XV

Good Friday's Ministerial paper announced in its official column that

late the night before the King, attended by the Minister of the

Interior, had paid a surprise visit to the Mint, which was in the Via

Fondamenta, a lane approached by way of the silent passage which leads

to the lodging of the Canons of St. Peter's. Roma was puzzling over the

inexplicable announcement, when old John, one of Rossi's pensioners,

knocked at her door. His face and his lips were white, and when Roma

offered him money he put it aside impatiently.

"You mustn't think a gold hammer can break the gate of heaven,

Eccellenza," the old man said.

Then he told his story. The King had seen the Pope in secret the night

before, and there was something going on about the Honourable Rossi.

John knew it because his grandson had left Rome that morning for

Chiasso, and another member of the secret police had started for Modane.

If Donna Roma knew where the Honourable was to be found, she had better

tell him not to return to Italy.

"Better be a wood-bird than a cage-bird, you know," the old man

whispered.

Roma thanked him for his news, and then warned him of the risk he ran,

being dependent on his grandson and his grandson's wife.

"That's nothing," he said, "nothing at all now."

Last night he had dreamed a dream. He thought he was a strong man again,

with his children about him, and beholden to no one. How happy he had

been! But when he awoke, and found it was not true, and that he was old

and feeble, he felt that he could hear it no longer.

"I'm in the way and taking the food of the children, so it can't last

long, Eccellenza," he said in a tremulous voice, smiling with his

toothless mouth, and nodding slightly as he went away.

In the uneasy depths of Roma's soul only one thing was now certain. Her

husband was in danger, and he must not attempt to cross the frontier.

Yet how was he to be prevented? The difficulty was enormous. If only

Rossi had replied to her letter by telegram, as she had asked him to do,

she might have found some means of communication. At length an idea

occurred to her, and she sat down to write a letter.

"Dearest," she wrote, while her eyes shone with a kind of delirium

and tears trickled down her cheeks, "I am very ill, and as you

cannot come to me I must go to you. Don't think me too weak and

womanish, after all my solemn promises to be so strong and brave.

But I can only live by love, dearest, and your absence is more

than I can bear. You will think I ought to be content with your

letters, and certainly they have been very sweet and dear to me;

but they are so few, and they come at such long intervals, and now

they seem to have stopped altogether. Perhaps at the bottom of my

selfish heart, too, I think your letters might be a wee bit more

lover-like, but then men don't write real love letters, and nearly

every woman would confess, if she told the truth, and she is a

little disappointed in that regard.




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