she started and uttered a little cry, almost of terror.

Malipieri was standing before the mantelpiece, looking at her.

"I am afraid I frightened you," he said quietly. "Pray forgive me."

"Not at all," Sabina answered, resting the book she held in her hand
upon the edge of the table. "I did not know any one was here."

"I said I would wait till the Senator came home," Malipieri said.

"Yes." Sabina hesitated a moment and then sat down.

She smiled, perhaps at herself. In her mother's house it would have
been thought extremely improper for her to be left alone with a young
man during ten minutes, but she knew that the Baroness held much more
modern views, and would probably be delighted that she and Malipieri
should spend an hour together. He had been asked to luncheon again, but
had declined on the ground of being too busy, much to the Baroness's
annoyance.

Malipieri seated himself on a small chair at a discreet distance.

"I happened to know that they were going out," he said, "so I came."

Sabina looked at him in surprise. It was an odd way to begin a
conversation.

"I wanted to see you alone," he explained. "I thought perhaps you would
come down."

"It was an accident," Sabina answered. "I had left my book here. No one
told me that you had come."

"Of course not. I took the chance that a lucky accident might happen.
It has, but I hope you are not displeased. If you are, you can turn me
out."

"I could go back to my room." Sabina laughed. "Why should I be
displeased?"

"I have not the least idea whether you like me or not," answered
Malipieri.

Sabina wondered whether all men talked like this, or whether it were
not more usual to begin with a few generalities. She was really quite
sure that she liked Malipieri, but it was a little embarrassing to be
called upon to tell him so at once.

"If I wanted you to go away, I should not sit down," she said, still
smiling.

"I hate conventions," answered Malipieri, "and I fancy that you do,
too. We were both brought up in them, and I suppose we think alike
about them."

"Perhaps."

Sabina turned over the book she still held, and looked at the back of
it.

"Exactly," continued Malipieri. "But I do not mean that what we are
doing now is so dreadfully unconventional after all. Thank heaven,
manners have changed since I was a boy, and even in Italy we may be
allowed to talk together a few minutes without being suspected of
planning a runaway marriage. I wanted to see you alone because I wish
you to do something very much more 'improper,' as society calls it."

Sabina looked up with innocent and inquiring eyes, but said nothing in
answer.

"I have found something," he said. "I should like you to see it."

"There is nothing so very terrible in that," replied Sabina, looking at
him steadily.

"The world would think differently. But if you will trust me the world
need never know anything about it. You will have to come alone. That is
the difficulty."

"Alone?" Sabina repeated the word, and instinctively drew herself up a
little.

"Yes."

A short silence followed, and Malipieri waited for her to speak, but
she hesitated. In years, she was but lately out of childhood, but the
evil of the world had long been near her in her mother's house, and she
knew well enough that if she did what he asked, and if it were known,
her reputation would be gone. She was a little indignant at first, and
was on the point of showing it, but as she met his eyes once more she
felt certain that he meant no offence to her.

"You must have a very good reason for asking me to do such a dangerous
thing," she said at last.

"The reasons are complicated," answered Malipieri.

"Perhaps I could understand, if you explained them."

"Yes, I am sure you can. I will try. In the first place, you know of
the story about a treasure being concealed in the palace. I spoke of it
the other day, and you laughed at it. When I began, I was not inclined
to believe it myself, for it seems never to have been anything more
than a tradition. One or two old chronicles speak of it. A Venetian
ambassador wrote about it in the sixteenth century in one of his
reports to his government, suggesting that the Republic should buy the
palace if it were ever sold. I daresay you have heard that."

"No. It does not matter. You say you have found something--that is the
important point."

"Yes; and the next thing is to keep the secret for the present, because
so many people would like to know it. The third point of importance is
that you should see the treasure before it is moved, before I can move
it myself, or even see all of it."

"What is this treasure?" asked Sabina, with a little impatience, for
she was really interested.

"All I have seen of it is the hand of what must be a colossal statue,
of gilt bronze. On one of the fingers there is a ring with a stone
which I believe to be a ruby. If it is, it is worth a great deal,
perhaps as much as the statue itself."

Sabina's eyes had opened very wide in her surprise, for she had never
really believed the tale, and even when he had told her that he had
found something she had not thought it could be anything very valuable.

"Are you quite sure you have seen it?" she asked with childlike wonder.

