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

Author: Francis Marion Crawford

Posting Date: October 18, 2014 [EBook #5847]
Release Date: June, 2004
First Posted: October 23, 2002

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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Online Distributed Proofreading Team.










THE HEART OF ROME

A Tale of the "Lost water"

BY FRANCIS MARION CRAWFORD Author of "Cecilia," "Saracinesca," "In the
Palace of the King," Etc.





THE HEART OF ROME






CHAPTER I




The Baroness Volterra drove to the Palazzo Conti in the heart of Rome
at nine o'clock in the morning, to be sure of finding Donna Clementina
at home. She had tried twice to telephone, on the previous afternoon,
but the central office had answered that "the communication was
interrupted." She was very anxious to see Clementina at once, in order
to get her support for a new and complicated charity. She only wanted
the name, and expected nothing else, for the Conti had very little
ready money, though they still lived as if they were rich. This did not
matter to their friends, but was a source of constant anxiety to their
creditors, and to the good Pompeo Sassi, the steward of the ruined
estate. He alone knew what the Conti owed, for none of them knew much
about it themselves, though he had done his best to make the state of
things clear to them.

The big porter of the palace was sweeping the pavement of the great
entrance, as the cab drove in. He wore his working clothes of grey
linen with silver buttons bearing the ancient arms of his masters, and
his third best gold-laced cap. There was nothing surprising in this, at
such an early hour, and as he was a grave man with a long grey beard
that made him look very important, the lady who drove up in the open
cab did not notice that he was even more solemn than usual. When she
appeared, he gave one more glance at the spot he had been sweeping, and
then grounded his broom like a musket, folded his hands on the end of
the broomstick and looked at her as if he wondered what on earth had
brought her to the palace at that moment, and wished that she would
take herself off again as soon as possible.

He did not even lift his cap to her, yet there was nothing rude in his
manner. He behaved like a man upon whom some one intrudes when he is in
great trouble.

The Baroness was rather more exigent in requiring respect from servants
than most princesses of the Holy Roman Empire, for her position in the
aristocratic scale was not very well defined.

She was not pleased, and spoke with excessive coldness when she asked
if Donna Clementina was at home. The porter stood motionless beside the
cab, leaning on his broom. After a pause he said in a rather strange
voice that Donna Clementina was certainly in, but that he could not
tell whether she were awake or not.

"Please find out," answered the Baroness, with impatience. "I am
waiting," she added with an indescribable accent of annoyance and
surprise, as if she had never been kept waiting before, in all the
fifty years of her more or less fashionable life.

There were speaking-tubes in the porter's lodge, communicating with
each floor of the great Conti palace, but the porter did not move.

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

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

The porter slowly shook his massive head, and his long grey beard
wagged from side to side.

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

"No servants? Are you crazy?"

"Oh, no!" answered the man meditatively. "I do not think I am mad. The
servants all went away last night after dinner, with their belongings.
There were only sixteen left, men and women, for I counted them."

"Do you mean to say--" The Baroness stopped in the middle of her
question, staring in amazement.

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

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

Then he looked at her as if he wished to be questioned, for he knew
that she was not really a great lady, and guessed that in spite of her
magnificent superiority and coldness she was not above talking to a
servant about her friends.

"But they must have somebody," she said. "They must eat, I suppose!
Somebody must cook for them. They cannot starve!"

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

The porter evidently took a gloomy view of the case.

"But why did the servants go away in a body?" asked the Baroness,
descending from her social perch by the inviting ladder of curiosity.

"They never were paid. None of us ever got our wages. For some time the
family has paid nobody. The day before yesterday, the telephone company
sent a man to take away the instrument. Then the electric light was cut
off. When that happens, it is all over."

The man had heard of the phenomenon from a colleague.

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

The Baroness had always been rich, and was really trying to guess what
would happen to people who had no servants.

"There is my wife," said the porter. "But she is old," he added
apologetically, "and the palace is big. Can she sweep out three hundred
rooms, cook for two families of masters and dress the Princess's hair?
She cannot do it."

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

"There were sixteen servants in the house yesterday," continued the
porter. "I remember when there were thirty, in the times of the old
Prince."

"There would be still, if the family had been wise," said the Baroness
severely. "Is your wife upstairs?"

"Who knows where she is?" enquired the porter by way of answer, and
with the air of a man who fears that he may never see his wife again.
"There are three hundred rooms. Who knows where she is?"

The Baroness was a practical woman by nature and by force of
circumstances; she made up her mind to go upstairs and see for herself
how matters stood. The name of Donna Clementina might not just now
carry much weight beside those of the patronesses of a complicated
charitable organization; in fact the poor lady must be in a position to
need charity herself rather than to dispense it to others. But the
Baroness had a deep-rooted prejudice in favour of the old aristocracy,
and guessed that it would afterwards be counted to her for
righteousness if she could be the first to offer boundless sympathy and
limited help to the distressed family.

It would be thought distinctly smart, for instance, if she should take
the Princess, or even one of the unmarried daughters, to her own house
for a few days, as a refuge from the sordid atmosphere of debt and
ruin, and beyond the reach of vulgar creditors, one of whom, by the
way, she knew to be her own excellent husband. The Princess was
probably not aware of that fact, for she had always lived in sublime
ignorance of everything connected with money, even since her husband's
death; and when good Pompeo Sassi tried to explain things, telling her
that she was quite ruined, she never listened to what he said. If the
family had debts, why did he not borrow money and pay them? That was
what he was paid for doing, after all. It was true that he had not been
paid for a year or two, but that was a wretched detail. Economy? Had
not the Princess given up her second maid, as an extravagance? What
more did the man expect?

The Baroness knew all this and reflected upon what she knew, as she
deliberately got out of her cab at the foot of the grand staircase.

"I will go upstairs myself," she said.

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

He explained in a single word that she was at liberty to go upstairs if
she chose, that it was not of the least use to go, and that he would
not be responsible for any disappointment if she were afterwards not
pleased. There is no language in the world which can say more in one
word than the Italian, or less in ten thousand, according to the humour
of the speaker.

The Baroness took no notice as she went up the stairs. She was not very
tall, and was growing slowly and surely stout, but she carried her
rather large head high and had cultivated importance, as a fine art,
with some success. She moved steadily, with a muffled sound as of
voluminous invisible silk bellows that opened and shut at each step;
her outer dress was sombre, but fashionable, and she wore a long gold
chain of curious and fine workmanship to carry her hand-glass, for she
was near-sighted. Her thick hair was iron-grey, her small round eyes
were vaguely dark with greenish lights, her complexion was like weak
coffee and milk, sallow, but smooth, even and healthy. She was a strong
woman of fifty years, well used to the world and its ways; acquisitive,
inquisitive and socially progressive; not knowing how to wish back
anything from the past, so long as there was anything in the future to
wish for; a good wife for an ambitious man.

The magnificent marble staircase already looked neglected; there were
deep shadows of dust in corners that should have been polished, there
was a coat of grey dust on the head and shoulders of the colossal
marble statue of Commodus in the niche on the first landing; in the
great window over the next, the armorial crowned eagle of the Conti,
cheeky, argent and sable, had a dejected look, as if he were moulting.

It was in March, and though the sun was shining brightly outside, and
the old porter wore his linen jacket, as if it were already spring,
there was a cold draught down the staircase, and the Baroness
instinctively made haste up the steps, and was glad when she reached
the big swinging door covered with red baize and studded with smart
brass nails, which gave access to the grand apartment.

By force of habit, she opened it and went in. There used to be always
two men in the outer hall, all day long, and sometimes four, ready to
announce visitors or to answer questions, as the case might be. It was
deserted now, a great, dismal, paved hall, already dingy with dust. One
of the box-benches was open, and the tail of a footman's livery
greatcoat which had been thrown in carelessly, hung over the edge and
dragged on the marble floor.

The Baroness realized that the porter had spoken the truth and that all
the servants had left the house, as the rats leave a sinking ship. One
must really have seen an old ship sink in harbour to know how the rats
look, black and grey, fat and thin, old and young, their tiny beads of
eyes glittering with fright as they scurry up the hatches and make for
every deck port and scupper, scrambling and tumbling over each other
till they flop into the water and swim away, racing for safety, each
making a long forked wake on the smooth surface, with a steady quick
ripple like the tearing of thin paper into strips.

The strong middle-aged woman who stood alone in the empty hall knew
nothing of sinking vessels or the ways of rats, but she had known
incidentally of more than one catastrophe like this, in the course of
her husband's ascendant career, and somehow he had always been
mysteriously connected with each one. An evil-speaking old diplomatist
had once said that he remembered Baron Volterra as a pawn-broking
dealer in antiquities, in Florence, thirty years earlier; there was
probably no truth in the story, but after Volterra was elected a
Senator of the Kingdom, a member of the opposition had alluded to it
with piquant irony and the result had been the exchange of several
bullets at forty paces, whereby honour was satisfied without bloodshed.
The seconds, who were well disposed to both parties, alone knew how
much or how little powder there was in the pistols, and they were
discreet men, who kept the secret.

The door leading to the antechamber was wide open, and the Baroness
went on deliberately, looking about through her hand-glass, in the half
light, for the shutters were not all open. Dust everywhere, the dust
that falls silently at night from the ancient wooden ceilings and
painted beams of Roman palaces, the dust of centuries accumulated above
and sifting for ever to the floors below. It was on the yellow marble
pier tables, on the dim mirrors in their eighteenth century frames, on
the high canopy draped with silver and black beneath which the effigy
of another big cheeky eagle seemed to be silently moulting under his
antique crown, the emblem of a race that had lived almost on the same
spot for eight hundred years, through good and bad repute, but in
nearly uninterrupted prosperity. The Baroness, who hankered after
greatness, felt that the gloom was a twilight of gods. She stood still
before the canopy, the symbol of princely rank and privilege, the
invisible silk bellows were silent for a few seconds, and she wondered
whether there were any procurable sum which she and her husband would
grudge in exchange for the acknowledged right to display a crowned
eagle, cheeky, argent and sable, in their hall, under a canopy draped
with their own colours. She sighed, since no one could hear her, and
she went on. The sigh was not only for the hopelessness of ever
reaching such social greatness; it was in part the outward show of a
real regret that it should have come to an untimely end. Her admiration
of princes was as sincere as her longing to be one of them; she had at
least the melancholy satisfaction of sympathizing with them in their
downfall. It brought her a little nearer to them in imagination if not
in fact.

The evolution of the snob has been going on quickly of late, and
quicker than ever since vast wealth has given so many of the species
the balance of at least one sort of power in society. His thoughts are
still the same, but his outward shape approaches strangely near to that
of the human being. There are snobs now, who behave almost as nicely in
the privacy of their homes as in the presence of a duchess. They are
much more particular as to the way in which others shall behave to
them. That is a test, by the bye. The snob thinks most of the treatment
he receives from the world; the gentleman thinks first how he shall act
courteously to others.

The Baroness went on and entered the outer reception room, and looking
before her she could see through the open doors of the succeeding
drawing-rooms, where the windows had been opened or perhaps not closed
on the previous evening. It was all vast, stately and deserted. Only
ten days earlier she had been in the same place at a great reception,
brilliant with beautiful women and handsome men, alive with the
flashing of jewels and decorations in the vivid light, full of the
discreet noise of society in good-humour, full of faces she knew, and
voices familiar, and of the moonlight of priceless pearls and the
sunlight of historic diamonds; all of which manifestations she dearly
loved.

Her husband had perhaps known what was coming, and how soon, but she
had not. There was something awful in the contrast. As she went through
one of the rooms a mouse ran from under the fringe of a velvet curtain
and took refuge under an armchair. She had sat in that very chair ten
days ago and the Russian ambassador had talked to her; she remembered
how he had tried to extract information from her about the new issue of
three and a half per cent national bonds, because her husband was one
of the financiers who were expected to "manipulate" the loan.

A portrait of a Conti in black velvet, by Velasquez, looked down,
coldly supercilious, at the empty armchair under which the mouse was
hiding. It could make no difference, great or small, to him, whether
the Baroness Volterra ever sat there again to talk with an ambassador;
he had sat where he pleased, undisturbed in his own house, to the end
of his days, and no one can take the past from the dead, except a
modern German historian.

Not a sound broke the stillness, except the steady plash of the water
falling into the fountain in the wide court, heard distinctly through
the closed windows. The Baroness wondered if any one were awake except
the old porter downstairs. She knew the house tolerably well. Only the
Princess and her two unmarried daughters slept in the apartment she had
entered, far off, at the very end, in rooms at the corner overlooking
the small square and the narrow street. The rest of the old palace was
surrounded by dark and narrow streets, but the court was wide and full
of sunshine. The only son of the house, though he was now the Prince,
lived on the floor above, with his young wife and their only child, in
what had been a separate establishment, after the old Roman custom.

The Baroness went to one of the embrasures of the great drawing-room
and looked through the panes at the windows of the upper story. All
that she could see were shut; there was not a sign of life in the huge
building. Ruin had closed in upon it and all it held, softly, without
noise and without pity.

It was their own fault, of course, but the Baroness was sorry for them,
for she was not quite heartless, in spite of her hard face. The
gloomiest landscape must have a ray of light in it, somewhere. It was
all their own fault; they should have known better; they should have
counted what they had instead of spending what they had not. But their
fall was great, as everything had been in their prosperity, and it was
interesting to be connected with it. She faintly hoped Volterra would
keep the palace now that they could certainly never pay any more
interest on the mortgage, and it was barely possible that she might
some day live in it herself, though she understood that it would be in
very bad taste to occupy it at once. But this was unlikely, for her
husband had a predilection for a new house, in the new part of the
city, full of new furniture and modern French pictures. He had a
pronounced dislike for old things, including old pictures and old
jewellery, though he knew much about both. Possibly they reminded him
of that absurd story, and of his duel at forty paces.

Volterra would sell the palace to the Vatican, with everything in it,
and would look about for another lucrative investment. The Vatican
bought all the palaces in the market for religious institutions, and
when there were not enough "it" built the finest buildings in Rome for
its own purposes. Volterra was mildly anti-clerical in politics, but he
was particularly fond of dealing with the Vatican for real estate. The
Vatican was a most admirable house of business, in his estimation,
keen, punctual and always solvent; it was good for a financier to be
associated with such an institution. It drove a hard bargain, but there
was never any hesitation about fulfilling its obligations to the last
farthing. Dreaming over one of his enormous Havanas after a perfect
dinner, Baron Volterra, Senator of the Kingdom of Italy, often wondered
whether the prosperity of the whole world would not be vastly increased
if the Vatican would consent to be the general financial agent for the
European nations. Such stability as there would be, such order! Above
all, such guarantees of good faith! Besides all that, there were its
cordial relations with the United States, that is to say, with the
chief source of the world's future wealth! The Senator's
strongly-marked face grew sweetly thoughtful as he followed his own
visions in the air, and when his wife spoke of living in an antiquated
Roman palace and buying an estate with an old title attached to it,
which the King might graciously be pleased to ratify, he playfully
tapped his wife's sallow cheek with two fat fingers and smiled in a way
that showed how superior he was to such weakness. It was not even worth
while to say anything.

Once more the Baroness sighed as she turned from the window. She meant
to have her own way in the end, but it was hard to wait so long. She
turned from the window, glanced at a beautiful holy family by Bonifazio
which hung on the opposite wall above an alabaster table, estimated its
value instinctively and went on into the next drawing-room.

As she passed through the door, a low cry of pain made her start and
hesitate, and she stood still. The degree of her acquaintance with the
members of the family was just such that she would not quite dare to
intrude upon them if they had given way to an expression of pardonable
weakness under their final misfortune, whereas if they were bearing it
with reasonable fortitude she could allow herself to offer her sympathy
and even some judicious help.

She stood still and the sound was repeated, the pitiful little tearless
complaint of a young thing suffering alone. It was somewhere in the big
room, hidden amongst the furniture; which was less stiffly arranged
here than in the outer apartments. There were books and newspapers on
the table, the fireplace was half-full of the ashes of a burnt-out
fire, there were faded flowers in a tall vase near the window, there
was the undefinable presence of life in the heavier and warmer air. At
first the Baroness had thought that the cry came from some small
animal, hurt and forgotten there in the great catastrophe; a moment
later she was sure that there was some one in the room.

She moved cautiously forward in the direction whence the sound had
come. Then she saw the edge of a fawn-coloured cloth skirt on the red
carpet by an armchair. She went on, hesitating no longer. She had seen
the frock only a day or two ago, and it belonged to Sabina Conti.

A very fair young girl was kneeling in the shadow, crouching over
something on the floor. Her hair was like the pale mist in the morning,
tinged with gold. She was very slight, and as she bent down, her
slender neck was dazzling white above the collar of her frock. She was
trembling a little.

"My dear Sabina, what has happened?" asked the Baroness Volterra,
leaning over her with an audible crack in the region of the waist.

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

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

The Baroness looked down, and saw a small bunch of yellow feathers
lying on the floor at the girl's knees; the poor little head with its
colourless beak lay quite still on the red carpet, turned upon one
side, as if it were resting.

"A canary," observed the Baroness, who had never had a pet in her life,
and had always wondered how any one could care for such stupid things.

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

"It is dead."

That should explain everything; surely the woman must understand. Yet
there was no response. The Baroness stood upright again, grasping her
parasol and looking down with a sort of respectful indifference. Sabina
said nothing, but took up the dead bird very tenderly, as if it could
still feel that she loved it, and she pressed it softly to her breast,
bending her head to it, and then kissing the yellow feathers. When it
was alive it used to nestle there, almost as it lay now. It had been
very tame.

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

Sabina shook her head. She had found it lying there, not wounded, its
feathers not torn--just dead. It was of no use to answer. She rose to
her feet, still holding the tiny body against her bosom, and she looked
at the Baroness, mutely asking what had brought her there, and wishing
that she would go away.

"I came to see your sister," said the elder woman, with something like
apology in the tone.

Sabina was still very pale, and her delicate lips were pressed
together, but there were no tears in her eyes, as she waited for the
Baroness to say more.

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

Sabina looked at her quietly. If she had heard the bad news, why had
she not gone away? The Baroness began to feel uncomfortable. She almost
quailed before the pale girl of seventeen, slender as a birch sapling
in her light frock.

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

"You are very kind," Sabina answered, with the faintest air of
surprise, "but I really do not see that you could do anything."

"Perhaps your mother would allow you to spend a few days with me--until
things are more settled," suggested the Baroness.

"Thank you very much. I do not think she would like that. She would not
wish me to be away from her just now, I am sure. Why should I leave
her?"

The Baroness Volterra did not like to point out that the Princess Conti
might soon be literally homeless.

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

"If my mother wishes it."

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

"If my mother thinks it is best," answered Sabina, avoiding the
Baroness's eyes, as she resolutely avoided answering the direct
question.

But the Baroness was determined if possible to take in one of the
family, and it had occurred to her that Sabina would really be less
trouble than her mother or elder sister. Clementina was the eldest and
was already looked upon as an old maid. She was intensely devout, and
that was always troublesome, for it meant that she would insist upon
going to church at impossibly early hours, and must have fish-dinners
on Fridays. But it would certainly be conferring a favour on the
Princess to take Sabina off her hands at such a time. The devout
Clementina could take care of herself. With her face, the Baroness
reflected, she would be safe among Cossacks; besides, she could go into
a retreat, and stay there, if necessary. Sabina was quite different.

The Princess thought so too, as it turned out. Sabina took the visitor
to her mother's door, knocked, opened and then went away, still
pressing her dead canary to her bosom, and infinitely glad to be alone
with it at last.

There was confusion in the Princess Conti's bedroom, the amazing
confusion which boils up about an utterly careless woman of the great
world, if she be accidentally left without a maid for twenty-four
hours. It seemed as if everything the Princess possessed in the way of
clothes, necessary and unnecessary, had been torn from wardrobes and
chests of drawers by a cyclone and scattered in every direction, till
there was not space to move or sit down in a room which was thirty feet
square.

Princess Conti was a very stout woman of about the same age as her
visitor, but not resembling her in the least. She had been beautiful,
and still kept the dazzling complexion and magnificent eyes for which
she had been famous. It was her boast that she slept eight hours every
night, without waking, whatever happened, and she always advised
everybody to do the same, with an airy indifference to possibilities
which would have done credit to a doctor.

She was dressed, or rather wrapped, in a magnificent purple velvet
dressing-gown, trimmed with sable, and tied round her ample waist with
a silver cord; her rather scanty grey hair stood out about her head
like a cloud in a high wind; and her plump hands were encased in a pair
of old white gloves, which looked oddly out of place. She was standing
in the middle of the room, and she smiled calmly as the Baroness
entered. On a beautiful inlaid table beside her stood a battered brass
tray with an almost shapeless little brass coffee-pot, a common
earthenware cup, chipped at the edges, and three pieces of
doubtful-looking sugar in a tiny saucer, also of brass. The whole had
evidently been brought from a small cafe near by, which had long been
frequented by the servants from the palace.

Judging from her smile, the Princess seemed to think total ruin rather
an amusing incident. She had always complained that the Romans were
very dull; for she was not a Roman herself, but came of a very great
old Polish family, the members of which had been distinguished for
divers forms of amiable eccentricity during a couple of centuries.

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

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

As the Prince had been dead ten years, the Baroness thought that he
might not be wholly responsible for the ruin of his estate, but she
discreetly avoided the suggestion. She began to make a little apology
for her visit.

"But I am delighted to see you!" cried the Princess. "You can help me
to pack. You know I have not a single maid, not a woman in the house,
nor a man either. Those ridiculous servants fled last night as if we
had the plague!"

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

"Of course. Clementina has decided to be a nun, and is going to the
convent this morning. So sensible of her, poor dear! It is true that
she has made up her mind to do it three or four times before now, but
the circumstances were different, and I hope this will be final. She
will be much happier."

The Princess stirred the muddy coffee in the chipped earthenware cup,
and then sipped it thoughtfully, sipped it again, and made a face.

"You see my breakfast," she said, and then laughed, as if the shabby
brass tray were a part of the train of amusing circumstances. "The
porter's wife went and got it at some dirty little cafe," she added.

"How dreadful!" exclaimed the Baroness, with more real sympathy in her
voice than she had yet shown.

"I assure you," the Princess answered serenely, "that I am glad to have
any coffee at all. I always told poor dear Paolo that it would come to
this."

She swallowed the rest of the coffee with a grimace, and set down the
cup. Then, with the most natural gesture in the world, she pushed the
tray a little way across the inlaid table, towards the Baroness, as she
would have pushed it towards her maid, and as if she wished the thing
taken away. She did it merely from force of habit, no doubt.

Baroness Volterra understood well enough, and for a moment she affected
not to see. The Princess had the blood of Polish kings in her veins,
mingled with that of several mediatized princes, but that was no reason
why she should treat a friend like a servant; especially as the
friend's husband practically owned the palace and its contents, and had
lent the money with which the high and mighty lady and her son had
finally ruined themselves. Yet so overpowering is the moral domination
of the born aristocrat over the born snob, that the Baroness changed
her mind, and humbly took the obnoxious tray away and set it down on
another table near the door.

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

"Of course," answered the Baroness. "It is not coffee at all! It is
made of chicory and acorns."

"I do not know what it is made of," said the Princess, without
interest, "but it has an atrociously bad smell, and it has made a green
stain on my handkerchief."

She looked at the bit of transparently fine linen with which she had
touched her lips, and threw it under the table.

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

"I wish I knew! You see, my daughter-in-law has a little place
somewhere in the Maremma. It is an awful hole, I believe, and very
unhealthy, but we shall have to stay there for a few days. Then I shall
go to Poland and see my brother. I am sure he can arrange everything at
once, and we shall come back to Rome in the autumn, of course, just as
usual. Sassi told me only last week that two or three millions would be
enough. And what is that? My brother is so rich!"

The stout Princess shrugged her shoulders carelessly, as if a few
millions of francs more or less could really not be such a great
matter. Somebody had always found money for her to spend, and there was
no reason why obliging persons should not continue to do the same. The
Baroness showed no surprise, but wondered whether the Princess might
not have to lunch, and dine too, on some nauseous little mess brought
to her on a battered brass tray. It was quite possible that she might
not find five francs in her purse; it was equally possible that she
might find five thousand; the only thing quite sure was that she had
not taken the trouble to look, and did not care a straw.

"Can I be of any immediate use?" asked the Baroness with unnecessary
timidity. "Do you need ready money?"

"Ready money?" echoed the Princess with alacrity. "Of course I do! I
told you, Sassi says that two or three millions would be enough to go
on with."

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

"Oh!" ejaculated the Princess with a little disappointment. "Nothing
else would be of any use. Of course I have money for any little thing I
need. There is my purse. Do you mind looking? I know I had two or three
thousand francs the other day. There must be something left. Please
count it. I never can count right, you know."

The Baroness took up the mauve morocco pocket-book to which the
Princess pointed. It had a clasp in which a pretty sapphire was set;
she opened it and took out a few notes and silver coins, which she
counted.

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

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

"You can hardly leave Rome with so little," observed the Baroness.
"Will you not allow me to lend you five hundred? I happen to have a
five hundred franc note in my purse, for I was going to pay a bill on
my way home."

"Thanks," said the Princess. "That will save me the trouble of sending
for Sassi. He always bores me dreadfully with his figures. Thank you
very much."

"Not at all, dear friend," the Baroness answered. "It is a pleasure, I
assure you. But I had thought of asking if you would let Sabina come
and stay with me for a little while, until your affairs are more
settled."

"Oh, would you do that?" asked the Princess with something like
enthusiasm. "I really do not know what to do with the girl. Of course,
I could take her to Poland and marry her there, but she is so peculiar,
such a strange child, not at all like me. It really would be immensely
kind of you to take her, if your husband does not object."

"He will be delighted."

"Yes," acquiesced the Princess calmly. "You see," she continued in a
meditative tone, "if I sent her to stay with any of our cousins here, I
am sure they would ask her all sorts of questions about our affairs,
and she is so silly that she would blurt out everything she fancied she
knew, whether it were true or not--about my son and his wife, you know,
and then, the money questions. Poor Sabina! she has not a particle of
tact! It really would be good of you to take her. I shall be so
grateful."

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

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

"Of course!"

"You are really the kindest person in the world," said the Princess. "I
was quite in despair, when you came. Just look at those things!"

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

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

"I have not the least idea! I sent the porter's wife to try and find
them, but she has never come back. She is so stupid, poor old thing!"

"I think I had better bring a couple of men-servants," said the
Baroness. "They may be of use. Should you like my carriage to take you
to the station? Anything I can do--"

The Princess stared, as if quite puzzled.

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

"Yes, but you said that all your servants had left last night. I
supposed the coachman and grooms were gone too."

"I daresay they are!" The Princess laughed. "Then we will go in cabs.
It will be very amusing. By the bye, I wonder whether those brutes of
men thought of leaving the poor horses anything to eat, and water! I
must really go and see. Poor beasts! They will be starving. Will you
come with me?"

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

"Will you go down like that?" asked the Baroness aghast, glancing at
the purple velvet dressing-gown, and noticing, as the Princess moved,
that her feet, on which she wore small kid slippers, were stockingless.

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

The Baroness would have given anything to be above caring whether any
one should ever see her, or not, on the stairs of her house in a purple
dressing-gown, without stockings and with her hair standing on end; and
she pondered on the ways of the aristocracy she adored, especially as
represented by her Excellency Marie-Sophie-Hedwige-Zenaide-Honorine-Pia
Rubomirska, Dowager Princess Conti. Ever afterwards she associated
purple velvet and bare feet with the idea of financial catastrophe,
knowing in her heart that even ruin would seem bearable if it could
bring her such magnificent indifference to the details of commonplace
existence.

At that moment, however, she felt that she was in the position of a
heaven-sent protectress to the Princess.

"No," she said firmly. "I will go myself to the stables, and the porter
shall feed the horses if there is no groom. You really must not go
downstairs looking like that!"

"Why not?" asked the Princess, surprised. "But of course, if you will
be so kind as to see whether the horses need anything, it is quite
useless for me to go myself. You will promise? I am sure they are
starving by this time."

The Baroness promised solemnly, and said that she would come back
within an hour, with her servants, to take away Sabina and to help the
Princess's preparations. In consideration of all she was doing the
Princess kissed her on both her sallow cheeks as she took her leave.
The Princess attached no importance at all to this mark of affectionate
esteem, but it pleased the Baroness very much.

Just as the latter was going away, the door opened suddenly, and a
weak-looking young man put in his head.

"Mamma! Mamma!" he cried, in a thin tone of distress, almost as if he
were going to cry.

He was nearly thirty years old, though he looked younger. He was thin,
and pale, with a muddy and spotted complexion, and his scanty black
hair grew far back on his poorly developed forehead. His eyes had a
look that was half startled, half false. Though he was carefully
dressed he had not shaved, because he could not shave himself and his
valet had departed with the rest of the servants. He was the Princess's
only son, himself the present Prince, and the heir of all the Conti
since the year eleven hundred.

"Mamma!"

"What is the matter, sweetheart?" asked the Princess, with ready
sympathy. "Your hands are quite cold! Are you ill?"

"The child! Something has happened to it--we do not know--it looks so
strange--its eyes are turned in and it is such a dreadful colour--do
come--"

But the Princess was already on her way, and he spoke the last words as
he ran after her. She turned her head as she went on.

"For heaven's sake send a doctor!" she cried to the Baroness, and in a
moment she was gone, with the weak young man close at her side.

The Baroness nodded quickly, and when all three reached the door she
left the two to go upstairs and ran down, with a tremendous puffing of
the invisible silk bellows.

"The Prince's little girl is very ill," she said, as she passed the
porter, who was now polishing the panes of glass in the door of his
lodge, because he had done the same thing every morning for twenty
years.

He almost dropped the dingy leather he was using, but before he could
answer, the cab passed out, bearing the Baroness on her errand.





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 pleasantly. "If I cannot get off by the day
after to-morrow, I shall certainly move the day after that."

"I am infinitely obliged. And now that this unpleasant matter is
settled, owing to your wonderful amiability, do tell me how the work is
proceeding."

"Fairly well," Malipieri answered. "You had better come and see for
yourself before I go. Let me see. To-morrow I shall have to look about
for a lodging. Could you come the day after to-morrow? Then we can go
down together."

"How far have you got?" asked Volterra, with a little less interest
than might have been expected.

"I am positively sure that there is an inner chamber, where I expected
to find it," Malipieri answered, with perfect truth. "Perhaps we can
get into it when you come."

"I hope so," said the Baron, watching the other's face from the corner
of his eye.

"I have made a curious discovery in the course of the excavation,"
Malipieri continued. "The pillar of masonry which you showed me is
hollow after all. It was the shaft of an oubliette which must have
opened somewhere in the upper part of the house. There is a well under
it."

"Full of water?"

"No. It is dry. We shall have to pass through it to get to the inner
chamber. You shall see for yourself--a very singular construction."

"Was there nothing in it?"

"Several skeletons," answered Malipieri indifferently. "One of the
skulls has a rusty knife driven through it."

"Dear me!" exclaimed the Baron, shaking his fat head. "Those Conti were
terrible people! We must not tell the Baroness these dreadful stories.
They would upset her nerves."

Malipieri had not supposed Volterra's wife to be intensely sensitive.
He moved, as if he meant to take his leave presently.

"By the bye," he said, "whereabouts should you recommend me to look for
a lodging?"

The Baron reflected a moment.

"If I were you," he said, "I would go to a hotel. In fact, I think you
would be wiser to leave Rome for a time, until all these absurd stories
are forgotten. The least I can do is to warn you that you may be
exposed to a good deal of annoyance if you stay here. The minister with
whom I was talking this evening told me as much in a friendly way."

"Really? That was very kind of him. But what do you mean by the word
'annoyance'? It is rather vague. It is one thing to suspect a man of
trying to evade the Pacca law; it is quite another matter to issue a
warrant of arrest against him."

"Oh, quite," answered Volterra readily. "I did not mean that, of
course, though when one has once been arrested for anything, innocent
or not, our police always like to repeat the operation as soon as
possible, just as a matter of principle."

"In other words, if a man has once been suspected, even unjustly, he
had better leave his country for ever."

The Baron shrugged his big round shoulders, and drew a final puff from
his cigar before throwing the end away.

"Injustice is only what the majority thinks of the minority," he
observed. "If you do not happen to be a man of genius, the first step
towards success in life is to join the majority."

Malipieri laughed as he rose to his feet, reflecting that in delivering
himself of this piece of worldly wisdom the Baron had probably spoken
the truth for the first time since they had been talking.

"Shall we say day after to-morrow, about five o'clock?" asked Malipieri
before going.

"By all means. And let me thank you again for meeting my views so very
obligingly."

"Not at all."

So Malipieri went home to think matters over, and the Baron sat a long
time in his chair, looking much pleased with himself and apparently
admiring a magnificent diamond which he wore on one of his thick
fingers.





CHAPTER X




Malipieri was convinced that Volterra not only knew exactly how far the
work under the palace had proceeded, but was also acquainted with the
general nature of the objects found in the inner chamber, beyond the
well shaft. The apparent impossibility of such a thing was of no
importance. The Baron would never have been so anxious to get rid of
Malipieri unless he had been sure that the difficult part of the work
was finished and that the things discovered were of such dimensions as
to make it impossible to remove them secretly. Malipieri knew the man
and guessed that if he could not pocket the value of everything found
in the excavations by disposing of the discoveries secretly, he would
take the government into his confidence at once, as the surest means of
preventing any one else from getting a share.

What was hard to understand was that Volterra should know how far the
work had gone before Malipieri had told him anything about it. That he
did know, could hardly be doubted. He had practically betrayed the fact
by the mistake he had made in assuring himself that Malipieri was
willing to leave the house, before even questioning him as to the
progress made since they had last met. He had been a little too eager
to get rid of the helper he no longer needed. It did not even occur to
Malipieri that Masin could have betrayed him, yet so far as it was
possible to judge, Masin was the only living man who had looked into
the underground chamber. As he walked home, he recalled the
conversation from beginning to end, and his conviction was confirmed.
Volterra had been in a bad temper, nervous, a little afraid of the
result and therefore inclined to talk in a rough and bullying tone. As
soon as he had ascertained that Malipieri was not going to oppose him,
he had become oily to obsequiousness.

On his part Malipieri had accepted everything Volterra proposed, for
two reasons. In the first place he would not for the world have had the
financier think that he wanted a share of the treasure, or any
remuneration for what he had done. Secondly, he knew that possession is
nine points of the law, and that if anything could ever be obtained for
Sabina it would not be got by making a show of violent opposition to
the Baron's wishes. If Malipieri had refused to leave his lodging in
the palace, Volterra could have answered by filling the house with
people in his own employ, or by calling in government architects,
archaeologists and engineers, and taking the whole matter out of
Malipieri's hands.

The first thing to be ascertained was, who had entered the vaults and
reported the state of the work to Volterra. Malipieri might have
suspected the porter himself, for it was possible that there might be
another key to the outer entrance of the cellar; but there was a second
door further in, to which Masin had put a patent padlock, and even
Masin had not the key to that. The little flat bit of steel, with its
irregular indentations, was always in Malipieri's pocket. As he walked,
he felt for it, and it was in its place, with his silver pencil-case
and the small penknife he always carried for sharpening pencils.

The porter could not possibly have picked that lock; indeed, scarcely
any one could have done so without injuring it, and Malipieri had
locked it himself at about seven o'clock that evening. Even if the
porter could have got in by any means, Malipieri doubted whether he
could have reached the inner chamber of the vaults. There was some
climbing to be done, and the man was old and stiff in the joints. The
place was not so easy to find as might have been supposed, either,
after the first breach in the Roman wall was past. Malipieri intended
to improve the passage the next morning, in order to make it more
practicable for Sabina.

He racked his brains for an explanation of the mystery, and when he
reached the door of the palace, after eleven o'clock, he had come to
the conclusion that in spite of appearances there must be some entrance
to the vaults of which he knew nothing, and it was all-important to
find it. He regretted the quixotic impulse which had restrained him
from exploring everything at once. It would have been far better to go
to the end of his discovery, and he wondered why he had not done go. He
would not have insulted himself by supposing that Sabina could believe
him capable of taking the gem from the ring of the statue, in other
words, of stealing, since whoever the rightful owner might be, nothing
in the vault could possibly belong to him, and he regarded it all as
her property, though he doubted whether he could ever obtain for her a
tenth part of the value it represented. He had acted on an impulse,
which was strengthened until it looked plausible by the thought of the
intense pleasure he would take in showing her the wonderful discovery,
and in leading her safely through the mysterious intricacies of the
strange place. It had been a very selfish impulse after all, and if he
really let her come the next day, there might even be a little danger
to her.

He let himself in and locked the postern door behind him. The porter
and his wife were asleep and the glass window of the lodge door was
quite dark. Malipieri lighted a wax taper and went upstairs.

Masin was waiting, and opened when he heard his master's footsteps on
the landing. As a rule, he went to bed, if Malipieri went out in the
evening; both men were usually tired out by their day's work.

"What is the matter?" Malipieri asked.

"There is somebody in the vaults," Masin answered. "I had left my pipe
on a stone close to the padlocked door and when you were gone I took a
lantern and went down to get it. When I came near the door I was sure I
heard some one trying it gently from the other side. I stopped to
listen and I distinctly heard footsteps going away. I ran forward and
tried to find a crack, to see if there were a light, but the door is
swollen with the dampness and fits tightly. Besides, by the time I had
reached it the person inside must have got well away."

"What time was it?" asked Malipieri, slipping off his light overcoat.

"You went out at nine o'clock, sir. It could not have been more than
half an hour later."

"Light both lanterns. We must go down at once. See that there is plenty
of oil in them."

In five minutes both men were ready.

"You had better take your revolver, sir," suggested Masin.

Malipieri laughed.

"I have had that revolver since I was eighteen," he said, "and I have
never needed it yet. Our tools are there, and they are better than
firearms."

They went down the staircase quietly, fearing to wake the porter, and
kept close to the north wall till they reached the further end of the
courtyard. When they had passed the outer door at the head of the
winding staircase, Malipieri told Masin to lock it after them.

