"Which reminds me," said the little lady, "where is Donna Roma?"

"Yes, indeed, where is Donna Roma?" said the young Roman.

"Who is Donna Roma?" said the Englishman.

"Santo Dio! the man doesn't know Donna Roma!"

The white plumes bobbed up, the powdered face fell back, the little

twinkling eyes closed, and the company laughed and seated themselves in

the Loggia.

"Donna Roma, dear sir," said the young Roman, "is a type of the fair

lady who has appeared in the history of every nation since the days of

Helen of Troy."

"Has a woman of this type, then, identified herself with the story of

Rome at a moment like the present?" said the Englishman.

The young Roman smiled.

"Why did the Prime Minister appoint so-and-so?--Donna Roma! Why did he

dismiss such-and-such?--Donna Roma! What feminine influence imposed upon

the nation this or that?--Donna Roma! Through whom come titles,

decorations, honours?--Donna Roma! Who pacifies intractable politicians

and makes them the devoted followers of the Ministers?--Donna Roma! Who

organises the great charitable committees, collects funds and

distributes them?--Donna Roma! Always, always Donna Roma!"

"So the day of the petticoat politician is not over in Italy yet?"

"Over? It will only end with the last trump. But dear Donna Roma is

hardly that. With her light play of grace and a whole artillery of love

in her lovely eyes, she only intoxicates a great capital and"--with a

glance towards the curtained door--"takes captive a great Minister."

"Just that," and the white plumes bobbed up and down.

"Hence she defies conventions, and no one dares to question her actions

on her scene of gallantry."

"Drives a pair of thoroughbreds in the Corso every afternoon, and

threatens to buy an automobile."

"Has debts enough to sink a ship, but floats through life as if she had

never known what it was to be poor."

"And has she?"

The voices from behind the curtained door were louder than usual at that

moment, and the young Roman drew his chair closer.

"Donna Roma, dear sir, was the only child of Prince Volonna. Nobody

mentions him now, so speak of him in a whisper. The Volonnas were an old

papal family, holding office in the Pope's household, but the young

Prince of the house was a Liberal, and his youth was cast in the stormy

days of the middle of the century. As a son of the revolution he was

expelled from Rome for conspiracy against the papal Government, and when

the Pope went out and the King came in, he was still a republican,

conspiring against the reigning sovereign, and, as such, a rebel.

Meanwhile he had wandered over Europe, going from Geneva to Berlin, from

Berlin to Paris. Finally he took refuge in London, the home of all the

homeless, and there he was lost and forgotten. Some say he practised as

a doctor, passing under another name; others say that he spent his life

as a poor man in your Italian quarter of Soho, nursing rebellion among

the exiles from his own country. Only one thing is certain: late in life

he came back to Italy as a conspirator--enticed back, his friends

say--was arrested on a charge of attempted regicide, and deported to the

island of Elba without a word of public report or trial."




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