"Yes. I lowered a light into the place, but I did not go down. There
may be other things. They belong to you."

"To me? Why?" asked Sabina in surprise.

"For a good many reasons which may or may not be good in law but which
are good enough for me. You were robbed of your dowry--forgive the
expression. I cannot think of another word. The Senator got possession
of the palace for much less than its market value, let alone what I
have found. He sent for me because I have been fortunate in finding
things, and he believed it just possible that there might be something
hidden in the foundations. Your family spent long ago what he lent them
on the mortgage, and Sassi assures me that you never had a penny of it.
I mean you to have your share now. That is all."

Sabina listened quietly enough to the end.

"Thank you, very much," she said gravely, when he had finished.

Then there was another pause. To her imagination the possibilities of
wealth seemed fabulous, and even Malipieri thought them large; but
Sabina was not thinking of a fortune for its own sake. Of late none of
her family had cared for money except to spend it without counting.
What struck her first was that she would be free to leave the
Volterras' house, that she would be independent, and that there would
be an end of the almost unbearable situation in which she had lived
since the crash.

"If the Senator can keep it all for himself, he will," Malipieri
observed, "and his wife will help him."

"Do you think this had anything to do with their anxiety to have me
stay with them?" asked Sabina, and as the thought occurred to her the
expression of her eyes changed.

"The Baroness knows nothing at all about the matter," answered
Malipieri. "I fancy she only wanted the social glory of taking charge
of you when your people came to grief. But her husband will take
advantage of the obligation you are under. I suspect that he will ask
you to sign a paper of some sort, very vaguely drawn up, but legally
binding, by which you will make over to him all claim whatever on your
father's estate."

"But I have none, have I?"

"If the facts were known to-morrow, your brother might at once begin an
action to recover, on the equitable ground that by an extraordinary
chain of circumstances the property has turned out to be worth much
more than any one could have expected. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Go on."

"Very well. The Senator knows that in all probability the court would
decide against your brother, who has the reputation of a spendthrift,
unless your claim is pushed; but that any honest judge, if it were
legally possible, would do his best to award you something. If you had
made over your claim to Volterra, that would be impossible, and would
only strengthen his case."

"I see," said Sabina. "It is very complicated."

"Of course it is. And there are many other sides to it. The Senator, on
his part, is as anxious to keep the whole matter a secret as I am, for
your sake. He has no idea that there is a colossal statue in the
vaults. He probably hopes to find gold and jewels which could be taken
away quietly and disposed of without the knowledge of the government."

"What has the government to do with it?"

"It has all sorts of claims on such discoveries, and especially on
works of art. It reserves the right to buy them from the owners at a
valuation, if they are sold at all."

"Then the government will buy this statue, I suppose."

"In the end, unless it allows the Vatican to buy it."

"I do not see what is going to happen," said Sabina, growing bewildered.

"The Senator must make everything over to you before it is sold,"
answered Malipieri calmly.

"How can he be made to do that?"

"I do not know, but he shall."

"Do you mean that the law can force him to?"

"The law might, perhaps, but I shall find some much shorter way."

Sabina was silent for a moment.

"But he employs you on this work," she said suddenly.

"Not exactly." Malipieri smiled. "I would not let Volterra pay me to
grub underground for his benefit, any more than I would live in his
house without paying him rent."

Sabina bit her lip and turned her face away suddenly, for the
thoughtless words had hurt her.

"I agreed to make the search merely because I am interested in
archaeology," he continued. "Until I met you I did not care what might
become of anything we found in the palace."

"Why should you care now?"

The question rose to her lips before she knew what she was saying, for
what had gone before had disturbed her a little. It had been a very
cruel speech, though he had not meant it. He looked at her thoughtfully.

"I am not quite sure why I care," he answered, "but I do."

Neither spoke for some time.

"I suppose you pity me," Sabina observed at last, rather resentfully.

He said nothing.

"You probably felt sorry for me as soon as you saw me," she continued,
leaning back in her chair and speaking almost coldly. "I am an object
of pity, of course!"

Malipieri laughed a little at the very girlish speech.

"No," he answered. "I had not thought of you in that light. I liked
you, the first time I saw you. That is much simpler than pitying."

He laughed again, but it was at himself.

"You treat me like a child," Sabina said with a little petulance. "You
have no right to!"