"We cannot padlock the other door from the inside," he explained, "for
there are no hasps. If the man managed to pass us he might get out this
way."

He led the way down, making as little noise as possible. Masin held up
his lantern, peering into the gloom over Malipieri's shoulder.

"No one could pass the other door without breaking it down," Malipieri
said.

They reached the floor of the cellars, which extended in both
directions from the foot of the staircase, far to the left by low, dark
vaults like railway tunnels, and a short distance to the right, where
they ended at the north-west corner. The two men turned that way, but
after walking a dozen yards, they turned to the left and entered a damp
passage barely wide enough for them both abreast. It ended at the
padlocked door, and before unlocking the latter Malipieri laid his ear
to the rough panel and listened attentively. Not a sound broke the
stillness. He turned the key, and took off the padlock and slipped it
into his pocket before going on. Without it the door could not be
fastened.

The passage widened suddenly beyond, in another short tunnel ending at
the outer foundation wall of the palace. In this tunnel, on the
right-hand side, was the breach the two men had first made in order to
gain access to the unexplored region. Now that there was an aperture,
the running water on the other side could be heard very distinctly,
like a little brook in a rocky channel, but more steady. Both men
examined the damp floor carefully with their lanterns, in the hope of
finding some trace of footsteps; but the surface was hard and almost
black, and where there had been a little slime their own feet had
rubbed it off, as they came and went during many days. The stones and
rubbish they had taken from the wall had been piled up and hardened to
form an inclined causeway by which to reach the irregular hole. This
was now just big enough to allow a man to walk through it, bending
almost double. Masin lighted one of the lamps, which they generally
left at that place, and set it on a stone.

Malipieri began to go up, his stick in his right hand, the lantern in
his left.

"Let me go first, sir," said Masin, trying to pass him.

"Nonsense!" Malipieri answered sharply, and went on.

Masin kept as close to him as possible. He had picked up the lightest
of the drilling irons for a weapon. It must have weighed at least ten
pounds and it was a yard long. In such a hand as Masin's a blow from it
would have broken a man's bones like pipe stems.

The wall was about eight feet thick, and when Malipieri got to the
other end of the hole he stopped and looked down, holding out his
lantern at arm's length. He could see nothing unusual, and he heard no
sound, except the gurgle of the little black stream that ran ten feet
below him. He began to descend. The masonry was very irregular, and
sloped outwards towards the ground, so that some of the irregularities
made rough steps here and there, which he knew by heart. Below, several
large fragments of Roman brick and cement lay here and there, where
they had fallen in the destruction of the original building. It was not
hard to get down, and the space was not large. It was bounded by the
old wall on one side, and most of the other was taken up by a part of a
rectangular mass of masonry, of rough mediaeval construction, which
projected inward.

The place was familiar, but Malipieri looked about him carefully, while
Masin was climbing down. Along the base of the straight wall there was
a channel about two feet wide, through which the dark water flowed
rapidly. It entered from the right-hand corner, by a low, arched
aperture, through which it seemed out of the question that a man could
crawl, or even an ordinary boy of twelve. When they had first come to
this place Masin had succeeded in poking in a long stick with a bit of
lighted wax taper fastened to it, and both men had seen that the
channel ran on as far as it could be seen, with no widening. At the
other end of the chamber it ran out again by a similar conduit. What
had at first surprised Malipieri had been that the water did not enter
from the side of the foundations near the Vicolo dei Soldati, but ran
out that way. He had also been astonished at the quantity and speed of
the current. A channel a foot deep and two feet wide carries a large
quantity of water if the velocity be great, and Malipieri had made a
calculation which had convinced him that if the outflow were suddenly
closed, the small space in which he now stood would in a few minutes be
full up to within three or four feet of the vault. He would have given
much to know whence the water came and whither it went, and what
devilry had made it rise suddenly and drown a man when the excavations
had been made under Gregory Sixteenth.

From below, the place where an entrance had then been opened was
clearly visible. The vault had been broken into and had afterwards been
rebuilt from above. The bits of timber which had been used for the
frame during the operation were still there, a rotting and mouldy nest
for hideous spiders and noisome creatures that haunt the dark.

The air was very cold, and was laden with the indescribable smell of
dried slime which belongs to deep wells which have long been almost
quite dry. It was clearly a long time since the little stream had
overflowed its channel, but at the first examination he had made
Malipieri had understood that in former times the water had risen to
within three feet of the vault. Up to that height there was a thin
coating of the dry mud, which peeled off in irregular scales if lightly
touched. The large fragments of masonry that half covered the floor
were all coated in the same way with what had once been a film of slime.

The air, though cold, could be breathed easily, and the lights did not
grow dim in it as they do in subterranean places where the atmosphere
is foul. The stream of water, flowing swiftly in its deep channel from
under the little arch, brought plentiful ventilation into it. Above,
there was no aperture in the vaulting, but there was one in the
mediaeval masonry that projected into the chamber. There, on the side
towards the right, where the water flowed in, Malipieri had found a
narrow slit, barely wide enough to admit a man's open hand and wrist,
but nearly five feet high, evidently a passage intended for letting the
water flow into the interior of the construction when it overflowed its
channel and rose above the floor of the chamber.

At first Malipieri had supposed that this aperture communicated with
some ancient and long-forgotten drain by which the water could escape
to the Tiber; it was not until he had gained an entrance to the hollow
mass of masonry that he understood the hideous use to which it had been
applied.

It had not been hard to enlarge it. Any one who has worked among ruins
in Italy could tell, even blindfold, the difference between the work
done in ancient times and that of the middle ages. Roman brickwork is
quite as compact as solid sandstone, but mediaeval masonry was almost
invariably built in a hurry by bad workmen, of all sorts of fragments
embedded in poorly mingled cement, and it breaks up with tolerable ease
under a heavy pickaxe.

In half a day Malipieri and Masin had widened the slit to a convenient
passage, but as soon as it had been possible to squeeze through, the
architect had gone in. He never forgot what he felt when he first
looked about him. Masin could not follow him until many blows of the
pick had widened the way for his bulkier frame.

Malipieri stopped at the entrance now, holding his lantern close to the
ground, and looking for traces of footsteps. He found none, but as he
was about to move forward he uttered an exclamation of surprise, and
picked up a tiny object which he held close to the light. It was only a
wax match, of which the head had been broken off when it had been
struck, so that it had not been lighted. That was all, but neither he
nor Masin carried wax matches in the vaults, because the dampness soon
made them useless. They took common sulphur matches in tin match-boxes.
Besides, this was an English wax light, as any one could tell at a
glance, for it was thicker, and stiffer, and longer than the cheaper
Italian ones.

Malipieri drew back and showed it to his man, who examined it,
understood, and put it into his pocket without a word. Then they both
went in through the aperture in the wall.

The masonry outside was rectangular, as far as it could be seen.
Inside, it was built like a small circular cistern, smoothly cemented,
and contracting above in a dome, that opened by a square hole to the
well-shaft above. Like the stones in the outer chamber, the cement was
coated with scales of dried mud. The shaft was now certainly closed at
the top, for in the daytime not a ray of light penetrated into its
blackness.

The lanterns illuminated the place completely, and the two men looked
about, searching for some new trace of a living being. The yellow light
fell only on the remains of men dead long ago. Some of the bones lay as
they had lain since then, when the drowned bodies had gently reached
the floor as the "lost water" subsided. Malipieri had not touched them,
nor Masin either. Two skeletons lay at full length, face downwards, as
a drowned body always sinks at last, when decay has done its loathsome
work. A third lay on its side, in a frightfully natural attitude, the
skull a little raised up and resting against the cemented wall, the
arms stretched out together, the hands still clutching a rusty crowbar.
This one was near the entrance, and if, in breaking their way in,
Malipieri and Masin had not necessarily destroyed the cement on each
side of the slit, they would have found the marks where the dead man's
crowbar had worked desperately for a few minutes before he had been
drowned. Malipieri had immediately reflected that the unfortunate
wretch, who was evidently the mason of whom Sassi had told him, had
certainly not entered through the aperture formerly made from above in
the outer chamber, since the narrow slit afforded no possible passage
to the well. That doubtless belonged to some other attempt to find the
treasure, and the fact that the mason's skeleton lay inside would alone
have shown that he had got in from above, most likely through a low
opening just where the dome began to curve inward. A further search had
discovered some bits of wood, almost rotted to powder, which had
apparently once been a ladder.

A much less practised eye than the architect's would have understood at
a glance that if a living man were let down through the shaft in the
centre of the dome, and left on the floor, he could not possibly get up
even as far as the other hole, since the smooth cement offered not the
slightest hold; and that if the outflow of the stream from the first
chamber were arrested, the water would immediately fill it and rise
simultaneously in the well, to drown the victim, or to strip his bones
by its action, if he had been allowed to die of hunger or thirst. It
was clear, too, that if the latter form of death were chosen, he must
have suffered to the last minute of his life the agony of hearing the
stream flowing outside, not three paces from him, beyond the slit.
Human imagination could hardly invent a more hideously cruel
death-trap, nor one more ingeniously secret from the world without.

The unhappy mason's ladder had perhaps broken with his weight, or his
light had gone out, and he had then been unable to find the horizontal
aperture, but he had probably entered through the latter, when he had
met his fate. The fact was, as Malipieri afterwards guessed, that the
hole through the vault outside had been made hastily after the
accident, in the hope of recovering the man's body, but that it had
been at once closed again because it appeared to open over a deep pit
full of still water.

A stout rope ladder now dangled from the lateral aperture in the dome,
which Malipieri had immediately understood to have been made to allow
the water to overflow when the well was full. He had also felt
tolerably sure that the well itself had not been originally constructed
for the deadly use to which it had evidently been put in later times,
but for the purpose of confining the water in a reservoir that could be
easily cleaned, since it could be easily emptied, and in which the
supply could be kept at a permanent level, convenient for drawing it
from above. In the days when all the ancient aqueducts of Rome were
broken, a well of the "lost water" was a valuable possession in houses
that were turned into fortresses at a moment's notice and were
sometimes exposed to long and desperate sieges.

In order to reach the horizontal opening, Malipieri had climbed upon
Masin's sturdy shoulders, steadying himself as well as he might till he
had laid his hands on the edge of the orifice. As he hung there, Masin
had held up the handle of a pickaxe as high as he could reach against
the smooth wall, as a crossbar on which Malipieri had succeeded in
getting a slight foothold, enough for a man who was not heavy and was
extraordinarily active. A moment later he had drawn himself up and
inward. At the imminent risk of his life, as he afterwards found, he
had crawled on in total darkness till the way widened enough for him to
turn round and get back. He had then lowered a string he had with him,
and had drawn up a lantern first, then the end of a coil of rope, then
the tools for carrying on the exploration. The rest had been easy.
Masin had climbed up by the rope, after making knots in it and when
Malipieri had called out, from the inner place to which he had retired
with the end, that it was made fast. But the light showed the architect
that in turning round, he had narrowly escaped falling into an open
shaft, of which he could not see the bottom, but which was evidently
meant for the final escape of the overflowing water.

There was room to pass this danger, however, and they had since laid a
couple of stout boards over it, weighted with stones to keep them in
place. Beyond, the passage rose till it was high enough for a man to
walk upright. Judging from the elevation now reached this passage was
hollowed in the thickness of one of the main walls of the palace, and
it was clear that the water could not reach it. A few yards from the
chasm, it inclined quickly downwards, and at the end there were half a
dozen steps, which evidently descended to a greater depth than the
floor of the first outer chamber.

So far as it had hitherto been possible to judge, there was no way of
getting to these last steps, except that opened by the two men, and
leading through the dry well. In former times, there might have been an
entrance through the wall at the highest level, but if it had ever
existed it had been so carefully closed that no trace of it could now
be found.

This tedious explanation of a rather complicated construction has been
necessary to explain what afterwards happened. Reducing it to its
simplest terms, it becomes clear that if the water rose, a person in
the passage, or anywhere beyond the overflow shaft, could not possibly
get back through the well, though he would apparently be safe from
drowning if he stayed where he was; and to the best of Malipieri's
knowledge there was no other way out. Any one caught there would have
to wait till the water subsided, and if that did not happen he would
starve to death.

The two men stood still and listened. They could still distinguish the
faint gurgling of the water, very far off, but that was all.

"I believe you heard a rat," said Malipieri, discontentedly, after a
long pause.

"Rats do not carry English wax matches," observed Masin.

"They eat them when they can find them," answered Malipieri. "They
carry them off, and hide them, and drop them, too. And a big rat
running away makes a noise very like a man's footsteps."

"That is true," assented Masin. "There were many of them in the prison,
and I sometimes thought they were the keepers when I heard them at
night." "At all events, we will go to the end," said Malipieri,
beginning to walk down the inclined way, and carrying his lantern low,
so as not to be dazzled by the light.

Masin followed closely, grasping his drilling-iron, and still expecting
to use it. The end of the passage had once been walled up, but they had
found the fragments of brick and mortar lying much as they had fallen
when knocked away. It was impossible to tell from which side the
obstacle had been destroyed.

Going further, they stepped upon the curve of a tunnel vault, and were
obliged to stoop low to avoid striking against another overhead. The
two vaults had been carefully constructed, one outside the other,
leaving a space of about five feet between them. The one under their
feet covered the inner chamber in which Malipieri had seen the bronze
statue. He and Masin had made a hole a little on one side of the
middle, in order not to disturb the keystones, working very carefully
lest any heavy fragments should fall through; for they had at once been
sure that if any thing was to be found, it must be concealed in that
place. Before making the opening, they had thoroughly explored the dark
curved space from end to end and from side to side, but could discover
no aperture. The inner vault had never been opened since it had been
built.

Malipieri, reconstructing the circumstances of the accident in the last
century, came to the conclusion that the mason who had been drowned had
been already between the vaults, when some of the men behind had
discovered that the water was rising in the well, and that they had
somehow got out in time, but that their unfortunate companion had come
back too late, or had perished while trying to break his way out by the
slit, through which the water must have been rushing in. How they had
originally entered the place was a mystery. Possibly they had been
lowered from above, down the well-shaft, but it was all very hard to
explain. The only thing that seemed certain was that the treasure had
never been seen by any one since it had been closed in under the vault,
ages ago. Malipieri had not yet found time to make a careful plan of
all the places through which he had passed. There were so many turns
and changes of level, that it would be impossible to get an accurate
drawing without using a theodolite or some similar instrument of
precision. From the measurements he had taken, however, and the rough
sketches he had made, he believed that the double vault was not under
the palace itself, but under the open courtyard, at the depth of about
forty feet, and therefore below the level of the Tiber at average high
water.

Both men now knelt by the hole, and Masin thrust his lantern down to
the full length of his arm. The light shone upon the vast hand of the
statue, and made a deep reflection in the great ruby of the ring, as if
the gem was not a stone, but a little gold cup filled with rich wine.
The hand itself, the wrist and the great muscles of the chest on which
it lay, seemed of pure gold. But Malipieri's eyes fixed themselves on
something else. There were marks on the bright surface of the metal
which had not been there when he had looked at it in the afternoon;
there were patches of dust, and there were several small scratches,
which might have been made by the nails of heavy shoes.

"You were right after all," said Malipieri, withdrawing the lantern and
setting it down beside him. "The man is here."

Masin's china-blue eyes brightened at the thought of a possible fight,
and his hold tightened again on his drill.

"What shall we do with him?" he asked, looking down into the hole.

Cunning, as the Italian peasant is by nature, Masin made a sign to his
master that the man, if he were really below, could hear all that was
said.

"Shall I go down and kill him, sir?" Masin enquired with a quiet grin
and raising his voice a little.

"I am not sure," Malipieri answered, at once entering into his man's
scheme. "He is caught in his own trap. It is not midnight yet, and
there is plenty of time to consider the matter. Let us sit here and
talk about it."

He now turned himself and sat beside the hole, placing his lantern near
the edge. He took out a cigar and lit it carefully. Masin sat on the
other side, his drill in his hand.

"If he tries to get out while we are talking," he said, "I can break
his skull with a touch of this."

"Yes," Malipieri answered, puffing at his cigar. "There is no hurry.
Keep your iron ready."

"Yes, sir." Masin made the heavy drill ring on the stones of the vault.

A pause followed.

"Have you got your pipe with you?" asked Malipieri presently. "We must
talk over this quietly."

"Yes, sir. Will you hold the iron while I get a light? He might try to
jump out, and he may have firearms. Thank you, sir."

Masin produced a short black pipe, filled it and lighted it.

"I was thinking, sir," he said, as he threw away the wooden match,
"that if we kill him here we may have trouble in disposing of his body.
Thank you, sir," he added as he took over the drill again and made it
clang on the stones.

"There will be no trouble about that," Malipieri answered, speaking
over the hole. "We can drop him down the overflow shaft in the passage."

"Where do you think the shaft leads, sir?" asked Masin, grinning with
delight.

"To some old drain and then to the Tiber, of course. The body will be
found in a week or two, jammed against the pier of some bridge,
probably at the island of Saint Bartholomew."

"Yes, sir. But the drain is dry now. The body will lie at the bottom of
the shaft, where we drop it, and in a few days the cellars will be
perfumed."

He laughed roughly at his horrible joke, which was certainly calculated
to affect the nerves of the intruder who was meant to hear it.
Malipieri began to wonder when the man would give a sign of life.

"We can fill the well by plugging the arch in the outer chamber," he
suggested. "Then the water will pour down the shaft and wash the body
away."

"Yes, sir," assented Masin. "That is a good idea. Shall I go down and
kill him now, sir?"

"Not yet," Malipieri answered, knocking the ash from his cigar. "We
have not finished smoking, and there is no hurry. Besides, it occurs to
me that if we drive anything into the hole when the water runs out, we
shall not be able to get the plug away afterwards. Then we ourselves
could never get here again."

A long silence followed. From time to time Masin made a little noise
with the drill.

"Perhaps the fellow is asleep," he observed pleasantly at last. "So
much the better, he will wake in Paradise!"

"It is of no use to run any risks," said Malipieri. "If we go down to
kill him he may kill one of us first, especially if he has a revolver.
There is no hurry, I tell you. Do you happen to know how long it takes
to starve a man to death?"

"Without water, a man cannot live a week, sir. That is the best idea
you have had yet."

"Yes. We will wall him up in the vault. That is easy enough. Those
boards that are over the shaft will do to make a little frame, and the
stones are all here, just as we got them out. We can fasten up the
frame with ends of rope."

"We have no mortar, sir."

"Mud will do as well for such a small job," answered Malipieri. "We can
easily make enough. Give me your iron, in case he tries to get out, and
go and get the boards and the rope."

Masin began to rise.

"In a week we can come and take him out," he remarked in a
matter-of-fact way. "By that time he will be dead, and we can have his
grave ready."

He laughed again, as he thought of the sensations his cheerful talk
must produce in the mind of the man below.

"Yes," said Malipieri. "We may as well do it at once and go to bed. It
is of no use to sit up all night talking about the fellow's body. Go
and get the rope and the boards."

Masin was now on his feet and his heavy shoes made a grinding noise on
the stones. At that moment a sound was heard from below, and Malipieri
held up a finger and listened. Somebody was moving in the vault.

"You had better stay where you are," said Malipieri, speaking down. "If
you show yourself I will drop a stone on your head."

A hollow voice answered him from the depths.

"Are you Christians," it asked, "to wall a man up alive?"

"That is what we are going to do," Malipieri answered coolly. "Have you
anything to say? It will not take us long to do the job, so you had
better speak at once. How did you get in?"

"If I am to die without getting out, why should I tell you?" enquired
the voice.

Malipieri looked at Masin.

"There is a certain sense in what the man says, sir," Masin said
thoughtfully.

"My good man," said Malipieri, speaking down, "we do not want anybody
to know the way to this place for a few days, and as you evidently know
it better than we do, we intend to keep you quiet."

"If you will let me out, I can serve you," answered the man below.
"There is nobody in Rome who can serve you as I can."

"Who are you?" asked Malipieri.

"Are you going to let me out, Signor Malipieri?" enquired the man. "If
you are, I will tell you."

"Oh, you know my name, do you?"

"Perfectly. You are the engineer engaged by the Senator Volterra to
find the treasure."

"Yes. Quite right. What of that?"

"You have found it," answered the other. "Of what use will it be to
kill me? I cannot take that statue away in my waistcoat pocket, if you
let me out, can I?"

"You had better not make too many jokes, my man, or we will put the
boards over this hole in five minutes. If you can really be of use to
me, I will let you out. What is your name?"

"Toto," answered the voice sullenly.

"Yes. That means Theodore, I suppose. Now make haste, for I am tired of
waiting. What are you, and how did you get in?"

"I was the mason of the palace, until the devil flew away with the
people who lived in it. I know all the secrets of the house. I can be
very useful to you."

"That changes matters, my friend. I have no doubt you can be useful if
you like, though we have managed to find one of the secrets without
you. It happens to be the only one we wanted to know."

"No," answered Toto. "There are two others. You do not know how I got
in, and you do not know how to manage the 'lost water.'"

"That is true," said Malipieri. "But if I let you out you may do me
harm, by talking before it is time. The government is not to know of
this discovery until I am ready."

"The government!" exclaimed Toto contemptuously, from his hiding-place.
"May an apoplexy seize it! Do you take me for a spy? I am a Christian."

"I begin to think he is, sir," put in Masin, knocking the ash from his
pipe.

"I think so, too," said Malipieri. "Throw away that iron, Masin. He
shall show himself, at all events, and if we like his face we can talk
to him here."

Masin dropped the drill with a clang. Toto's hairy hand appeared,
grasping the golden wrist of the statue, as he raised himself to
approach the hole.

"He is a mason, as he says," said Masin, catching sight of the rough
fingers.

"Did you take me for a coachman?" enquired Toto, thrusting his shaggy
head forward cautiously, and looking up through the aperture.

"Before you come up here," Malipieri answered, "tell me how you got in."

"You seem to know so much about the overflow shaft that I should think
you might have guessed. If you do not believe that I came that way,
look at my clothes!"

He now crawled upon the body of the statue, and Malipieri saw that he
was covered with half-dried mud and ooze.

"You got through some old drain, I suppose, and found your way up."

"It seems so," answered Toto, shaking his shoulders, as if he were
stiff.

"Are you going to let him go free, sir?" asked Masin, standing ready.
"If you do, he will be down the shaft, before you can catch him. These
men know their way underground like moles."

"Moles, yourselves!" answered Toto in a growl, putting his head up
above the level of the vault.

Masin measured him with his eye, and saw that he was a strong man,
probably much more active than he looked in his heavy, mud-plastered
clothes.

"Get up here," said Malipieri.

Toto obeyed, and in a moment he sat on the edge of the hole, his legs
dangling down into it.

"Not so bad," he said, settling himself with a grunt of satisfaction.

"I like you, Master Toto," said Malipieri. "You might have thought that
we really meant to kill you, but you did not seem much frightened."

"There is no woman in the affair," answered Toto. "Why should you kill
me? And I can help you."

"How am I to know that you will?" asked Malipieri.

"I am a man of honour," Toto replied, turning his stony face to the
light of the lanterns.

"I have not a doubt of it, my friend," returned Malipieri, without
conviction. "Just now, the only help I need of you, is that you should
hold your tongue. How can I be sure that you will do that? Does any one
else know the way in through the drain?"

"No. I only found it to-night. If there is a day's rain in the
mountains, and the Tiber rises even a little, nobody can pass through
it. The lower part is barely above the level of the river now."

"How did you guess that you could get here by that way?"

"We know many secrets in our trade, from father to son," answered Toto
gruffly.

"You must have lifted the boards, with the stones on them, to get out
of the shaft. Why did you put them back in their place?"

"You seem to think I am a fool! I did not mean to let you know that I
had been here, so I put them back, of course. I supposed that I could
get out through the cellars, but you have put a padlock on the inner
door."

"Is there any way of turning water into that shaft?"

"Only by filling the well, I think. If the Tiber rises, the water will
back up the shaft through the drain. That is why the ancients who built
the well made another way for the water to run off. When the river is
swollen in a flood it must be much higher in the shaft than the bottom
of the well, and if the 'lost water' were running in all the time, the
air would probably make it back, so that the shaft would be useless and
the well would be soiled with the river water."

"You evidently know your trade, Master Toto," said Masin, with some
admiration for his fellow-craftsman's clear understanding.

"You know yours," retorted Toto, who was seldom at a loss, "for just
now you talked of killing like a professional assassin."

This pleasing banter delighted Masin, who laughed heartily, and patted
Toto on the back.

"We shall be good friends," he said.

"In this world one never knows," Toto answered philosophically. "What
are you going to do?"

"You must come back with as to my apartment," said Malipieri, who had
been considering the matter, "You must stay there a couple of days,
without going out. I will pay you for your time, and give you a
handsome present, and plenty to eat and drink. After that you will be
free to go where you please and say what you like, for the secret will
be out."

"Thank you," answered Toto without enthusiasm. "Are you going to tell
the government about the treasure?"

"The Senator will certainly inform the government, which has a right to
buy it."

To this Toto said nothing, but he lifted his legs out of the hole and
stood up, ready to go. Malipieri and Masin took up their lanterns.





CHAPTER XI




Masin led the way back, Toto followed and Malipieri went last, so that
the mason was between his two captors. They did not quite trust him,
and Masin was careful not to walk too fast where the way was so
familiar to him, while Malipieri was equally careful not to lag behind.
In this order they reached the mouth of the overflow shaft, covered
with the loaded boards. Masin bent down and examined them, for he
wished to convince himself that the stones had been moved since he had
himself placed them there. A glance showed that this was the case, and
he was about to go on, when he bent down again suddenly and listened,
holding up his hand.

"There is water," he said, and began to lift off the stones, one by one.

Toto helped him quickly. There were only three or four, and they were
not heavy. When the mouth of the shaft was uncovered all three knelt
down and listened, instinctively lowering their lanterns into the
blackness below. The shaft was not wider than a good-sized
old-fashioned chimney, like those in Roman palaces, up and down which
sweeps can just manage to climb.

The three men listened, and distinctly heard the steady falling of a
small stream of water upon the stones at the bottom.

"It is raining," Toto said confidently, but he was evidently as much
surprised by the sound as the others. "There must be some communication
with the gutters in the courtyard," he added.

"There is probably a thunderstorm," answered Malipieri. "We can hear
nothing down here."

"If I had gone down again, I should have been drowned," Toto said,
shaking his head. "Do you hear? Half the water from the courtyard must
be running down there!"


The sound of the falling stream increased to a hollow roar.

"Do you think the water can rise in the shaft?" asked Malipieri.

"Not unless the river rises and backs into it," replied Toto. "The
drain is large below."

"That cannot be 'lost water,' can it?"

"No. That is impossible."

"Put the boards in their place again," Malipieri said. "It is growing
late."

It was done in a few moments, but now the dismal roar of the water came
up very distinctly through the covering. Malipieri had been in many
excavations, and in mines, too, but did not remember that he had ever
felt so strongly the vague sense of apprehension that filled him now.
There is something especially gloomy and mysterious about the noise of
unexplained water heard at a great depth under the earth and coming out
of darkness. Even the rough men with him felt that.

"It is bad to hear," observed Masin, putting one more stone upon the
boards, as if the weight could keep the sound down.

"You may say that!" answered Toto. "And in this tomb, too!"

They went on, in the same order as before. The passage to the dry well
had been so much enlarged that by bending down they could walk to the
top of the rope ladder. Malipieri went down first, with his lantern.
Toto followed, and while Masin was descending, stood looking at the
bones of the dead mason, and at the skull that grinned horribly in the
uncertain yellow glare.

He took a half-burnt candle from his pocket, and some sulphur matches,
and made a light for himself, with which he carefully examined the
bones. Malipieri watched him.

"The man who was drowned over sixty years ago," said the architect.

"This," answered Toto, with more feeling than accuracy, "is the blessed
soul of my grandfather."

"He shall have Christian burial in a few days," Malipieri said gravely.

Toto shrugged his shoulders, not irreverently, but as if to say that
when a dead man has been without Christian burial sixty years, it
cannot make any difference whether he gets it after all or not. "The
crowbar is still good," Toto said, stooping down to disengage it from
the skeleton's grasp. But Malipieri laid a hand on his shoulder, for it
occurred to him that the mason, armed with an iron bar, might be a
dangerous adversary if he tried to escape.

"You do not need that just now," said the architect.

Toto glanced at Malipieri furtively and saw that he was understood. He
stood upright, affecting indifference. They went on, through the breach
to which the slit had been widened. Toto moved slowly, and held his
candle down to the running water in the channel.

"There is plenty of it," he observed.

"Where does it come from?" asked Malipieri, suddenly, in the hope of an
unguarded answer.

"From heaven," answered Toto without hesitation; "and everything that
falls from heaven is good," he added, quoting an ancient proverb.

"What would happen if we closed the entrance, so that it could not get
in at all?"

"The book of wisdom," Toto replied, "is buried under Pasquino. How
should I know what would happen?"

"You know a good many things, my friend."

Malipieri understood that the man would not say more, and led the way
out.

"Good-bye, grandpapa," growled Toto, waving his hairy hand towards the
well. "Who knows whether we shall meet again?"

They went on, and in due time emerged into the upper air. It was
raining heavily, as Toto had guessed, and before they had reached the
other end of the courtyard they were drenched. But it was a relief to
be out of doors, and Malipieri breathed the fresh air with keen
delight, as a thirsty man drinks. The rain poured down steadily and ran
in rivers along the paved gutters, and roared into the openings that
carried it off. Malipieri could not help thinking how it must be
roaring now, far down at the bottom of the old shaft, led thither
through deep-buried and long-forgotten channels.

Upstairs, Masin was inclined to be friendly with his fellow-craftsman,
and gave him dry clothes to sleep in, and bread and cheese and wine in
his own room. In spite of his experiences, Masin had never known how to
be suspicious. But as Malipieri looked once more at the man's stony
face and indistinguishable eyes, he thought differently of his
prisoner. He locked the outer door and took the key of the patent lock
with him when he went to bed at last.

It does not often rain heavily in Rome, late in the spring, for any
long time, but when Malipieri looked out the next morning, it was still
pouring steadily, and the sky over the courtyard was uniformly grey. It
is apparently a law of nature that exceptions should come when least
wanted.

In spite of the weather Malipieri went out, however, and did not even
send for a cab. The porter was in a particularly bad humour and eyed
him distrustfully, for he had been put to the trouble of cleaning the
stairs where the three men had left plentiful mud in their track during
the night. Malipieri nodded to the old man as usual, and was about to
go out, but turned back and gave him five francs. Thus mollified the
porter at once made a remark about the atrocious weather and proceeded
to ask how the work was progressing.

"I have explored a good deal," answered Malipieri. "The Senator is
coming to-morrow, and you had better sweep carefully. He looks at
everything, you know."

He went out into the pouring rain, keeping a sharp lookout from under
the edge of the umbrella he held low over his head. He had grown
cautious of late. As he expected, he came upon one of the respectable
men he now met so often, before he had turned into the Piazza Agonale.
The respectable man was also carrying his umbrella low, and looking
about him as he walked along at a leisurely pace. Malipieri hailed a
cab.

Even in wet weather there are no closed cabs in that part of Rome. One
is protected from the wet, more or less, by the hood and by a high
leathern apron which is hooked to it inside. The cabman, seated under a
huge standing umbrella, bends over and unhooks it on one side for you
to get in and out.


Malipieri employed the usual means of eluding pursuit. He gave an
address and told the man to drive fast, got out quickly on reaching the
house, enquired for an imaginary person with a foreign name, who, he
was of course told, did not live there, got in again and had himself
driven to Sassi's door, sure of losing his pursuer, if the detective
followed him in another cab. Then he paid the man two fares, to save
time, and went in. He had never taken the trouble to do such a thing
since his political adventures, but he was now very anxious not to let
it be known that he had any dealings with the former agent of the Conti
family.

The matter was settled easily enough and to his satisfaction. Old Sassi
worshipped Sabina, and was already fully persuaded that whatever could
be found under the palace should belong to her, as also that she had a
right to see what was discovered before Volterra did, and before
anything was moved. He was at least as quixotic in his crabbed fashion
as Malipieri himself; and besides, he really could not see that there
was the least harm or danger in the scheme. It certainly would have
been improper for Malipieri to go and fetch the young lady himself, but
it was absurd to suppose that a man over sixty could be blamed for
accompanying a girl of eighteen on a visit to her old home, in her own
interest, especially when the man had been all his life employed by her
family in a position of trust and confidence. Finally, Sassi hated
Volterra with all his heart, as the faithful adherents of ruined
gentlefolks often hate those who have profited by their ruin.

Sassi, as an old Roman, predicted that the weather would improve in the
afternoon. Malipieri advised him nevertheless to keep the hood of his
cab raised when he brought Sabina to the palace. To this Sassi answered
that he should of course get a closed carriage from a livery stable,
and an argument followed which took some time. In the opinion of the
excellent old agent, it would be almost an affront to fetch the very
noble Donna Sabina in a vehicle so plebeian as a cab, and it was with
the greatest difficulty that Malipieri made him understand that a cab
was much safer on such an occasion.

What was important was that the weather should be fine, for otherwise
the Baroness might not go out, and the whole scheme would fail. In that
case, it must be arranged for the following day, and Malipieri would
find an excuse for putting off Volterra's visit.

He left the house on foot. So far, he had not allowed himself to think
too much of the future, and had found little time for such reflection.
He was a man who put all his energy into what he was doing, and was
inclined to let consequences take care of themselves rather than waste
thought in providing for them. He believed he was doing what was just
and honourable, and if there was a spice of adventure and romance in
it, that only made it the more easy to do. The only danger he could
think of was that Sabina might slip in one of the difficult passages
and hurt her foot a little, or might catch cold in the damp vaults.
Nothing else could happen.

He congratulated himself on having got Toto in his power, since Toto
was the only man who understood the ways of the "lost water." If he had
before suspected that there was any one at large in Rome who knew as
much he would have hesitated. But he had made the discovery of the man
and had taken him prisoner at the same moment, and all danger in that
quarter seemed to be removed.

As for the material difficulty, he and Masin could smooth the way very
much in two or three hours, and could substitute a solid wooden ladder
for the one of rope in the well. Sabina was young, slight, and probably
active, and with a little help she would have no difficulty in reaching
the inner chamber. It might be well to cover the skeletons. Young girls
were supposed to be sensitive about such things, and Malipieri had no
experience of their ways. Nevertheless he had an inward conviction that
Sabina would not go into hysterics at the sight.

Old Sassi might not be able to get up the ladder, but once beyond the
reach of social observation, he would trust Sabina to Malipieri and
Masin for a quarter of an hour, and he could wait in the outer cellar.
Malipieri had prepared him for this, and he had made no objection, only
saying that he should like to see the treasure himself if it could
possibly be managed. In his heart, Malipieri hoped that it would prove
too much for the old man and that he might have the pleasure of showing
Sabina what he had found without having the old agent at his elbow.
Toto would be locked in, upstairs, for the day. He could not get out by
the door, and he would not risk breaking his legs by jumping from the
window. The intermediate story of the Palazzo Conti was far too high
for that.

Malipieri calculated that if Sassi were punctual, Sabina would be at
the door of the palace at a quarter-past five. At five minutes past, he
came down, and sent the porter on an errand which would occupy at least
half an hour even if executed with despatch. Masin would keep the door,
he said. The old man was delighted to have an excuse for going out, and
promised himself to spend a comfortable hour in a wine shop if he could
find a friend. His wife, as there was so little to do, had found some
employment in a laundry, to which she went in the morning and which
kept her out all day. No one would see Sabina and Sassi enter, and if
it seemed advisable they could be got out in the same way. No one but
Masin and Malipieri himself need ever know that they had been in the
palace that afternoon.

It was all very well prepared, by a man well accustomed to emergencies,
and it was not easy to see how anything could go wrong. Even allowing
more time than was necessary, Sabina's visit to the vaults could not
possibly occupy much more than an hour.





CHAPTER XII




Malipieri was beginning to realize that his work in the vaults had been
watched with much more interest than he had supposed possible, and that
in some way or other news of his progress had reached various quarters.
In the first place, his reputation was much wider than he knew, and
many scholars and archaeologists throughout Europe had been profoundly
impressed both by what he had discovered and by the learning he had
shown in discussing his discoveries. It followed that many were curious
to see what he would do next, and there were paragraphs about him in
grave reviews, and flattering references to him in speeches made at
learned conventions. He had friends whose names he had never heard, and
enemies, too, ready to attack him on the one side and to defend him on
the other. Some praised his modesty, and others called it affectation.
His experience of the wider world was short, so far, and he did not
understand that it had taken people a year to appreciate his success.
He had hoped for immediate recognition of his great services to
archaeology, and had been somewhat disappointed because that
recognition had not been instantaneous. Like most men of superior
talent, in the same situation, when praise came in due time and
abundantly, he did not care for it because he was already interested in
new work. To the man of genius the past is always insignificant as
compared with the future. When Goethe, dying, asked for "more light,"
he may or may not have merely meant that he wished the window opened
because the room seemed dark to his failing eyes; the higher
interpretation which has been put upon his last words remains the true
one, in the spirit, if not in the letter. He died, as he had lived, the
man of genius looking forward, not backward, to the last, crying for
light, more light, thinking not of dying and ending, but of living,
hoping, doing, winning.

Besides the general body of students and archaeologists, the Italian
government was exceedingly interested in Malipieri's explorations. The
government is rightly jealous in such matters, and does its very best
to keep all artistic objects of real value in the country. It is right
that this should be so. The law relating to the matter was framed by
Cardinal Pacca, under the papal administration many years ago, and the
modern rulers have had the intelligence to maintain it and enforce it.
Like other laws it is frequently broken. In this it resembles the Ten
Commandments and most other rules framed by divine or human
intelligence for the good of mankind and the advancement of
civilization. The most sanguine lovers of their fellow-men have always
admitted the existence of a certain number of flagitious persons who
obstinately object to being good. David, who was hasty, included a
large proportion of humanity amongst "the wicked"; Monsieur Drumont
limited the number to David's descendants; and Professor Lombroso,
whatever he may really mean, conveys the impression that men of genius,
criminals and lunatics are different manifestations of the same thing;
as diamonds, charcoal and ham fat are all carbon and nothing else. We
should be thankful for the small favours of providence in excepting us
from the gifted minority of madmen, murderers and poets and making us
just plain human beings, like other people.

