THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE LITERATURE OF ITALY 
 
 consists of sixteen volumes, of which 
 this one forms a part. For full partic- 
 ulars of the edition see the Official 
 Certificate bound in the volume entitled 
 
 "A HISTORY OF ITALIAN 
 LITERATURE."
 
 Literature 
 
 Edited by Rossiter Johnson and 
 Dora Knowlton Ranous -^ -^ <& 
 
 With a General Introduction by William 
 Michael Rossetti ^ and Special Intro- 
 ductions by James, Cardinal Gibbons, 
 Charles Eliot Norton, S. G, W. Ben- 
 jamin, William S* Walsh, Maurice 
 Francis Egan, and others ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 New translations, and former render- 
 ings compared and revised ^ -^ <& <& 
 Translators : James C. Brogan, Lord Charle- 
 mont, Geoffrey Chaucer, Hartley Coleridge, 
 Florence Kendrick Cooper, Lady Dacre, 
 Theodore Dwight, Edward Fairfax, Ugo 
 Foscolo, G. A. Greene, Sir Thomai Hoby, 
 William Dean Howells, Luigi Monti, Evan- 
 geline M. O'Connor, Thomas Okey, Dora 
 Knowlton Ranous, Thomas Roscoe, William 
 Stewart Rose, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Wil- 
 liam Michael Rossetti, John Addington 
 Symonds, William S. Walsh, William 
 Wordsworth, Sir Thomas Wyatt <sr <& <& &
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 
 
 (LA CONQUISTA DI ROMA) 
 
 
 \o 
 
 IT IS /," SHE SAID, HOLDING A LARGE BUNCH OF 
 ROSES AGAINST HER BREAST 
 
 From an Original Drawing by Arthur Crisp 
 
 THE NATIONAL ALUMNI
 
 
 u- r AM ). ovwuott 
 \t.\. 
 
 
 
 im>Y-\
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 
 
 (LA CONQUISTA DI ROMA) 
 
 BY 
 
 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 TRANSLATED BY DORA KNOWLTON RANOUS 
 
 THE NATIONAL ALUMNI
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY 
 THE NATIONAL ALUMNI
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 CHAPTER I One Road to Rome i 
 
 CHAPTER II The Goal of Ambition 14 
 
 CHAPTER III For King and Country 27 
 
 CHAPTER IV Mysteries of Rome 42 
 
 CHAPTER V A Roman Christmas 59 
 
 CHAPTER VI Sangiorgio Begins the Conflict ... 79 
 
 CHAPTER VII The Knight Meets a Siren 89 
 
 CHAPTER VIII The Adventure of the Masked Ball . 101 
 
 CHAPTER IX A Lady and a Challenge 121 
 
 CHAPTER X Another Step toward Conquest .... 139 
 
 CHAPTER XI An Essay in Diplomacy 163 
 
 CHAPTER XII The Only Woman 174 
 
 CHAPTER XIII Angelica Discusses Politics .... 189 
 
 CHAPTER XIV The Quirinal Ball 196 
 
 CHAPTER XV The Roman Carnival 213 
 
 CHAPTER XVI A Flower on the Current 224 
 
 CHAPTER XVII Love's Sanctuary 231 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII "The Pangs of Despised Love" . . 257 
 
 CHAPTER XIX Rome, the Conqueror ...... 270 
 
 An Innocent Barabbas 281 
 
 By permission of Short Stones Company. 
 
