Rossi held his head between his hands to prevent his senses from leaving

him. His rage was ebbing away, and he was beginning to tremble.

Nevertheless, he forced himself to go on. As he rang the bell at the

Foreign Office, he was partly conscious of a secret desire that the

Prime Minister might not be there.

The porter was not sure. The Baron's carriage had just gone. Let him ask

on the telephone.... No, there had been a messenger from the Minister of

the Interior, but the Minister himself had not been there that night.

Rossi took a long breath of relief and went away. He had returned to the

bright side of the piazza when the lights seemed to be wiped out as

though by an invisible wing, and the whole city was plunged in darkness.

At the next moment a squadron of cavalry galloped up to the Quirinal,

and the gates of the royal palace and of the Consulta were closed.

Midnight struck.

For two hours the soldiers had been charging the crowds by the light of

lanterns and torches. They had arrested hundreds of persons. Chained

together, two and two, the insurgents had been taken to the places of

detention, amid the cries of their women and children. "Who knows

whether we shall see each other again?" said the prisoners, as they

passed into the "House of Pain." One old woman went on her knees to the

soldiers and begged them to have pity on the people. "They are your

brothers, my sons," she cried.

One o'clock struck.

The streets were still dark, but a searchlight from Monte Mario was

sweeping over the city like a flash of a supernatural eye. With

tottering limbs and his head on his breast, David Rossi was walking down

the Via due Macelli towards the column of the Immaculate Conception,

when a young girl spoke to him.

"Honourable," she said, "is it true that the little boy is dead?... It

is? Oh, dear! I met him in the Corso, and brought him up as far as the

Variétés, and if I had only taken him all the way.... Oh, I shall never

forgive myself!"

The city was quiet and all was hushed on every side when Rossi found

himself on a flight of steps at the back of Roma's apartment. From these

steps a door opened into the studio. One panel of the door was glazed,

and a light was shining from within. Going cautiously forward, Rossi

looked into the room. Roma was seated on a stool with her hands clasped

in her lap and her hair hanging loose. She was very pale. Her face

expressed unutterable sadness.




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