There is no international law forbidding a man from making digressions
when he is telling a story.

Malipieri was watched by the government, as Volterra had told him,
because it was feared in high quarters that if he found anything of
value under the palace, he would try to get it out of the country. He
had always hated the government and had got himself into trouble by
attacking the monarchy. Besides, it was known in high quarters that
Senator Baron Volterra held singular views about the authenticity of
works of art. It would be inconvenient to have a scandal in the Senate
about the Velasquez and the other pictures; on the other hand, if
anything more of the same sort should happen, it would be very
convenient indeed to catch a pair of culprits in the shape of
Malipieri, a pardoned political offender, and his ex-convict servant.

Then, too, in quite another direction, the Vatican was very anxious to
buy any really good work of art which might be discovered, and would
pay quite as much for it as the government itself. Therefore the
Vatican was profoundly interested in Malipieri on its own account.

As if this were not enough, Sabina's brother, the ruined Prince Conti,
had got wind of the excavations and scented some possible advantage to
himself, with the vague chance of more money to throw away on
automobiles, at Monte Carlo, and in the company of a cosmopolitan young
person of semi-Oriental extraction whose varied accomplishments had
made her the talk of Europe.

Lastly, the Russian embassy was on the alert, for the dowager Princess
had heard from her maid, who had heard it from her sister in Rome, who
had learned it from the washerwoman, who had been told the secret by
the porter's wife, that the celebrated Malipieri was exploring the
north-west foundations of the palace. The Princess had repeated the
story, and the legend which accounted for it, to her brother Prince
Rubomirsky, who was a very great personage in his own country. And the
Prince, though good-natured, foresaw that he might in time grow tired
of giving his sister unlimited money; and it occurred to him that
something might turn up under the palace, after all, to which she might
have some claim. So he had used his influence in Saint Petersburg with
the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and the latter had instructed the
Russian Ambassador in Rome to find out what he could about the
excavations, without attracting attention; and Russian diplomatists
have ways of finding out things without attracting attention, which are
extremely great and wonderful. Also, if Russia puts her paw upon
anything and declares that it is the property of a Russian subject, it
often happens that smaller people take their paws away hastily.

It follows that there must have been a good deal of quiet talk, in
Rome, not overheard in society, about what Malipieri was doing in the
Palazzo Conti, and as the people who occupied themselves with his
affairs were particularly anxious that he should not know what they
said, he was in ignorance of it. But Volterra was not. He had valuable
friends, because his influence was of value, and he was informed of
much that was going on. If he was anxious to get rid of the architect,
it was not so much because he wanted for himself the whole price which
the statue or statues might bring, as because he feared lest the
government should suddenly descend upon Malipieri and make an enquiry
which would involve also the question of the pictures. So far, Volterra
had created the impression that the young man had been concerned with a
dealer in smuggling them out of the country; but in case of an
investigation it could easily be proved that they were gone before
Malipieri had arrived in Rome in answer to Volterra's invitation.
Besides, the Senator had discovered that the young archaeologist was
much more celebrated than was convenient. In private affairs there is
nothing so tiresome and inconvenient as the presence of a celebrity.
Burglars, when exercising their professional functions, are not
accompanied by a brass band.

Toto was very docile and quiet all that day. Masin thought him
philosophical, and continued to like him, after his fashion, providing
him with a plentiful supply of tobacco, a good meal at noon, and a
bottle of wine. The man's stony face was almost placid. At rare
intervals he made a remark. After eating he looked out of the window
and said rather regretfully that he thought the rain was over for the
day.

Masin took this to mean that he wished he might go out, and offered him
more wine by way of consolation. But Toto refused. He was a moderate
man. Then he asked Masin how many rooms Malipieri occupied, and learned
that the whole of the little apartment was rented by the architect. The
information did not seem to interest him much.

In the morning, when Malipieri had come back from his visit to Sassi,
he had given Masin the keys of the vaults, and had told him to buy a
stout ladder and take it into the dry well. But Toto said that this was
a useless expense.

"There is a strong ladder about the right length, lying along the wall
at the other end of the west cellar," he said. "You had better take
that."

Malipieri looked at him and smiled.

"For a prisoner, you are very obliging," he said, and he gave him a
five-franc note, which Toto took with a grunt of thanks.

Masin was gone an hour, during which time Malipieri busied himself in
the next room, leaving the door open. He went out when Masin came back.
When the two men were together Toto produced the five francs.

"Can you change?" he enquired.

"Why?" asked Masin with some surprise.

"Half is two francs fifty," answered Toto. "That is your share."

Masin laughed and shook his head.

"No," he said. "What is given to you is not given to me. Why should I
share with you?"

"It is our custom," Toto replied. "Take your half."

Masin refused stoutly, but Toto insisted and grew angry at last. So
Masin changed the note and kept two francs and fifty centimes for
himself, reflecting that he could give the money back to Malipieri,
since he had no sort of right to it. Toto was at once pacified.

When Malipieri returned, Masin went out and got dinner for all three,
bringing it as usual in the three tin cases strapped one above the
other.

Toto supposed that he was not to be left alone in the apartment that
day; but at half-past four Malipieri entered the room, with a padlock
and a couple of screw-eyes in his hand.

"You would not think it worth while to risk jumping out," he said in a
good-humoured tone. "But you might take it into your head to open the
window, and the porter might be there, and you might talk to him. Masin
and I shall be out together for a little while."

Masin shut the tall window, screwed the stout little eye-bolts into the
frame and ran the bolt of the padlock through both. He gave the key to
Malipieri. Toto watched the operation indifferently.

"If you please," he said, "I am accustomed to have a little wine about
half-past five every day. I will pay for it."

He held out half a franc to Masin and nodded.

"Nonsense!" interposed Malipieri, laughing. "You are my guest, Master
Toto." Masin brought a bottle and a glass, and a couple of cigars.

"Thank you, sir," said Toto politely. "I shall be very comfortable till
you come back."

"You will find the time quite as profitable as if you were working,"
said Malipieri.

He nodded and went out followed by Masin, and Toto heard the key turned
twice in the solid old lock. The door was strong, and they would
probably lock the front door of the apartment too. Toto listened
quietly till he heard it shut after them in the distance. Then he rose
and flattened his face against the window pane.

He waited some time. He could see one half of the great arched
entrance, but the projecting stone jamb of the window hindered him from
seeing more. It was very quiet, and he could hear footsteps below, on
the gravel of the courtyard, if any one passed.

At the end of ten minutes he heard a man's heavy tread, and knew that
it was Masin's. Masin must have come out of the great archway on the
side of it which Toto could not see. The steps went on steadily along
the gravel. Masin was going to the vaults.

Toto waited ten minutes, and began to think that no one else was
coming, and that Malipieri had left the palace, though he had been
convinced that the architect and his man meant to go down to the vaults
together. Just as he was beginning to give up the idea, he saw Sassi
under the archway, in a tall hat, a black coat and gloves, and
Malipieri was just visible for a moment as he came out too. He was
unmistakably speaking to some one on his right, who was hidden from
Toto's view by the projecting stonework. His manner was also distinctly
deferential. The third person was probably Baron Volterra.

The footsteps took a longer time to reach the other end of the court
than Masin had occupied. After all was silent, Toto listened
breathlessly for five minutes more. There was not a sound.

He looked about him, then took up a chair, thrust one of the legs
between the bolt and the body of the padlock and quietly applied his
strength. The wood of the frames was old, and the heavy strain drew the
screw-eyes straight out.

Toto opened the window noiselessly and looked out with caution. No one
was in sight. By this time the three were in the vaults, with Masin.

Toto knew every inch of the palace by heart, inside and out, and he
knew that one of the cast-iron leaders that carried the rain from the
roof to the ground was within reach of that particular window, on the
left side. He looked out once more, up and down the courtyard, and
then, in an instant, he was kneeling on the stone sill, he had grasped
the iron leader with one hand, then with the other, swinging himself to
it and clutching it below with his rough boots. A few moments later he
was on the ground, running for the great entrance. No one was there, no
one saw him.

He let himself out quietly, shut the postern door after him, and
slouched away towards the Vicolo dei Soldati.





CHAPTER XIII




Sabina had the delightful sensation of doing something she ought not to
do, but which was perfectly innocent; she had moreover the rarer
pleasure, quite new to her, of committing the little social misdeed in
the company of the first man she had ever liked in her life. She knew
very well that old Sassi would not be able to reach the inner chamber
of the excavation, and she inwardly hoped that Malipieri's servant
would discreetly wait outside of it, so that she might be alone with
Malipieri when she first set eyes on the wonderful statue. It was
amusing to think how the nuns would have scolded her for the mere wish,
and how her pious sister would have condemned her to eternal flames for
entertaining the temptation.

Malipieri had told her to put on an old frock, as she might spoil her
clothes in spite of the efforts he had made to enlarge and smooth the
way for her to pass. Her mother had a way of calling everything old
which she had possessed three months, and for once Sabina was of her
mother's opinion. She had a very smart cloth costume, with a rather
short skirt, which had come home in February, and which she had worn
only four times because the spring had been warm. It was undoubtedly
"old" for she could not wear it in summer, and next winter the fashion
would change; and it had rained all the morning, so that the air was
damp and cold. Besides, the costume fitted her slender figure to
perfection--it was such a pity that it was old already, for she might
never have another as smart. The least she could do was to try and wear
it out when she had the chance. It was of a delicate fawn colour; it
had no pocket and it was fastened in a mysterious way. The skirt was
particularly successful, and, as has been said, it was short, which was
a great advantage in scrambling about a damp cellar. In order to show
that she was in earnest, she put on russet leather shoes. Her hat was
large, because that was the fashion, but nothing could have been
simpler; it matched the frock in colour, and no colour was so becoming
to her clear girlish pallor and misty hair as light fawn.

Malipieri had carried out his intention of getting rid of the porter,
and was waiting inside the open postern when the cab drove up. Hitherto
he had only seen Sabina indoors, at luncheon and in the evening, and
when he saw her now he received an altogether new impression. Somehow,
in her walking dress, she seemed more womanly, more "grown up" as she
herself would have called it. As she got out of the wretched little
cab, and came forward to greet him, her grace stirred his blood. It was
final; he was in love.

Her intuition told her the truth, of course. There was something in his
look and voice which had not quite been in either on the previous
evening. He had been glad, last night, because she had come to the
drawing-room, as he had hoped that she would; but to-day he was more
than glad, he was happy, merely because he saw her. There never was a
woman yet that could not tell that difference at a glance.

She was proud of being loved by him, and as he walked by her side, she
looked up at the blue sky above the courtyard, and was glad that the
clouds had passed away, for it must be sweeter to be loved when there
was sunshine overhead than when it rained; but all the time, she saw
his face, without looking at it, and it was after her own heart, and
much to her liking. Besides, he was not only a manly man, and strong,
and, of course, brave; he was already famous, and might be great some
day; and she knew that he loved her, which was much to his advantage.
As for being madly, wildly, desperately in love with him herself, she
was not that yet; it was simply a very delicious sensation of being
adored by somebody very sympathetic. Some women never get nearer to
love than that, in all their lives, and are quite satisfied, and as
they grow older they realize how much more convenient it is to be
adored than to adore, and are careful to keep their likings within very
manageable limits, while encouraging the men who love them to behave
like lunatics.

Sabina was not of that kind; she was only very young, which, as Pitt
pointed out, is a disadvantage but not a real crime.

They walked side by side, almost touching as they moved; they were
drawn one to another, as all nature draws together those pairs of
helpless atoms that are destined to one end.

Old Sassi went gravely with them. To him, it was a sad thing to see
Sabina come to the palace in a way almost clandestine, as if she had no
right there, and he shook his head again and again, silently grieving
over the departed glory of the Conti, and wishing that he could express
his sympathy to the young girl in dignified yet tender language. But
Sabina was not in need of sympathy just then. Life in the Volterra
establishment had been distinctly more bearable since Malipieri's
appearance on the scene, and her old existence in the palace had been
almost as really gloomy as it now seemed to her to have been. Moreover,
she was intensely interested in what Malipieri was going to shew her.

Masin was waiting at the head of the winding stair with lanterns
already lighted. When they had all entered, he turned the key. Sassi
asked why he did this, and as they began to go down Malipieri explained
that it was a measure of safety against the old porter's curiosity.

Sabina stepped carefully on the damp steps, while Malipieri held his
lantern very low so that she could see them.

"I am sure-footed," she said, with a little laugh.

"This is the easiest part," he answered. "There are places where you
will have to be careful."

"Then you will help me."

She thought it would, be pleasant to rest her hand on his arm, where
the way was not easy, and she knew instinctively that he hoped she
would do so. They reached the floor of the cellar, and Masin walked in
front, lighting the way. Sassi looked about him; he had been in the
cellars two or three times before.

"They did not get in by this way when the first attempt was made," he
said.

"No," answered Malipieri. "I cannot find out how they made an entrance."

"There used to be a story of an oubliette that was supposed to be
somewhere in the house," said Sabina.

"I have found it. You will see it in a moment, for we have to pass
through the bottom of it."

"How amusing! I never saw one."

They came to the first breach in the cellar wall. A small lamp had been
placed on a stone in a position to illuminate the entrance, and was
burning brightly. Masin had lighted two others, further on, and had
covered the bones in the dry well with pieces of sacking. Malipieri
went up the causeway first. At first he held out his hand to Sabina,
but she shook her head and smiled. There would be no satisfaction in
being helped over an easy place; she should like him to help her where
it would need some strength and skill to do so. She drew her skirt
round her and walked up unaided, and followed by Sassi, leaning on his
stick with one hand and on Masin with the other.

The descent into the first chamber was less easy. Standing at the top,
Sabina looked down at Malipieri, who held his lantern to her feet. She
felt a delicious little uneasiness now, and listened to the ghostly
gurgle from the channel in the dark.

"What is that?" she asked, and her voice was a little awed by the
darkness and strangeness of the place.

"The 'lost water.' It runs through here."

She listened a moment longer, and began to descend, placing her feet on
the stones upon which Malipieri laid his hand, one after another, to
show her the way.

"Perhaps you might help me a little here," she said.

"If you will let me put your feet on the right step, it will be
easier," he answered.

"Yes. Do that, please. Show me the place first."

"There. Do you see? Now!"

He laid his hand firmly upon her small russet shoe, guided the little
foot to a safe position and steadied it there a moment.

"So," he said. "Now the next. There are only four or five more."

She was rather sorry that there were so few, for they seemed
delightfully safe, or just dangerous enough to be amusing; she was not
quite sure which. Women never analyze the present, unless it is utterly
dull.

At the bottom of the descent, both looked up, and saw at a glance that
poor old Sassi could never get down, even with assistance. He seemed
unable to put his foot down without slipping, in spite of Masin's help.

"I think you had better not try it," said Malipieri quietly. "In a few
days I am sure that the Senator will have a way broken through from
above, and then it will be easy enough."

"Yes," answered the old man regretfully. "I will go back again to the
other side and wait for you."

"I am so sorry," said Sabina untruthfully, but looking up with sympathy.

"Take Signor Sassi back to the cellar," said Malipieri to Masin. "Then
you can follow us."

Sassi and Masin disappeared through the breach. Malipieri led the way
into the dry well, where there was another light. In her haste to reach
the end, Sabina did not even glance at the sacking that covered the
skeletons.

"Can you climb a ladder?" asked Malipieri.

"Of course!" Such a question was almost a slight.

Malipieri went up nimbly with his lantern, and knelt on the masonry to
hold the top of the ladder. Sabina mounted almost as quickly as he had
done, till she reached the last few steps and could no longer hold by
the uprights. Then she put out her hands; he grasped then both and slid
backwards on his knees as she landed safely on the edge. She had not
felt that she could possibly fall, even if her feet slipped, and she
now knew that he was strong, and that it was good to lean on him.

"You will have to stoop very low for a few steps," he said, taking up
his lantern, and he kept his hold on one of her hands as he led her on.
"It is not far, now," he added encouragingly, "and the rest is easy."

He guided her past the boards and stones that covered the overflow
shaft, and down the inclined passage and the steps to the space between
the vaults. A third lamp was burning here, close to the hole beneath
which the statue lay. Malipieri lowered his lantern for her to see it.

She uttered an exclamation of surprise and delight. The pure gold that
covered the bronze was as bright as if it had not lain in the vault for
many centuries, twelve, fourteen, fifteen, no one could tell yet. The
light fell into the huge ruby as into a tiny cup of wine.

"Can one get down?" asked Sabina breathlessly, after a moment's silence.

"Certainly. I have not gone down myself yet, but it is easy. I wanted
you to be the first to see it all. You will have to sit on the edge and
step upon the wrist of the statue."

Sabina gathered her skirt neatly round her, and with a little help she
seated herself as he directed.

"Are you sure it will not hurt it, to step on it?" she asked, looking
up.

"Quite sure." Malipieri smiled, as he thought of Toto's hobnailed
shoes. "When you are standing firmly, I will get down too, if there is
room."

"It is not a very big hole," observed Sabina, letting herself down till
her feet rested on the smooth surface. She did not quite wish to be as
near him as that; at least, not yet.

"I will creep down over the arm," she said, "and then you can follow
me. I hope there are no beasts," she added. "I hate spiders."

Malipieri lowered his lantern beside her, and she crept along towards
the statue's head. In a few moments he was beside her, bringing both
the lantern and the lamp with him. They had both forgotten Masin's
existence, as he had not yet appeared. Sabina looked about for spiders,
but there were none in sight. The vault was perfectly dry, and there
was hardly any dust clinging to the rough mortar that covered the
stones. It was clear that the framework must have been carefully
removed, and the place thoroughly cleaned, before the statue had been
drawn into the vault from one end.

"He is perfectly hideous," said Sabina, as they reached the huge face.
"But it is magnificent," she added, passing her gloved hand over the
great golden features. "I wonder who it is meant for."

"A Roman emperor as Hercules, I think," Malipieri answered. "It may be
Commodus. We are so near that it is hard to know how the head would
look if the statue were set up."

He was thinking very little of the statue just then, as he knelt on its
colossal chest beside Sabina, and watched the play of the yellow light
on her delicate face. There was just room for them to kneel there, side
by side.

It was magnificent, as Sabina had said, the great glittering thing,
lying all alone in the depths of the earth, an enormous golden demigod
in his tomb.

"You are wonderful!" exclaimed Sabina, suddenly turning her face to
Malipieri.

"Why?"

"To have found it," she explained.

"I wish I had found something more practical," he answered. "In my
opinion this thing belongs to you, and I suppose it represents a small
fortune. But the only way for you to get even a share of it will be by
bringing a suit against Volterra. Half a dozen rubies like the one in
the ring would have been enough for you, and you could have taken them
home with you in your pocket."

"I am afraid I have none!" Sabina laughed.

"This one will be safe in mine," Malipieri answered.

"You are not going to take it?" cried Sabina, a little frightened.

"Yes. I am going to take it for you. I daresay it is worth a good deal
of money."

"But--is it yours?"

"No. It is yours."

"I wonder whether I have any right to it." Sabina was perhaps justly
doubtful about the proceeding.

"I do not care a straw for the government, or the laws, or Volterra,
where you are concerned. You shall have what is yours. Shall we get
down to the ground and see if there is anything else in the vault?"

He let himself slide over the left shoulder, and the lion's skin that
was modelled over it, and Sabina followed him cautiously. By bending
their heads they could now stand and walk, and there was a space fully
five feet wide, between the statue and the perpendicular masonry from
which the vault sprang.

Malipieri stopped short, with both lights in his hand, and uttered an
exclamation.

"What is it?" asked Sabina. "Oh!" she cried, as she saw what he had
come upon.

For some moments neither spoke, and they stood side by side, pressed
against each other in the narrow way and gazing down, for before them
lay the most beautiful marble statue Sabina had ever seen. In the
yellow light it was like a living woman asleep rather than a marble
goddess, hewn and chipped, smoothed and polished into shape ages ago,
by men's hands.

She lay a little turned to one side and away; the arm that was
undermost was raised, so that the head seemed to be resting against it,
though it was not; the other lying along and across the body, its
perfect hand just gathering up a delicately futile drapery. The figure
was whole and unbroken, of cream-like marble, that made soft living
shadows in each dimple and hollow and seemed to quiver along the lines
of beauty, the shoulder just edging forwards, the bent arm, the
marvellous sweep of the limbs from hip to heel.

"It is a Venus, is it not?" asked Sabina with an odd little timidity.

"Aphrodite," answered Malipieri, almost unconsciously.

It was not the plump, thick-ankled, doubtfully decent Venus which the
late Greeks made for their Roman masters; it was not that at all. It
was their own Aphrodite, delicate, tender and deadly as the foam of the
sea whence she came to them.

Sabina would scarcely have wondered if she had turned and smiled, there
on the ground, to brush the shadows of ages from her opening eyes, and
to say "I must have slept," like a woman waked by her lover from a
dream of kisses. That would have seemed natural.

Malipieri felt that he was holding his breath. Sabina was so close to
him that it was as if he could feel her heart beating near his own, and
as fast; and for a moment he felt one of those strong impulses which
strong men know when to resist, but to resist which is like wrestling
against iron hands. He longed, as he had never longed for anything in
his life, to draw her yet closer to him and to press his lips hard upon
hers, without a word.

Instead, he edged away from her, and held the lights low beside the
wonderful statue so that she might see it better; and Aphrodite's
longing mouth, that had kissed gods, was curved with a little scorn for
men.

The air was still and dry, and Sabina felt a strange little thrill in
her hair and just at the back of her neck. Perhaps, in the unknown ways
of fruitful nature, the girl was dimly aware of the tremendous manly
impulse of possession, so near her in that narrow and silent place.
Something sent a faint blush to her cheek, and she was glad there was
not much light, and she did not wish to speak for a little while.

"I hate to think that she has lain so long beside that gilded Roman
monster," said Malipieri presently.

The vast brutality of the herculean emperor had not disgusted him at
first; it had merely displeased his taste. Now, it became suddenly an
atrocious contrast to the secret loveliness of unveiled beauty. That
was a manly instinct in him, too, and Sabina felt it.

"Yes," she said softly. "And she seems almost alive."

"The gods and goddesses live for ever," Malipieri answered, smiling and
looking at her, in spite of himself.

Her eyes met his at once, and did not turn away. He fancied that they
grew darker in the shadow, and in the short silence.

"I suppose we ought to be going," she said, still looking at him. "Poor
old Sassi is waiting in the cellar."

"We have not been all round the vault yet," he answered. "There may be
something more."

"No, she has been alone with the monster, all these centuries. I am
sure of it. There cannot be anything else."

"We had better look, nevertheless," said Malipieri. "I want you to see
everything there is, and you cannot come here again--not in this way."

"Well, let us go round." Sabina moved.

"Besides," continued Malipieri, going slowly forward and lighting the
way, "I am going to leave the palace the day after to-morrow."

"Why?" asked Sabina, in surprise.

"Because Volterra has requested me to go. I may have to leave Rome
altogether."

"Leave Rome?"

Her own voice sounded harsh to her as she spoke the words. She had been
so sure that he was in love with her, she had begun to know that she
would soon love him; and he was going away already.

"Perhaps," he answered, going on. "I am not sure."

"But--" Sabina checked herself and bit her lip.

"What?"

"Nothing. Go on, please. It must be getting late."

There was nothing more in the vault. They went all round the gilt
statue without speaking, came back to the feet of the Aphrodite from
the further side and stopped to look again. Still neither spoke for a
long time. Malipieri held the lights in several positions, trying to
find the best.

"Why must you leave Rome?" Sabina asked, at last, without turning her
face to him.

"I am not sure that I must. I said I might, that was all."

Sabina tapped the ground impatiently with her foot.

"Why 'may' you have to go, then?" she asked a little sharply.

"Volterra may be able to drive me away. He will try, because he is
afraid I may wish to get a share in the discovery."

"Oh! Then you will not leave Rome, unless you are driven away?"

Malipieri tried to see her eyes, but she looked steadily down at the
statue.

"No," he said. "Certainly not."

Sabina said nothing, but her expression changed and softened at once.
He could see that, even in the play of the shadows. She raised her
head, glanced at him, and moved to go on. After making a few steps in
the direction of the aperture she stopped suddenly as if listening.
Malipieri held his breath, and then he heard, too.

It was the unmistakable sound of water trickling faster and faster over
stones. For an instant his blood stood still. Then he set the lamp
down, grasped Sabina's wrist and hurried her along, carrying only the
lantern.

"Come as fast as you can," he said, controlling his voice.

She understood that there was danger and obeyed without losing her
head. As he helped her up through the hole in the vault, she felt
herself very light in his hands. In a moment he was beside her, and
they were hurrying towards the inclined passage, bending low.





CHAPTER XIV




A broad stream of water was pouring down, and spreading on each side in
the space between the vaults. In a flash, Malipieri understood. The dry
well had filled, but the overflow shaft was covered with the weighted
boards, and only a little water could get down through the cracks. The
rest was pouring down the passage, and would soon fill the vault, which
was at a much lower level.

"Stay here! Do not move!"

Sabina stood still, but she trembled a little, as he dashed up through
the swift, shallow stream, not ankle deep, but steady as fate. In a
moment he had disappeared from her sight, and she was all alone in the
dismal place, in darkness, save for a little light that forced its way
up from below through the hole. It seemed five minutes before his
plashing footsteps stopped, up there in the passage; then came
instantly the noise of stones thrown aside into the water, and of heavy
pieces of board grating and bumping, as they floated for a moment.
Almost instantly a loud roar came from the same direction, as the
inflowing stream from the well thundered down the shaft. Sabina heard
Malipieri's voice calling to her, and his approaching footsteps.

"The water cannot reach you now!" he cried.

It had already stopped running down the passage, when Malipieri
emerged, dripping and holding out the lantern in front of him, as his
feet slipped on the wet stones. Sabina was very pale, but quite quiet.

"What has happened?" she asked mechanically.

"The water has risen suddenly," he said, paler than she, for he knew
the whole danger. "We cannot get out till it goes down."

"How soon will that be?" Sabina asked steadily.

"I do not know."

They looked at each other, and neither spoke for a moment.

"Do you think it may be several hours?" asked Sabina.

"Yes, perhaps several hours."

Something in his tone told her that matters might be worse than that.

"Tell me the truth," she said. "It may be days before the water goes
down. We may die here. Is that what you mean?"

"Unless I can make another way out, that is what may happen. We may
starve here."

"You will find the other way out," Sabina said quietly. "I know you
will."

She would rather have died that moment than have let him think her a
coward; and she was really brave, and was vaguely conscious that she
was, and that she could trust her nerves, as long as her bodily
strength lasted. But it would be very horrible to die of hunger, and in
such a place. It was better not to think of it. He stood before her,
with his lantern, a pale, courageous, strong man, whom she could not
help trusting; he would find that other way.

"You had better get down again," he said, after a little reflection.
"It is dry below, and the lamp is there."

"I can help you."

Malipieri looked at the slight figure and the little gloved hands and
smiled.

"I am very strong," Sabina said, "much stronger than you think.
Besides, I could not sit all alone down there while you are groping
about. The water might come down and drown me, you know."

"It cannot run down, now. If it could, I should be drowned first."

"That would not exactly be a consolation," answered Sabina. "What are
you going to do? I suppose we cannot break through the roof where we
are, can we?"

"There must be ten or fifteen feet of earth above it. We are under the
courtyard here."

Sabina's slight shoulders shuddered a little, for the first time, as
she realized that she was perhaps buried alive, far beyond the
possibility of being heard by any human being.

"The water must have risen very soon after we came down," Malipieri
said thoughtfully. "That is why my man could not get to us. He could
not get into the well."

"At all events he is not here," Sabina answered, "so it makes no
difference where he is."

"He will try to help us from without. That is what I am thinking of.
The first thing to be done is to put out that lamp, for we must not
waste light. I had forgotten that."

Sabina had not thought of it either, and she waited while he went down
again and brought the lamp up. He extinguished it at once and set it
down.

"Only three ways are possible," he said, "and two are out of the
question. We cannot get up the old shaft above the well. It is of no
use to think of that. We cannot get down the overflow and out by the
drains because the water is pouring down there, and besides, the Tiber
must have risen with the rain."

"Which is the third way?"

"To break an opening through the wall in the highest part of the
passage. It may take a long time, for I have no idea how thick the wall
may be, and the passage is narrow. But we must try it, and perhaps
Masin will go to work nearly at the same spot, for he knows as much
about this place as I do, and we have often talked about it. I have
some tools down here. Will you come? We must not waste time."

"I can hold the lantern," said Sabina. "That may be of some use."

Malipieri gave her the lantern and took up the crowbar and pickaxe
which lay near the hole in the vault.

"You will wet your feet, I am afraid," he said, as they went up the
passage, and he was obliged to speak in a louder tone to be heard above
the steady roar of the water.

He had marked the spot where he had expected that a breach would have
to be made to admit visitors conveniently, and he had no trouble in
finding it. He set the stones he had taken off the boards in a proper
position, laid one of the wet boards upon them, and then took off his
coat and folded it for a cushion, more or less dry. He made Sabina sit
down with the lantern, though she protested.

"I cannot work with my coat on," he answered, "so you may as well sit
on it."

He set to work, and said no more. The first thing to be done was to
sound the thickness of the wall, if possible, by making a small hole
through the bricks. If this could be done, and if Masin was on the
other side, a communication could be established. He knew well enough
that even with help from without, many hours might be necessary in
order to make a way big enough for Sabina to get out; it was most
important to make an opening through which food could be passed in for
her. He had to begin by using his pick-axe because the passage was so
narrow that he could not get his crowbar across it, much less use it
with any effect. It was very slow work at first, but he did it
systematically and with steady energy.

Sabina watched him in silence for a long time, vaguely wondering when
he would be tired and would be obliged to stop and rest. Somehow, it
was impossible to feel that the situation was really horrible, while
such a man was toiling before her eyes to set her free. From the first,
she was perfectly sure that he would succeed, but she had not at all
understood what the actual labour must be.

He had used his pickaxe for more than half an hour, and had made a
hollow about a foot and a half deep, when he rested on the shaft of the
tool, and listened attentively. If the wall were not enormously thick,
and if any one were working on the other side, he was sure that he
could hear the blows, even above the roar of the water. But he could
distinguish no sound.

The water came in steadily from the full well, a stream filling the
passage beyond the dark chasm into which it was falling, and at least
six inches deep. It sent back the light of the lantern in broken
reflections and shivered gleams. Sabina did not like to look that way.

She was cold, now, and she felt that her clothes were damp, and a
strange drowsiness came over her, brought on by the monotonous tone of
the water. Malipieri had taken up his crowbar.

"I wonder what time it is," Sabina said, before he struck the wall
again.

He looked at his watch.

"It is six o'clock," he answered, trying to speak cheerfully. "It is
not at all late yet. Are you hungry?"

"Oh, no! We never dine till eight."

"But you are cold?"

"A little. It is no matter."

"If you will get up I will put my waistcoat on the board for you to sit
upon, and then you can put my coat over your shoulders. I am too hot."

"Thank you."

She obeyed, and he made her as comfortable as he could, a forlorn
little figure in her fawn-coloured hat, wrapped in his grey tweed coat,
that looked utterly shapeless on her.

"Courage," he said, as he picked up his crowbar.

"I am not afraid," she answered.

"Most women would be."

He went to work again, with the end of the heavy bar, striking
regularly at the deepest part of the hollow, and working the iron round
and round, to loosen the brick wherever that was possible. But he made
slow progress, horribly slow, as Sabina realized when nearly half an
hour had passed again, and he paused to listen. He was much more
alarmed than he would allow her to guess, for he was now quite
convinced that Masin was not working on the other side; he knew that
his strength would never be equal to breaking through, unless the
crowbar ran suddenly into an open space beyond, within the next
half-hour. The wall might be of any thickness, perhaps as much as six
or seven feet, and the bricks were very hard and were well cemented.
Perhaps, too, he had made a mistake in his rough calculations and was
not working at the right spot after all. He was possibly hammering away
at the end of a cross wall, following it in its length. That risk had
to be taken, however, for there was at least as good a chance of
breaking through at this point as at any other. He believed that by
resting now and then for a short time, he could use his tools for
sixteen or eighteen hours, after which, if he were without food, his
strength would begin to give way. There was nothing to be done but to
go on patiently, doing his best not to waste time, and yet not
overtaxing his energy so as to break down before he had done the utmost
possible.

He would not think of what must come after that, if he failed, and if
the water did not subside.

Sabina understood very imperfectly what had happened, and there had
been no time to explain. He could not work and yet talk to her so as to
be heard above the roaring of the water and the noise of the iron bar
striking against the bricks. She knew that, and she expected nothing of
him beyond what he was doing, which was all a man could do.

She drew his coat closely round her and leaned back against the damp
wall; and with half-closed eyes she watched the moving shadows of his
arms cast on the wall opposite by the lantern. He worked as steadily as
a machine, except when he withdrew the bar for a moment, in order to
clear out the broken brick and mortar with his hand; then again the bar
struck the solid stuff, and recoiled in his grasp and struck again,
regularly as the swinging of a pendulum.

But no echo came back from an emptiness beyond. Ignorant as Sabina was
of all such things, her instinct told her that the masonry was
enormously thick; and yet her faith in him made him sure that he had
chosen the only spot where there was a chance at all.

Sometimes she almost forgot the danger for a little while. It pleased
her to watch him, and to follow the rhythmic movements of his strong
and graceful body. It is a good sight to see an athletic man exerting
every nerve and muscle wisely and skilfully in a very long-continued
effort; and the woman who has seen a man do that to save her own life
is not likely to forget it.

And then, again, the drowsiness came over her, and she was almost
asleep, and woke with a shiver, feeling cold. He had given her his
watch to hold, when he had made her sit on his waistcoat, and she had
squeezed it under her glove into the palm of her hand. It was a plain
silver watch with no chain. She got it out and looked at it.

Eight o'clock, now. The time had passed quickly, and she must have
really been asleep. The Baron and his wife were just going to sit down
to dinner, unless her disappearance had produced confusion in the
house. But they would not be frightened, though they might be angry.
The servants would have told them that Signor Sassi, whose card was
there to prove his coming, had asked for Donna Sabina, and that she had
gone out with him in a cab, dressed for walking. Signor Sassi was a
highly respectable person, and though it might be a little eccentric,
according to the Baroness's view, for Sabina to go out with him in a
cab, especially in the afternoon, there could really be no great harm
in it. The Baroness would be angry because she had stayed out so late.
The Baroness would be much angrier by and by, when she knew what had
really happened, and it must all be known, of course. When Sassi was
sure that Masin could not get the two out of the vault himself, or with
such ordinary help as he could procure, he would have to go to the
Baron, who would instantly inform the authorities, and bring an
engineer and a crowd of masons to break a way. There was some comfort
in that, after all. It was quite impossible that she and Malipieri
should be left to starve to death.

Besides, she was not at all hungry, though it was dinner time. She was
only cold and sleepy. She wished she could take the crowbar from
Malipieri's hands and use it for a few minutes, just to warm herself.
He had said that he was too hot, and by the uncertain light she fancied
she could see a little moisture on his white forehead.

She was right in that, for he was growing tired and knew that before
long he must rest for at least a quarter of an hour. The hole was now
three feet deep or more, yet no hollow sound came back from, the blows
he dealt. His arms were beginning to ache, and he began to count the
strokes. He would strike a hundred more, and then he would rest. He
kept up the effort steadily to the end, and then laid down the bar and
passed his handkerchief over his forehead. Sabina watched him and
looked up into his face when he turned to her.

"You are tired," she said, rising and standing beside him, so as to
speak more easily.

"I shall be quite rested in a few minutes," he answered, "and then I
will go on."

"You must be very strong," said Sabina.

Then she told him what she had been thinking of, and how it was certain
that the Baron would bring a large force of men to set them free.
Malipieri listened to the end, and nodded thoughtfully. She was right,
supposing that nothing had happened to Sassi and Masin; but he knew his
own man, and judged that he must have made some desperate attempt to
stop the inflowing water in the outer chamber, and it was not
impossible that poor old Sassi, in his devotion to Sabina, had made a
mad effort to help Masin, and that they had both lost their lives
together. If that had happened, there was no one to tell Volterra where
Sabina was. Enquiries at Sassi's house would be useless; all that could
be known would be that he had gone out between four and five o'clock,
that he had called at the house in the Via Ludovisi, and that he and
Sabina had driven away together. No doubt, in time, the police could
find the cab they had taken, and the cabman would remember that they
had paid him at the Palazzo Conti. But all that would take a long time.
The porter knew nothing of their coming, and being used to Malipieri's
ways would not think of ringing at his door. In time Toto would
doubtless break out, but he had not seen Sabina, for Malipieri had been
very careful to make her walk close to the wall. He did not tell Sabina
these things, as it was better that she should look forward to being
set free in a few hours, but he had very grave doubts about the
likelihood of any such good fortune.

"You must sit down," said Sabina. "You cannot rest unless you sit down.
I will stand for a while."

"There is room for us both," Malipieri answered.

They sat down side by side on the board with the lantern at their feet,
and they were very close together.

"But you will catch cold, now that you have stopped, working," Sabina
said suddenly. "How stupid of me!"

As she spoke she pulled his coat off her shoulders, and tried to throw
it over his, but he resisted, saying that he could not possibly have
time to catch cold, if he went back to work in a few minutes. Yet he
already felt the horrible dampness that came up out of the overflow
shaft and settled on everything in glistening beads. It only made him
understand how cold she must be, after sitting idle for two hours.

"Do you think we shall get out to-night?" Sabina asked suddenly, with
the coat in her hand.

"I hope so," he answered.

She stood up, and looked at the cavity he had made in the wall.

"Where will that lead to?" she enquired.

He had risen, too.

"It ought to lead into the coach-house, so far as I can judge."