"Shall I treat you like a woman, Donna Sabina?" he said, suddenly
serious.

"Yes. I am sure I am old enough."

"If you were not, I should certainly not feel as I do towards you."

"What do you mean?"

"If you are a woman, you probably guess."

"No."

"You may be offended," suggested Malipieri.

"Not unless you are rude--or pity me." She smiled now.

"Is it very rude to like a person?" he asked. "If you think it is, I
will not go on."

"I am not sure," said Sabina demurely, and she looked down.

"In that case it is wiser not to run the risk of offending you past
forgiveness!"

It was very amusing to hear him talk, for no man had ever talked to her
in this way before. She knew that he was thought immensely clever, but
he did not seem at all superior now, and she was glad of it. She should
have felt very foolish if he had discoursed to her learnedly about
Carthage and antiquities. Instead, he was simple and natural, and she
liked him very much; and the little devil that enters into every woman
about the age of sixteen and is not often cast out before fifty, even
by prayer and fasting, suddenly possessed her.

"Rudeness is not always past forgiveness," she said, with a sweet smile.

Malipieri looked at her gravely and wondered whether he had any right
to take up the challenge. He had never been in love with a young girl
in his life, and somehow it did not seem fair to speak as he had been
speaking. It was very odd that his sense of honour should assert itself
just then. It might have been due to the artificial traditions of
generations without end, before him. At the same time, he knew
something of women, and in her last speech he recognized the womanly
cooing, the call of the mate, that has drawn men to happiness or
destruction ever since the world began. She was a mere girl, of course,
but since he had said so much, she could not help tempting him to go to
the end and tell her he loved her.

Though Malipieri did not pretend to be a model of all the virtues, he
was thoroughly fair in all his dealings, according to his lights, and
just then he would have thought it the contrary of fair to say what she
seemed to expect. He knew instinctively that no one had ever said it to
her before, which was a good reason for not saying it lightly; and he
was sure that he could not say it quite seriously, and almost certain
also that she had not even begun to be really in love herself, though
he felt that she liked him. On the other hand--for in the flash of a
second he argued the case--he did not feel that she was the
hypothetical defenceless maiden, helpless to resist the wiles of an
equally hypothetical wicked young man. She had been brought up by a
worldly mother since she had left the convent where she had associated
with other girls, most of whom also had worldly mothers; and some of
the wildest blood in Europe ran in her veins.

On the whole, he thought it would be justifiable to tell her exactly
what he felt, and she might do as she pleased about answering him.

"I think I shall fall in love with you before long," he said, with
almost unnecessary calmness.

Sabina had not expected that the first declaration she received in her
life would take this mild form, but it affected her much more strongly
than she could understand. Her hand tightened suddenly on the book she
held, and she noticed a little fluttering at her heart and in her
throat, and at the same time she was conscious of a tremendous
determination not to show that she felt anything at all, but to act as
if she had heard just such things before, and more also.

"Indeed!" she said, with admirable indifference.

Malipieri looked at her in surprise. An experienced flirt of thirty
could not have uttered the single word more effectively.

"I wonder whether you will ever like me better than you do now," he
said, by way of answer.

She was wondering, too, but it was not likely that she would admit it.

"I am very fickle," she replied, with a perfectly self-possessed little
laugh.

"So am I," Malipieri answered, following her lead. "My most desperate
love affairs have never lasted more than a month or two."

"You have had a great many, I daresay," Sabina observed, with no show
of interest. She was amazed and delighted to find how easy it was to
act her new part.

"And you," he asked, laughing, "how often have you been in love
already?"

"Let me see!"

She turned her eyes to his, without turning her head, and letting the
book lie in her lap she pretended to count on her fingers. He watched
her gravely, and nodded as she touched each finger, as if he were
counting with her. Suddenly she dropped both hands and laughed gaily.

"How childish you are!" she exclaimed.

"How deliciously frank you are!" he retorted, laughing with her.

It was mere banter, and not witty at that, but they were growing
intimate in it, much faster than either of them realized, for it was
the first time they had been able to talk together quite without
constraint, and it was the very first time Sabina had ever had a chance
of talking as she pleased to a man whom she really thought young.