 836971
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PACK 
 
 "It is I," she said, holding a large bunch of roses against 
 
 her breast (Page 128) Frontispiece 
 
 The seconds threw themselves between the combatants, 
 
 and the surgeons ran toward them 156 
 
 She turned and looked deep into Sangiorgio's eyes, 
 
 wherein she read the truth a6<j
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ATILDE SERAO, one of the most popular 
 novelists of the Italy of to-day, was born, in 
 Patras, Greece, March 7, 1856. Her mother 
 was descended from an ancient Greek family 
 of royal blood, and her father was an exile from Naples, 
 to which place he returned with his family when his 
 daughter was about twelve years old. The mother su- 
 perintended the education of the young girl, who early 
 showed a disposition to view life through the lenses of 
 romantic imagination. At the age of seventeen she pub- 
 lished a story entitled Opalo ("Opal"), which attracted 
 considerable attention, and the editor of // Piccolo invited 
 her to join his staff of newspaper reporters. She ac- 
 cepted the offer, and it is said that, in her zeal to ac- 
 complish the same kind of work as that done by the 
 male reporters, she cut her hair short and assumed man's 
 attire. This work did not last long, however, and soon 
 she was writing vivid and sympathetic short stories of 
 Neapolitan life, portraying the joys, sorrows, passions, 
 and superstitions of the volatile people of that city with 
 bold strokes that presented in a few pages little mas- 
 terpieces of description. Her first long novel was called 
 A Fickle Heart, and later she wrote a story of the 
 morbid emotional life of an invalid, entitled Fantasia. 
 
 Matilde Serao married Eduardo Scarfoglio, and es- 
 tablished with him in Rome a journal called La Corriere 
 
 ix
 
 x INTRODUCTION 
 
 di Roma; later the place of this publication was changed 
 to Naples and it was called La Corriere di Napoli. They 
 published also another journal, known as // Mattino. 
 
 Matilde Serao's best known novels are Riccardo Joanna, 
 a story of journalistic life; // Paese di Cuccagna ("The 
 Land of Cockaigne") ; La Ballerina ("The Ballet-Dancer") ; 
 Suor Giovanna della Croce ("Sister Joanna of the Cross," 
 a Sicilian story) ; and La Conquista di Roma ("The Con- 
 quest of Rome"). In the last mentioned work are 
 found all this many-sided writer's literary gifts: a 
 sculpturesque distinction in the drawing of character, 
 human sympathy, startling realism, producing a picture 
 of high life and political intrigue in Roman society of 
 to-day, which enables the reader to see that world with 
 the same completeness of vision with which the author 
 
 sees it herself. 
 
 D. K. R.
 
 CHAPTER I 
 ONE ROAD TO ROME 
 
 HE train stopped. 
 
 I "Capua ! Capua !" rang a cry through the 
 
 darkness. 
 
 A group of officers strolled along the plat- 
 form, jesting and laughing, having come there to seek 
 amusement in seeing the night train from Naples pass 
 on its way to Rome. The guard talked in low tones to 
 the station-master, who gave him a commission for Cai- 
 anello, while a mail-carrier handed up a pouch full of 
 letters to the clerk in the mail-coach. 
 
 The officers chatted gayly among themselves, with a 
 great jingling of spurs, and looked with interest at the 
 travelers coming and going, trying to discern among 
 them a pretty woman, or some familiar face. But the 
 doors of most of the coaches were shut, and the light 
 from the lamps within was barely visible through the 
 closed windows. Here and there an open door revealed 
 glimpses of sleeping travelers wrapped in heavy coats, 
 rugs, or shawls. 
 
 "Everyone is asleep," said one of the officers; "let us 
 go home and to bed." 
 
 "Here are a bride and groom, I'll wager," said another, 
 seeing the word Reserved over a door. And, as the 
 
 shades were not drawn down, the young man, full of 
 1
 
 2 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 curiosity, sprang upon the step and glanced in at the 
 window. But he jumped down again immediately, shrug- 
 ging his shoulders. 
 
 "Only a man alone! he said. *'Probably some dep- 
 uty. He is asleep too." 
 
 But the man "alone" was not sleeping. He lay at full 
 length on the cushions; his eyes were closed; one arm 
 supported his neck, and the other hand was thrust 
 within his coat. But his face had not the peaceful ex- 
 pression of repose, as the features were contracted in 
 thought. 
 
 After the train had begun to move again, and had 
 passed out into the open country, the traveler opened 
 his eyes and changed his position. Occasionally a 
 thatched cottage, a little village, or a switch-tender's 
 little hut flashed out against a dark background; while 
 a path of fire was projected into the darkness, coming 
 from the headlight of the locomotive, which appeared to 
 throw a circle of dancing flames before it as it rushed 
 along at full speed. 
 