Instinctively, he went forward to examine the hole, and at that moment
Sabina cleverly threw the coat over his shoulders and held it round his
neck with both her hands.

"There!" she cried. "You are caught now!" And she laughed as lightly as
if there were no such thing as danger.

Malipieri wondered whether she realized the gravity of the situation,
or whether she were only pretending to be gay in order to make it
easier for him. In either case she was perfectly brave.

"You must not!" he answered, gently trying to free himself. "You need
it more than I."

"I wonder if it is big enough to cover us both," Sabina said, as the
idea struck her. "Come! Sit down beside me and we will try."

He smiled and sat down beside her, and they managed to hold the coat so
that it just covered their shoulders.

"Paul and Virginia," said Malipieri, and they both laughed a little.

But as their laughter died away, Sabina's teeth chattered, and she drew
in her breath. At the slight sound Malipieri looked anxiously into her
face, and saw that her lips were blue.

"This is folly," he said. "You will fall ill if you stay here any
longer. It is quite dry in the vault, and warm by comparison with this
place. You must go down there, while I stay here and work."

He got up, and in spite of a little resistance he made her put her arms
into the sleeves of the coat, and turned the cuffs back, and fastened
the buttons. She was shivering from head to foot.

"What a miserable little thing I am!" she cried impatiently.

"You are not a miserable little thing, and you are much braver than
most men," said Malipieri. "But it will be of very little use to get
you out of the vault alive if you are to die of a fever in a day or
two."

She said nothing and he led her carefully down the inclined passage and
the steps, away from the gloomy overflow, and the roaring water and the
fearful dampness. He helped her down into the vault very gently, over
the glittering chest of the great imperial statue. The air felt warm
and dry, now that she was so badly chilled, and her lips looked a
little less blue.

"I will light the lamp, and turn it very low," said Malipieri.

"I am not afraid of the dark," Sabina answered. "You said that we must
not waste our light."

"Shall you really not be nervous?" Malipieri supposed that all women
were afraid to be in the dark alone.

"Of course not. Why should I? There are no spiders, and I do not
believe in ghosts. Besides, I shall hear you hammering at the wall."

"You had better sit on the body of the Venus. I think the marble is
warmer than the bronze. But there is the board--I forgot. Wait a
minute."

He was not gone long, and came back bringing the board and his
waistcoat. To his surprise, he found her sitting on the ground,
propping herself with one hand.

"I felt a little dizzy in the dark," she explained, "so I sat down, for
fear of falling."

He glanced at her face, and his own was grave, as he placed the board
on the ground, and laid the waistcoat over the curving waist of the
Aphrodite, so that she could lean against it. She got up quickly when
it was ready and seated herself, drawing up her knees and pulling her
skirt closely round her damp shoes to keep her feet warm, if possible.
He set the lamp beside her and gave her a little silver box of matches,
so that she could get a light if she felt nervous. He looked at her
face thoughtfully as he stood with his lantern in his hand, ready to go.

"But you have nothing to put on, if you have to rest again!" she said,
rather feebly.

"I will come and rest here, about once an hour," he answered.

Her face brightened a little, and she nodded, looking up into his eyes.

"Yes. Come and rest beside me," she said.

He went away, climbing over the statue and out through the hole in the
vault. Just before he disappeared, he held up his lantern and looked
towards her. She was watching him.

"Good-night," he said. "Try to sleep a little."

"Come back soon," she answered faintly, and smiled.

Presently he was at work again, steadily driving the bar against the
hard bricks, steadily chipping away a little at a time, steadily making
progress against the enormous obstacle. The only question was whether
his strength would last, for if he had been able to get food, it would
have been merely a matter of time. A crowbar does not wear down much on
bricks.

At first, perfectly mechanical work helps a man to think, as walking
generally does; but little by little it dulls the faculties and makes
thought almost impossible. Senseless words begin to repeat themselves
with the movement, fragments of tunes fit themselves to the words, and
play a monotonous and exasperating music in the brain, till a man has
the sensation of having a hurdy-gurdy in his head, though he may be
working for his life, as Malipieri was. Yet the unchanging repetition
makes the work easier, as a sailor's chanty helps at the topsail
halliards.

"We must get out before we starve, we must get out before we starve,"
sang the regular blows of the bar to a queer little tune which
Malipieri had never heard.

When he stopped to clear out the chips, the song stopped too, and he
thought of Sabina sitting alone in the vault, propped against the
Aphrodite; and he hoped that she might be asleep. But when he swung the
bar back into position and heard it strike the bricks, the tune and the
words came back with the pendulum rhythm; and went on and on, till they
were almost maddening, though there no longer seemed to be any sense in
them. They made the time pass.

Sabina heard the dull blows, too, though not very loud. It was a
comfort to hear anything in the total darkness, and she tried to amuse
herself by counting the strokes up to a hundred and then checking the
hundreds by turning in one finger after another. It would be something
to tell him when he came back. She wondered whether there would be a
thousand, and then, as she was wondering, she lost the count, and by
way of a change she tried to reckon how many seconds there were in an
hour. But she got into trouble with the ciphers when she tried to
multiply sixty by sixty in her head, and she began counting the strokes
again. They always stopped for a few seconds somewhere between thirty
and forty.

She wished he would come back soon, for she was beginning to feel very
cold again, so cold that presently she got upon her feet and walked a
dozen steps, feeling her way along the great bronze statue. It was
better than sitting still. She had heard of prisoners who had kept
themselves sane in a dark dungeon by throwing away a few pins they had,
and finding them again. It was a famous prisoner who did that. It was
the prisoner of Quillon--no, "quillon" had something to do with a
sword--no, it was Chillon. Then she felt dizzy again, and steadied
herself against the statue, and presently groped her way back to her
seat. She almost fell, when she sat down, but saved herself and at last
succeeded in getting to her original position. It was not that she was
faint from hunger yet; her dizziness was probably the result of cold
and weariness and discomfort, and most of all, of the unaccustomed
darkness.

She was ashamed of being so weak, when she listened to the steady
strokes, far off, and thought of the strength and endurance it must
need to do what Malipieri seemed to be doing so easily. But she was
very cold indeed, chilled to the bone and shivering, and she could not
think of any way of getting warm. She rose again, and struck one of the
matches he had given her, and by its feeble light she walked a few
seconds without feeling dizzy, and then sat down just as the little
taper was going to burn her fingers.

A few minutes later she heard footsteps overhead, and saw a faint light
through the hole. He was coming at last, and she smiled happily before
she saw him.

He came down and asked how she was, and he sat on the Aphrodite beside
her.

"If I could only get warm!" she answered.

"Perhaps you can warm your hands a little on the sides of the lantern,"
he said.

She tried that and felt a momentary sensation of comfort, and asked him
what progress he was making.

"Very slow," he replied. "I cannot hear the least sound from the other
side yet. Masin is not there."

She did not expect any other answer, and said nothing, as she sat
shivering beside him.

"You are very brave," he said presently.

A long pause followed. She had bent her head low, so that her face
almost touched her knees.

"Signor Malipieri--" she began, at last, in rather a trembling tone.

"Yes? What is it?" He bent down to her, but she did not look up.

"I--I--hardly know how to say it," she faltered. "Shall you think very,
very badly of me if I ask you to do something--something that--" She
stopped.

"There is nothing in heaven or earth I will not do for you," he
answered. "And I shall certainly not think anything very dreadful." He
tried to speak cheerfully.

"I think I shall die of the cold," she said. "There might be a way--"

"Yes? Anything!"

Then she spoke very low.

"Do you think you could just put your arms round me for a minute or
two?" she asked.

Piteously cold though she was, the blood rushed to her face as she
uttered the words; but Malipieri felt it in his throat and eyes.

"Certainly," he answered, as if she had asked the most natural thing in
the world. "Sit upon my knees, and I will hold my arms round you, till
you are warm."

He settled himself on the marble limbs of the Aphrodite, and the frail
young girl seated herself on his knees, and nestled to him for warmth,
while he held her close to him, covering her with his arms as much as
he could. They went quite round her, one above the other, and she hid
her face against his shoulder. He could feel her trembling with the
cold like a leaf, under the coat he had made her put on.

Suddenly she started a little, but not as if she wished to go; it was
more like a sob than anything else.

"What is the matter?" he asked, steadying his voice with difficulty.

"I am so ashamed of myself!" she answered, and she buried her face
against his shoulder again.

"There is nothing to be ashamed of," he said gently. "Are you a little
warmer now?"

"Oh, much, much! Let me stay just a little longer."

"As long as you will," he answered, pressing her to him quietly.

He wondered if she could hear his heart, which was beating like a
hammer, and whether she noticed anything strange in his voice. If she
did, she would not understand. She was only a child after all. He told
himself that he was old enough to be her father, though he was not; he
tried not to think of her at all. But that was of no use. He would have
given his body, his freedom, his soul and the life to come, to kiss her
as she lay helpless in his arms; he would have given anything the world
held, or heaven, if it had been his; anything, except his honour. But
that he would not give. His heart might beat itself to pieces, his
brain might whirl, the little fires might flash furiously in his closed
eyes, his throat might be as parched as the rich man's in hell--she had
trusted herself to him like a child, in sheer despair and misery, and
safe as a child she should lie on his breast. She should die there, if
they were to die.

"I am warm now," she said at last, "really quite warm again, if you
want to go back."

He did not wonder. He felt as if he were on fire from his head to his
feet. At her words he relaxed his arms at once, and she stood up.

"You are so good to me," she said, with an impulse of gratitude for
safety which she herself did not understand. "What makes you so good to
me?"

He shook his head, as if he could not answer then, and smiled a little
sadly.

"Now that you are warm, I must not lose time," he said, a moment later,
taking up his lantern.

She sat down in her old place, and gathered her skirt to her feet and
watched him as he climbed out and the last rays of light disappeared.
Then the pounding at the wall began again, far off, and she tried to
count the strokes, as she had done before; but she wished him back, and
whether she felt cold or not, she wished herself again quietly folded
in his arms, and though she was alone and it was quite dark she blushed
at the thought. It seemed to her that the blows were struck in quicker
succession now than before. Was he willing to tire himself out a little
sooner, so as to earn the right to come back to her?

That was not it. He was growing desperate, and could not control the
speed of his hands so perfectly as before. The night was advancing, he
knew, though he had not looked at the watch, which was still in
Sabina's glove. It was growing late, and he could distinguish no sound
but that of the blows he struck at the bricks and the steady roar of
the water. The conviction grew on him that Masin was drowned, and
perhaps old Sassi too, and that their bodies lay at the bottom of the
outer chamber, between the well and the wall of the cellar. If Masin
had been able to get into the well, before the water was too high, he
would have risen with it, for he was a good swimmer.

So was Malipieri, and more than once he thought of making an attempt to
reach the widened slit in the wall by diving. That he could find the
opening he was sure, but he was almost equally sure that he could never
get through it alive and up to the surface on the other side. If he
were drowned too, Sabina would be left to die alone, or perhaps to go
mad with horror before she was found. He had heard of such things.

It was no wonder that he unconsciously struck faster as he worked, and
at first he felt himself stronger than before, as men do when they are
almost despairing. The sweat stood out on his forehead, and his hands
tingled, when he drew back the iron to clear away the chips. He worked
harder and harder.

The queer little tune did not ring in his head now, for he could think
of nothing but Sabina and of what was to become of her, even if he
succeeded in saving her life. It was almost impossible that such a
strange adventure should remain a secret, and, being once known, the
injury to the girl might be irreparable. He hated himself for having
brought her to the place. Yet, as he thought it over, he knew that he
would have done it again.

It had seemed perfectly safe. Any one could have seen that the water
had not risen in the well for many years. Day after day, for a long
time, he and Masin had worked in the vaults in perfect safety. The way
to the statues had been made so easy that only a timid old man like
Sassi could have found it impassable. There had been absolutely no
cause to fear that after fifty or sixty years the course of the water
should be affected, and the chances against such an accident happening
during that single hour of Sabina's visit were as many millions to one.
His motive in bringing her had been quixotic, no doubt, but good and
just, and so far as Sabina's reputation was concerned, Sassi's presence
had constituted a sufficient social protection.

He hammered away at the bricks furiously, and the cavity grew deeper
and wider. Surely he had made a mistake at first in wishing to husband
his strength too carefully. If he had worked from the beginning as he
was working now, he would have made the breach by this time.

Unless that were impossible; unless, after all, he had struck the end
of a cross wall and was working through the length of it instead of
through its thickness. The fear of such a misfortune took possession of
him, and he laid down his crowbar to examine the wall carefully. There
was one way of finding out the truth, if he could only get light
enough; no mason that ever lived would lay his bricks in any way except
lengthwise along each course. If he had struck into a cross wall, he
must be demolishing the bricks from their ends instead of across them,
and he could find out which way they lay at the end of the cavity, if
he could make the light of the lantern shine in as far as that. The
depth was more than five feet now, and his experience told him that
even in the construction of a mediaeval palace the walls above the
level of the ground were very rarely as thick as that, when built of
good brick and cement like this one.

When he took up his lantern, he was amazed at what he had done in less
than four hours; if he had been told that an ordinary man had
accomplished anything approaching to it in that time, he would have
been incredulous. He had hardly realized that he had made a hole big
enough for him to work in, kneeling on one knee, and bracing himself
with the other foot.

But the end was narrow, of course, and when he held the light before
it, he could not see past the body of the lantern. He opened the
latter, took out the little oil lamp carefully and thrust it into the
hole. He could see now, as he carefully examined the bricks; and he was
easily convinced that he had not entered a cross wall. Nevertheless,
when he had been working with the bar, he had not detected any change
in the sound, as he thought he must have done, if he had been near the
further side. Was the wall ten feet thick? He looked again. It was not
a vaulting, that was clear; and it could not be anything but a wall.
There was some comfort in that. He drew back a little, put the lamp
into the lantern again and got out backwards. The passage was bright;
he looked up quickly and started.

Sabina was standing beside him, holding the large lamp. Her big hat had
fallen back and her hair made a fair cloud between it and her white
face.

"I thought something had happened to you," she said, "so I brought the
lamp. You stopped working for such a long time," she explained, "I
thought you must have hurt yourself, or fainted."

"No," answered Malipieri. "There is nothing the matter with me. I was
looking at the bricks."

"You must need rest, for it is past ten o'clock. I looked at the watch."

"I will rest when I get through the wall. There is no time to be lost.
Are you very hungry?"

"No. I am a little thirsty." She looked at the black water, pouring
down the overflow shaft.

"That water is not good to drink," said Malipieri, thinking of what was
at the bottom of the well. "We had better not drink it unless we are
absolutely forced to. I hope to get you out in two hours."

He stood leaning on his crowbar, his dark hair covered with dust, his
white shirt damp and clinging to him, and all stained from rubbing
against the broken masonry.

"It would be better to rest for a few minutes," she said, not moving.

He knew she was right, but he went with her reluctantly, and presently
he was sitting beside her on the marble limbs of the Aphrodite. She
turned her face to him a little shyly, and then looked away again.

"Were ever two human beings in such a situation before!"

"Everything has happened before," Malipieri answered. "There is nothing
new."

"Does it hurt very much to die of starvation?" Sabina asked after a
little pause.

"Not if one has plenty of water. It is thirst that drives people mad.
Hunger makes one weak, that is all."

"And cold, I am sure."

"Very cold."

They were both silent. She looked steadily at the gleaming bronze
statue before her, and Malipieri looked down at his hands.

"How long does it take to starve to death?" she asked at last.

"Strong men may live two or three weeks if they have water."

"I should not live many days," Sabina said thoughtfully. "It would be
awful for you to be living on here, with me lying dead."

"Horrible. Do not think about it. We shall get out before morning."

"I am afraid not," she said quietly. "I am afraid we are going to die
here."

"Not if I can help it," answered Malipieri.

"No. Of course not. I know you will do everything possible, and I am
sure that if you could save me by losing your life, you would. Yes. But
if you cannot break through the wall, there is nothing to be done."

"The water may go down to-morrow. It is almost sure to go down before
long. Then we can get out by the way we came in."

"It will not go down. I am sure it will not."

"It is too soon to lose courage," Malipieri said.

"I am not frightened. It will not be hard to die, if it does not hurt.
It will be much harder for you, because you are so strong. You will
live a long time."

"Not unless I can save you," he answered, rising. "I am going back to
work. It will be time enough to talk about death when my strength is
all gone."

He spoke almost roughly, partly because for one moment she had made him
feel a sort of sudden dread that she might be right, partly to make her
think that he thought the supposition sheer nonsense.

"Are you angry?" she asked, like a child.

"No!" He made an effort and laughed almost cheerfully. "But you had
better think about what you should like for supper in two or three
hours! It is hardly worth while to put out that lamp," he added. "It
will burn nearly twelve hours, for it is big, and it was quite full.
There is a great deal of heat in it, too."

He went away again. But when he was gone, she drew the lamp over to her
without leaving her seat, and put it out. She was very tired and a
little faint, and by and by the distant sound of the crowbar brought
back the drowsiness she had felt before, and leaning her head against
the Aphrodite's curving waist, she lost consciousness.

He worked a good hour or more without result, came down to her, and
found her in a deep sleep. As he noiselessly left her, he wondered how
many men could have slept peacefully in such a case as hers.

Once more he took the heavy bar, and toiled on, but he felt that his
strength was failing fast for want of food. He had eaten nothing since
midday, and had not even drunk water, and in six hours he had done as
much hard work as two ordinary workmen could have accomplished in a
day. With a certain amount of rest, he could still go on, but a quarter
of an hour would no longer be enough. He was very thirsty, too, but
though he might have drunk his fill from the hollow of his hand, he
could not yet bring himself to taste the water. He was afraid that he
might be driven to it before long, but he would resist as long as he
could.

Every stroke was an effort now, as he struggled on blindly, not only
against the material obstacle, but against the growing terror that was
taking possession of him, the hideous probability of having worked in
vain after all, and the still worse certainty of what the end must be
if he really failed.

Effort after effort, stroke after stroke, though each seemed impossible
after the last. He could not fail, and let that poor girl die, unless
he could die first, of sheer exhaustion.

If he were to stop now, it might be hours before he could go on again,
and then he would be already weakened by hunger. There was nothing to
be done but to keep at it, to strike and strike, with such half-frantic
energy as was left in him. Every bone and sinew ached, and his breath
came short, while the sweat ran down into his short beard, and fell in
rain on his dusty hands.

But do what he would, the blows followed each other in slower
succession. He could not strike twenty more, not ten, not five perhaps;
he would not count them; he would cheat himself into doing what could
not be done; he would count backwards and forwards, one, two, three,
three, two, one, one, two--

And then, all at once, the tired sinews were braced like steel, and his
back straightened, and his breath came full and clear. The blow had
rung hollow.

He could have yelled as he sent the great bar flying against the bricks
again and again, far in the shadow, and the echo rang back, louder and
louder, every time.

The bar ran through and the end he held shot from his hands, as the
resistance failed at last, and half the iron went out on the other
side. He drew it back quickly and looked to see if there were any
light, but there was none. He did not care, for the rest would be
child's play compared with what he had done, and easier than play now
that he had the certainty of safety.

The first thing to be done was to tell Sabina that the danger was past.
He crept back with his light and stood upright. It hurt him to
straighten himself, and he now knew how tremendous the labour had been;
the last furious minutes had been like the delirium of a fever. But he
was tough and used to every sort of fatigue, and hope had come back; he
forgot how thirsty he had been, and did not even glance behind him at
the water.

Sabina was still asleep. He stood before her, and hesitated, for it
seemed cruel to wake her, even to tell her the good news. He would go
back and widen the breach, and when there was room to get out, he could
come and fetch her. She had put out the lamp. He lighted it again
quietly, and was going to place it where it could not shine in her eyes
and perhaps wake her, when he paused to look at her face.

It was very still, and deadly pale, and her lips were blue. He could
not see that she was breathing, for his coat hung loosely over her
slender figure. She looked almost dead. Her gloved hands lay with the
palms upwards, the one in her lap, the other on the ground beside her.
He touched that one gently with the back of his own, and it seemed to
him that it was very cold, through the glove.

He touched her cheek in the same way, and it felt like ice. It would
surely be better to wake her, and make her move about a little. He
spoke to her, at first softly, and then quite loud, but she made no
sign. Perhaps she was not asleep, but had fainted from weariness and
cold; he knelt beside her, and took her hand in both his own, chafing
it between them, but still she gave no sign. It was certainly a
fainting fit, and he knew that if a woman was pale when she fainted,
she should be laid down at full length, to make the blood return to her
head. Kneeling beside her, he lifted her carefully and placed her on
her back beside the Aphrodite, smoothing out his waistcoat under her
head, not for a pillow but for a little protection from the cold ground.

Then he hesitated, and remained some time kneeling beside her. She
needed warmth more than anything else; he knew that, and he knew that
the best way to warm her a little was to hold her in his arms. Yet he
would try something else first.

He bent over her and undoing one of the buttons of the coat, he
breathed into it again and again, long, warm breaths. He did this for a
long time, and then looked at her face, but it had not changed. He felt
the ground with his hand, and it was cold; as long as she lay there,
she could never get warm.

He lifted her again, still quite unconscious, and sat with her in his
arms, as he had done before, laying her head against the hollow of his
shoulder, and pressing her gently, trying to instil into her some of
his own strong life.

At last she gave a little sigh and moved her head, nestling herself to
him, but it was long before she spoke. He felt the consciousness coming
back in her, and the inclination to move, rather than any real motion
in her delicate frame; the more perceptible breathing, and then the
little sigh came again, and at last the words.

"I thought we were dead," she said, so low that he could barely hear.

"No, you fainted," he answered. "We are safe. I have got the bar
through the wall."

She turned up her face feebly, without lifting her head.

"Really? Have you done it?"

"Yes. In another hour, or a little more, the hole will be wide enough
for us to get through it."

She hid her face again, and breathed quietly.

"You do not seem glad," he said.

"It seemed so easy to die like this," she answered.

But presently she moved in his arms, and looked up again, and smiled,
though she did not try to speak again. He himself, almost worn out by
what he had done, was glad to sit still for a while. His blood was not
racing through him now, his head was not on fire. It seemed quite
natural that he should be sitting there, holding her close to him and
warming her back to life with his own warmth.

It was a strange sensation, he thought afterwards, when many other
things had happened which were not long in following upon the events of
that night. He could not quite believe that he was almost stupid with
extreme fatigue, and yet he remembered that it had been more like a
calm dream than anything else, a dream of peace and rest. At the time,
it all seemed natural, as the strangest things do when one has been
face to face with death for a few hours, and when one is so tired that
one can hardly think at all.





CHAPTER XV




There was less consternation in the Volterra household than might have
been expected when Sabina did not return before bedtime. The servants
knew that she had gone out with an old gentleman, a certain Signor
Sassi, at about five o'clock, but until Volterra came in, the Baroness
could not find out who Sassi was, and she insisted on searching every
corner of the house, as if she were in quest of his biography, for the
servants assured her that Sabina was still out, and they certainly
knew. She carefully examined Sabina's room too, looking for a note, a
line of writing, anything to explain the girl's unexpected absence.

She could find nothing except the short letter from Sabina's mother to
which reference has been made, and she read it over several times.
Sabina received no letters, and had been living in something like total
isolation. The Baroness had reached a certain degree of intimacy with
her beloved aristocracy; but though she occasionally dropped in upon
it, and was fairly well received, it rarely, if ever, dropped in upon
her. It showed itself quite willing, however, to accept a formal
invitation to a good dinner at her house.

She telephoned to the Senate and to a club, but Volterra could not be
found. Then she went to dress, giving orders that Sabina was to be sent
to her the moment she came in. She was very angry, and her sallow face
was drawn into severe angles; she scolded her maid for everything, and
rustled whenever she moved.

At last the Baron came home, and she learned who Sassi was. Volterra
was very much surprised, but said that Sassi must have come for Sabina
in connection with some urgent family matter. Perhaps some one of her
family had died suddenly, or was dying. It was very thoughtless of
Sabina not to leave a word of explanation, but Sassi was an eminently
respectable person, and she was quite safe with him.

The Baron ate his dinner, and repeated the substance of this to his
wife before the servants, whose good opinion they valued. Probably
Donna Clementina, the nun, was very ill, and Sabina was at the convent.
No, Sabina did not love her sister, of course; but one always went to
see one's relations when they were dying, in order to forgive them
their disagreeable conduct; all Romans did that, said the Baroness, and
it was very proper. By and by a note could be sent to the convent, or
the carriage could go there to bring Sabina back. But the Baron did not
order the carriage, and became very thoughtful over his coffee and his
Havana. Sabina had been gone more than four hours, and that was
certainly a longer time than could be necessary for visiting a dying
relative. He said so.

"Perhaps," suggested his wife, "it is the Prince who is ill, and Signor
Sassi has taken Sabina to the country to see her brother."

"No," answered the Baron after a moment's thought. "That family is
eccentric, but the girl would not have gone to the country without a
bag."

"There is something in that," answered the Baroness, and they relapsed
into silence.

Yet she was not satisfied, for, as her husband said, the Conti were all
eccentric. Nevertheless, Sabina would at least have telegraphed, or
sent a line from the station, or Sassi would have done it for her, for
he was a man of business.

After a long time, the Baroness suggested that if her husband knew
Sassi's address, some one should be sent to his house to find out if he
had gone out of town.

"I have not the least idea where he lives," the Baron said. "As long as
I had any business with him, I addressed him at the palace."

"The porter may know," observed the Baroness.

"The porter is an idiot," retorted the Baron, puffing at his cigar.

His wife knew what that meant, and did not enquire why an idiot was
left in charge of the palace. Volterra did not intend to take that way
of making enquiries about Sabina, if he made any at all, and the
Baroness knew that when he did not mean to do a thing, the obstinacy of
a Calabrian mule was docility compared with his dogged opposition.
Moreover, she would not have dared to do it unknown to him. There was
some good reason why he did not intend to look for Sassi.

"Besides," he condescended to say after a long time, "she is quite safe
with that old man, wherever they are."

"Society might not think so, my dear," answered the Baroness in mild
protest.

"Society had better mind its business, and let us take care of ours."

"Yes, my dear, yes, of course!"

She did not agree with him at all. Her ideal of a happy life was quite
different, for she was very much pleased when society took a lively
interest in her doings, and nothing interested her more than the doings
of society. She presently ventured to argue the case.

"Yes, of course," she repeated, by way of preliminary conciliation. "I
was only wondering what people will think, if anything happens to the
girl while she is under our charge."

"What can happen to her?"

"There might be some talk about her going out in this way. The servants
know it, you see, and she is evidently not coming home this evening.
They know that she went out without leaving any message, and they must
think it strange."

"I agree with you."

"Well, then, there will be some story about her. Do you see what I
mean?"

"Perfectly. But that will not affect us in the least. Every one knows
what strange people the Conti are, and everybody knows that we are
perfectly respectable. If there is a word said about the girl's
character, you will put her into the carriage, my dear, and deposit her
at the convent under the charge of her sister. Everybody will say that
you have done right, and the matter will be settled."

"You would not really send her to the convent!"

"I will certainly not let her live under my roof, if she stays out all
night without giving a satisfactory account of herself."

"But her mother--"

"Her mother is no better than she should be," observed the Baron
virtuously, by way of answer.

The Baroness was very much disturbed. She had been delighted to be
looked upon as a sort of providence to the distressed great, and had
looked forward to the social importance of being regarded as a second
mother to Donna Sabina Conti. She had hoped to make a good match for
her, and to shine at the wedding; she had dreamed of marrying the girl
to Malipieri, who was such a fine fellow, and would be so rich some day
that he might be trapped into taking a wife without a dowry.

These castles in the air were all knocked to pieces by the Baron's
evident determination to get rid of Sabina.

"I thought you liked the girl," said the Baroness in a tone of
disappointment.

Volterra stuck out both his feet and crossed his hands on his stomach,
after his manner, smoking vigorously. Then, with his cigar in one
corner of his mouth, he laughed out of the other, and assumed a playful
expression.

"I do not like anybody but you, my darling," he said, looking at the
ceiling. "Nobody in the whole wide world! You are the deposited
security. All the other people are the floating circulation."

He seemed pleased with this extraordinary view of mankind, and the
Baroness smiled at her faithful husband. She rarely understood what he
was doing, and hardly ever guessed what he meant to do, but she was
absolutely certain of his conjugal fidelity, and he gave her everything
she wanted.

"The other people," he said, "are just notes, and nothing else. When a
note is damaged or worn out, you can always get a new one at the bank,
in exchange for it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my dear. That is very clever."

"It is very true," said the Baron. "The Conti family consists chiefly
of damaged notes."

He had not moved his cigar from the corner of his mouth to speak.

"Yes, my dear," answered the Baroness meekly, and when she thought of
her last interview with the dowager Princess, she was obliged to admit
the fitness of the simile.

"The only one of them at all fit to remain in circulation," he
continued, "was this girl. If she stays out all night she will be
distinctly damaged, too. Then you will have to pass her off to some one
else, as one does, you know, when a note is doubtful."

"The cook can generally change them," observed the Baroness
irrelevantly.

"I do not think she is coming home," said the Baron, much more to the
point. "I hope she will! After all, if she does not, you yourself say
that she is quite safe with this Signor Sassi--"

"I did not say that she would be safe from gossip afterwards, did I?"

It was perfectly clear by this time that he wished Sabina to leave the
house as soon as possible, and that he would take the first opportunity
of obliging her to do so. Even if his wife had dared to interfere, it
would have been quite useless, for she knew him to be capable of
hinting to the girl herself that she was no longer welcome. Sabina was
very proud, and she would not stay under the roof an hour after that.

"I did not suggest that you should bring her here," Volterra continued
presently. "Please remember that. I simply did not object to her
coming. That was all the share I had in it. In any case I should have
wished her to leave us before we go away for the summer."

"I had not understood that," answered the Baroness resignedly. "I had
hoped that she might come with us."

"She has settled the matter for herself, my dear. After this
extraordinary performance, I must really decline to be responsible for
her any longer."

It was characteristic of his methods that when he had begun to talk
over the matter before dinner, she had not been able to guess at all
how he would ultimately look at it, and that he only let her know his
real intention by degrees. Possibly, he had only wished to gain time to
think it over. She did not know that he had asked Malipieri to leave
the Palazzo Conti, and if she had, it might not have occurred to her
that there was any connection between that and his desire to get rid of
Sabina. His ways were complicated, when they were not unpleasantly
direct, not to say brutal.

But the Baroness was much more human, and had grown fond of the girl,
largely because she had no daughter of her own, and had always longed
to have one. Ambitious women, if they have the motherly instinct,
prefer daughters to sons. One cannot easily tell what a boy may do when
he grows up, but a girl can be made to do almost anything by her own
mother, or to marry almost any one. The Baroness's regret for losing
Sabina took the form of confiding to her husband what she had hoped to
do for the girl.

"I am very sorry," she said, "but if you wish her to go, she must leave
us. Of late, I had been thinking that we might perhaps marry her to
that clever Malipieri."

The Baron smiled thoughtfully, took his cigar from his lips at last,
and looked at his wife.

"To Malipieri?" he asked, as if not quite understanding the suggestion.

"Yes, I am sure he would make her a very good husband. He evidently
admires her, too."

"Possibly. I never thought of it. But she has no dowry. That is an
objection."

"He will be rich some day. Is he poor now?"

"No. Not at all."

"And she certainly likes him very much. It would be a very good match
for her."

"Admirable. But I do not think we need trouble ourselves with such
speculations, since she is going to leave us so soon."

"I shall always take a friendly interest in her," said the Baroness,
"wherever she may be."

"Very well, my dear," Volterra answered, dropping the end of his cigar
and preparing to rise. "That will be very charitable of you. But your
friendly interest can never marry her to Malipieri."

"Perhaps not. But it might have been done, if she had not been so
foolish."

"No," said the Baron, getting to his feet, "it never could have been
done."

"Why not?" asked his wife, surprised by the decision of his tone.

"Because there is a very good reason why Malipieri cannot marry her, my
dear."

"A good reason?"

"A very good reason. My dear, I am sleepy. I am going to bed."

Volterra rang the bell by the fireplace, and a man appeared almost
instantly.

"You may put out the lights," he said. "We are going to bed."

"Shall any one sit up, in case Donna Sabina should come in,
Excellency?" asked the servant.

"No."

He went towards the door, and his wife followed him meekly.





CHAPTER XVI




Sabina's strength revived in the warm night air, out in the courtyard,
under the stars, and the awful danger from which Malipieri had saved
her and himself looked unreal, after the first few moments of liberty.
She got his watch out of her glove where it had been so many hours, and
by the clear starlight they could see that it was nearly twenty minutes
past two o'clock. Malipieri had put out the lamp, and the lantern had
gone out for lack of oil, at the last moment. It was important that
Sabina should not be seen by the porter, in the very unlikely event of
his being up at that hour.

They had not thought that it could be so late, for it was long since
Sabina had looked at the watch. The first thing that became clear to
Malipieri was that it would be out of the question for him to take her
home that night. The question was where else to take her. She was
exhausted, too, and needed food at once, and her clothes were wet from
the dampness. It would be almost a miracle if she did not fall ill,
even if she were well taken care of at once.

There was only one thing to be done: she must go up to his apartment,
and have something to eat, and then she must rest. In the meantime they
would make some plan in order to explain her absence.

The porter's wife might have been of some use, if she could have been
trusted with what must for ever remain a dead secret, namely, that
Sabina had spent the night in Malipieri's rooms; for that would be the
plain fact to-morrow morning. What had happened to Sassi and Masin was
a mystery, but it was inconceivable that either of them should have
been free to act during the past eight or nine hours and should have
made no effort to save the two persons to whom they were respectively
devoted as to no one else in the world.

Exhausted though he was, Malipieri would have gone down into the
cellars at once to try and find some trace of them, if he had not felt
that Sabina must be cared for first; and moreover he was sure that if
he found them at all, he should find them both dead.

All this had been clear to him before he had at last succeeded in
bringing her out into the open air.

"There is no help for it," he whispered, "you must come upstairs. Do
you think you can walk so far?"

"Of course I can!" she answered, straightening herself bravely. "I am
not at all tired."

Nevertheless she gladly laid her hand on his aching arm, and they both
walked cautiously along the paved gutter that separated the wall from
the gravel, for their steps would have made much more noise on the
latter. All was quiet, and they reached Malipieri's door, by the help
of a wax light. He led her in, still carrying the match, and he shut
the door softly after him.

"At least," Sabina said, "no one can hear us here."

"Hush!"

He suspected that Toto must have got out, but was not sure. After
lighting a candle, he led the way into his study, and made Sabina sit
down, while he went back. He returned in a few moments, having assured
himself that Toto had escaped by the window, and that Masin was not in,
and asleep.

"Masin has disappeared," he said. "We can talk as much as we please,
while you have your supper."

He had brought bread and wine and water, which he set before her, and
he went off again to find something else. She ate hungrily after
drinking a glass at a draught. He reappeared with the remains of some
cold meat and ham.

"It is all I have," he explained, "but there is plenty of bread."

"Nothing ever tasted so good," answered Sabina gravely.

He sat down opposite to her and drank, and began to eat the bread. His
hands were grimy, and had bled here and there at the knuckles where
they had grazed the broken masonry. His face was streaked with dried
perspiration and dust, his collar was no longer a collar at all.

As for Sabina, she had tried to take off the fawn-coloured hat, but it
had in some way become entangled with her unruly hair, and it was
hanging down her back. Otherwise, as she sat there her dress was not
visibly much the worse for the terrible adventure. Her skirt was torn
and soiled, indeed, but the table hid it, and the coat had kept the
body of her frock quite clean. She did not look much more dishevelled
than if she had been at a romping picnic in the country.

Nor did she look at all ill, after the wine and the first mouthfuls of
food had brought all the warmth back to her. If anything, she was less
pale than usual now, her lips were red again, and there was light in
her eyes. There are little women who look as if they had no strength at
all, and seem often on the point of breaking down, but who could go
through a battle or a shipwreck almost without turning a hair, and
without much thought of their appearance either; nor are they by any
means generally the mildest and least reckless of their sex.

The two ate in silence for several minutes, but they looked at each
other and smiled now and then, while they swallowed mouthful after
mouthful.

"I wish I had counted the slices of bread I have eaten," said Sabina at
last.

Malipieri laughed gaily. It did not seem possible that an hour or two
earlier they had been looking death in the face. But his laughter died
away suddenly, and he was very grave in a moment.

"I do not know what to do now," he said. "We shall have to make the
Baroness believe that you have spent the night at Sassi's house. That
is the only place where you can possibly be supposed to have been. I am
not good at lying, I believe. Can you help me at all?"

Sabina laughed.

"That is a flattering way of putting it!" she answered. "It is true
that I was brought up to lie about everything, but I never liked it.
The others used to ask me why I would not, and whether I thought myself
better than they."

"What are we to do?"

"Suppose that we tell the truth," said Sabina, nibbling thoughtfully at
a last slice of bread. "It is much easier, you know."

"Yes."

Malipieri set his elbows on the table, leaned his bearded chin upon his
scarred knuckles and looked at her. He wondered whether in her
innocence she even faintly guessed what people would think of her, if
they knew that she had spent a night in his rooms. He had no experience
at all of young girls, and he wondered whether there were many like
Sabina. He thought it unlikely.

"I believe in telling the truth, too," he said at last. "But when you
do, you must trust the person to whom it is told. Now the person in
this case will be the Baroness Volterra. I shall have to go and see her
in the morning, and tell her what has happened. Then, if she believes
me, she must come here in a cab and take you back. That will be
absolutely necessary. You need say nothing that I have not said, and I
shall say nothing that is not true."

"That is the best way," said Sabina, who liked the simplicity of the
plan.

Her voice sounded sleepy, and she suppressed a little yawn.

"But suppose that she refuses to believe me," Malipieri continued,
without noticing her weariness, "what then?"

"What else can she believe?" asked Sabina indifferently.

Malipieri did not answer for a long time, and looked away, while he
thought over the very difficult situation. When he turned to her again,
he saw that she was resting her head in her hand and that her eyes were
closed.