Moreover they were quite modern young people, and therefore entirely
devoid of all the sentimentality and "world-sorrow" which made youth so
delightfully gloomy and desperately cynical, without the least real
cynicism, in the middle of the nineteenth century. In those days no
young man who showed a ray of belief in anything had a chance with a
woman, and no woman had a chance with men unless she had a hidden
sorrow. Women used to construct themselves a secret and romantic grief
in those times, with as much skill as they bestowed on their figure and
face, and there were men who spent hours in reading Schopenhauer in
order to pick out and treasure up a few terribly telling phrases; and
love-making turned upon the myth that life was not worth living.

We have changed all that now; whether for better or worse, the social
historians of the future will decide for us after we are dead, so we
need not trouble our heads about the decision unless we set up to be
moralists ourselves. The enormous tidal wave of hypocrisy is retiring,
and if the shore discovered by the receding waves is here and there
horribly devastated and hopelessly bare, it is at least dry land.

The wave covered everything for a long time, from religion to manners,
from science to furniture, and we who are old enough to remember, and
not old enough to regret, are rubbing our eyes and looking about us, as
on a new world, amazed at having submitted so long to what we so
heartily despised, glad to be able to speak our minds at last about
many things, and astounded that people should at last be allowed to be
good and suffered to be bad, without the affectation of seeming one or
the other, in a certain accepted manner governed by fashion, and
imposed by a civilized and perfectly intolerant society.

While progress advances, it really looks as if humanity were reverting
to its types, with an honest effort at simplicity. There is a revival
of the moral individuality of the middle ages. The despot proudly says,
like Alexander, or Montrose in love, that he will reign, and he will
reign alone; and he does. The financier plunders mankind and does not
pretend that he is a long-lost type of philanthropist. The anarchist
proclaims that it is virtuous to kill kings, and he kills them. The
wicked do not even make a pretence of going to church on Sundays. If
this goes on, we shall have saints before long.

Hypocrisy has disappeared even from literature, since no one who now
writes books fit to read can be supposed to do so out of respect for
public opinion, still less from any such base motive as a desire for
gain.

Malipieri and Sabina both felt that they had been drawn much nearer
together by what had sounded like idle chatter, and yet neither of them
was inclined to continue talking in the same way. Moreover time was
passing quickly, and there was a matter to be decided before they
parted. Malipieri returned to the subject of his discovery, and his
desire that Sabina should see it.

"But I cannot possibly come to the palace alone," she objected. "It is
quite out of the question. Even if--" she stopped.

"What?" he asked.

"Even if I were willing to do it--" she hesitated again.

"You are not afraid, are you?" There was a slight intonation of irony
in his question.

"No, I am not afraid." She paused a moment. "I suppose that if I saw a
way of coming, I would come," she said, then. "But I see no way. I
cannot go out alone. Every one would know it. There would be a terrible
fuss about it!"

The idea evidently amused her.

"Could you come with Sassi?" asked Malipieri presently. "He is
respectable enough for anything."

"Even that would be thought very strange," answered Sabina. "I have no
good reason to give for going out alone with him."

"You would not give any reason till afterwards, and when it is over
there cannot really be anything to be said about it. The Baroness goes
out every afternoon. You can make an excuse for staying at home
to-morrow, and then you will be alone in the house. Sassi will call for
you in a closed cab and bring you to the palace, and I will be at the
door to receive you. The chances are that you will be at home again
before the Baroness comes in, and she will never know that you have
been out. Does that look very hard?"

"No, it looks easy."

"What time shall Sassi call for you to-morrow?" asked Malipieri, who
wished to settle the matter at once.

"At five o'clock," answered Sabina, after a moment's thought.

"At five to-morrow, then. You had better not wear anything very new.
The place where the statue lies is not a drawing-room, you know, and
your frock may be spoilt."

"Very well."

She glanced at the clock, looked at Malipieri as if hesitating, and
then rose.

"I shall go back to my room now," she said.

"Yes. It is better. They may come in at any moment." He had risen also.

Their eyes met again, and they smiled at each other, as they realized
what they were doing, that they had been nearly an hour together,
unknown to any one, and had arranged something very like a clandestine
meeting for the next day. Sabina put out her hand.

"At five o'clock," she said again. "Good-night."

He felt her touch for the first time since they had met. It was light
and elastic as the pressure of a very delicate spring, perfectly
balanced and controlled. But she, on her side, looked down suddenly and
uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Oh! How rough your hand is!"