 The cold prevented the solitary traveler from sleeping. 
 He was accustomed to the mild nights of the South, 
 and had set out upon his journey with only a light top- 
 coat, his sole luggage being a small bag and a modest 
 trunk. But neither clothes, linen, nor books were of 
 importance to him ; nothing was important but that little 
 gold medal a precious fetich! attached to his watch- 
 chain. It had been obtained for him through special 
 favor, by the questor of the Chamber, and from the day 
 that it had become his own, his fingers were continually
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 3 
 
 touching it with almost mechanical caresses. Some- 
 times he clutched it so hard that it left an abrasion on 
 the skin. In order to have this compartment reserved 
 for him, he had shown the medal to the station-master, 
 lowering his eyes and compressing his lips to hide a 
 look of triumph and a smile of satisfaction. He had 
 held it in his hand since the beginning of the journey, as 
 if he feared to lose it, and it was warm from the contact 
 with his feverish palm. The sensation of pleasure he 
 derived from that contact was strangely acute; he fin- 
 gered delicately the carving of the metal, and felt be- 
 neath his touch the idolized inscription : XIV e Lcgislatura. 
 On the reverse were his surname and his Christian 
 name : Francesco Sangiorgio. 
 
 His hands burned feverishly, but he shivered with 
 cold. He rose and looked out of the door. The train 
 was still running through open country. The wheels 
 rolled smoothly along the rails, without disturbing the 
 travelers' sleep. The great moving caravansary filled 
 with sleepers sped through the night as if driven by an 
 implacable, ardent will, carrying with it other wills, pas- 
 sive in repose. 
 
 "Let us try to sleep," thought the Honorable San- 
 giorgio. 
 
 Lying down once more, he attempted to do so. But 
 the name of Sparanise, called two or three times at a 
 station, reminded him of the little hamlet in the Basi- 
 licata whence he had come, which place, together with 
 twenty other humble villages, had elected him deputy. 
 This little hamlet, a few hours' distance from a small
 
 4 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 station on the Eboli-Reggio line, now seemed very re- 
 mote to the Honorable Sangiorgio far away in a marshy 
 valley, where a noxious fog now rose from the streams 
 whose dry beds in summer show only yellow stones. 
 
 On his way to the station from that lonely spot in the 
 Basilicata, he had passed near the cemetery, a large, 
 square tract of land, where black crosses were scattered 
 among the tall pine-trees. Under one of these lay his 
 former opponent, the patriotic old deputy who had been 
 reflected year after year, but whom he had fought with 
 the audacity of youth, ignoring all obstacles. He never 
 would have defeated him had not Death, a powerful 
 ally, given him an easy victory. He had triumphed 
 while rendering homage to the civic virtues of the de- 
 parted patriot; but when passing the cemetery he felt 
 no pity for the tired old warrior who had descended 
 to the sublime serenity of the tomb. All this was for- 
 gotten in the face of his unlooked-for success, as well as 
 the ten years of his life as a country lawyer, dealing 
 with the petty affairs of provincial courts litigation 
 over an inheritance of three hundred lire or a blow with 
 a bill-hook; ten years passed amid sordid and paltry af- 
 fairs, on the alert against the lies and tricks of rascally 
 peasants and clients that tried to cheat him, while he 
 looked upon them all as his unarmed enemies. 
 
 Among such surroundings the young man had felt hu- 
 miliated and discouraged. He defended only half-heart- 
 edly his petty cases before judges who listened to him 
 with evident ennui; and at last he fell into the habit of 
 hastening through his defence in a few brief and indiffer-
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 5 
 
 ent words, so that he was considered a very poor ad- 
 vocate. 
 
 He had gone from his father's home without regret, 
 although he left behind both parents, who had wept at 
 his departure with the pathetic selfishness of age. This 
 hardness of heart was the result of long-suppressed anger 
 and revolt. Now he recalled these past years distinctly, 
 but without emotion, like a disinterested spectator, as 
 he lay stretched upon the cushions of his coach. He 
 closed his eyes, but could not sleep. 
 
 In the other coaches, however, the travelers appeared 
 to be plunged in profound sleep. 
 