"You are sleepy," he said.

She looked up, and smiled, hardly able to keep her eyes open.

"So sleepy!" she answered slowly. "I cannot keep awake a moment longer."

"You must go to bed," he said, rising.

"Yes--anywhere! Only let me sleep."

"You will have to sleep in my room. Do you mind very much?"

"Anywhere!" She hardly knew what she said, she hardly saw his face any
longer.

He led the way with one of the lights, and she followed him with her
eyes half shut.

"It seems to be in tolerably good order," he said, glancing round, and
setting down the candle. "The key is in the inside. Turn it, please,
when I am gone."

The room was scrupulously neat. Malipieri shut the window carefully.
When he turned, he saw that she was sitting on the edge of the bed,
nodding with sleep.

"Good-night," he said, in a low voice that was nevertheless harsh.
"Lock your door."

"Good-night," she answered, with an effort.

He did not look at her again as he went out and shut the door, and he
went quickly through the small room which divided the bedroom from the
study, and in which he kept most of his clothes. He was very wide awake
now, in spite of being tired, and he sat down in his armchair and
smoked for some time. Suddenly he noticed the state of his hands, and
he realized what his appearance must be.

Without making any noise, though he was sure that Sabina was in a deep
sleep by this time, he went back through the first door and quietly got
a supply of clothes, and took them with him to Masin's room, and washed
there, and dressed himself as carefully as if he were going out. Then
he went back to his study and sat down wearily in his armchair. Worn
out at last, he was asleep in a few minutes, asleep as men are after a
battle, whether the fight has ended in victory or defeat. Even the
thought of Sabina did not keep him awake, and he would not have thought
of her at all as he sat down, if he could have helped it.

After such a night as they had passed it was not likely that they
should wake before ten o'clock on the following morning.

But the porter was up early, as usual, with his broom, to sweep the
stairs and the paved entrance under the arch. When he had come back
from the errand on which Malipieri had sent him, it had been already
dusk. He had gone up and had rung the bell several times, but as no one
opened he had returned to his lodge. It was not unusual for Malipieri
and Masin to be both out at the same time, and he thought it likely
that they were in the vaults. He cursed them both quietly for the
trouble they had given him of mounting the stairs for nothing, and went
to his supper, and in due time to bed.

He must go up again at eight o'clock, by which time Malipieri was
always dressed, and as it was now only seven o'clock he had plenty of
time to sweep. So he lit his pipe deliberately and took his broom, and
went out of his lodge.

The first thing that met his eye was a dark stain on the stones, close
to the postern. He passed his broom over it, and saw that it was dry;
and it was red, but not like wine. Wine makes a purple stain on stones.
He stooped and scratched it with his thick thumbnail. It was
undoubtedly blood, and nothing else. Some one had been badly hurt
there, or being wounded had stood some moments on the spot to open the
door and get out.

The old man leaned on his broom awhile, considering the matter, and
debating whether he should call his wife. His natural impulse was not
to do so, but to get a bucket of water and wash the place before she
could see it. The idea of going out and calling a policeman never
occurred to him, for he was a real Roman, and his first instinct was to
remove every trace of blood from the house in which he lived, whether
it had been shed by accident or in quarrel. On the other hand, his wife
might come out at any moment, to go to her work, and find him washing
the pavement, and she would of course suppose that he had killed
somebody or had helped to kill somebody during the night, and would
begin to scream, and call him an assassin, and there would be a great
noise, and much trouble afterwards. According to his view, any woman
would naturally behave in this way, and as his views were founded on
his own experience, he was probably right, so far as his wife was
concerned. He therefore determined to call her.

She came, she saw, she threw up her hands and moaned a little about the
curse that was on the house, and she helped him to scrub the stones as
quickly as possible. When that was done, and when they had flooded the
whole pavement under the arch, in order to conceal the fact that it had
been washed in one place, it occurred to them that they should look on
the stairs, to see if there were any blood there, and in the courtyard,
too, near the entrance; but they could not find anything, and it was
time for the woman to go to the place where she worked all day at
ironing fine linen, which had been her occupation before she had been
married. So she went away, leaving her husband alone.

He smoked thoughtfully and swept the stone gutter, towards the other
end of the courtyard. He noticed nothing unusual, until he reached the
door of the coach-house, and saw that it was ajar, whereas it was
always locked, and he had the key in his lodge. He opened it, and
looked in. The flood of morning light fell upon a little heap of broken
brick and mortar, and he saw at a glance that a small breach had been
made in the wall. This did not surprise him, for he knew that Malipieri
and Masin had made holes in more than one place, and the architect had
more than once taken the key of the coach-house.

What frightened him was the steady, roaring sound that came from the
breach. He would as soon have thought of trusting himself to enter the
place, as of facing the powers of darkness, even if his big body could
have squeezed itself through the aperture. But he guessed that the
sound came from the "lost water," which he had more than once heard in
the cellar below, in its own channel, and he was instinctively sure
that something had happened which might endanger the palace. The
cellars were probably flooded.

On the mere chance that the door of the winding staircase might not be
locked, he went out and turned into the passage where it was. He found
it wide open. He had in his pocket one of those long wax tapers rolled
into a little ball, which Roman porters generally have about them; he
lit it and went down. There was water at the foot of the steps, water
several feet deep. He retreated, and with more haste than he usually
showed to do anything, he crossed the courtyard and went up to call
Malipieri.

But Malipieri was asleep in his armchair in the inner room, and the
bell only rang in the outer hall. The old man rang it again and again,
but no one came. Then he stood still on the landing, took off his cap
and deliberately scratched his head. In former times, it would have
been his duty to inform Sassi, in whom centred every responsibility
connected with the palace. But the porter did not know whether Sassi
were dead or alive now, and was quite sure that the Baron would not
approve of sending for him.

There was nothing to be done but to inform the Baron himself, without
delay, since Malipieri was apparently already gone out. The Baron would
take the responsibility, since the house was his.

The porter went down to his lodge, took off his old linen jacket and
put on his best coat and cap, put some change into his pocket, went out
and turned the key of the lock in the postern, and then stumped off
towards the Piazza Sant' Apollinare to get a cab, for there was no time
to be lost.

It was eight o'clock when he rang at the smart new house in the Via
Ludovisi. Sabina and Malipieri had slept barely five hours.

A footman in an apron opened the door, and without waiting to know his
business, asked him why he did not go to the servants' entrance.

"I live in a palace where there is a porter," answered the old man,
assuming the overpowering manner that belongs to the retainers of
really great old Roman houses. "Please inform the Baron that the 'lost
water' has broken out and flooded the cellars of the Palazzo Conti, and
that I am waiting for instructions."





CHAPTER XVII




Volterra went to bed early, but he did not rise late, for he was always
busy, and had many interests that needed constant attention; and he had
preserved the habits of a man who had enriched himself and succeeded in
life by being wide awake and at work when other people were napping or
amusing themselves. At eight o'clock in the morning, he was already in
his study, reading his letters, and waiting for his secretary.

He sent for the porter, listened to his story attentively, and without
expressing any opinion about what had happened, went directly to the
palace in the cab which had brought the old man. He made the latter sit
beside him, because it would be an excellent opportunity of showing the
world that he was truly democratic. Half of Rome knew him by sight at
least, though not one in twenty thousand could have defined his
political opinions.

At the palace he paid the cabman instead of keeping him by the hour,
for he expected to stay some time, and it was against his principles to
spend a farthing for what he did not want. As he entered through the
postern, he glanced approvingly at the damp pavement. He did not in the
least believe that the porter washed it every morning, of course, but
he appreciated the fact that the man evidently wished him to think so,
and was afraid of him.

"You say that you rang several times at Signor Malipieri's door," he
said. "Has he not told you that he is going to live somewhere else?"

"No, sir."

"Does he never leave his key with you when he goes out?"

"No, sir."

"Did you see him come in last night? Was he at home?"

"No, sir. I rang several times, about dusk, but no one opened. I did
not hear him come in after that. Shall I go up and ring again?"

"No." Volterra reflected for a moment. "He has left, and has taken his
key by mistake," he said. "But I should think that you must have seen
him go. He would have had some luggage with him."

The porter explained that Malipieri had sent him on an errand on the
previous afternoon, and had been gone when he returned. This seemed
suspicious to Volterra, as indeed it must have looked to any one.
Considering his views of mankind generally, it was not surprising if he
thought that Malipieri might have absconded with something valuable
which he had found in the vaults. He remembered, too, that Malipieri
had been unwilling to let him visit the treasure on the previous day,
and had named the coming afternoon instead.

"Can you get a man to open the door?" he asked.

"There is Gigi, the carpenter of the palace," answered the porter. "He
is better than a locksmith and his shop is close by--but there is the
water in the cellars--"

"Go and get him," said the Baron. "I will wait here."

The porter went out, and Volterra began to walk slowly up and down
under the archway, breathing the morning air with satisfaction, and
jingling a little bunch of keys in his pocket.

There was a knock at the postern. He listened and stood still. He knew
that the porter had the key, for he had just seen him return it to his
pocket after they had both come in; he did not wish to be disturbed by
any one else just then, so he neither answered nor moved. The knock was
repeated, louder than before. It had an authoritative sound, and no one
but Malipieri himself would have a right to knock in that way. Volterra
went to the door at once, but did not open it.

"Who is there?" he asked, through the heavy panel.

"The police," came the answer, short and sharp. "Open at once."

Volterra opened, and was confronted by a man in plain clothes, who was
accompanied by two soldiers in grey uniforms, and another man, who
looked like a cabman. On seeing a gentleman, the detective, who had
been about to enter unceremoniously, checked himself and raised his
hat, with an apology. Volterra stepped back.

"Come in," he said, "and tell me what your business is. I am the owner
of this palace, at present. I am Baron Volterra, and a Senator."

The men all became very polite at once, and entered rather sheepishly.
The cabman came in last, and Volterra shut the door.

"Who is this individual?" he asked, looking at the cabman.

"Tell your story," said the man in plain clothes, addressing the latter.

"I am a coachman, Excellency," the man answered in a servile tone. "I
have a cab, number eight hundred and seventy-six, at the service of
your Excellency, and it was I who drove the gentleman to the hospital
yesterday afternoon."

"What gentleman?"

"The gentleman who was hurt in the house of your Excellency."

Volterra stared from the cabman to the man in plain clothes, not
understanding. Then it occurred to him that the man in uniform might be
wearing it as a disguise, and that he had to do with a party of clever
thieves, and he felt for a little revolver which he always carried
about with him.

"I know nothing about the matter," he said.

"Excellency," continued the cabman, "the poor gentleman was lying here,
close to the door, bleeding from his head. You see the porter has
washed the stones this morning."

"Go on." Volterra listened attentively.

"A big man who looked more like a workman than a servant came to call
me in the square. When we got here, he unlocked the door himself, and
made me help him to put the gentleman into the cab. It was about
half-past five or a quarter to six, Excellency, and I waited at the
hospital door till eight o'clock, but could not get any money."

"What became of the big man who called you?" asked Volterra. "Why did
he not pay you?"

"He was arrested, Excellency."

"Arrested? Why? For taking a wounded man to the hospital?"

"Yes. You can imagine that I did not wish to be concerned in other
people's troubles, Excellency, nor to be asked questions. So when I had
seen the man and the doorkeepers take the gentleman in, I drove on
about twenty paces, and waited for the man to come out. But soon two
policemen came and went in, and came out again a few minutes later with
the big man walking quietly between them, and they went off in the
other direction, so that he did not even notice me."

"What did you do then?"

"May it please your Excellency, I went back to the door and asked the
doorkeeper why the man had been arrested, and told him I had not been
paid. But he laughed in my face, and advised me to go to the police for
my fare, since the police had taken the man away. And I asked him many
questions but he drove me away with several evil words."

"Is that all that happened?" asked Volterra. "Do you know nothing more?"

"Nothing, your Excellency," whined the man, "and I am a poor father of
a family with eight children, and my wife is ill--"

"Yes," interrupted Volterra, "I suppose so. And what do you know about
it all?" he enquired, turning to the man in plain clothes.

"This, sir. The gentleman was still unconscious this morning, but turns
out to be a certain Signor Pompeo Sassi. His cards were in his
pocket-book. The man who took him to the hospital was arrested because
he entirely declined to give his name, or to explain what had happened,
or where he had found the wounded gentleman. Of course all the police
stations were informed during the night, as the affair seemed
mysterious, and when this cabman came this morning and lodged a
complaint of not having been paid for a fare from this palace to the
hospital, it looked as if whatever had happened, must have happened
here, or near here, and I was sent to make enquiries."

"That is perfectly clear," the Baron said, taking out his pocket-book.
"You have no complaint to make, except that you were not paid," he
continued, speaking to the cabman. "There are ten francs, which is much
more than is owing to you. Give me your number."

The man knew that it was useless to ask for more, and as he produced
his printed number and gave it, he implored the most complicated
benedictions, even to miracles, including a thousand years of life and
everlasting salvation afterwards, all for the Baron, his family, and
his descendants.

"I suppose he may go now," Volterra said to the police officer.

The cabman would have liked to stay, but one of the soldiers opened the
postern and stood waiting by it till he had gone out, and closed it
upon his parting volley of blessings. The Senator reflected that they
might mean a vote, some day, and did not regret his ten francs.

"I know Signor Sassi," he said to the detective. "He was the agent of
Prince Conti's estate, and of this palace. But I did not know that he
had been here yesterday afternoon. I live in the Via Ludovisi and had
just come here on business, when you knocked."

He was very affable now, and explained the porter's absence, and the
fact that a gentleman who had lived in the house, but had left it, had
accidentally taken his key with him, so that it was necessary to get a
workman to open the door.

"And it is as well that you should be here," he added, "for the big man
of whom the cabman spoke may be the servant of that gentleman. I
remember seeing him once, and I noticed that he was unusually big. He
may have been here yesterday after his master left, and we may find
some clue in the apartment."

"Excellent!" said the detective, rubbing his hands.

He was particularly fond of cases in which doors had to be opened by
force, and understood that part of his business thoroughly.

The key turned in the lock of the postern, and the porter entered,
bringing Gigi with him. They both started and turned pale when they saw
the policeman and the detective.

"At what time did Signor Malipieri send you out on that errand
yesterday afternoon?" asked Volterra, looking hard at the porter.

The old man drew himself up, wiped his forehead with a blue cotton
handkerchief, and looked from the Baron to the detective, trying to
make out whether his employer wished him to speak the truth. A moment's
reflection told him that he had better do so, as the visit of the
police must be connected with the stain of blood he had washed from the
pavement, and he could prove that he had nothing to do with it.

"It was about five o'clock," he answered quietly.

"And when did you come back?" enquired the detective.

"It was dusk. It was after Ave Maria, for I heard the bells ringing
before I got here."

"And you did not notice the blood on the stones when you came in,
because it was dusk, I suppose," said the detective, assuming a knowing
smile, as if he had caught the man.

"I saw it this morning," answered the porter without hesitation, "and I
washed it away."

"You should have called the police," said the other severely.

"Should I, sir?" The porter affected great politeness all at once. "You
will excuse my ignorance."

"We are wasting time," Volterra said to the detective. "The porter
knows nothing about it. Let us go upstairs."

He led the way, and the others followed, including Gigi, who carried a
leathern bag containing a few tools.

"It is of no use to ring again," observed Volterra. "There cannot be
anybody in the apartment, and this is my own house. Open that door for
us, my man, and do as little damage as you can."

Gigi looked at the patent lock.

"I cannot pick that, sir," he said. "The gentleman made me put it on
for him, and it is one of those American patent locks."

"Break it, then," Volterra answered.

Gigi selected a strong chisel, and inserted the blade in the crack of
the door, on a level with the brass disk. He found the steel bolt
easily.

"Take care," he said to the Baron, who was nearest to him and drew back
to give him room to swing his hammer.

He struck three heavy blows, and the door flew open at the third. The
detective had looked at his watch, for it was his business to note the
hour at which any forcible entrance was made. It was twenty minutes to
nine. Malipieri and Sabina had slept a little more than five hours and
a half.

Malipieri, still sleeping heavily in his armchair, heard the noise in a
dream. He fancied he was in the vaults again, driving his crowbar into
the bricks, and that he suddenly heard Masin working from the other
side. But Masin was not alone, for there were voices, and he had
several people with him.

Malipieri awoke with a violent start. Volterra, the detective, the two
police soldiers, Gigi and the porter were all in the study, looking at
him as he sat there in his armchair, in the broad light, carefully
dressed as if he had been about to go out when he had sat down.

"You sleep soundly, Signer Malipieri," said the fat Baron, with a
caressing smile.

Malipieri had good nerves, but for a moment he was dazed, and then,
perhaps for the first time in his life, he was thoroughly frightened,
for he knew that Sabina must be still asleep in his room, and in spite
of his urgent request when he had left her, he did not believe that she
had locked the door after all. The first thought that flashed upon him
was that Volterra had somehow discovered that she was there, and had
come to find her. There were six men in the room; he guessed that the
Baron was one of those people who carry revolvers about with them, and
two of the others were police soldiers, also armed with revolvers. He
was evidently at their mercy. Short of throwing at least three of the
party out of the window, nothing could avail. Such things are done
without an effort on the stage by the merest wisp of a man, but in real
life one must be a Hercules or a gladiator even to attempt them.
Malipieri thought of what Sabina had said in the vault. Had any two
people ever been in such a situation before?

For one instant, his heart stood still, and he passed his hand over his
eyes.

"Excuse me," he said then, quite naturally. "I had dressed to go to
your house this morning, and I fell asleep in my chair while waiting
till it should be time. How did you get in? And why have you brought
these people with you?"

He was perfectly cool now, and the Baron regretted that he had made a
forcible entrance.

"I must really apologize," he answered. "The porter rang yesterday
evening, several times, and again this morning, but could get no
answer, and as you had told me that you were going to change your
quarters, we supposed that you had left and had accidentally taken the
key with you."

Malipieri did not believe a word of what he said, but the tone was very
apologetic.

"The cellars are flooded," said the porter, speaking over Volterra's
shoulder.

"I know it," Malipieri answered. "I was going to inform you of that
this morning," he continued, speaking to the Baron. "I do not think
that the police are necessary to our conversation," he added, smiling
at the detective.

"I beg your pardon, sir," answered the latter, "but we are here to ask
if you know anything of a grave accident to a certain Signor Sassi, who
was taken from this palace unconscious, yesterday afternoon, at about a
quarter to six, by a very large man, who would not give any name, nor
any explanation, and who was consequently arrested."

Malipieri did not hesitate.

"Only this much," he replied. "With the authority of the Senator here,
who is the owner of the palace, I have been making some archaeological
excavations in the cellars. Signor Sassi was the agent--"

"I have explained that," interrupted the Baron, turning to the
detective. "I will assume the whole responsibility of this affair.
Signor Sassi shall be well cared for. I shall be much obliged if you
will leave us."

He spoke rather hurriedly.

"It is my duty to make a search in order to discover the motive of the
crime," said the detective with importance.

"What crime?" asked Malipieri with sudden sternness.

"Signor Sassi was very badly injured in this palace," answered the
other. "The man who took him to the hospital would give no account of
himself, and the circumstances are suspicious. The Baron thinks that
the man may be your servant."

"Yes, he is my servant," Malipieri said. "Signor Sassi was trying to
follow me into the excavations--"

"Yes, yes--that is of no importance," interrupted Volterra.

"I think it is," retorted Malipieri. "I will not let any man remain in
prison suspected of having tried to murder poor old Sassi! I went on,"
he continued, explaining to the detective, "leaving the two together.
The old gentleman must have fallen and hurt himself so badly that my
man thought it necessary to carry him out at once. When I tried to get
back, I found that the water had risen in the excavations and that the
passage was entirely closed, and I had to work all night with a crowbar
and pickaxe to break another way for myself. As for my man, if he
refused to give any explanations, it was because he had express orders
to preserve the utmost secrecy about the excavations. He is a faithful
fellow, and he obeyed. That is all."

"A very connected account, sir, from your point of view," said the
detective. "If you will allow me, I will write it down. You see, the
service requires us to note everything."

"Write it down by all means," Malipieri answered quietly. "You will
find what you need at that table."

The detective sat down, pulled back the cuff of his coat, took up the
pen and began his report with a magnificent flourish.

"You two may go," said Malipieri to the porter and Gigi. "We shall not
want you any more."

"As witnesses, perhaps," said the detective, overhearing. "Pray let
them stay."

He went on writing, and the Baron settled himself in Malipieri's
armchair, and lit a cigar. Malipieri walked slowly up and down the
room, determined to keep perfectly cool.

"I hope the Baroness is quite well," he said after a time.

"Quite well, thank you," answered Volterra, nodding and smiling.

Malipieri continued to pace the floor, trying to see some way out of
the situation in which he was caught, and praying to heaven that Sabina
might still be sound asleep. If she were up, she would certainly come
to the study in search of him before long, as the doors opened in no
other direction. All his nerves and faculties were strung to the utmost
tension, and if the worst came he was prepared to attempt anything.

"It is a very fine day after the rain," observed the Baron presently.

"It never rains long in Rome, in the spring," answered Malipieri.

The detective wrote steadily, and neither spoke again till he had
finished.

"Of course," he said to Malipieri, "you are quite sure of your
statements."

"Provided that you have written down exactly what I said," Malipieri
answered.

The detective rose and handed him the sheets, at which he glanced
rapidly.

"Yes. That is what I said."

"Let me see," Volterra put in, rising and holding out his hand.

He took the paper and read every word carefully, before he returned the
manuscript.

"You might add," he said, "that I have been most anxious to keep the
excavations a secret because I do not wish to be pestered by reporters
before I have handed over to the government any discoveries which may
be made."

"Certainly," answered the man, taking his pen again, and writing
rapidly.

Volterra was almost as anxious to get rid of him as Malipieri himself.
What the latter had said had informed him that in spite of the water
the vaults could be reached, and he was in haste to go down. He had,
indeed, noted the fact that whereas Sabina had left his house with
Sassi at five o'clock, the latter had been taken to the hospital only
three quarters of an hour later, and he wondered where she could be;
but it did not even occur to him as possible that she should be in
Malipieri's apartment. The idea would have seemed preposterous.

The detective rose, folded the sheets of paper and placed them in a
large pocket-book which he produced.

"And now, gentlemen," he said, "we have only one more formality to
fulfil, before I have the honour of taking my leave."

"What is that?" asked the Baron, beginning to show his impatience at
last.

"Signor Malipieri--is that your name, sir? Yes. Signer Malipieri will
be kind enough to let me and my men walk through the rooms of the
apartment."

"I think that is quite unnecessary," Malipieri answered. "By this time
Signor Sassi has probably recovered consciousness, and has told his own
story, which will explain the accident."

"In the performance of my duty," objected the detective, "I must go
through the house, to see whether there are any traces of blood. I am
sure that you will make no opposition."

Fate was closing in upon Malipieri, but he kept his head as well as he
could. He opened the door that led back to the hall.

"Will you come?" he said, showing the way.

The detective glanced at the other door, but said nothing and prepared
to follow.

"I will stay here," said the Baron, settling himself in the armchair
again.

"Oh, no! Pray come," Malipieri said. "I should like you to see for
yourself that Sassi was not hurt here."

Volterra rose reluctantly and went with the rest. His chief
preoccupation was to get rid of the detective and his men as quickly as
possible. Malipieri opened the doors as he went along, and showed
several empty rooms, before he came to Masin's.

"This is where my man sleeps," he said carelessly.

The detective went in, looked about and suddenly pounced upon a towel
on which there were stains of blood.

"What is this?" he asked sharply. "What is the meaning of this?"

Malipieri showed his scarred hands.

"After I got out of the vault, I washed here," he said. "I had cut my
hands a good deal, as you see. Of course the blood came off on the
towels."

The detective assumed his smile of professional cunning.

"I understand," he said. "But do you generally wash in your servant's
room?"

"No. It happened to be convenient when I got in. There was water here,
and there were towels."

"It is strange," said the detective.

Even Volterra looked curiously at Malipieri, for he was much puzzled.
But he was impatient, too, and came to the rescue.

"Do you not see," he asked of the detective, "that Signor Malipieri was
covered with dust and that his clothes were very wet? There they are,
lying on the floor. He did not wish to go to his bedroom as he was,
taking all that dirt and dampness with him, so he came here."

"That is a sufficient explanation, I am sure," said Malipieri.

"Perfectly, perfectly," answered the detective, smiling. "Wrap up those
towels in a newspaper," he said to the two soldiers. "We will take them
with us. You see," he continued in an apologetic tone, "we are obliged
to be very careful in the execution of our duties. If Signor Sassi
should unfortunately die in the hospital, and especially if he should
die unconscious, the matter would become very serious, and I should be
blamed if I had not made a thorough examination."

"I hope he is not so seriously injured," said Malipieri.

"The report we received was that his skull was fractured," answered the
detective calmly. "The hospitals report all suspicious cases to the
police stations by telephone during the night, and of course, as your
man refused to speak, special enquiries were made about the wounded
gentleman."

"I understand," said Malipieri. "And now, I suppose, you have made a
sufficient search."

"We have not seen your own room. If you will show me that, as a mere
formality, I think I need not trouble you any further."

It had come at last. Malipieri felt himself growing cold, and said
nothing for a moment. Volterra again began to watch him curiously.

"I fancy," the detective said, "that your room opens from the study in
which we have already been. I only wish to look in."

"There is a small room before it, where I keep my clothes."

"I suppose we can go through the small room?"

"You may see that," said Malipieri, "but I shall not allow you to go
into my bedroom."

"How very strange!" cried Volterra, staring at him.

Then the fat Baron broke into a laugh, that, made his watch-chain dance
on his smooth and rotund speckled waistcoat.

"I see! I see!" he tried to say.

The detective understood, and smiled in a subdued way. Malipieri knit
his brows angrily, as he felt himself becoming more and more utterly
powerless to stave off the frightful catastrophe that threatened
Sabina. But the detective was anxious to make matters pleasant by
diplomatic means.

"I had not been told that Signor Malipieri was a married man," he said.
"Of course, if the Signora Malipieri is not yet visible, I shall be
delighted to give her time to dress."

Malipieri bit his lip and made a few steps up and down.

"I did not know that your wife was in Rome," Volterra said, glancing at
him, and apparently confirming the detective in his mistake.

"For that matter," said the detective, "I am a married man myself, and
if the lady is in bed, she might allow me merely to stand at the door,
and glance in."

"I think she is still asleep," Malipieri answered. "I do not like to
disturb her, and the room is quite dark."

"My time is at your disposal," said the detective. "Shall we go back
and wait in the study? You would perhaps be so kind as to see whether
the Signora is awake or not, but I am quite ready to wait till she
comes out of her room. I would not put her to any inconvenience for the
world, I assure you."

"Really," the Baron said to Malipieri, "I think you might wake her."

The soldiers looked on stolidly, the porter kept his eyes and ears
open, and Gigi, full of curiosity, wore the expression of a smiling
weasel. To the porter's knowledge, so far as it went, no woman but his
own wife had entered the palace since Malipieri had been living in it.

Malipieri made no answer to Volterra's last speech, and walked up and
down, seeking a solution. The least possible one seemed to be that
suggested by the Baron himself. The latter, though now very curious,
was more than ever in a hurry to bring the long enquiry to a close. It
occurred to him that it would simplify matters if he and Malipieri and
the detective were left alone together, and he said so, urging that as
there was unexpectedly a lady in the case, the presence of so many
witnesses should be avoided. Even now he never thought of the
possibility that the lady in question might be Sabina.

The detective now yielded the point willingly enough, and the soldiers
were sent off with Gigi and the porter to wait in the latter's lodge.
It was a slight relief to Malipieri to see them go. He and his two
companions went back to the study together.

The Baron resumed his seat in the armchair; he always sat down when he
had time, and he had not yet finished his big cigar. The detective went
to the window and looked out through the panes, as if to give Malipieri
time to make up his mind what to do; and Malipieri paced the floor with
bent head, his hands in his pockets, in utter desperation. At any
moment Sabina might appear, yet he dared not even go to her door, lest
the two men should follow him.

But at least he could prevent her from coming in, for he could lock the
entrance to the small room. As he reached the end of his walk he turned
the key and put it into his pocket. The detective turned round sharply
and Volterra moved his head at the sound.

"Why do you do that?" he asked, in a tone of annoyance.

"Because no one shall go in, while I have the key," Malipieri answered.

"I must go in, sooner or later," said the detective, "I can wait all
day, and all night, if you please, for I shall not use force where a
lady is concerned. But I must see that room."

Like all such men, he was obstinate, when he believed that he was doing
his duty. Malipieri looked from him to Volterra, and back again, and
suddenly made up his mind. He preferred the detective, of the two, if
he must trust any one, the more so as the latter probably did not know
Sabina by sight.

"If you will be so kind as to stay there, in that armchair," he said to
Volterra, "I will see what I can do to hasten matters. Will you?"

"Certainly. I am very comfortable here." The Baron laughed a little.

"Then," said Malipieri, turning to the detective, "kindly come with me,
and I will explain as far as I can."

He took the key from his pocket again, and opened the door of the small
room, let in the detective and shut it after him without locking it. He
had hardly made up his mind what to say, but he knew what he wished.

"This is a very delicate affair," he began in a whisper. "I will see
whether the lady is awake."

He went to the door of the bedroom on tiptoe and listened. Not a sound
reached him. The room was quite out of hearing of the rest of the
apartment, and Sabina, accustomed as she was to sleep eight hours
without waking, was still resting peacefully. Malipieri came back
noiselessly.

"She is asleep," he whispered. "Will you not take my word for it that
there is nothing to be found in the room which can have the least
connection with Sassi's accident?"

The detective shook his head gravely, and raised his eyebrows, while he
shut his eyes, as some men do when they mean that nothing can convince
them.

"I advise you to go in and wake your wife," he whispered, still very
politely. "She can wrap herself up and sit in a chair while I look in."

"That is impossible. I cannot go in and wake her."

The detective looked surprised, and was silent for a moment.

"This is a very strange situation," he muttered. "A man who dares not
go into his wife's room when she is asleep--I do not understand."

"I cannot explain," answered Malipieri, "but it is altogether
impossible. I ask you to believe me, on my oath, that you will find
nothing in the room."

"I have already told you, sir, that I must fulfil the formalities,
whatever I may wish to believe. And it is my firm belief that Signor
Sassi came by the injuries of which he may possibly die, somewhere in
this apartment, yesterday afternoon. My reputation is at stake, and I
am a government servant. To oblige you, I will wait an hour, but if the
lady is not awake then, I shall go and knock at that door and call
until she answers. It would be simpler if you would do it yourself.
That is all, and you must take your choice."

Malipieri saw that he must wake Sabina, and explain to her through the
door that she must dress. He reflected a moment, and was about to ask
the detective to go back to the study, when a sound of voices came from
that direction, and one was a woman's.

"It seems that there is another lady in the house," said the detective.
"Perhaps she can help us. Surely you will allow a lady to enter your
wife's room and wake her."

But Malipieri was speechless at that moment and was leaning stupidly
against the jamb of the study door. He had recognized the voice of the
Baroness talking excitedly with her husband. Fate had caught him now,
and there was no escape. Instinctively, he was sure that the Baroness
had come in search of Sabina, and would not leave the house till she
had found her, do what he might.





CHAPTER XVIII




The Baroness had been called to the telephone five minutes after
Volterra had gone out with the porter, leaving word that he was going
to the Palazzo Conti and would be back within two hours. The message
she received was from the Russian Embassy, and informed her that the
dowager Princess Conti had arrived at midnight, was the guest of the
Ambassador, and wished her daughter Sabina to come and see her between
eleven and twelve o'clock. In trembling tones the Baroness had
succeeded in saying that Sabina should obey, and had rung off the
connection at once. Then, for the first time in her life, she had felt
for a moment as if she were going to faint.

The facts, which were unknown to her, were simple enough. The
Ambassador had been informed that a treasure had been discovered, and
had telegraphed the fact in cipher to the Minister of Foreign Affairs
in St. Petersburg, who had telegraphed the news to Prince Rubomirska,
who had telegraphed to the Ambassador, who was his intimate friend,
requesting him to receive the Princess for a few days. As the Prince
and his sister were already in the country, in Poland, not far from the
Austrian frontier, it had not taken her long to reach Rome. Of all
this, the poor Baroness was in ignorance. The one fact stared her in
the face, that the Princess had come to claim Sabina, and Sabina had
disappeared.

She had learned that the porter had come to say that the cellars of the
Palazzo Conti were flooded, and she knew that her husband would be
there some time. She found Sassi's card, on which his address was
printed, and she drove there in a cab, climbed the stairs and rang the
bell. The old woman who opened was in terrible trouble, and was just
going out. She showed the Baroness the news of Sassi's mysterious
accident shortly given in a paragraph of the _Messaggero_, the little
morning paper which is universally read greedily by the lower classes.
She was just going to the accident hospital, the "Consolazione," to see
her poor master. He had gone out at half past four on the previous
afternoon, and she had sat up all night, hoping that he would come in.
She was quite sure that he had not returned at all after he had gone
out. She was quite sure, too, that he had been knocked down and robbed,
for he had a gold watch and chain, and always carried money in his
pocket.

The Baroness looked at her, and saw that she was speaking the truth and
was in real distress. It would be quite useless to search the rooms for
Sabina. The old woman-servant had no idea who the Baroness was, and in
her sudden trouble would certainly have confided to her that there was
a young lady in the house, who had not been able to get home.

"For the love of heaven, Signora," she cried, "come with me to the
hospital, if you know him, for he may be dying."

The Baroness promised to go later, and really intended to do so. She
drove to the convent in which Donna Clementina was now a cloistered
nun, and asked the portress whether Donna Sabina Conti had been to see
her sister on the previous day. The portress answered that she had not,
and was quite positive of the fact. The Baroness looked at her watch
and hastened to the Palazzo Conti. When she got there, the porter had
already returned to his lodge, and he led her upstairs and to the door
of the study.

Finding her husband alone, she explained what was the matter, in a few
words and in a low voice. The Princess had come back, and wished to see
Sabina that very morning, and Sabina could not be found. She sank into
a chair, and her sallow face expressed the utmost fright and perplexity.

"Sassi left our house at five o'clock with Sabina," said the Baron,
"and at a quarter to six he was taken from the door of this palace to
the hospital by Malipieri's man. Either Malipieri or his man must have
seen her."

"She is here!" cried the Baroness in a loud tone, something of the
truth flashing upon her. "I know she is here!"

Volterra's mind worked rapidly at the possibility, as at a problem. If
his wife were not mistaken it was easy to explain Malipieri's flat
refusal to let any one enter the bedroom.

"You may be right," he said, rising. "If she is in the palace she is in
the room beyond that one." He pointed to the door. "You must go in," he
said. "Never mind Malipieri. I will manage him."

At that moment the door opened. Malipieri had recovered his senses
enough to attempt a final resistance, and stood there, very pale, ready
for anything.

But the fat Baron knew what he was about, and as he came forward with
his wife he suddenly thrust out his hand at Malipieri's head, and the
latter saw down the barrel of Volterra's revolver.

"You must let my wife pass," cried Volterra coolly, "or I will shoot
you."

Malipieri was as active as a sailor. In an instant he had hurled
himself, bending low, at the Baron's knees, and the fat man fell over
him, while the revolver flew from his hand, half across the room,
fortunately not going off as it fell on its side. While Malipieri was
struggling to get the upper hand, the detective ran forward and helped
Volterra. The two threw themselves upon the younger man, and between
the detective's wiry strength and the Baron's tremendous weight, he lay
panting and powerless on his back for an instant.

The Baroness had possibly assisted at some scenes of violence in the
course of her husband's checkered career. At all events, she did not
stop to see what happened after the way was clear, but ran to the door
of the bedroom, and threw it wide open, for it was not locked. The
light that entered showed her where the window was; she opened it in an
instant, and looked round.

Sabina was sitting up in bed, staring at her with a dazed expression,
her hair in wild confusion round her pale face and falling over her
bare neck. Her clothes lay in a heap on the floor, beside the bed,
Never was any woman more fairly caught in a situation impossible to
explain. Even in that first moment she felt it, when she looked at the
Baroness's face.

The latter did not speak, for she was utterly incapable of finding
words. The sound of a scuffle could be heard from the study in the
distance; she quietly shut the door and turned the key. Then she came
and stood by the bed, facing the window. Sabina had sunk back upon the
pillows, but her eyes looked up bravely and steadily. Of the two she
was certainly the one less disturbed, even then, for she remembered
that Malipieri had meant to go and tell the Baroness the whole truth,
early in the morning. He had done so, of course, and the Baroness had
come to take her back, very angry of course, but that was all. This was
what Sabina told herself, but she guessed that matters would turn out
much worse.

"Did he tell you how it happened that I could not get home?" she asked,
almost calmly.

"No one has told me anything. Your mother arrived in Rome last night.
She is at the Russian Embassy and wishes to see you at eleven o'clock."

"My mother?" Sabina raised herself on one hand in surprise.

"Yes. And I find you here."

The Baroness folded her arms like a man, her brows contracted, and her
face was almost livid.

"Have you the face to meet your mother, after this?" she asked sternly.

"Yes--of course," answered Sabina. "But I must go home and dress. My
frock is ruined."

"You are a brazen creature," said the Baroness in disgust and anger.
"You do not seem to know what shame means."

Sabina's deep young eyes flashed; it was not safe to say such things to
her.

"I have done nothing to be ashamed of," she answered proudly, "and you
shall not speak to me like that. Do you understand?"

"Nothing to be ashamed of!" The Baroness stared at her in genuine
amazement. "Nothing to be ashamed of!" she repeated, and her voice
shook with emotion. "You leave my house by stealth, you let no one know
where you are going, and the next morning I find you here, in your
lover's house, in your lover's room, the door not even locked, your
head upon your lover's pillow! Nothing to be ashamed of! Merciful
heavens! And you have not only ruined yourself, but you have done an
irreparable injury to honest people who took you in when you were
starving!"