He laughed, and held out his palm, which was callous as a
day-labourer's.

"My man and I have done all the work ourselves," he said, "and it has
not been play."

"It must be delightful!" answered Sabina with admiration. "I wish I
were a man! We could have done it together."

She went to the door, and she turned to smile at him again as she laid
her hand on the knob. He remembered her afterwards as she stood there a
single moment with the light on her misty hair and white cheeks, and
the little shadow round her small bare throat. He remembered that he
would have given anything to bring her back to the place where she had
sat. There was much less doubt in his mind as to what he felt then than
there had been a few minutes earlier.

Half an hour after Sabina had disappeared Malipieri and Volterra were
seated in deep armchairs in the smoking-room, the Baron having sent his
wife to bed a few minutes after they had come in. She obeyed meekly as
she always did, for she had early discovered that although she was a
very energetic woman, Volterra was her master and that it was hopeless
to oppose his slightest wish. It is true that in return for the most
absolute obedience the fat financier gave her the strictest fidelity
and all the affection of which he was capable. Like more than one of
the great modern freebooters, the Baron's private life was very
exemplary, yet his wife would have been willing to forgive him
something if she might occasionally have had her own way.

This evening he was not in good-humour, as Malipieri found out as soon
as they were alone together. He chewed the end of the enormous Havana
he had lighted, he stuck his feet out straight in front of him, resting
his heels on the floor and turning his shining patent leather toes
straight up, he folded his hands upon the magnificent curve of his
white waistcoat, and leaning his head well back he looked steadily at
the ceiling. All these were very bad signs, as his wife could have told
Malipieri if she had stayed in the room.

Malipieri smoked in silence for some time, entirely forgetting him and
thinking of Sabina.

"Well, Mr. Archaeologist," the Baron said at last, allowing his big
cigar to settle well into one corner of his mouth, "there is the devil
to pay."

He spoke as if the trouble were Malipieri's fault. The younger man eyed
him coldly.

"What is the matter?" he enquired, without the least show of interest.

"You are being watched," answered Volterra, still looking at the
ceiling. "You are now one of those interesting people whose movements
are recorded like the weather, every twelve hours."

"Yes," said Malipieri. "I have known that for some time."

"The next time you know anything so interesting I wish you would inform
me," replied Volterra.

His voice and his way of speaking irritated Malipieri. The Baroness had
been better educated than her husband from the first; she was more
adaptable and she had really learned the ways of the society she loved,
but the Baron was never far from the verge of vulgarity, and he often
overstepped it.

"When you asked me to help you," Malipieri said, "you knew perfectly
well what my political career had been. I believe you voted for the
bill which drove me out of the country."

"Did I?" The Baron watched the smoke of his cigar curling upwards.

"I think you did. Not that I bear you the least malice. I only mean
that you might very naturally expect that I should be thought a
suspicious person, and that detectives would follow me about."

"Nobody cares a straw for your politics," retorted Volterra rudely.

"Then I shall be the more free to think as I please," Malipieri
answered with calm.

"Perfectly so. In the meantime it is not the Ministry of the Interior
that is watching you. The present Ministry does not waste time and
money on such nonsense. You are being watched because you are suspected
of trying to get some statues or pictures out of Italy, in defiance of
the Pacca law."

"Oh!" Malipieri blew a whiff of smoke out with the ejaculation, for he
was surprised.

"I have it from one of the cabinet," Volterra continued. "He told me
the facts confidentially after dinner. You see, as you are living in my
house, the suspicion is reflected on me."

"In your house?"

"The Palazzo Conti is my house," answered the Baron, taking his cigar
from his mouth for the first time since he had lighted it, and holding
it out at arm's length with a possessive sweep while he leaned back and
looked at the ceiling again. "It all belongs to me," he said. "I took
it for the mortgage, with everything in it."

"By the bye," said Malipieri, "what became of that Velasquez, and those
other pictures?"

"Was there a Velasquez?" enquired the Baron carelessly, without
changing his attitude.

"Yes. It was famous all over Europe. It was a family portrait."

"I remember! It turned out to be a copy after all."

"A copy!" repeated Malipieri incredulously.

"Yes, the original is in Madrid," answered the Baron with imperturbable
self-possession.

"And all those other pictures turned out to be copies, too, I daresay,"
suggested Malipieri.

