Time passed, but she did not heed it. She was working at lightning
speed, and with a power she had never felt before.
Night came on, and the old Rome, the Rome of the Popes, repossessed
itself of the Eternal City. The silent streets, the dark patches, the
luminous piazzas, the three lights on the loggia of the Vatican, the
grey ghost of the great dome, the kind stars, the sweet moon, and the
church bells striking one by one during the noiseless night.
At length she became aware of a streak of light on the floor. It was
coming through the shutters of the window. She threw them open, and the
breeze of morning came up from the orange trees in the garden below. The
day was dawning over the sleepy city. Convent bells were ringing for
matins, but all else was still, and the silence was sweet and deep.
She turned back to her work and looked at it again. It thrilled her now.
She walked to and fro in the studio and felt as if she were walking on
the stars. She was happy, happy, happy!
Then the city began to sound on every side. Cabs rattled, electric trams
tinkled, vendors called their wares in the streets, and the new Rome,
the Rome of the Kings, awoke.
Somebody was singing as he came upstairs. It was Bruno, coming to his
work. He looked astonished, for the lamps were still burning, although
the sunlight was streaming into the room.
"Been working all night, Donna Roma?"
"Fear I have, Bruno, but I'm going to bed now."
She had an impulse to call him up to her work and say, "Look! I did
that, for I am a great artist." But no! Not yet! Not yet!
She had covered up the clay, and turned the key of her own compartment,
when the bell rang on the floor above. It was the porter with the post,
and Natalina, in curl papers, met her on the landing with the letters.
One of them was from the Mayor, thanking her for what she had done for
Charles Minghelli; another was from her landlord, thanking her for his
translation to Paris; a third was from the fashionable modiste, thanking
her for an invitation from the Minister. A feeling of shame came over
her as she glanced at these letters. They brought the implication of an
immoral influence, the atmosphere of an evil life.
There was a fourth letter. It was from the Minister himself. She had
seen it from the first, but a creepy sense of impending trouble had made
her keep it to the last. Ought she to open it? She ought, she must!