The poor woman paused for breath, and in her horror, she hid her face
in her hands. She had her faults, no doubt, and she knew that the world
was bad, but she had never dreamt of such barefaced and utterly
monstrous cynicism as Sabina's. If the girl had been overcome with
shame and repentance, and had broken down entirely, imploring help and
forgiveness, as would have seemed natural, the Baroness, for her own
social sake, might have been at last moved to help her out of her
trouble. Instead, being a person of rigid virtue and judging the
situation in the only way really possible for her to see it, she was
both disgusted and horrified. It was no wonder. But she was not
prepared for Sabina's answer.

"If I were strong enough, I would kill you," said the young girl,
quietly laying her head on the pillow again.

The Baroness laughed hysterically. She felt as if she were in the
presence of the devil himself. She was not at all a hysterical woman
nor often given to dramatic exhibitions of feeling, but she had never
dreamt that a human being could behave with such horribly brazen
shamelessness.

For some moments there was silence. Then Sabina spoke, in a quietly
scornful tone, while the Baroness turned her back on her and stood
quite still, looking out of the window.

"I suppose you have a right to be surprised," Sabina said, "but you
have no right to insult me and say things that are not true. Perhaps
Signor Malipieri likes me very much. I do not know. He has never told
me he loved me."

The Baroness's large figure shook with fury, but she did not turn
round. What more was the girl going to say? That she did not even care
a little for the man with whom she had ruined herself? Yes. That was
what she was going on to explain. It was beyond belief.

"I have only seen him a few times," Sabina said. "I daresay I shall be
very fond of him if I see him often. I think he is very like my ideal
of what a man should be."

The Baroness turned her face half round with an expression that was
positively savage. But she said nothing, and again looked through the
panes. She remembered afterwards that the room smelt slightly of stale
cigar smoke, soap and leather.

"He wished me to see the things he has found before any one else
should," Sabina continued. "So he got Sassi to bring me here. While we
were in the vaults, the water came, and we could not get out. He worked
for hours to break a hole, and it was two o'clock in the morning when
we were free. I had not had any dinner, and of course I could not go
with him to your house at that hour, even if I had not been worn out.
So he brought me here and gave me something to eat, and his room to
sleep in. As for the door not being locked, he told me twice to lock
it, and I was so sleepy that I forgot to. That is what happened." After
an ominous silence, the Baroness turned round. Her face was almost
yellow now.

"I do not believe a word you have told me," she said, half choking.

"Then go!" cried Sabina, sitting up with flashing eyes. "I do not care
a straw whether you believe the truth or not! Go! Go!"

She stretched out one straight white arm and pointed to the door, in
wrath. The Baroness looked at her, and stood still a moment. Then she
shrugged her shoulders in a manner anything but aristocratic, and left
the room without deigning to turn her head. The instant she was gone
Sabina sprang out of bed and locked the door after her.

Meanwhile, the struggle between Malipieri and his two adversaries had
come to an end very soon. Malipieri had not really expected to prevent
the Baroness from going to Sabina, but he had wished to try and explain
matters to her before she went. He had upset Volterra, because the
latter had pointed a revolver at his head, which will seem a sufficient
reason to most hot-tempered men. The detective had suggested putting
handcuffs on him, while they held him down, but Volterra was anxious to
settle matters amicably.

"It was my fault," he said, drawing back. "I thought that you were
going to resist, and I pulled out my pistol too soon. I offer you all
my apologies."

He had got to his feet with more alacrity than might have been expected
of such a fat man, and was adjusting his collar and tie, and smoothing
his waistcoat over his rotundity. Malipieri had risen the moment he was
free. The detective looked as if nothing had happened out of the common
way, and the neatness of his appearance was not in the least disturbed.

"I offer you my apologies, Signor Malipieri," repeated the Baron
cordially and smiling in a friendly way. "I should not have drawn my
pistol on you. I presume you will accept the excuses I make?"

"Do not mention the matter," answered Malipieri with coolness, but
civilly enough, seeing that there was nothing else to be done. "I trust
you are none the worse for your fall."

"Not at all, not at all," replied Volterra. "I hope," he said, turning
to the detective, "that you will say nothing about this incident, since
no harm has been done. It concerns a private matter,--I may almost say,
a family matter. I have some little influence, and if I can be of any
use to you, I shall always be most happy."

The gratitude of so important a personage was not to be despised, as
the detective knew. He produced a card bearing his name, and handed it
to the Senator with a bow.

"Always at your service, sir," he said. "It is very fortunate that the
revolver did not go off and hurt one of us," he added, picking up the
weapon and handing it to Volterra. "I have noticed that these things
almost invariably kill the wrong person, when they kill anybody at all,
which is rare."

Volterra smiled, thanked him and returned the revolver to his pocket.
Malipieri had watched the two in silence. Fate had taken matters out of
his hands, and there was absolutely nothing to be done. In due time,
Sabina would come out with the Baroness, but he could not guess what
would happen then. Volterra would probably not speak out before the
detective, who would not recognize Sabina, even if he knew her by
sight. The Baroness would take care that he should not see the girl's
face, as both Volterra and Malipieri knew.

The three men sat down and waited in silence after the detective had
last spoken. Volterra lit a fresh cigar, and offered one to the
detective a few moments later. The latter took it with a bow and put it
into his pocket for a future occasion.

The door opened at last, and the Baroness entered, her face discoloured
to a blotchy yellowness by her suppressed anger. She stood still a
moment after she had come in, and glared at Malipieri. He and the
detective rose, but Volterra kept his seat.

"Were you right, my dear?" the latter enquired, looking at her.

"Yes," she answered in a thick voice, turning to him for an instant,
and then glaring at Malipieri again, as if she could hardly keep her
hands from him in her righteous anger.

He saw clearly enough that she had not believed the strange story which
Sabina must have told her, and he wondered whether any earthly power
could possibly make her believe it in spite of herself. During the
moments of silence that followed, the whole situation rose before him,
in the only light under which it could at first appear to any ordinary
person. It was frightful to think that what had been a bit of romantic
quixotism on his part, in wishing Sabina to see the statues which
should have been hers, should end in her social disgrace, perhaps in
her utter ruin if the Baroness and her husband could not be mollified.
He did not know that there was one point in Sabina's favour, in the
shape of the Princess's sudden return to Rome, though he guessed the
Baroness's character well enough to have foreseen, had he known of the
new complication, that she would swallow her pride and even overlook
Sabina's supposed misdeeds, rather than allow the Princess to accuse
her of betraying her trust and letting the young girl ruin herself.

"I must consult with you," the Baroness said to her husband,
controlling herself as she came forward into the room and passed
Malipieri. "We cannot talk here," she added, glancing at the detective.

"This gentleman," said Volterra, waving his hand towards the latter,
"is here officially, to make an enquiry about Sassi's accident."

"I shall be happy to wait outside if you have private matters to
discuss," said the detective, who wished to show himself worthy of the
Baron's favour, if he could do so without neglecting his duties.

"You are extremely obliging," Volterra said, in a friendly tone.

The detective smiled, bowed and left the room by the door leading
towards the hall.

"It seems to me," the Baroness said, still suppressing her anger, as
she turned her face a little towards Malipieri and spoke at him over
her shoulder, "it seems to me that you might go too."

It was not for Malipieri to resent her tone or words just then, and he
knew it, though he hated her for believing the evidence of her senses
rather than Sabina's story. He made a step towards the door.

"No," Volterra said, without rising, "I think he had better stay, and
hear what we have to say about this. After all, the responsibility for
what has happened falls upon him."

"I should think it did!" cried the Baroness, breaking out at last, in
harsh tones. "You abominable villain, you monster of iniquity, you
snake, you viper--"

"Hush, hush, my dear!" interposed the Baron, realizing vaguely that his
wife's justifiable excitement was showing itself in unjustifiably
vulgar vituperation.

"You toad!" yelled the Baroness, shaking her fist in Malipieri's face.
"You reptile, you accursed ruffian, you false, black-hearted, lying son
of Satan!"

She gasped for breath, and her whole frame quivered with fury, while
her livid lips twisted themselves to hiss out the epithets of abuse.
Volterra feared lest she should fall down in an apoplexy, and he rose
from his seat quickly. He gathered her to his corpulent side with one
arm and made her turn away towards the window, which he opened with his
free hand.

"I should be all that, and worse, if a tenth of what you believe were
true," Malipieri said, coming nearer and then standing still.

He was very pale, and he was conscious of a cowardly wish that
Volterra's revolver might have killed him ten minutes earlier. But he
was ashamed of the mere thought when he remembered what Sabina would
have to face. Volterra, while holding his wife firmly against the
window sill, to force her to breathe the outer air, turned his head
towards Malipieri.

"She is quite beside herself, you see," he said apologetically.

The Baroness was a strong woman, and after the first explosion of her
fury she regained enough self-control to speak connectedly. She turned
round, in spite of the pressure of her husband's arm.

"He is not even ashamed of what he has done!" she said. "He stands
there--"

The Baron interrupted her, fearing another outburst.

"Let me speak," he said in the tone she could not help obeying. "What
explanation have you to offer of Donna Sabina's presence here?" he
asked.

As he put the question, he nodded significantly to Malipieri, over his
wife's shoulder, evidently to make the latter understand that he must
at least invent some excuse if he had none ready. The Baron did not
care a straw what became of him, or of Sabina, and wished them both out
of his way for ever, but he had always avoided scandal, and was
especially anxious to avoid it now.

Malipieri resented the hint much more than the Baroness's anger, but he
was far too much in the wrong, innocent though he was, to show his
resentment.

He told his story firmly and coolly, and it agreed exactly with
Sabina's.

"That is exactly what happened last night," he concluded. "If you will
go down, you will find the breach I made, and the first vaults full of
water. I have nothing more to say."

"You taught her the lesson admirably," said the Baroness with withering
scorn. "She told me the same story almost word for word!"

"Madam," Malipieri answered, "I give you my word of honour that it is
true."

"My dear," Volterra said, speaking to his wife, "when a gentleman gives
his word of honour, you are bound to accept it."

"I hope so," said Malipieri.

"Any man would perjure himself for a woman," retorted the Baroness with
contempt.

"No, my dear," the Baron objected, trying to mollify her. "Perjury is a
crime, you know."

"And what he has done is a much worse crime!" she cried.

"I have not committed any crime," Malipieri answered. "I would give all
I possess, and my life, to undo what has happened, but I have neither
said nor done anything to be ashamed of. For Donna Sabina's sake, you
must accept my explanation. In time you will believe it."

"Yes, yes," urged Volterra, "I am sure you will, my dear. In any case
you must accept it as the only one. I will go downstairs with Signor
Malipieri and we will take the porter to the cellars. Then you can go
out with Sabina, and if you are careful no one will ever know that she
has been here."

"And do you mean to let her live under your roof after this?" asked the
Baroness indignantly.

"Her mother is now in Rome," answered Volterra readily. "When she is
dressed, you will take her to the Princess, and you will say that as we
are going away, we are reluctantly obliged to decline the
responsibility of keeping the young girl with us any longer. That is
what you will do."

"I am glad you admit at least that she cannot live with us any longer,"
the Baroness answered. "I am sure I have no wish to ruin the poor girl,
who has been this man's unhappy victim--"

"Hush, hush!" interposed Volterra. "You must really accept the
explanation he has given."

"For decency's sake, you may, and I shall have to pretend that I do. At
least," she continued, turning coldly to Malipieri, "you will make such
reparation as is in your power."

"I will do anything I can," answered Malipieri gravely.

"You will marry her as soon as possible," the Baroness said with frigid
severity. "It is the only thing you can do."

Malipieri was silent. The Baron looked at him, and a disagreeable smile
passed over his fat features. But at that moment the door opened, and
Sabina entered. Without the least hesitation she came forward to
Malipieri, frankly holding out her hand.

"Good morning," she said. "Before I go, I wish to thank you again for
saving my life, and for taking care of me here."

He held her hand a moment.

"I ask your pardon, with all my heart, for having brought you into
danger and trouble," he answered.

"It was not your fault," she said. "It was nobody's fault, and I am
glad I saw the statues before any one else. You told me last night that
you were probably going away. If we never meet again, I wish you to
remember that you are not to reproach yourself for anything that may
happen to me. You might, you know. Will you remember?"

She spoke quite naturally and without the least fear of Volterra and
his wife, who looked on and listened in dumb surprise at her
self-possession. She meant every word she said, and more too, but she
had thought out the little speech while she was dressing, for she had
guessed what must be happening in the study. Malipieri fixed his eyes
on hers gratefully, but did not find an answer at once.

"Will you remember?" she repeated.

"I shall never forget," he answered, not quite steadily,

By one of those miracles which are the birthright of certain women, she
had made her dress look almost fresh again. The fawn-coloured hat was
restored to its shape, or nearly. The mud that had soiled her skirt had
dried and she had brushed it away, though it had left faint spots on
the cloth, here and there; pins hid the little rents so cleverly that
only a woman's eye could have detected anything wrong, and the russet
shoes were tolerably presentable. The Baroness saw traces of the
adventure to which the costume had been exposed, but Volterra smiled
and was less inclined than ever to believe the story which both had
told, though he did not say so.

"My wife and I," he said cordially, "quite understand what has
happened, and no one shall ever know about it, unless you speak of it
yourself. She will go home with you now, and will then take you to the
Russian Embassy to see your mother."

Sabina looked at him in surprise, for she had expected a disagreeable
scene. Then she glanced at the Baroness's sallow and angry face, and
she partly understood the position.

"Thank you," she said proudly, "but if you do not mind, I will go to my
mother directly. You will perhaps be so kind as to have my things sent
to the Embassy, or my mother's maid will come and get them."

"You cannot go looking like that," said the Baroness severely.

"On the contrary," Volterra interposed, "I think that considering your
dangerous adventure, you look perfectly presentable. Of course, we
quite understand that as the Princess has returned, you should wish to
go back to her at once, though we are very sorry to let you go."

Sabina paused a moment before answering. Then she spoke to the
Baroness, only glancing at Volterra.

"Until to-day, you have been very kind to me," she said with an effort.
"I thank you for your kindness, and I am sorry that you think so badly
of me."

"My dear young lady," cried the Baron, lying with hearty cordiality,
"you are much mistaken! I assure you, it was only a momentary
misapprehension on the part of my wife, who had not even spoken with
Signor Malipieri. His explanation has been more than satisfactory. Is
it not so, my dear?" he asked, turning to the Baroness for confirmation
of his fluent assurances.

"Of course," she answered, half choking, and with a face like thunder;
but she dared not disobey.

"If my mother says anything about my frock, I shall tell her the whole
story," said Sabina, glancing at her skirt.

"If you do," said the Baroness, "I shall deny it from beginning to end."

"I think that it would perhaps be wiser to explain that in some other
way," the Baron suggested. "Signor Malipieri, will you be so very kind
as to go down first, and take the porter with a light to the entrance
of the cellars? He knows Donna Sabina, you see. I will come down
presently, for I shall stay behind and ask the detective to look out of
the window in the next room, while my wife and Donna Sabina pass
through. In that way we shall be quite sure that she will not be
recognized. Will you do that, Signor Malipieri? Unless you have a
better plan to suggest, of course."

Malipieri saw that the plan was simple and apparently safe. He looked
once more at Sabina, and she smiled, and just bent her head, but said
nothing. He left the room. The detective was sitting in a corner of the
room beyond, and the two men exchanged a silent nod as Malipieri passed.

Everything was arranged as the Baron had planned, and ten minutes later
the Baroness and Sabina descended the stairs together in silence and
reached the great entrance. The two soldiers were standing by the open
door of the lodge, and saluted in military fashion. Gigi, the
carpenter, sprang forward and opened the postern door, touching his
paper cap to the ladies.

They did not exchange a word as they walked to the Piazza Sant'
Apollinare to find a cab. Sabina held her head high and looked straight
before her, and the Baroness's invisible silk bellows were distinctly
audible in the quiet street.

"By the hour," said the Baroness, as they got into the first cab they
reached on the stand. "Go to the Russian Embassy, in the Corso."





CHAPTER XIX




"So you spent last night in the rooms of a man you have not seen half a
dozen times," said the Princess, speaking with a cigarette in her
mouth. "And what is worse, those dreadful Volterra people found you
there. No Conti ever had any common sense!"

What Sabina had foreseen had happened. Her mother had looked her over,
from head to foot, to see what sort of condition she was in, as a
horse-dealer looks over a promising colt he has not seen for some time;
and the Princess had instantly detected the signs of an accident. In
answer to her question Sabina told the truth. Her mother had watched
her face and her innocent eyes while she was telling the story, and
needed no other confirmation.

"You are a good girl," she continued, as Sabina did not reply to the
last speech. "But you are a little fool. I wonder why my children are
all idiots! I am not so stupid after all. I suppose it must have been
your poor father."

The white lids closed thoughtfully over her magnificent eyes, and
opened again after a moment, as if she had called up a vision of her
departed husband and had sent it away again.

"I suppose it was silly of me to go at all," Sabina admitted, leaning
back in her chair. "But I wanted so much to see the statues!"

She felt at home. Her mother had brought her up badly and foolishly,
and of late had neglected her shamefully. Sabina knew that and neither
loved her nor respected her, and it was not because she was her mother
that the girl felt suddenly at ease in her presence, as she never could
feel with the Baroness. She did not wish to be at all like her mother
in character, or even in manner, and yet she felt that they belonged to
the same kind, spoke the same language, and had an instinctive
understanding of each other, though these things implied neither mutual
respect nor affection.

"That horrible old Volterra!" said the Princess, with emphasis. "He
means to keep everything he has found, for himself, if he can. I have
come only just in time."

Sabina did not answer. She knew nothing of the law, and though she
fancied that she might have some morally just claim to a share in the
treasure, she had never believed that it could be proved.

"Of course," the Princess continued, smoking thoughtfully, "there is
only one thing to be done. You must marry this Malipieri at once,
whether you like him or not. What sort of man is he?"

The faint colour rose in Sabina's cheeks and not altogether at the mere
thought of marrying Malipieri; she was hurt by the way her mother spoke
of him.

"What kind of man is he?" the Princess repeated, "I suppose he is a
Venetian, a son of the man who married the Gradenigo heiress, about the
time when I was married myself. Is he the man who discovered Troy?"

"Carthage, I think," said Sabina.

"Troy, Carthage, America, it is all the same. He discovered something,
and I fancy he will be rich. But what is he like? Dark, fair, good,
bad, snuffy or smart? As he is an archaeologist, he must be snuffy, a
bore, probably, and what the English call a male frump. It cannot be
helped, my dear! You will have to marry him. Describe him to me."

"He is dark," said Sabina.

"I am glad of that. I always liked dark men--your father was fair, like
you. Besides, as you are a blonde, you will always look better beside a
dark husband. But of course he is dreadfully careless, with long hair
and doubtful nails. All those people are."

"No," said Sabina. "He is very nice-looking and neat, and wears good
clothes."

The Princess's brow cleared.

"All the better," she said. "Well, my dear, it is not so bad after all.
We have found a husband for you, rich, of good family--quite as good as
yours, my child! Good-looking, smart--what more do you expect? Besides,
he cannot possibly refuse to marry you after what has happened. On the
whole, I think your adventure has turned out rather well. You can be
married in a month. Every one will think it quite natural that it
should have been kept quiet until I came, you see."

"But even if I wanted to marry him, he will never ask for me," objected
Sabina, who was less surprised than might be expected, for she knew her
mother thoroughly.

The Princess laughed, and blew a cloud of smoke from her lips, and then
showed her handsome teeth.

"I have only to say the word," she answered. "When a young girl of our
world has spent the night in a man's rooms, he marries her, if her
family wishes it. No man of honour can possibly refuse. I suppose that
this Malipieri is a gentleman?"

"Indeed he is!" Sabina spoke with considerable indignation.

"Precisely. Then he will come to me this afternoon and tell his story
frankly, just as you have done--it was very sensible of you, my
dear--and he will offer to marry you. Of course I shall accept."

"But, mother," cried Sabina, aghast at the suddenness of the
conclusion, "I am not at all sure--"

She stopped, feeling that she was much more sure of being in love with
Malipieri than she had been when she had driven to the palace with
Sassi on the previous afternoon.

"Is there any one you like better?" asked the Princess sharply. "Are
you in love with any one else?"

"No! But--"

"I had never seen your father when our marriage was arranged," the
Princess observed.

"And you were very unhappy together," Sabina answered promptly. "You
always say so."

"Oh, unhappy? I am not so sure, now. Certainly Hot nearly so miserable
as half the people I know. After all, what is happiness, child? Doing
what you please, is it not?"

Sabina had not thought of this definition, and she laughed, without
accepting it. In one way, everything looked suddenly bright and
cheerful, since her mother had believed her story, and she knew that
she was not to go back to the Baroness, who had not believed her at
all, and had called her bad names.

"And I almost always did as I pleased," the Princess continued, after a
moment's reflection. "The only trouble was that your dear father did
not always like what I did. He was a very religious man. That was what
ruined us. He gave half his income to charities and then scolded me
because I could not live on the other half. Besides, he turned the Ten
Commandments into a hundred. It was a perfect multiplication, table of
things one was not to do."

Poor Sabina's recollections of her father had nothing of affection in
them, and she did not feel called upon to defend his memory. Like many
weak but devout men, he had been severe to his children, even to
cruelty, while perfectly incapable of controlling his wife's caprices.

"I remember, though I was only a little girl when he died," Sabina said.

"Is Malipieri very religious?" the Princess asked "I mean, does he make
a fuss about having fish on Fridays?" She spoke quite gravely.

"I fancy not," Sabina answered, seeing nothing odd in her mother's
implied definition of righteousness. "He never talked to me about
religion, I am sure."

"Thank God!" exclaimed the Princess devoutly.

"He always says he is a republican," Sabina remarked, glad to talk
about him.

"Really?" The Princess was interested. "I adore revolutionaries," she
said thoughtfully. "They always have something to say. I have always
longed to meet a real anarchist."

"Signor Malipieri is not an anarchist," said Sabina.

"Of course not, child! I never said he was. All anarchists are
shoemakers or miners, or something like that. I only said that I always
longed to meet one. People who do not value their lives are generally
amusing. When I was a girl, I was desperately in love with a cousin of
mine who drove a four-in-hand down a flight of steps, and won a bet by
jumping on a wild bear's back. He was always doing those things. I
loved him dearly." The Princess laughed.

"What became of him?" Sabina asked.

"He shot himself one day in Geneva, poor boy, because he was bored. I
was always sorry, though they would not have let me marry him, because
he had lost all his money at cards." The Princess sighed. "Of course
you want a lot of new clothes, my dear," she said, changing the subject
rather suddenly. "Have you nothing but that to wear?"

Sabina's things had not yet come from the Via Ludovisi. She explained
that she had plenty of clothes.

"I fancy they are nothing but rags," her mother answered incredulously.
"We shall have to go to Paris in any case for your trousseau. You
cannot get anything here."

"But we have no money," objected Sabina.

"As if that made any difference! We can always get money, somehow. What
a child you are!"

Sabina said nothing, for she knew that her mother always managed to
have what she wanted, even when it looked quite impossible. The girl
had been brought up in the atmosphere of perpetual debt and borrowing
which seemed natural to the Princess, and nothing of that sort
surprised her, though it was all contrary to her own instinctively
conscientious and honourable nature.

Her mother had always been a mystery to her, and now, as Sabina sat
near her, she crossed her feet, which were encased in a pair of the
Princess's slippers, and looked at her as she had often looked before,
wondering how such a reckless, scatter-brained, almost penniless woman
could have remained the great personage which the world always
considered her to be, and that, too, without the slightest effort on
her part to maintain her position.

Then Sabina reflected upon the Baroness's existence, which was one long
struggle to reach a social elevation not even remotely rivalling that
of the Princess Conti; a struggle in which she was armed with a large
fortune, with her husband's political power, with the most strictly
virtuous views of life, and an iron will; a struggle which could never
raise her much beyond the point she had already reached.

Sabina's meditations were soon interrupted by the arrival of her
belongings, in charge of her mother's maid, and the immediate necessity
of dressing more carefully than had been possible when she had been so
rudely roused by the Baroness. She was surprised to find herself so
little tired by the desperate adventure, and without even a cold as the
result of the never-to-be-forgotten chill she had felt in the vaults.

In the afternoon, the Princess declared that she would not go out. She
was sure that Malipieri would present himself, and she would receive
him in her boudoir. The ambassador had given her a very pretty set of
rooms. He was a bachelor, and was of course delighted to have her stay
with him, and still more pleased that her pretty daughter should join
her. It was late in the season, he was detained in Rome by an
international complication, and he looked upon the arrival of the two
guests as a godsend, more especially as the Princess was an old
acquaintance of his and the wife of an intimate friend. Nothing could
have been more delightful, and everything was for the best. The
Princess herself felt that fortune was shining upon her, for she never
doubted that she could lay hands on some of the money which the statues
would bring, and she was sure, at least, of marrying Sabina extremely
well in a few weeks, which was an advantage not to be despised.

During the hours that followed her first conversation with her mother,
Sabina found time to reflect upon her own future, and the more she
thought of it, the more rosy it seemed. She was sure that Malipieri
loved her, though he had certainly not told her so yet, and she was
sure that she had never met a man whom she liked half so much. It was
true that she had not met many, and none at all in even such intimacy
as had established itself between him and her at their very first
meeting; but that mattered little, and last night she had seen him as
few women ever see a man, fighting for her life and his own for hours
together, and winning in the end. Indeed, had she known it, their
situation had been really desperate, for while Masin was in prison and
in ignorance of what had happened, and Sassi lying unconscious at the
hospital after a fall that had nearly killed him outright, it was
doubtful whether any one else could have guessed that they were in the
vaults or would have been able to get them out alive, had it been known.

She had always expected to be married against her will by her mother,
or at all events without any inclination on her own part. She had been
taught that it was the way of the world, which it was better to accept.
If the proposed husband had been a cripple, or an old man, she would
have been capable of rebellion, of choosing the convent, of running
away alone into the world, of almost anything. But if he had turned out
to be an average individual, neither uglier, nor older, nor more
repulsive than many others, she would probably have accepted her fate
with indifference, or at least with the necessary resignation,
especially if she had never met Malipieri. Instead of that, it was
probably Malipieri whom she was to marry, the one of all others whom
she had chosen for herself, and in place of a dreary existence,
stretching out through endless blank years in the future, she saw a
valley of light, carpeted with roses, opening suddenly in the
wilderness to receive her and the man she loved.

It was no wonder that she smiled in her sleep as she lay resting in the
warm afternoon, in her own room. Her mother had made her lie down,
partly because she was still tired, and partly because it would be
convenient that she should be out of the way if Malipieri came.

He came, as the Princess had expected, and between two and three
o'clock, an hour at which he was almost sure to find her at home. From
what Sabina had said to the Baroness in his presence, and from his
judgment of the girl's character, he felt certain that she would tell
her mother the whole story at once. As they had acknowledged to each
other in the vaults, they were neither of them good at inventing
falsehoods, and Sabina would surely tell the truth. In the extremely
improbable case that she had not been obliged to say anything about the
events of the night, his visit would not seem at all out of place. He
had seen a good deal of Sabina during her mother's absence, and it was
proper that he should present himself in order to make the Princess's
acquaintance.

He studied her face quickly as he came forward, and made up his mind
that she expected him, though she looked up with an air of languid
surprise as he entered. She leaned forward a little in her comfortable
seat, and held out her plump hand.

"I think I knew your mother, and my daughter has told me about you,"
she said. "I am glad to see you."

"You are very kind," Malipieri answered, raising her hand to his lips,
which encountered a large, cool sapphire. "I have had the pleasure of
meeting Donna Sabina several times."

"Yes, I know." The Princess laughed. "Sit down here beside me, and tell
me all about your strange adventure. You are really the man I mean, are
you not?" she asked, still smiling. "Your mother was a Gradenigo?"

"Yes. My father is alive. You may have met him, though he rarely leaves
Venice."

"I think I have, years ago, but I am not sure. Does he never come to
Rome?"

"He is an invalid now," Malipieri explained gravely. "He cannot leave
the house."

"Indeed? I am very sorry. It must be dreadful to be an invalid. I was
never ill in my life. But now that we have made acquaintance, do tell
me all about last night I Were you really in danger, as Sabina thinks,
or is she exaggerating?"

"There was certainly no exaggeration in saying that we were in great
danger, as matters have turned out," Malipieri answered. "Of the two
men who knew that we were in the vault, one is lying insensible, with a
fractured skull, in the hospital of the Consolazione, and the other has
been arrested by a mistake and is in prison. Besides, both of them
would have had every reason to suppose that we had got out."

"Sabina did not tell me that. How awful! I must know all the details,
please!"

Malipieri told the whole story, from the time when Volterra had first
invited him to come and make a search. The Princess nodded her
energetic approval of his view that Sabina had a right to a large share
in anything that was found. The poor girl's dowry, she said, had been
eaten up by her father's absurd charities and by the bad administration
of the estates which had ruined the whole family. Malipieri paid no
attention to this statement, for he knew the truth, and he went on to
the end, telling everything, up to the moment when Volterra had at last
quitted the palace that morning and had left him free.

"Poor Sassi!" exclaimed the Princess, when he had finished. "He was a
foolish old man, but he always seemed very willing. Is that all?"

"Yes. That is all. I think I have forgotten nothing."

The Princess looked at him and smiled encouragingly, expecting him to
say something more, but he was grave and silent. Gradually, the smile
faded from her face, till she looked away, and took a cigarette from
the table at her elbow. Still he said nothing. She lit the cigarette
and puffed at it two or three times, slowly and thoughtfully.

"I hope that Donna Sabina is none the worse for the fatigue," Malipieri
said at last. "She seemed quite well this morning. I wondered that she
had not caught cold."

"She never caught cold easily, even as a child," answered the Princess
indifferently. "This affair may have much more serious consequences
than a cold in the head," she added, after a long pause.

"I think the Volterra couple will be discreet, for their own sakes,"
Malipieri answered.

"Their servants must know that Sabina was out all night."

"They do not know that poor Sassi did not bring her to you here, and
the Baroness will be careful to let them understand that she is here
now, and with you. Those people dread nothing like a scandal. The
secret is between them and us. I do not see how any one else can
possibly know it, or guess it."

"The fact remains," said the Princess, speaking out, "that my daughter
spent last night in your rooms, and slept there, as if she had been in
her own home. If it is ever known she will be ruined."

"It will never be known, I am quite sure."

"I am not, and it is a possibility I cannot really afford to
contemplate." She looked fixedly at him.

Malipieri was silent, and his face showed that he was trying to find
some way out of the imaginary difficulty, or at least some argument
which might quiet the Princess's fears.

She did not understand his silence. If he was a man of honour, it was
manifestly his duty at least to offer the reparation that lay in his
power; but he showed no inclination to do so. It was incomprehensible.

"I cannot see what is to be done," he said at last.

"Is it possible that I must tell you, Signer Malipieri?" asked the
Princess, and her splendid eyes flashed angrily.

Malipieri's met them without flinching.

"You mean, of course, that I should offer to marry Donna Sabina," he
said.

"What else could an honourable man do, in your position?"

"I wish I knew." Malipieri passed his hand over his eyes in evident
distress.

"Do you mean to say that you refuse?" the Princess asked, between scorn
and anger. "Are you so little one of us that you suppose this to be a
question of inclination?"

Malipieri looked up again.

"I wish it were. I love your daughter with all my heart and soul. I
did, before I saved her life last night."

The Princess's anger gave way to stupefaction.

"Well--but then? I do not understand. There is something else?"

"Yes, there is something else. I have kept the secret a long time, and
it is not all my own."

"I have a right to know it," the Princess answered firmly, and bending
her brows.

"I never expected to tell it to any one," Malipieri said, in a low
voice, and evidently struggling with himself. "I see that I shall have
to trust you."

"You must," insisted the Princess. "My daughter has a right to know, as
well as I; and you say that you love her."

"I am married."

"Good heavens!"

She sank back in her chair, overwhelmed with surprise at the simple
statement, which, after all, need not have astonished her so much, as
she reflected a moment later. She had never heard of Malipieri until
that day, and since he had never told any one of his marriage, it was
impossible that her daughter should have known of it. She was tolerably
sure that the latter's adventure would not be known, but she had formed
the determination to take advantage of it in order to secure Malipieri
for Sabina, and had been so perfectly sure of the result that she fell
from the clouds on learning that he had a wife already.

On his part, he was not thinking of what was passing in her mind, but
of what he should have thought of himself, had he, with his character,
been in her position. The bald statement that he was married and his
confession of his love for Sabina looked badly side by side, in the
clear light of his own honour; all the more, because he knew that,
without positively or directly speaking out his heart to the girl, he
had let her guess that he was falling in love with her. He had said so,
though in jest, on that night when he had been alone with her in
Volterra's house; his going there, on the mere chance of seeing her
alone, and the interest he had shown in her from their first meeting,
must have made her think that he was in love. Moreover, he really was,
and like most people who are consciously in love where they ought not
to be, he felt as if everybody knew it; and yet he was a married man.

"I am legally married under Italian law," he said, after a pause. "But
that is all. My wife bears my name, and lives honourably under it, but
that is all there has ever been of marriage in my life. I can honestly
say that not even a word of affection ever passed between us."

"How strange!" The Princess listened with interest, wondering what was
coming next.

"I never saw her but once," Malipieri continued. "We met in the
morning, we were married at noon, at the municipality, we parted at the
railway station twenty minutes later, and have never met again."

"But you are not married at all!" cried the Princess. "The Church would
annul such a marriage without making the least trouble."

"We were not even married in church," said Malipieri. "We were married
at the municipality only."

"It is not a marriage at all, then."

"Excuse me. It is perfectly valid in law, and my wife has a certified
copy of the register to prove that she has a right to my name."

"Were you mad? What made you do it? It is utterly incomprehensible--to
bind yourself for life to a woman you had never seen! What possible
motive--"

"I will tell you," said Malipieri. "It all happened long ago, when I
was little more than twenty-one. It is not a very long story, but I beg
you not to tell it. You do not suppose me capable of keeping it a
secret in order to make another marriage, not really legal do you?"

"Certainly not," answered the Princess. "I believe you to be an
honourable man. I will not tell your story to any one."

"You may tell Donna Sabina as much of it as you think she need hear.
This is what happened. I served my time in a cavalry regiment--no
matter where, and I had an intimate friend, nearly of my own age, and a
Venetian. He was very much in love with a young girl of a respectable
family, but not of his own station. Of course his family would not hear
of a marriage, but she loved him, and he promised that he would marry
her as soon as he had finished his military service, in spite of his
own people. He would have been of age by that time, for he was only a
few months younger than I, and he was willing to sacrifice most of his
inheritance for love of the girl. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Go on."

"He and I were devotedly attached to each other, said I sympathized
with him, of course, and promised to help him if he made a runaway
match. He used to get leave for a couple of days, to go and see her,
for she lived with her parents in a small city within two hours of our
garrison town. You guess what happened.--They were young, they were
foolish, and they were madly in love."

The Princess nodded, and Malipieri continued.

"Not long afterwards, my friend was killed by a fall. His horse crushed
him. It was a horrible accident, and he lived twelve hours after it, in
great pain. He would not let the doctors give him morphia. He said he
would die like a man, and he did, with all his senses about him. While
he lay dying, I was with him, and then he told me all the truth. The
girl would not be able to conceal it much longer. There was no time to
bring her to his bedside and marry her while he still breathed. He
could not even leave her money, for he was a minor. He could do nothing
for her and her parents would turn her into the street; in any case she
was ruined. He was in frightful agony of mind for her sake, he was
dying before my eyes, powerless to help her and taking his suffering
and his fault with him to the next world, and he was my friend. I did
what I could. I gave him my word of honour that I would marry her
legally, give her and her child my name, and provide for them as well
as I could. He thanked me--I shall never forget how he looked--and he
died quietly, half an hour afterwards. You know now. I kept my word.
That is all."

The Princess looked at his quiet face a moment in silence, and all that
was best in her rose up through all that was artificial and worldly,
and untruthful and vain.

"I did not know that there were such men," she said simply.





CHAPTER XX




"So he got out," said Gigi to Toto, filling the latter's glass to the
brim.

"May he die assassinated!" answered Toto. "I will burn a candle to the
Madonna every day, in order that an apoplexy may seize him. He is the
devil in person, this cursed engineer. Even the earth and the water
will not have him. They spit him out, like that."

Toto illustrated the simile with force and noise before drinking.
Gigi's cunning face was wreathed in smiles.

"You know nothing," he observed.

"What is it?" asked Toto, with his glass in his hand and between two
sips.

"There was old Sassi, who was hurt, and the engineer's gaol-bird
mason-servant. They were with him. It was all in the _Messaggero_ this
morning."

"I know that without the newspaper, you imbecile. It was I that told
you, for I saw all three pass under the window while I was locked in.
Is there anything else you know?"

"Oh, yes! There was another person with them."

"I daresay," Toto answered, pretending blank indifference. "He must
have been close to the wall as they went by. What difference does it
make since that pig of an engineer got out?"

"The other person was caught with him when the water rose," said Gigi,
who meant to give his information by inches.

"Curse him, whoever he was! He helped the engineer and that is why they
got out. No man alone could have broken through that wall in a night,
except one of us."

"The other person was only a woman, after all," answered Gigi. "But you
do not care, I suppose."

"Speak, animal of a Jesuit that you are!" cried Toto. "Do not make me
lose my soul!"

Gigi smiled and drank some of his wine.

"There are people who would pay to know," he said, "and you would never
tell me whether the sluice gate of the 'lost water' is under number
thirteen or not."

"It is under number thirteen, Master Judas. Speak!"

"It was the little fair girl of Casa Conti who was caught with the
engineer in the vaults."

Even Toto was surprised, and opened his eyes and his mouth at the same
time.

"The little Princess Sabina?" he asked in a low voice.

Gigi shrugged his shoulders with a pitying air and grinned.

"I told you that you knew nothing," he observed in triumph. "They were
together all night, and she slept in his room, and the Senator's wife
came to get her in the morning. The engineer took the porter off to the
cellars before they came down, so that he should not see her pass; but
he forgot me, the old carpenter of the house, and I opened the postern
for the two ladies to go out. The little Princess's skirt had been
torn. I saw the pins with these eyes. It was also spotted with mud
which had been brushed off. But thanks be to heaven I have still my
sight. I see, and am not blind."

