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The Heart of Rome

F >> Francis Marion Crawford >> The Heart of Rome




"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,

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