"Every one of them. It was a worthless collection."

"In that case it was hardly worth while to take so much trouble in
getting them out of the country secretly." Malipieri smiled.

"That was the dealer's affair," answered Volterra without the least
hesitation. "Dealers are such fools! They always make a mystery of
everything."

Malipieri could not help admiring the proportions and qualities of the
Baron's lies. The financier was well aware that Malipieri knew the
pictures to be genuine beyond all doubt. The disposal of them had been
well managed, for when Malipieri moved into the palace there was not a
painting of value left on the walls, yet there had been no mention of
them in the newspapers, nor any gossip about them, and the public at
large believed them to be still in their places. As a matter of fact
most of them were already in France and England, and the Velasquez was
in Saint Petersburg.

"I understand why you are anxious that the Palazzo Conti should not be
watched just now," Malipieri said. "For my part, as I do not believe in
your government, I cannot be expected to believe in its laws. It is not
my business whether you respect them yourselves or not."

"Who is breaking the law?" asked the Baron roughly. "It is absurd to
talk in that way. But as the government has taken it into its head to
suspect that you do, it is not advisable for me, who am a staunch
supporter of the government, to see too much of you. I am sure you must
understand that--it is so simple."

"In other words?" Malipieri looked at him coldly, waiting for an
explanation.

"I cannot afford to have it said that you are living in the palace for
the purpose of helping dealers to smuggle objects of art out of the
country. That is what I mean."

"I see. But what objects of art do you mean, since you have already
sent away everything there was?"

"It is believed that you had something to do with that ridiculous
affair of the copies," said Volterra, his voice suddenly becoming oily.

"They were gone when I moved in."

"I daresay they were. But it would be hard to prove, and of course the
people who bought the pictures from the dealer insist that they are
genuine, so that there may be trouble some day, and you may be annoyed
about the things if you stay here any longer."

"You mean that you advise me to leave Rome. Is that it?" Malipieri now
spoke with the utmost indifference, and glanced carelessly at the end
of his cigar as he knocked the ash into the gold cup at his side.

"You certainly cannot stay any longer in the palace," Volterra said, in
an advisory and deprecatory tone.

"You seem to be badly frightened," observed Malipieri. "I really cannot
see why I should change my quarters until we have finished what we are
doing."

"I am afraid you will have to go. You are looked upon as very
'suspicious.' It would not be so bad, if your servant had not been a
convict."

"How do you know that?" Malipieri asked with sudden sternness.

"Everything of that sort is known to the police," answered Volterra,
whose manner had become very mild. "Of course you have your own reasons
for employing such a person."

"He is an innocent man, who was unjustly convicted."

"Oh, indeed! Poor fellow! Those things happen sometimes, I know. It is
more than kind of you to employ him. Nevertheless, you cannot help
seeing that the association of ideas is unfortunate and gives a bad
impression. The man was never proved to be innocent, and when he had
served his term, he was involved as your servant in your political
escapade. You do not mind my speaking of that matter lightly? It is the
safest way to look at it, is it not? Yes. The trouble is that you and
your man are both on the black book, and since the affair has come to
the notice of the government my colleagues are naturally surprised that
you should both be living in a house that belongs to me."

"You can explain to your colleagues that you have let the apartment in
the palace to me, and that as I pay my rent regularly you cannot turn
me out without notice." Malipieri smiled indifferently.

"Surely," said the Baron, affecting some surprise, "if I ask you, as a
favour, to move somewhere else, you will do so!"

To tell the truth, he was not prepared for Malipieri's extreme
forbearance, for he had expected an outbreak of temper, at the least,
and he still feared a positive refusal. Instead, the young man did not
seem to care a straw.

"Of course," he said, "if you ask it as a favour, I cannot refuse. When
should you like me to go?"

"You are really too kind!" The Baron was genuinely delighted and almost
grateful--as near to feeling gratitude, perhaps, as he had ever been in
his life. "I should hate to hurry you," he continued. "But really,
since you are so very good, I think the sooner you can make it
convenient to move, the better it will be for every one."

"I could not manage to pack my books and drawings so soon as
to-morrow," said Malipieri.

"Oh, no! certainly not! By all means take a couple of days about it. I
could not think of putting you to any inconvenience."

"Thanks." Malipieri smiled pleasa

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