"Are you sure it was she?" asked Toto, forgetting to curse anybody.

"I saw her as I see you. Have I not seen her grow up, since she used to
be wheeled about in a baby carriage in Piazza Navona, like a flower in
a basket? Her nurse made love with the 'woodpecker' who was always on
duty there."

The Romans call the municipal watchmen "woodpeckers," because they wear
little pointed cocked hats with a bunch of feathers. They have nothing
to do with police soldiers, nor with the carabineers.

Toto made Gigi tell him everything he knew. At the porter's suggestion
Volterra had sent for the mason, as the only man who knew anything
about the "lost water," and Toto had agreed, with apparent reluctance,
to do what he could at once, as soon as he had satisfied himself that
Malipieri had really made another opening by which the statues could be
reached. Toto laid down conditions, however. He pretended that he must
expose himself to great danger, and insisted upon being paid fifty
francs for the job. Furthermore, he obtained from Volterra, in the
presence of the porter as witness, a formal promise that his
grandfather's bones should have Christian burial, with a fine hearse
and feathers, and a permanent grave in the cemetery of Saint Lawrence,
which latter is rather an expensive luxury, beyond the means of the
working people. But the Baron made no objection. The story would look
very well in a newspaper paragraph, as a fine illustration of the
Senator's liberality as well as of his desire to maintain the forms of
religion. It would please everybody, and what will do that is cheap at
any price, in politics.

The result of these negotiations had of course been that the water had
subsided in the vaults within a few hours, and Toto even found a way of
draining the outer cellars, which had been flooded to the depth of a
couple of feet, because the first breach made by Malipieri had turned
out to be an inch or two lower than the level of the overflow shaft.

When the two workmen had exchanged confidences, they ordered another
half litre of wine, and sat in silence till the grimy host had set it
down between them on the blackened table, and had retired to his den.
Then they looked at each other.

"There is an affair here," observed Gigi presently.

"I suppose you mean the newspapers," said Toto nodding gravely. "They
pay for such stories."

"Newspapers!" Gigi made a face. "All journalists are pigs who are dying
of hunger."

Toto seemed inclined to agree with this somewhat extreme statement, on
the whole, but he distinguished. There were papers, he said, which
would pay as much as a hundred francs for a scandalous story about the
Roman princes. A hundred francs was not a gold mine, it was not Peru.
But it was a hundred francs. What did Gigi expect? The treasure of
Saint Peter's? A story was a story, after all, and anybody could deny
it.

"It is worth more than a hundred francs," Gigi answered, with his
weasel smile, "but not to the newspapers. The honour of a Roman
princess is worth a hundred thousand."

Toto whistled, and then looked incredulous, but it began to dawn upon
him that the "affair" was of more importance than he had supposed. Gigi
was much cleverer than he; that was why he always called Gigi an
imbecile.

The carpenter unfolded his plan. He knew as well as any one that the
Conti were ruined and could not raise any such sum as he proposed to
demand, even to save Sabina's good name. It would apparently be
necessary to extract the blackmail from Volterra by some means to be
discovered. On the other hand, Volterra was not only rich, he also
possessed much power, and it would be somewhat dangerous to incur his
displeasure.

Toto, though dull, had a certain rough common sense and pointed this
out. He said that the Princess must have jewels which she could sell to
save her daughter from disgrace. She and Donna Sabina were at the
Russian Embassy, for the _Messaggero_ said so. Gigi, who could write,
might send her a letter there.

"No doubt," assented the carpenter with a superior air. "I have some
instruction, and can write a letter. But the jewels are paste. Half the
Roman princesses wear sham jewellery nowadays. Do you suppose the Conti
have not sold everything long ago? They had to live."

"I do not see why," observed Toto. "Princes without money might as well
be dead, an apoplexy on them all! Well, what do you propose to do? That
old franc-eater of a Senator will not pay you for the girl's
reputation, since she is not his daughter."

"We must think," said Gigi. "Perhaps it would do no harm to write a
letter to the Princess. The engineer is poor, of course. It is of no
use to go to him."

"All engineers are starving to death," Toto answered cheerfully. "I
have seen them eat bread and onions and drink water, like us. Would
they eat onions and dry bread if they could have meat? It is when they
become contractors that they get money, by cheating the rich and
strangling the poor. I know them. They are all evil people."

"This is true," assented Gigi, "I have seen several, before this one."

"This one is the eternal father of all assassins," growled Toto. "He
talked of walling me up alive."

"That was only a joke, to frighten you into holding your tongue," said
Gigi. "And you did."

"A fine joke! I wish you had been down there, hiding beside the gold
statue instead of me, while two murderers sat by the little hole above
and talked of walling it up for a week or ten days! A fine joke. The
joke the cat makes to the mouse before eating it!"

"I can tell the Princess that the money must be sent In thousand-franc
notes," said Gigi, who was not listening. "It cannot go to the
post-office registered, because it must be addressed to a false name.
Somebody must bring it to us."

"And bring the police to catch us at the same time," suggested Toto
contemptuously. "That will not do."

"She must bring it herself, to a safe place."

"How?"

"For instance, I can write that she must take a cab and drive out of
the city on the Via Appia, and drive, and drive, until she meets two
men--they will be you and me--one with a red handkerchief hanging out
of his coat pocket, and the other with an old green riband for a band
to his hat. I have an old green riband that will do. She must come
alone in the cab. If we see any one with her, she shall not see us. She
will not know how far out we shall be, so she cannot send the police to
the place. It may be one mile from the gate, or five. I will write that
if she does not come alone, the story will be printed in all the papers
the next morning."

Toto now looked at his friend with something almost like admiration.

"I did not know that you had been a brigand," he remarked pleasantly.
"That is well thought. Only the Princess may not be able to get the
money, and if she does, she had better bring it in gold. We will then
go to America."

Neither of the men had the least idea that a hundred thousand francs in
gold would be an uncommonly awkward and heavy load to carry. They
supposed it would go into their pockets.

"If she does not come, we will try the Senator before we publish the
story," said Gigi. "By that time we shall have been able to think of
some way of putting him under the oil-press to squeeze the gold out of
him."

"In any case, this is a good affair," Toto concluded, filling his pipe.
"Nothing is bad which ends well, and we may both be gentlemen in
America before long."

So the two ruffians disposed of poor little Sabina's reputation in the
reeking wine shop, very much to their own imaginary advantage; and the
small yellow-and-blue clouds from their stinking pipes circled up
slowly through the gloom into the darkness above their heads, as the
light failed in the narrow street outside.

Then Gigi, the carpenter, bought two sheets of paper and an envelope,
and a pen and a wretched little bottle of ink, and a stamp, all at the
small tobacconist's at the corner of Via della Scrofa, and went to
Toto's lodging to compose his letter, because Toto lived alone, and
there were no women in the house.

Just at the same time, Volterra was leaving the Palazzo Madama, where
the Senate sits, not a couple of hundred yards away. And the two
workmen would have been very much surprised if they could have guessed
what was beginning to grow in the fertile but tortuous furrows of his
financial and political intelligence, and that in the end their schemes
might possibly fall in with his.





CHAPTER XXI




As it had become manifestly impossible to keep the secret of the
discovery in the Palazzo Conti any longer, Volterra had behaved with
his accustomed magnanimity. He had not only communicated all the
circumstances to the authorities at once, offering the government the
refusal of the statues, which the law could not oblige him to sell if
he chose to keep them in the palace, but also publicly giving full
credit to the "learned archaeologist and intrepid engineer, Signer
Marino Malipieri, already famous throughout Europe for his recent
discoveries in Carthage." In two or three days the papers were full of
Malipieri's praises. Those that were inclined to differ with the
existing state of things called him a hero, and even a martyr of
liberty, besides a very great man; and those which were staunch to the
monarchy poked mild fun at his early political flights and
congratulated him upon having descended from the skies, after burning
his wings, not only to earth, but to the waters that are under the
earth, returning to the upper air laden with treasures of art which
reflected new glory upon Italy.

All this was very fine, and much of it was undoubtedly true, but it did
not in the least help Malipieri to solve the problem which had
presented itself so suddenly in his life. The roads to happiness and to
reputation rarely lead to the same point of the compass when he who
hopes to attain both has more heart than ambition. It is not given to
many, as it was to Baron Volterra, to lead an admiring, submissive and
highly efficient wife up the broad steps of political power, financial
success and social glory. Neither Caesar nor Bonaparte reached the top
with the wife of his heart, yet Volterra, more moderately endowed,
though with almost equal ambition, bade fair to climb high with the
virtuous helpmeet of his choice on his arm.

Malipieri slept badly and grew thinner during those days. His devotion
to his dying friend had been absurdly quixotic, according to ordinary
standards, but it had never seemed foolish to him, and he had never
regretted it. He had always believed that a man of action and thought
is freer to think and act if he remains unmarried, and it had never
occurred to him that he might fall in love with a young girl, without
whom life would seem empty. He was quixotic, generous and impulsive,
but like many men who do extremely romantic things, he thought himself
quite above sentimentality and entirely master of his heart. Hitherto
the theory had worked very well, because he had never really tried to
practise it. Nothing had seemed easier than not to fall in love with
marriageable young women, and he had grown used to believing that he
never could.

With that brutality to his own feelings of which only a thoroughly
sentimental man is capable, he left the Palazzo Conti on the day
following the adventure, and took rooms in a hotel in the upper part of
the city. Nothing would have induced him to spend a night in his room
since Sabina's head had lain upon his pillow. With Volterra's powerful
help, Masin had been released, though poor Sassi had not returned to
consciousness, and Malipieri learned that the old man had changed his
mind at the last minute, had insisted upon trying to follow Sabina
after all, and had fallen heavily upon his head in trying to get down
into the first chamber; while Masin, behind him, implored him to come
back, or at least to wait for help where he was. The rest needs no
explanation.

Malipieri took a few things with him to the hotel, and left Masin to
collect his papers and books on the following day, instructing him to
send the scanty furniture, linen and household belongings to the
nearest auction rooms, to be sold at once. Masin, none the worse for a
night and day in prison, came back to his functions as if nothing had
happened. He and his master had been in more than one adventure
together. This one was over and he was quite ready for the next.

There was probably not another man in Italy, and there are not many
alive anywhere, who would have done what Malipieri did, out of pure
sentiment and nothing else. To him, it seemed like a natural sacrifice
to his inward honour, to refuse which would have been cowardly. He had
weakly allowed himself to fall in love with a girl whom he could not
possibly marry, and whom he respected as much as he loved. He guessed,
though he tried to deny it, that she was more than half in love with
him, since love sometimes comes by halves. To lie where she had lain,
dreaming of her with his aching eyes open and his blood on fire, would
be a violation of her maiden privacy, morally not much less cowardly in
the spirit than it could have been in the letter, since he could not
marry her.

The world laughs at such refinements of delicate feeling in a man, but
cannot help inwardly respecting them a little, as it respects many
things at which it jeers and rails. Moreover, Malipieri did not care a
fig for the world's opinion, and if he had needed to take a motto he
would have chosen "Si omnes, ego non"; for if there was a circumstance
which always inclined him to do anything especially quixotic, it was
the conviction that other people would probably do the exact opposite.
So Masin took the furniture to an auction room on a cart, and Malipieri
never saw it again.

While the press was ringing his praises, and he himself was preparing a
carefully written paper on the two statues, while the public was
pouring into the gate of the Palazzo Conti to see them, and Volterra
was driving a hard bargain with the government for their sale, he lived
in a state of anxiety and nervousness impossible to describe. He was
haunted by the fear that some one might find out where Sabina had been
on the night after she had left Volterra's house, and the mere thought
of such a possibility was real torment, worse than the knowledge that
he could never marry her, and that without her his life did not seem
worth living. Whatever happened to Sabina would be the result of his
folly in taking her to the vaults. He might recover from any wound he
had himself received, but to see the good name of the innocent girl he
loved utterly ruined and dragged through the mud of newspaper scandal
would be a good deal worse than being flayed alive. It was horrible to
think of it, and yet he could not keep it out of his thoughts. There
had been too many people about the palace on the morning when Sabina
had left it with the Baroness. Especially, there had been that
carpenter, of whom no one had thought till it was too late. If Gigi had
recognized Sabina, that would be Malipieri's fault too, for Volterra
had not known that the man had been employed about the house for years.
A week passed, and nothing happened. He had neither seen Sabina nor
heard of her from any one. He was besieged by journalists, artists, men
of letters and men of learning, and the municipal authorities had
declared their intention of giving a banquet in his honour and
Volterra's, to celebrate the safe removal of the two statues from the
vault in which they had lain so long. He, who hated noisy feasting and
speech-making above all things, could not refuse the public invitation.
All sorts of people came to see him, in connection with the whole
affair, and he was at last obliged to shut himself in during several
hours of the day, in order to work at his dissertation. Masin alone was
free to reach him in case of any urgent necessity.

One morning, while he was writing, surrounded by books, drawings and
papers, Masin came and stood silently at his elbow, waiting till it
should please him to look up. Malipieri carefully finished the sentence
he had begun, and laid down his pen. Then Masin spoke.

"There is a lady downstairs, sir, who says that you will certainly
receive her upon very important business. She would not give her name,
but told the porter to try and get me to hand you this note."

Malipieri sighed wearily and opened the note without even glancing at
the address. He knew that Sabina would not write to him, and no one
else interested him in the least. But he looked at the signature before
reading the lines, and his expression changed. The dowager Princess
Conti wrote a few words to say that she must see him at once and was
waiting. That was all, but his heart sank. He sent Masin to show her
the way, and sat resting his forehead in his hand until she appeared.

She entered and stood before him, softly magnificent as a sunset in
spring; looking as even a very stout woman of fifty can, if she has a
matchless complexion, perfect teeth, splendid eyes, faultless taste, a
wonderful dressmaker and a maid who does not hate her.

Malipieri vaguely wondered how Sabina could be her daughter, drew an
armchair into place for her, and sat down again by his writing-table.
The windows were open and the blinds were drawn together to keep out
the glare, for it was a hot day. A vague and delicious suggestion of
Florentine orris-root spread through the warm air as the Princess sat
down. Malipieri watched her face, but her expression showed no signs of
any inward disturbance.

"Are you sure that nobody will interrupt us?" she asked, as Masin went
out and shut the door.

"Quite sure. What can I do to serve you?"

"I have had this disgusting letter."

She produced a small, coarse envelope from the pale mauve pocket-book
she carried in her hand, and held it out to Malipieri, who took it and
read it carefully. It was not quite easy for him to understand, as Gigi
wrote in the Roman dialect without any particular punctuation, and
using capitals whenever it occurred to him, except at the beginning of
a sentence. To Malipieri, as a Venetian, it was at first sight about as
easy as a chorus of Aeschylus looks to an average pass-man.

As the sense became clear to him, his eyelids contracted and his face
was drawn as if he were in bodily pain.

"When did you get this?" he asked, folding the letter and putting it
back into the envelope.

"Five or six days ago, I think. I am not sure of the date, but it does
not matter. It says the money must be paid in ten days, does it not?
Yes--something like that. I know there is some time left. I have come
to you because I have tried everything else."

"Everything else?" cried Malipieri, in sudden anxiety. "What in the
world have you tried?"

"I sent for Volterra the day after I got this."

"Oh!" Malipieri was somewhat relieved. "What did he advise you to do?
To employ a detective?"

"O dear, no! Nothing so simple and natural. That man is an utter brute,
and I am sorry I left Sabina so long with his wife. She would have been
much better in the convent with her sister. I am afraid that is where
she will end, poor child, and it will be all your fault, though you
never meant any harm. You do not think you could divorce and marry her,
do you?"

Malipieri stared at her a moment, and then bit his lip to check the
answer. He had no right to resent whatever she chose to say to him, for
he was responsible for all the trouble and for Sabina's good name.

"There is no divorce law in Italy," he answered, controlling himself.
"Why do you say that Volterra is an utter brute? What did he advise you
to do?"

"He offered to silence the creature who wrote this letter if I would
make a bargain with him. He said he would pay the money, if I would
give Sabina to his second son, who is a cavalry officer in Turin, and
whom none of us has ever seen."

Malipieri's lips moved, but he said nothing that could be heard. A vein
that ran down the middle of his forehead was swollen, and there was a
bad look in his eyes.

"I would rather see the child dead than married to one of those
disgusting people," the Princess said. "Did you ever hear of such
impertinence?"

"You let her live with them for more than two months," observed
Malipieri.

"I know I did. It was simply impossible to think of anything better in
the confusion, and as they offered to take charge of her, I consented.
Yes, it was foolish, but I did not suppose that they would let her go
off in a cab with that old dotard and stay out all night."

Malipieri felt as if she were driving a blunt nail into his head.

"Poor Sassil" he said. "He was buried yesterday."

"Was he? I am not in the least sorry for him. He always made trouble,
and this was the worst of all Sabina almost cried because I would not
let her go and see him at the hospital. You know, he never spoke after
he was taken there--he did not feel anything."

Malipieri wondered whether the Princess, in another sense, had ever
felt anything, a touch of real pity, or real love, for any human being.
He did not remember to have ever met a woman who had struck him as so
utterly heartless; and yet he could not forget the look that had come
into her face, and the simple word she had spoken, when he had told her
his story.

"I understand that you refused Volterra's proposal," he said, returning
to the present trouble. "Do you mean to say that he declined to help
you unless you would accept it?"

"Oh, no! He only said that as I was not disposed to accept what would
make it so much easier, he would have to think it over. I have not seen
him since."

"But you understand what he had planned, do you not?" Malipieri asked.
"It is very simple."

"It is not so clear to me. I am not at all clever, you know." The
Princess laughed carelessly. "He must have a very good reason for
offering to pay a hundred thousand francs in order that his son may
marry Sabina, who has not a penny. I confess, if it were not an
impertinence, it would look like a foolish caprice. I suppose he thinks
it would be socially advantageous."

Her lip curled and showed her even white teeth.

"His wife is a snob," Malipieri answered, "but Volterra does not care
for anything but power and money, except perhaps for the sort of
reputation he has, which helps him to get both." "Then of what possible
use could it be to him to marry his son to Sabina, and to throw all
that money away for the sake of getting her?"

Malipieri hesitated, not sure whether it would be wise to tell her all
he thought.

"In the first place," he said slowly, "I do not believe he would really
pay the blackmail, or if he did, he would catch the man, get the money
back, and have him sent to penal servitude. He is very clever, and in
his position he can have whatever help he asks from the government,
especially in a just cause, as that would be. Perhaps he thinks that he
has guessed who the man is."

"Have you any idea?" asked the Princess, glancing down at the dirty
little letter she still held.

"In the second place," Malipieri continued, without heeding the
question, "I am almost sure that when you were in difficulties, two or
three months ago, he got the better of you, as he gets the better of
every one. With the value of these statues, he has probably pocketed a
couple of million francs by the transaction."

"The wretch!" exclaimed the Princess. "I wish you were my lawyer! You
have such a clear way of putting things."

Even then Malipieri smiled.

"I have always believed what I have just told you," he answered. "That
was the reason why I hoped that Donna Sabina might yet recover what she
should have had from the estate. Volterra is sure that if you can take
proper steps, you will recover a large sum, and that is why he is so
anxious to marry his son to your daughter. He thinks the match would
settle the whole affair."

"The idiot! As if I did not need the money myself!"

Again Malipieri smiled.

"But you will not get it," he answered. "You will certainly not get it
if Volterra is interested in the matter, for it will all go to your
daughter. Your other two children have had their share of their
father's estate, and that of the daughters should have amounted to at
least two millions each. But Donna Sabina has never had a penny.
Whatever is recovered from Volterra will go to her, not to you."

"It would be the same thing," observed the Princess carelessly.

"Not exactly," Malipieri said, "for the court will appoint legal
guardians, and the money will be paid to her intact when she comes of
age. In other words, if she marries Volterra's son, the little fortune
will return to Volterra's family. But of course, if you consented to
the marriage, he would compromise for the money, before the suit was
brought, by settling the two millions upon his daughter-in-law, and if
he offered to do that, as he would, no respectable lawyer in the world
would undertake to carry on the suit, because Volterra would have acted
in strict justice. Do you see?"

"Yes. It is very disappointing, but I suppose you are right."

"I know I am, except about the exact sum involved. I am an architect by
profession, I know something of Volterra's affairs and I do not think I
am very far wrong. Very good. But Volterra has accidentally got hold of
a terrible weapon against you, in the shape of this blackmailer's
letter."

"Then you advise me to accept his offer after all?"

"He knows that you must, unless you can find something better. You are
in his power."

"But why should I, if I am to get nothing by it?" asked the Princess
absent-mindedly.

"There is Donna Sabina's good name at stake," Malipieri answered, with
a little sternness.

"I had forgotten. Of course! How stupid of me!" For a moment Malipieri
knew that he should like to box her ears, woman though she was; then he
felt a sort of pity for her, such as one feels for half-witted
creatures that cannot help themselves nor control their instincts.

"Then I must accept, and let Sabina marry that man," she said, after a
moment's silence. "Tell me frankly, is that what you think I ought to
do?"

"If Donna Sabina wishes to marry him, it will be a safe solution,"
Malipieri answered steadily.

"My dear man, she is in love with you!" cried the Princess in one of
her sudden fits of frankness. "She told me so the other day in so many
words, when she was so angry because I would not let her go to see poor
old Sassi die. She said that you and he and her schoolmistress were the
only human beings who had ever been good to her, or for whom she had
ever cared, You may just as well know it, since you cannot marry her!"

In a calmer moment, Malipieri might have doubted the logic of the last
statement; but at the present moment he was not very calm, and he
turned a pencil nervously in his fingers, standing it alternately on
its point and its blunt end, upon the blotting-paper beside him, and
looking at the marks it made.

"How can she possibly wish to marry that Volterra creature?" asked the
Princess, by way of conclusion. "She will have to, that is all, whether
she likes it or not. After all, nobody seems to care much, nowadays,"
she added in a tone of reflection. "It is only the idea I always heard
that Volterra kept a pawnshop in Florence, and then became a dealer in
bric-a-brac, and afterwards a banker, and all sorts of things. But it
may not be true, and after all, it is only prejudice. A banker may be a
very respectable person, you know."

"Certainly," assented Malipieri, wishing that he could feel able to
smile at her absurd talk, as a sick man wishes that he could feel
hungry when he sees a dish he likes very much, and only feels the worse
for the mere thought of touching food.

"Nothing but prejudice," the Princess repeated. "I daresay he was never
really a pawnbroker and is quite respectable. By the bye, do you think
he wrote this letter himself? It would be just like him."

"No," Malipieri answered. "I am sure he did not. Volterra never did
anything in his life which could not at least be defended in law. The
letter is genuine."

"Then there is some one who knows, besides ourselves and Volterra and
his wife?"

"Yes. I am sure of it."

"You are so clever. You must be able to find out who it is."

"I will try. But I am sure of one thing. Even if the money is not paid
on the day, the story will not be published at once. The man will try
again and again to get money from you. There is plenty of time."

"Unless it is a piece of servants' vengeance," the Princess said. "Our
servants were always making trouble before we left the palace, I could
never understand why. If it is that, we shall never be safe. Will you
come and see me, if you think of any plan?"

She rose to go.

"I will go to the Embassy to-morrow afternoon, between three and four."

"Thanks. Do you know? I really cannot help liking you, though I think
you are behaving abominably. I am sure you could get a divorce in
Switzerland."

"We will not talk about that," Malipieri answered, a little harshly.

When she was gone, he called Masin, and then, instead of explaining
what he wanted, he threw himself into an armchair and sat in silence
for nearly half an hour. Masin was used to his master's ways and did
not speak, but occupied himself in noiselessly dusting the mantelpiece
at least a hundred times over.





CHAPTER XXII




Volterra had not explained to the Princess the reason why her
acceptance of his offer would make it so much easier for him to help
her out of her difficulty. He had only said that it would, for he never
explained anything to a woman if an explanation could be avoided, and
he had found that there are certain general ways of stating things to
which women will assent rather than seem not to understand. If the
Princess had asked questions, he would have found plausible answers,
but she did not. She refused his offer, saying that she had other views
for her daughter. She promptly invented a rich cousin in Poland, who
had fallen in love with Sabina's photograph and was only waiting for
her to be eighteen years old in order to marry her.

She had gone to Malipieri as a last resource, not thinking it probable
that he could help her, or that he would change his mind and try to
free himself in order to marry Sabina. She came back with the certainty
that he would not do the latter and could not give any real assistance.
So far, she had not spoken to Sabina of her interview with the Baron,
but she felt that the time had come to sound her on the subject of the
marriage, since there might not be any other way. She had not lost time
since her arrival, for she had at once seen one of the best lawyers in
Rome, who looked after such legal business as the Russian Embassy
occasionally had; and he had immediately applied for a revision of the
settlement of the Conti affairs, on the ground of large errors in the
estimates of the property, supporting his application with the plea
that many of the proceedings in the matter had been technically faulty
because certain documents should have been signed by Sabina, as a minor
interested in the estate, and whose consent was necessary. He was of
opinion that the revision would certainly be granted, but he would say
nothing as to the amount which might be recovered by the Conti family.
As a matter of fact, the settlement had been made hastily, between
Volterra, old Sassi and a notary who was not a lawyer; and Volterra,
who knew what he was about, and profited largely by it, had run the
risk of a revision being required. For the rest, Malipieri's
explanation of his motives was the true one.

At the first suggestion of a marriage with Volterra's son Sabina flatly
refused to entertain the thought. She made no outcry, she did not even
raise her voice, nor change colour; but she planted her little feet
firmly together on the footstool before her chair, folded her hands in
her lap and looked straight at her mother.

"I will not marry him," she said. "It is of no use to try to make me. I
will not."

Her mother began to draw a flattering though imaginary portrait of the
young cavalry officer, and enlarged upon his fortune and future
position. Volterra was immensely rich, and though he was not quite one
of themselves, society had accepted him, his sons had been admirably
brought up, and would be as good as any one. There was not a prince in
Rome who would not be glad to make such a match for his daughter.

"It is quite useless, mother," said Sabina. "I would not marry him if
he were Prince Colonna and had the Rothschilds' money."

"That is absurd," answered the Princess. "Just because you have taken a
fancy to that Malipieri, who cannot marry you because he has done the
most insane thing any one ever heard of."

"It was splendid," Sabina retorted.

"Besides," her mother said, "you do not know that it is true."

Sabina's eyes flashed.

"Whatever he says, is true," she answered, "and you know it is. He
never lied in his life!"

"No," said the Princess, "I really think he never did."

"Then why did you suggest such a thing, when you know that I love him?"

"One says things, sometimes," replied the Princess vaguely. "I did not
really mean it, and I cannot help liking the man. I told him so this
morning. Now listen. Volterra is a perfect beast, and if you refuse, he
is quite capable of letting that story get about, and you will be
ruined."

"I will go into a convent."

"You know that you hate Clementina," observed the Princess.

"Of course I do. She used to beat me when I was small, because she said
I was wicked. Of course I hate her. I shall join the Little Sisters of
the Poor, or be a Sister of Charity. Even Clementina could not object
to that, I should think."

"You are a little fool!"

To this observation Sabina made no reply, for it was not new to her,
and she paid no attention to it. She supposed that all mothers called
their children fools when they were angry. It was one of the privileges
of motherhood.

The discussion ended there, for Sabina presently went away and shut
herself up in her room, leaving her mother to meditate in solitude on
the incredible difficulties that surrounded her.

Sabina was thinking, too, but her thoughts ran in quite another
direction, as she sat bolt upright on a straight-backed chair, staring
at the wall opposite. She was wondering how Malipieri looked at that
moment, and how it was possible that she should not even have seen him
since she had left his rooms with the Baroness a week ago, and more;
and why, when every hour had dragged like an age, it seemed as if they
had parted only yesterday, sure to meet again.

She sat still a long time, trying to think out a future for herself, a
future life without Malipieri and yet bearable. It would have been easy
before the night in the vaults; it would have seemed possible a week
ago, though very hard; now, it was beyond her imagination. She had
talked of entering a sisterhood, but she knew that she did not mean to
do it, even if her reputation were ruined.

She guessed that in that event her mother would try to force her into a
convent. The Princess was not the sort of woman who would devote the
rest of her life to consoling her disgraced daughter, no matter how
spotlessly blameless the girl might be. She would look upon her as a
burden and a nuisance, would shut her up if she could, and would
certainly go off to Russia or to Paris, to amuse herself as far as
possible from the scene of Sabina's unfortunate adventure.

"Poor child!" she would say to her intimate friends, "She was perfectly
innocent, of course, but there was nothing else to be done. No decent
man would have married her, you know!"

And she would tell Malipieri's story to everybody, too, to explain why
he had not married Sabina. She had no heart at all, for her children or
for any one else. She had always despised her son for his weaknesses
and miserable life, and she had always laughed at her elder daughter;
if she had been relatively kind to Sabina, it was because the girl had
never given any trouble nor asked for anything extravagantly
inconvenient. She had never felt the least sympathy with the Roman life
into which she had been brought by force, and after her husband had
died she had plainly shown his quiet Roman relatives what she thought
of them.

She would cast Sabina off without even a careless kind word, if Sabina
became a drag on her and hindered her from doing what she pleased in
the world. And this would happen, if the story about the night in the
Palazzo Conti were made public. Just so long, and no longer, would the
Princess acknowledge her daughter's existence; and that meant so long
as Volterra chose that the secret should be kept.

At least, Sabina thought so. But matters turned out differently and
were hurried to an issue in a terribly unexpected way.

Both Volterra and Malipieri had guessed that the anonymous letter had
been written by Gigi, the carpenter, but Volterra had seen it several
days before the Princess had shown it to Malipieri. Not unnaturally,
the Baron thought that it would be a good move to get the man into his
power. Italy is probably not the only country where men powerful in
politics and finance can induce the law to act with something more than
normal promptitude, and Volterra, as usual, was not going to do
anything illegal. The Minister of Justice, too, was one of those men
who had been fighting against the Sicilian "mafia" and the Neapolitan
"camorra" for many years, and he hated all blackmailers with a just and
deadly hatred. He was also glad to oblige the strong Senator, who was
just now supporting the government with his influence and his millions.
Volterra was sure of the culprit's identity and explained that the
detective who had been sent to investigate the palace after Sassi's
accident had seen the carpenter and would recognize him. Nothing would
be easier than to send for Gigi to do a job at the palace, towards
evening, to arrest him as soon as he came, and to take him away quietly.

This was done, and in twenty-four hours Gigi was safely lodged in a
cell by himself, with orders that he was on no account to be allowed
any communication with other prisoners.

Then Volterra went to see him, and instead of threatening him, offered
him his help if he would only tell the exact truth. Gigi was frightened
out of his wits and grasped at the straw, though he did not trust the
Baron much. He told what he had done; but with the loyalty to friends,
stimulated by the fear of vengeance, which belongs to the Roman working
man, he flatly denied that he had an accomplice. Yes, he had spoken in
the letter of two men who would be walking on the Via Appia, and he had
intended to take his brother-in-law with him, but he said that he had
not meant to explain why he took him until the last minute. It was a
matter for the galleys! Did his Excellency the Senator suppose that he
would trust anybody with that, until it was necessary?

The consequence was that Gigi was kept quietly in prison for a few days
before any further steps were taken, having been arrested at the
instance of the Ministry of Justice for trying to extract blackmail
from the Conti family, and being undoubtedly guilty of the misdeed.
Volterra's name did not even appear in the statement.

Malipieri had not Volterra's influence, and intended to try more
personal methods with the carpenter; but when he appeared at the palace
in the afternoon, and asked the porter to go and call Gigi, the old man
shook his head and said that Gigi had been in prison three days, and
that nobody knew why he had been arrested. The matter had not even been
mentioned by the _Messaggero_.

Malipieri had never connected Toto with Gigi, and did not even know
that the two men were acquainted with each other. He had not the
slightest doubt but that it was Toto who had caused the water to rise
in the well, out of revenge, but he knew that it would now be
impossible to prove it. Strange to say, Malipieri bore him no grudge,
for he knew the people well, and after all, he himself had acted in a
high-handed way. Nevertheless, he asked the porter if the man were
anywhere in the neighbourhood.

But Toto had not been seen for some time. He had not even been to the
wine shop, and was probably at work in some distant part of Rome.
Perhaps he was celebrating his grandfather's funeral with his friends.
Nobody could tell where he might be.

Malipieri went back to his hotel disconsolately. That evening he read
in the _Italie_ that after poor Sassi had been buried, the authorities
had at once proceeded to take charge of his property and effects,
because the old woman-servant had declared that he had no near
relations in the world; and the notary who had served the Conti family
had at once produced Sassi's will.

He had left all his little property, valued roughly at over a hundred
thousand francs, to Donna Sabina Conti. Had any one known it, the date
of the will was that of the day on which he had received her little
note thanking him for burying her canary, out on Monte Mario.

The notary's brother and son, notaries themselves, were named as
guardians. The income was to be paid to Sabina at once, the capital on
her marriage. The newspaper paragraph recalled the ruin of the great
family, and spoke of the will as a rare instance of devotion in an old
and trusted servant.

Sabina and the Princess learned the news at dinner that evening from a
young attache of the Embassy who always read the _Italie_ because it is
published in French, and he had not yet learned Italian. He laughingly
congratulated Sabina on her accession to a vast fortune. To every one's
amazement, Sabina's eyes filled with tears, though even her own mother
had scarcely ever seen her cry. She tried hard to control herself,
pressed her lids hastily with her fingers, bit her lips till they
almost bled, and then, as the drops rolled down her cheeks in spite of
all she could do, she left the table with a broken word of excuse.

"She is nothing but a child, still," the Princess explained in a tone
of rather condescending pity.

The young attache was sorry for having laughed when he told the story.
He had not supposed that Donna Sabina knew much about the old agent,
and after dinner he apologized to his ambassador for his lack of tact.

"That little girl has a heart of gold," answered the wise old man of
the world.

The Princess had a profoundly superstitious belief in luck, and was
convinced that Sabina's and her own had turned with this first piece of
good fortune, and that on the following day Malipieri would appear and
tell her that he had caught the writer of the letter and was ready to
divorce his wife in order to marry Sabina. Secure in these hopes she
slept eight hours without waking, as she always did.

But she was destined to the most complete disappointment of her life,
and to spend one of the most horribly unpleasant days she could
remember.

Long before she was awake boys and men, with sheaves of damp papers,
were yelling the news in the Corso and throughout Rome.

"The _Messaggero!_ The great scandal in Casa Conti! The _Messaggero!_
One sou!"





CHAPTER XXIII




Toto had done it. In his heart, the thick-headed, practical fellow had
never quite believed in Gigi's ingenious scheme, and the idea of
getting a hundred thousand francs had seemed very visionary. Since Gigi
had got himself locked up it would be more sensible to realize a little
cash for the story from the _Messaggero_, saying nothing about the
carpenter. The only lie he needed to invent was to the effect that he
had been standing near the door of the palace when Sabina had come out.
The porter, being relieved from the order to keep the postern shut
against everybody had been quite willing to gossip with Toto about the
detective's visit, the closed room and Malipieri's refusal to let any
one enter it. As for what had happened in the vaults, Toto could
reconstruct the exact truth much more accurately than Gigi could have
done, even with his help. It was a thrilling story; the newspaper paid
him well for it and printed it with reservations.

There was not a suggestion of offence to Sabina, such as might have
afforded ground for an action against the paper, or against those that
copied the story from it. The writer was careful to extol Malipieri's
heroic courage and strength, and to point out that Sabina had been
half-dead of fatigue and cold, as Toto knew must have been the case. It
was all a justification, and not in the least an accusation. But the
plain, bald fact was proved, that Donna Sabina Conti had spent the
night in the rooms of the now famous Signor Malipieri, no one else
being in the apartment during the whole time. He had saved her life
like a hero, and had acted like a Bayard in all he had done for the
unfortunate young lady. It was an adventure worthy of the middle ages.
It was magnificent. Her family, informed at once by Malipieri, had come
to get her on the following morning. Toto had told the people at the
office of the _Messaggero_, who it was that had represented the
"family," but the little newspaper was far too worldly-wise to mention
Volterra in such a connection. Donna Sabina, the article concluded, was
now with her mother at the Russian Embassy.

The evening papers simply enlarged upon this first story, and in the
same strain. Malipieri was held up to the admiration of the public.
Sabina's name was treated with profound respect, there was not a word
which could be denied with truth, or resented with a show of justice.
And yet, in Italy, and most of all in Rome, it meant ruin to Sabina,
and the reprobation of all decent people upon Malipieri if he did not
immediately marry her.

It was the ambassador himself who informed the Princess of what had
happened, coming himself to the sitting-room as soon as he learned that
she was visible. He stayed with her a long time, and they sent for
Sabina, who was by far the least disturbed of the three. It was all
true, she said, and there was nothing against her in the article.

Masin brought the news to Malipieri with his coffee, and the paper
itself. Malipieri scarcely ever read it, but Masin never failed to, and
his big, healthy face was very grave.

Malipieri felt as if he were going to have brain fever, as his eye ran
along the lines.

"Masin," he said, when he had finished, "did you ever kill a man?"

"No, sir," answered Masin. "You have always believed that I was
innocent, though I had to serve my seven years."

"I did not mean that," said Malipieri.

Then he sat a long time with his untasted coffee at his elbow and the
crumpled little sheet in his hand.

"Of course, sir," Masin said at last, "I owe you everything, and if you
ordered me--"

He paused significantly, but his master did not understand.

"What?" he asked, starting nervously.

"Well, sir, if it were necessary for your safety, that somebody should
be killed, I would risk the galleys for life, sir. What am I, without
you?"

Malipieri laughed a little wildly, and dropped the paper.

"No, my friend," he said presently, "we would risk our lives for each
other, but we are not murderers. Besides, there is nobody to be killed,
unless you will have the goodness to put a bullet through my head."

And he laughed again, in a way that frightened the quiet man beside
him. What drove him almost mad was that he was powerless. He longed to
lay his hands on the editor of the paper, yet there was not a word, not
a suggestion, not an implied allusion for which any man in his senses
could have demanded an apology. It was the plain truth, and nothing
else; except that it was adorned by fragmentary panegyrics of himself,
which made it even more exasperating if that were possible. He had not
only wrecked Sabina's reputation by his quixotic folly; he was to be
praised to the skies for doing it.

His feverish anger turned into a dull pain that was much worse. The
situation looked utterly hopeless. Masin stood still beside him
watching him with profound concern, and presently took the cup of
coffee and held it to his lips. He drank a little, like a sick man,
only half consciously, and drew back, and shook his head. Masin did not
know what to do and waited in mute distress, as a big dog, knowing that
his master is in trouble, looks up into his face and feebly wags his
sympathetic tail, just a little, at long intervals, and then keeps
quite still.

Malipieri gradually recovered his senses enough to think connectedly,
and he tried to remember whether he had ever heard of a situation like
his own. As he was neither a novelist nor a critic, he failed, and
frankly asked himself whether suicide might not be a way out of the
difficulty for Sabina. He was not an unbeliever, and he had always
abhorred and despised the idea of suicide, as most thoroughly healthy
men do when it occurs to them; but if at that time he could have
persuaded himself that his death could undo the harm he had brought
upon Sabina he would not have hesitated a moment. Neither his body nor
his soul could matter much in comparison with her good name. Hell was
full of people who had got there because they had done bad things for
their own advantage; if he went there, it would at least not be for
that. He did not think of hell at all, just then, nor of heaven or of
anything else that was very far off. He only thought of Sabina, and if
he once wished himself dead for his own sake, he drove the cowardly
thought away. As long as he was alive, he could still do something for
her--surely, there must be something that he could do. There must be a
way out, if he could only use his wits and his strength, as he had made
a way out of the vaults, for her to pass through, ten days ago.

There was nothing, or at least he could think of nothing, that could
help her. To try and free himself from the bond he had put upon himself
would be to break a solemn promise given to a dying man whom he had
dearly loved. The woman he had seen that once, to marry her and leave
her, had been worthy of the sacrifice, too, as far as lay in her. He
had given her a small income, enough for her and her little girl to
live on comfortably. She had not only kept within it, but had learned
to support herself, little by little, till she had refused to take the
money that was sent to her. At regular times, she wrote to him, as to a
benefactor, touching and truthful letters, with news of the growing
child. He knew that it was all without affectation of any sort, and
that she had turned out a thoroughly good and honest woman. The little
girl knew that her father was dead, and that her own name was really
and legally Malipieri, beyond a doubt. Her mother kept the copy of her
certificate of birth together with the certificate of marriage. The
Signora Malipieri lived as a widow in Florence and gave lessons in
music and Italian. She had never asked but one thing of Malipieri,
which was that he would never try to see her, nor let her daughter know
that he was alive. It was easy to promise that. He knew that she had
been most faithful to her lover's memory, cherishing the conviction
that in the justice of heaven he was her true husband, as he would have
been indeed had he lived but a few months longer. She was bringing up
her child to be like herself, save for her one fault. Malipieri had
settled a sufficient dowry on the girl, lest anything should happen to
him before she was old enough to marry.

The mere suggestion of divorcing a woman who had acted as she had done
since his friend's death, was horrible to him. It was like receiving a
blow in the face, it was mud upon his honour, it was an insult to his
conscience, it was far worse than merely taking back a gift once given
in a generous impulse. If he had felt himself capable of such baseness
he could never again have looked honest men fairly in the eyes. It
would mean that he must turn upon her, to insult her by accusing her of
something she had never done; he knew nothing of the divorce laws in
foreign countries, except that Italians could obtain divorce by a short
residence and could then come back and marry again under Italian law.
That was all he knew. The Princess had not asked of him a legal
impossibility, but he had felt, when she spoke, that it would be easier
to explain the dogma of papal infallibility to a Chinese pirate than to
make her understand how he felt towards the good woman who had a right
to live under his name and had borne it so honourably for many years.

Sabina would understand. He wished now, with all his heart, that in the
hours they had spent together he had told her the secret which he had
been obliged to confide to her mother. He wondered whether she knew it,
and hoped that she did. She would at least understand his silence now,
she would know why he was not at the Embassy that morning as soon as he
could be received by her mother. She might not forgive him, because she
knew that he loved her, but she would see why he could not divorce in
order to marry her.

An hour passed, and two hours, and still he sat in his chair, while
Masin came and went softly, as if his master were ill. Then reporters
sent up cards, with urgently polite requests to be received, and he had
to give orders that he was not to be disturbed on any account. He would
see no one, he would answer no questions, until he had made up his mind
what to do.

At last he rose, shook himself, walked twice up and down the room and
then spoke to Masin.

"I am going out," he said. "I shall be back in an hour."

He had seen that there was at least one thing which he must do at once,
and after stopping short, stunned to stupor by what had happened, his
life began to move on again. It was manifestly his duty to see the
Princess again, and he knew that she would receive him, for she would
think that he had changed his mind after all, and meant to free
himself. He must see her and say something, he knew not what, to
convince her that he was acting honourably.

He was shown to her sitting-room, as if he were expected. It was not
long since the ambassador had left her and her daughter had gone back
to her room, and she was in a humour in which he had not seen her
before, as he guessed when he saw her face. Her wonderful complexion
was paler than usual, her brows were drawn together, her eyes were
angry, there was nothing languid or careless in her attitude, and she
held her head high.

"I expected you," she said. "I sent word that you were to come up at
once."

She did not even put out her hand, but there was a chair opposite her
and she nodded towards it. He sat down, feeling that a struggle was
before him.

"The ambassador has just been here," she said. "He brought the
newspaper with him, and I have read the article. I suppose you have
seen it."

Malipieri bent his head, but kept his eyes upon her.

"I have told the ambassador that Sabina is engaged to marry you," she
said calmly.

Malipieri started and sat upright in his chair. If he had known her
better, he might have guessed that what she said was untrue, as yet;
but she had made the statement with magnificent assurance.

"Your engagement will be announced in the papers this evening," she
continued. "Shall you deny it?"

She looked at him steadily, and he returned her gaze, but for a long
time he could not answer. She had him at a terrible advantage.

"I shall not deny it publicly," he said at last. "That would be an
injury to your daughter."

"Shall you deny it at all?" She was conscious of her strong position,
and meant to hold it.

"I shall write to the lady who is living under my name, and I shall
tell her the circumstances, and that I am obliged to allow the
announcement to be made by you."

"Give me your word that you will not deny your engagement to any one
else. You know that I have a right to require that. My daughter knows
that you are married."

Malipieri hesitated only a moment.

"I give you my word," he said.

She rose at once and went towards one of the doors, without looking at
him. He wondered whether she meant to dismiss him rudely, and stood
looking after her. She stopped a moment, with her hand on the knob of
the lock, and glanced back.

"I will call Sabina," she said, and she was gone.

He stood still and waited, and two or three minutes passed before
Sabina entered. She glanced at him, smiled rather gravely, and looked
round the room as she came forward, as if expecting to see some one
else.

"Where is my mother?" she asked, holding out her hand.

"She said she was going to call you," Malipieri answered.

"So she did, and she told me she was coming back to you, because I was
not quite ready."

"She did not come back."

"She means us to be alone," Sabina said, and suddenly she took both his
hands and pressed them a little, shaking them up and down, almost
childishly. "I am so glad!" she cried. "I was longing to see you!"

Even then, Malipieri could not help smiling, and for a moment he forgot
all his troubles. When they sat down, side by side, upon a little sofa,
the Princess was already telling the ambassador that Malipieri had come
and that they were engaged to be married. She had carried the situation
by a master stroke.

"She has told you all about me," Malipieri said, turning his face to
Sabina. "You know what my life is. Has she told you everything?"

"Yes," Sabina answered softly, but not meeting his look, "everything.
But I want to hear it from you. Will you tell me? Will it hurt you to
tell me about what you did for your friend? You know my mother is not
always very accurate in telling a story. I shall understand why you did
it."

He had known that she would, and he told her the story, a little less
baldly than he had told her mother, yet leaving out such details as she
need not hear. He hesitated a little, once or twice.

"I understand," she repeated, watching him with innocent eyes. "She
felt just as if they were really married, and he could not bear to die,
feeling that she would be without protection, and that other men would
all want to marry her, because she was beautiful. And her father and
mother were angry because she loved him so much."

"Yes," Malipieri answered, smiling, "that was it. They loved each other
dearly."

"It was splendid of you," she said. "I never dreamt that any man would
do such a thing."

"It cannot be undone." He was at least free to say that much, sadly.

There was a pause, and they looked away from each other. At last Sabina
laid her hand lightly upon his for a moment, though she did not turn
her face to him.

"I should not like you so much, if you wished to undo it," she said.

"Thank you," he answered, withdrawing the hand she released when she
had finished speaking, and folding it upon his other. "I should love
you less, if you did not understand me so well."

"It is more than understanding. It is much more."

He remembered how he had taken her slender body in his arms to warm her
when she had been almost dead of the cold and dampness, and a mad
impulse was in him to press her to him now, as he had done then, and to
feel her small fair head lay itself upon his shoulder peacefully, as it
surely would. He sat upright and pressed one hand upon the other rather
harder than before.

"You believe it, do you not?" she asked. "Why is your face so hard?"

"Because I am bound hand and foot, like a man who is carried to
execution."

"But we can always love each other just the same," Sabina said, and her
voice was warm and soft.

"Yes, always, and that will not make it easier to live without you," he
answered rather harshly.

"You need not," she said, after an instant's pause.

He turned suddenly, startled, not understanding, wondering what she
could mean. She met his eyes quite quietly, and he saw how deep and
steady hers were, and the light in them.

"You need not live without me unless you please," she said.

"But I must, since I cannot marry you, and you understand that I could
not be divorced--"

"My mother has just told me that no decent man will marry me, because
all the world knows that I stayed at the palace that night. She must be
right, for she could have no object in saying it if it were not true,
could she? Then what does it matter how any one talks about me now? I
will go with you. We cannot marry, but we shall always be together."

Malipieri's face expressed his amazement.

"But it is impossible!" he cried. "You cannot do that! You do not know
what you are saying!"

"Oh, yes, I do! That poor, kind old Sassi has left me all he had, and I
can go where I please. I will go with you. Would you rather have me
shut up in a convent to die? That is what my mother will try to do with
me, and she will tell people that I was 'mad, poor girl'! Do you think
I do not know her? She wants this little sum of money that I am to
have, too, as if she and the others had not spent all I should have
had. Do you think I am bound to obey my mother, if she takes me to the
convent door, and tells me that I am to stay there for the rest of my
life?"

The gentle voice was clear and strong and indignant now. Malipieri
twisted his fingers one upon another, and sat with his head bent low.
He knew that she had no clear idea of what she was saying when she
proposed to join her existence with his. Her maiden thoughts could find
no harm in it.

"You do not know what your mother said to me, before you came in," he
answered. "She told me that she would announce our engagement at once,
and made me give my word that I would not deny it to any one but my
legal wife."

"You gave your word?" Sabina asked quickly, not at all displeased.

"What could I do?"

"Nothing else! I am glad you did, for we can see each other as much as
we like now. But how shall we manage it in the end, since we cannot
marry?"

"Break the imaginary engagement, I suppose," Malipieri answered
gloomily. "I see nothing else to be done."

"But then my mother says that no decent man will marry me. It will be
just the same, all over again. It was very clever of her; she is trying
to force you to do what she wants. In the meantime you can come and see
me every day--that is the best part of it. Besides, she will leave us
alone together here, for hours, because she thinks that the more you
fall in love with me the more you will wish to get a divorce. Oh, she
is a very clever woman! You do not know her as I do!"

Malipieri marvelled at the amazing combination of girlish innocence and
keen insight into her mother's worldly and cynical character, which
Sabina had shown during the last few minutes. There never yet was a man
in love with girl or woman who did not find in her something he had
never dreamt of before.

"She is clever," he assented gravely, "but she cannot make me break
that promise, even for your sake. I cannot help looking forward and
thinking what the end must be."

"It is much better to enjoy the present," Sabina answered. "We can be
together every day. You will write to your--no, she is not your wife,
and I will not call her so! She would not be really your wife if she
could, for she made you promise never to go and see her. That was nice
of her, for of course she knew that if she saw you often, she must end
by falling in love with you. Any woman would; you know it perfectly
well. You need not shake your head at me, like that. You will write to
her, and explain, and she will understand, and then we will let things
go on as long as they can till something else happens."

"What can possibly happen?"

"Something always happens. Things never go on very long without a
change, do they? I am sure, everything in my life has changed half a
dozen times in the last fortnight."

"In mine, too," Malipieri answered.

"And if things get worse, and if worse comes to worst," Sabina
answered, "I have told you what I mean to do. I shall come to you,
wherever you are, and you will have to let me stay, no matter what
people choose to say. That is, if you still care for me!"

She laughed softly and happily, and not in the least recklessly, though
she was talking of throwing the world and all connection with it to the
winds. The immediate future looked bright to her, since they were to
meet every day, and after that, "something" would happen. If nothing
did, and they had to face trouble again, they would meet it bravely.
That was all any one could do in life. She had found happiness too
suddenly after an unhappy childhood, to dream of letting it go, cost
what it might to keep it.

But she saw how grave he looked and the hopeless expression in his
loving eyes, as he turned them to her.

"Why are you sad?" she asked, smiling, and laying her hand on his. "We
can be happy in the present. We love each other, and can meet often.
You have made a great discovery and are much more famous than you were
a few days ago. A newspaper has told our story, it is true, but there
was not a word against either of us in it, for I made them let me read
it myself. And now people will say that we are engaged to be married,
and that we got into a foolish scrape and were nearly killed together,
and that we are a very romantic couple, like lovers in a book! Every
girl I know wishes she were in my place, I am sure, and half the men in
Rome wish that they could have saved some girl's life as you did mine.
What is there so very dreadful in all that? What is there to cry
about--dear?"

Half in banter, half in earnest, she spoke to him as if he were a child
compared with her, and leaned affectionately towards him; and the last
word, the word neither of them had spoken yet, came so softly and
sweetly to him on her breath, that he caught his own, and turned a
little pale; and the barriers broke all at once, and he kissed her.
Then he got hold upon himself again, and gently pushed her a little
further from him, while he put his other hand to his throat and closed
his eyes.

"Forgive me," he said, in a thick voice. "I could not help it."

"What is there to forgive? We are not betraying any one. You are not
breaking a promise to any other woman. What harm is there? You did not
give your friend your word that you would never love any one, did you?
How could you? How could you know?"

"I could not know," he answered in a low voice. "But I should not have
kissed you."

He knew that she could not understand the point of honour that was so
clear to him.

"Let me think for you, sometimes," she said.

Her voice was as low as his, but dreamily passionate, and the strange
young magic vibrated in it, which perfect innocence wields with a
destroying strength not even guessed at by itself.

The door opened and the Princess entered the room in a leisurely
fashion, wreathed in smiles. She had successfully done what it would be
very hard for Malipieri to undo. He rose.

"Have you told Sabina what I said?" she enquired.

"Yes."

She turned to the girl, who was leaning back in the corner of the sofa.

"Of course you agree, my child?" she said, with a question in her
voice, though with no intonation of doubt as to the answer.

"Certainly," Sabina answered, with perfect self-possession. "I think it
was by far the most sensible we could do. Signor Malipieri will come to
see us, as if he and I were really engaged."

"Yes," assented the Princess. "You cannot go on calling him Signor
Malipieri when we are together in the family, my dear. What is your
Christian name?" she asked, turning to him.

"Marino."

"I did not know," Sabina said, with truth, and looking at him, as if
she had found something new to like in him. "Is he to call me Sabina,
mother?"

"Naturally. Well, my dear Marino--"

Malipieri started visibly. The Princess explained.

"I shall call you so, too. It looks better before people, you know. You
must leave a card for the ambassador, at the porter's, when you go
downstairs, He is going to ask you to dinner, with a lot of our
relations, to announce the engagement. I have arranged it all
beautifully--he is so kind!"






CHAPTER XXIV




Masin was very much relieved when his master came home, looking much
calmer than when he had gone out and evidently having all his senses
about him. Malipieri sent to ask at what time the mails left Rome for
Florence, and he sat down to his table without remembering that he had
eaten nothing that day.

It was not easy to write out in a concise form the story of all that
has here been told in detail. Besides, he had not the habit of writing
to the Signora Malipieri, except such brief acknowledgments of her
regular letters to him as were necessary and kind. For years she had
been to him little more than a recollection of his youth, a figure that
had crossed his life like a shadow in a dream, taking with it a promise
which he had never found it hard to keep. He remembered her as she had
been then, and it had not even occurred to him to consider how she
looked now. She sometimes sent him photographs of the pretty little
girl, and Malipieri kept them, and occasionally looked at them, because
they reminded him of his friend, of whom he had no portrait.

He found it very hard to tell this half-mythical woman and wholly
mythical wife of all that had happened, while scrupulously avoiding the
main fact, which was that he and Sabina loved each other. To have told
that, too, would have seemed like a reproach, or still worse, like a
request to be set at liberty.

He wrote carefully, reading over his sentences, now and then correcting
one, and even entertaining a vague idea of copying the whole when he
had finished it. The important point was that she should fully
understand the necessity of announcing his engagement to marry Donna
Sabina Conti, together with his firm intention of breaking it off as
soon as the story should be so far forgotten as to make it safe to do
so, having due regard for Donna Sabina's reputation and good name.

He laid so much stress on these points, and expressed so strongly his
repentance for having led the girl into a dangerous scrape, that many a
woman would have guessed at something more. But of this he was quite
unaware when he read the letter over, believing that he could judge it
without prejudice, as if it had been written by some one else. The
explanation was thorough and logical, but there was a little too much
protest in the expressions of regret. Besides, there were several
references to Sabina's unhappy position as the daughter of an
abominably worldly and heartless woman, who would lock her up in a
convent for life rather than have the least trouble about her. He could
not help showing his anxious interest in her future, much more clearly
than he supposed.

The consequence was that when the Signora Malipieri read the letter on
the following morning, she guessed the truth, as almost any woman
would, without being positively sure of it; and she was absent-minded
with her pupils all that day, and looked at her watch uneasily, and was
very glad when she was able to go home at last and think matters over.

It was not easy to decide what to do. She could not write to Malipieri
and ask him directly if he was in love with Sabina Conti and wished to
marry her. She answered him at once, however, telling him that she
fully understood his position, and thanking him for having written to
her before she could have heard the story from any other source.

He showed the letter to Sabina, and it pleased her by its frank
simplicity, and perfect readiness to accept Malipieri's statement
without question, and without the smallest resentment. Somehow the girl
had felt that this shadowy woman, who stood between her and Malipieri,
would make some claim upon him, and assert herself in some disagreeable
way, or criticise his action. It was hateful to think she really had a
right to call herself his wife, and was therefore legally privileged to
tell him unpleasant truths. Sabina always connected that with
matrimony, remembering how her father and mother used to quarrel when
he was alive, and how her brother and sister-in-law continued the
tradition. If the Volterra couple were always peaceful, that was
because the Baroness was in mortal awe of her fat husband, a state of
life to which Sabina did not wish to be called. It was true that
Malipieri's position with regard to his so-called wife had nothing to
do with a real marriage, but Sabina had felt the disapproving presence
of the woman she had never seen, and whom she imagined to be
perpetually shaking a warning finger at Malipieri and reminding him
sourly that he could not call his soul his own. The letter had
destroyed the impression.

Meanwhile Malipieri was appalled by the publicity of a betrothal which
was never to lead to marriage. The Princess took care that as much
light as possible should be cast upon the whole affair, and to the
Baroness Volterra's stupefaction and delight, told every one that the
match had been made under her auspices, and that the Conti family owed
her eternal gratitude for it and for her care of Sabina during nearly
three months. The Princess told the story of the night in the vaults
again and again, to her friends and relations, extolling everything
that Malipieri had done, and especially his romantic determination to
show the girl he was going to marry the treasures which should have
belonged to her, before any one else should see them.

The Princess told Volterra, laughingly and quite frankly, that her
lawyer would do everything possible to get for her a share in the value
of the statues discovered, and Volterra, following her clever cue,
laughed with her, and said it should be a friendly suit, and that the
lawyers should decide among themselves how it should be settled,
without going into court. Volterra was probably the only man in Rome
who entertained a profound respect for the Princess's intelligence; yet
he was reckoned a good judge in such matters. He himself was far too
wise to waste regrets upon the failure of his tactics, and the stake
had not been large, after all, compared with his great fortune.
Magnanimity was a form of commodity which could be exchanged for
popularity, and popularity was ready money. A thousand votes were as
good as two million francs, any day, when one was not a senator for
life, and wished to be re-elected; and a reputation for spotless
integrity would cover a multitude of financial sins. Since it had been
impossible to keep what did not belong to him, the next best thing was
to restore it to the accompaniment of a brass band and a chorus of
public approval. The Princess, clever woman, knew exactly how he felt
and helped him to do the inevitable in a showy way; and it all helped
her to carry her daughter and herself out of a difficult position in a
blaze of triumph.

"My dear," she said to the girl, "you may do anything you please, if
you will only do it in public. Lock your door to say your prayers, and
the world will shriek out that you have a scandal to conceal."

It dawned upon Sabina that her cynical, careless, spendthrift,
scatter-brained mother had perhaps after all a share of the cunning and
the force which rule the world to-day, and which were so thoroughly
combined in Volterra's character. That would account for the way in
which she sailed through storms that would have wrecked the Baroness
and drowned poor little Sabina herself.

Meanwhile a hundred workmen had dug down to the vault under the
courtyard of the Palazzo Conti, the statues had been lifted out intact,
with cranes, and had been set upon temporary pedestals, under a
spacious wooden shed; and the world, the flesh and the devil, including
royalty, went to see them and talked of nothing else. All Europe heard
the story of Malipieri's discovery, and of his adventure with his
betrothed wife, and praised him and called him and her an "ideal
couple."

Sabina's brother came up from the country to be present at the Embassy
dinner, and of course stopped at the Grand Hotel, and made up his mind
to have an automobile at once. His wife stayed in the country with the
delicate little child, but sent Sabina a note of congratulation.

Clementina, writing from her convent, said she hoped that Sabina might
redeem the follies of her youth in a respectable married life, but the
hope was not expressed with much conviction. Sabina need not disturb
the peace of a religious house by coming to see her.

The Princess boldly gave out that the marriage would take place in the
autumn, and confided to two or three gossips that she really meant to
have a quiet wedding in the summer, because it would be so much more
economical, and the young couple did not like the idea of waiting so
long. As for a dowry, everybody knew that Sassi, dear, kind-hearted old
man, had left Sabina what he had; and there were the statues.

Prince Conti came to the Embassy as soon as he arrived, and met
Malipieri, to whom he was overpoweringly cordial in his weak way. On
the whole, at their first interview, he judged that it would not be
easy to borrow money of him, and went away disappointed.

Society asked where Malipieri's father was, and learned that he was
nearly seventy and was paralysed, and never left his house in Venice,
but that he highly approved of his son's marriage and wished to see his
future daughter-in-law as soon as possible. The Princess said that
Sabina and Malipieri would live with him, but would come to Rome for
the winter.

Prince Rubomirsky, Sabina's uncle, sent her a very handsome diamond
necklace, which the Princess showed to all her friends, and some of
them began to send wedding presents likewise, because they had been
privately informed that the marriage was to take place very soon.

Sabina lived joyously in the moment, apparently convinced that fate
would bring everything right, and doing her best to drive away the
melancholy that had settled upon Malipieri. Something would happen, she
said. It was impossible that heaven could be so cruel as to part them
and ruin both their lives for the sake of a promise given to a man dead
long ago. Malipieri wished that he could believe it.

He grew almost desperate as time went on and he saw how the Princess
was doing everything to make the engagement irrevocable. He grew thin,
and nervous, and his eyes were restless. The deep tan of the African
sun was disappearing, too, and sometimes he looked almost ill. People
said he was too much in love, and laughed. Little by little Sabina
understood that she could not persuade him to trust to the future, and
she grew anxious about him. He wondered how she could still deceive
herself as to the inevitable end.

"We can go on being engaged as long as we please," she said hopefully.
"There are plenty of possible excuses."

"You and I are not good at lying," he answered, with a weary smile. "We
told each other so, that night."

"But it is perfectly true that I am almost too young to be married,"
said she; "and really, you know, it might be more sensible to wait till
I am nineteen."

"We should not think it sensible to wait a week, if there were no
hindrance. You know that."

"Of course! But when there is a hindrance, as you call it, it is very
sensible indeed to wait," retorted Sabina, with a truly feminine sense
of the value of logic. "I shall think so, and I shall say so, if I
must. Then you will have to wait, too, and what will it matter, so long
as we can see each other every day? Have people never waited a year to
be married?"

"You know that we may wait all our lives."

"No. I will not do that," Sabina said with sudden energy. "If nothing
happens, I will make something happen. You know what I told you. Have
you forgotten? And I am sure your father will understand."

"I doubt it," Malipieri answered, smiling in spite of himself.

To tell the truth, since her mother had cleared away so many dangers,
and showed no intention of shutting her up in a convent, Sabina had
begun to see that it would be quite another matter to run away and
follow Malipieri to the ideal desert island, especially after they had
been openly engaged to be married and the engagement had been broken.
The world would have to know the story of his marriage then, and it
would call him dishonourable for having allowed himself to be engaged
to her when he was not free. It would say that she had found out the
truth, and that he was a villain, or something unpleasant of that sort.
But she meant to keep up the illusion bravely, as long as there was any
life in it at all, and then "something must happen."

"It seems so strange that I should be braver than you," she said.

He did not wonder at that as much as she did. Her reputation was saved
now, but his honour was in the balance, and at the mercy of a worldly
and unscrupulous woman. When he broke the engagement, the Princess
would tell the story of his marriage and publish it on the housetops.
He told Sabina so.

"You are safe," he added; "but when I lose you, I shall lose my place
among honourable men."

"Then I shall tell the truth, and the whole truth, to every one I
know," Sabina answered, in the full conviction that truth, like faith,
could perform miracles, and that a grain of it could remove mountains
of evil. "I shall tell the whole world!" she cried. "I do not care what
my mother says."

He was silent, for it was better, after all, that she should believe in
her happiness as long as she could. She said nothing more for some time
and they sat quite still, thinking widely opposite thoughts. At last
she laid her hand on his; the loving little way had become familiar to
her since it had come instinctively the first time.

"Marino!"

"Yes?"

"You know that I love you?"

"Indeed I know it."

"And you love me? Just as much? In the same way?"

"Perhaps more. Who knows?"

"No, that is impossible," she answered. "Now listen to me. It is out of
the question that we should ever be parted, loving each other as we do,
is it not?"

The door opened and a servant entered, with a card.

"The lady told me to inform your Excellency that she is a connection of
Signor Malipieri," said the man. "She hopes that she may be received,
as she is in Rome for only a few hours."

Sabina looked at the card and handed it silently to Malipieri, and her
fingers trembled.

"Angelica Malipieri."

That was the name and there was the address in Florence, in Via del
Mandorlo.

"Ask the lady to come here," said Sabina, quietly; but her face was
suddenly very white.





CHAPTER XXV




Sabina and Malipieri sat in silence during the minutes that followed.
From time to time, they looked at each other. His self-possession and
courage had returned, now that something decisive was to take place,
but Sabina's heart was almost standing still. She felt that the woman
had come to make a scene, to threaten a scandal and utterly to destroy
the illusion of happiness. If not, and if she had merely had something
of importance to communicate, why had she not gone to Malipieri first,
or written to ask for this interview with Sabina? She had come
suddenly, in order to take advantage of the surprise her appearance
must cause. For once, Sabina wished that her mother were with her, her
high and mighty, insolent, terrible mother, who was afraid of nobody in
the world.

The door opened, and the footman admitted a quiet little woman, about
thirty years old, already inclined to be stout. She was very simply but
very well dressed, she had beautiful brown hair, and when she came
forward Sabina looked into a pair of luminous and trustful hazel eyes.

"Donna Sabina Conti?" asked the Signora Malipieri in a gentle voice.

"Yes," Sabina answered.

She and Malipieri had both risen. The Signora made a timid movement
with her hand, as if she expected that Sabina would offer hers, which
Sabina did, rather late, when she saw that it was expected. The lady
glanced at Malipieri and then at Sabina with a look of enquiry, as he
held out his hand to her and she took it. He saw that she did not
recognize him.

"I am Marino Malipieri," he said.

"You?" she cried in surprise.

Then a faint flush rose in her smooth cheeks, and Sabina, who was
watching her, saw that her lip trembled a little, and that tears rose
in her eyes.

"Forgive me," she said, in an unsteady voice. "I should have known you,
after all you have done for me."

"I think it is nearly thirteen years since we met," Malipieri answered.
"I had no beard then."

She looked at him long, evidently in strong emotion, but the tears did
not overflow, and the clear light came back gradually in her gaze. Then
the three sat down.

"I thought I had better come," she said. "It seemed easier than to
write."

"Yes," Sabina answered, not knowing what to say.

"You see," said the Signora, "I could not easily write to you frankly,
as I had never seen you, and I did not like to write to Signor
Malipieri about what I wanted to know."

"Yes," said Sabina, once more, but this time she looked at Malipieri.

"What is it that you wish to know, Signora?" he asked kindly, "Whether
it is all exactly as my letter told you? Is that it?"

She turned to him with a look of reproach.

"Does a woman doubt a man who has done what you have done for me?" she
asked. "I wanted to know something more--a little more than what you
wrote to me. It would make a difference, perhaps."

"To you, Signora?" asked Sabina quickly.

"No. To you. Perhaps it would make a great difference in the way I
should act." She paused an instant. "It is rather hard to ask, I know,"
she added shyly.

She seemed to be a timid little woman.

"Please tell us what it is that you wish to know, Signora," said
Malipieri, in the same kind tone, trying to encourage her.

"I should like to ask--I hardly know just how to say it--if you would
tell me whether you are fond of each other--"

"What difference can that make to you, Signora?" Malipieri asked with
sudden hardness. "You know that I shall not break my word."

She was hurt by the tone, and looked down meekly, as if she had
deserved the words.

"We love each other with all our hearts," said Sabina, before either of
the others could say more. "Nothing shall ever part us, in this world
or the next."

There was a ring of clear defiance to fate in the girl's voice, and
Signora Malipieri turned to her quickly, with a look of sympathy. She
knew the cry that comes from the heart.

"But you think that you can never be married," she said, almost to
herself.

"How can we? You know that we cannot!" It was Malipieri who answered.

Then the timid little woman raised her head and looked him full in the
face, and spoke without any more hesitation.

"Do you think that I have never thought of this possibility, during all
these years?" she asked. "Do you really believe that I would let you
suffer for me, let your life be broken, let you give up the best thing
that any life holds, after you have done for me what perhaps no man
ever did for a woman before?"

"I know you are grateful," Malipieri answered very gently. "Do not
speak of what I have done. It has not been at any sacrifice, till now."

But Sabina leaned forward and grasped the Signora Malipieri's hands.
Her own were trembling.

"You have come to help us!" she cried. "It is so easy, now that I know
that you love each other."

"How?" asked Sabina, breathless. "By a divorce?"

"Yes."

"I shall never ask for that," Malipieri said, shaking his head.

"You are the best and truest gentleman that ever protected a woman in
trouble, Signor Malipieri," said the little woman quietly. "I know that
you will never divorce me. I know you would not even think of it."

"Well, but then--" Malipieri stopped and looked at her.

"I shall get a divorce from you," she said, and then she looked happily
from one to the other.

Malipieri covered his eyes with his hand. He had not even thought of
such a solution, and the thought came upon him in his despair like a
flood of dazzling light. Sabina was on her knees, and had thrown her
arms wildly round the Signora Malipieri's neck, and was kissing her
again and again.

"But it is nothing," protested the Signora, beaming with delight. "It
is so simple, so easy, and I know exactly what to do."

"You?" cried Sabina between laughing and crying.

"Yes. I once gave lessons in the house of a famous lawyer, and
sometimes I was asked to stay to luncheon, and I heard a great case
discussed, and I asked questions, until I thoroughly understood it all.
You see, it was what I always meant to do. There is a little fiction
about the way it is managed, but it is perfectly legal. Though Italians
may naturalize themselves in a foreign country, they can regain their
own nationality by a simple declaration. Now, Signor Malipieri and I
must be naturalized in Switzerland. I know a place where it can be done
easily. Then we can be divorced by mutual consent at once. We come back
to Italy, declare our nationality wherever we please, and we are free
to be married to any one else, under Italian law. The fiction is only
that by paying some money, it can all be done in three months, instead
of in three years."

Malipieri had listened attentively.

"Are you positively sure of that?" he asked.

"I have the authority of one of the first lawyers in Italy."

"But the Church?" asked Sabina anxiously. "I should not think it a
marriage at all, if I were not married in church."

"I have asked a good priest about that," answered the Signora. "I go to
confession to him, and he is a good man, and wise too. He told me that
the Church could make no objection at all, since there has really been
no marriage at all, and since Signor Malipieri will present himself
after being properly and legally married to you at the municipality. He
told me, on the contrary, that it is my duty to do everything in my
power to help you."

"God bless you!" Sabina cried. "You are the best woman in the world!"

Malipieri took the Signora's hand and pressed it to his lips fervently,
for he could not find any words.

"I shall only ask one thing," she said, speaking timidly again.

"Ask all I have," he answered, her hand still in his.

"But you may not like it. I should like to keep the name, if you do not
mind very much, on account of my little girl. She need never know. I
can leave her with a friend while we are in Switzerland."

"It is yours," he said. "Few of my own people have borne it as worthily
as you have, since I gave it to you."

  *  *  *  *  *  *

Here, therefore, ends the story of Sabina Conti and Marino Malipieri,
whose marriage took place quietly during the autumn, as the Princess
had confidently said that it should. It is a tale without a "purpose"
and without any particular "moral," in the present appalling
acceptation, of those simple words. If it has interested or pleased
those who have read it, the writer is glad; if it has not, he can find
some consolation in having made two young people unutterably blissful
in his own imagination, whereas he manifestly had it in his power to
bring them to awful grief; and when one cannot make living men and
women happy in real life, it is a harmless satisfaction to do it in a
novel. If this one shows anything worth learning about the world, it is
that a gifted man of strong character and honourable life may do a
foolish and generous thing whereby he may become in a few days the
helpless toy of fate. He who has never repented of a good impulse which
has brought great trouble to other people, must be indeed a selfish
soul.

As for the strange circumstances I have described, I do not think any
of them impossible, and many of them are founded upon well-known facts.
I have myself seen, within not many years, a construction like the dry
well in the Palazzo Conti, which was discovered in the foundations of a
Roman palace, and had been used as an oubliette. There were skeletons
in it and fragments of weapons of the sixteenth century and even of the
seventeenth. There was also a communication between the cellars of the
palace and the Tiber.

I read George Sand's fantastic novel _Consuelo_ many years ago, and I
am aware that she introduced a well, in an ancient castle, in which the
water could be made to rise and fall at will, in order to establish or
interrupt communication with a secret chamber. I do not know whether
she imagined the construction or had seen a similar one, for such wells
are said to be found in more than one old fortress in Europe. The "lost
water" really exists at many points under Rome; its rising and falling
are sometimes unaccountable; and I know at least one old palace in
which it has been used and found pure, within the memory of man. So
far, the explanations suggested by engineers have neither satisfied
those who have propounded them, nor those who have had practical
experience of the "lost water." The subject is extremely interesting
but is one of very great difficulty, as it is generally quite
impossible to make explorations in the places where the water is near
the surface. The older part of modern Rome was built haphazard, and
often upon the enormous substructures of ancient buildings, of which
the positions can be conjectured only, and of which the plans and
dimensions are very vaguely guessed by archaeologists. All that can be
said with approximate certainty of the "lost water" is that it must run
through long-forgotten conduits, that it rises here and there in wells,
and that it is mostly uncontaminated by the river.

Those familiar with the Vatican museum will have at once recognized the
colossal statue of gilt bronze which now stands in the circular hall
known as the "Rotonda." It was accidentally found, when I was a boy, in
the courtyard of the Palazzo Righetti in the Campo dei Fiori, carefully
and securely concealed by a well-built vault, evidently constructed for
the purpose, in the foundations of the Theatre of Pompey. I went to see
it, when only a portion of the vault had been removed, and I shall
never forget the vivid impression it made upon me. So far as I know,
there has not been any explanation of its having been hidden there, but
among the lower classes in Rome there are traditions of great treasure
supposed to be buried in other parts of the city. I have taken the
liberty of making the discovery over again at a point some distance
from the Palazzo Righetti, and in the present time. The statue was
really found in 1864, and the gem in the ring was stolen. The marble
Venus which Malipieri saw with it is imaginary, but I was also taken to
see the beautiful statue of Augustus, now in the Braccio Nuovo of the
Vatican, on the spot where it came to light in the Villa of Livia, in
1863.

The great mediaeval family of Conti became extinct long ago. The palace
to which I have given their name would stand on the site of one now the
property of the Vatican, but would be of a somewhat different
construction.

Finally, I wish to protest that there are no so-called "portraits" in
this story of the heart of old Rome. Many Romans were ruined by the
financial crisis of 1888 and its consequences, either at the time or
later. The family to which Sabina belonged is wholly imaginary, and its
fall was due to other causes. I trust that no ingenious reader will try
to trace a parallel where none exists. I would not even have a certain
young and famous architect and engineer, for whom I entertain the
highest admiration and esteem, recognize a "portrait" of himself in
Marino Malipieri, if these pages should ever come to his notice, and I
have purposely made my imaginary hero as unlike him as possible, in
appearance, manner and speech.

Those who have noticed the increasing tendency of modern readers to
bring accusations of plagiarism against novels that deal partly with
facts will understand why I have said this much about my own work. To
others, the few details I have given may be of some interest.










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