 At Mont-Cassin, where they stopped five minutes at 
 one o'clock in the morning, no one left the train. The 
 waiter in the restaurant snored under a smoky lamp, 
 with his head upon his folded arms resting on the marble 
 table. The trainmen, wrapped in black capes, with 
 hoods pulled low over their eyes and carrying lanterns 
 in their hands, passed alongside the train, testing the 
 wheels, which resounded to the blows with a tone as 
 clear as that of a crystal bell. The hissing of the loco- 
 motive seemed less strident, as if it lowered its sharp 
 tone in deference to the sleeping travelers. 
 
 Leaving this station, the train moved more slowly, 
 without jolts or jars, gliding along with a monotonous 
 rumble, like the snoring of a giant. Francesco San- 
 giorgio thought of all the unknown persons that were 
 his fellow-travelers: some saddened by their recent de- 
 parture, others glad to be approaching a new place; 
 men, loving or indifferent, or preoccupied with business ;
 
 6 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 some enfeebled by age and illness, others in the fullness 
 of youth and vivacity ; many who were hastening toward 
 a tragedy, others toward perfect happiness men and 
 women, gay, sad, poor, rich, unhappy. Yet all, one after 
 another, had yielded to sleep within half an hour. Sleep 
 had calmed their ardor, soothed their sadness, quieted 
 their desires. Irritated nerves, anger, scorn, melancholy, 
 suffering, jealousy, hatred or love all human weak- 
 nesses and passions were submerged in the forgetfulness 
 of sleep. 
 
 "But why am I still awake?" thought Sangiorgio. 
 
 He arose and stood erect under the flickering light of 
 the little lamp, and peered through the misty window 
 at the flying landscape. He felt a keen sense of lone- 
 liness, as if he were abandoned and lost in a vast un- 
 known world. He regretted having demanded a re- 
 served compartment, and yearned for human companion- 
 ship. He felt as dismayed as a child, shut up in that 
 prison from which he could not escape. An unreason- 
 ing terror seized upon him, and he fell back upon the 
 seat for a moment, when a new thought distracted him 
 from his nervous fear. 
 
 "Rome! Yes, it is Rome!" he murmured. 
 
 It was Rome, indeed. The four letters forming that 
 word now rang in the ears of his imagination round, 
 clear, and resonant as the bugles of a marching army 
 with the persistency of a fixed idea. The name was 
 short and sweet, like one of those adorable names of 
 women that in themselves possess a secret charm, and 
 it had for him an almost magic seduction. He could
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 7 
 
 not figure to himself that it was merely the name of a 
 city an agglomeration of people and of houses. Rome 
 was to him the great unknown. Having always lacked 
 both the time and the money necessary to make the 
 journey, he never had been able to visit the great city 
 and had formed only an abstract idea of it thinking of 
 it as of something vast and fluctuating as a great 
 thought, an ideal apparition, an immense face with in- 
 distinct contour. Thus his idea of Rome was grand, but 
 undecided and indefinite strange comparisons, fictions, 
 singular visions, fanciful conceits crowded one another 
 in his dreamy imagination. Under the mask of indiffer- 
 ence habitually worn by this pensive son of the South, 
 was concealed a fiery imagination long accustomed to 
 solitary musing. And the idea of Rome added fresh fuel 
 to his burning thoughts. 
 
 Ah, how he loved Rome ! He thought of it as a colos- 
 sal human shadow extending maternal arms to clasp him 
 in a mighty embrace, whence he should emerge, strength- 
 ened and rejuvenated. He fancied he could hear echoing 
 through the night the irresistible sweetness of a woman's 
 voice calling his name, and a voluptuous thrill stirred 
 his whole being. Rome awaited him, as a mother waits 
 for her son returning to her after a long absence. 
 
 For a long time he had been consumed with im- 
 patience to fly to Rome, but had been restrained by 
 moral and material obstacles. He could not free him- 
 self, and suffered mental torment that rendered his face 
 pale and his eyes dim. How many times, from the ter- 
 race of his little house, had he gazed across the hills f
 
 8 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 thinking that there far away over there! under the 
 blue arch of the horizon, Rome was calling to him! 
 Sadly he thought of the distance that separated him 
 from the city of his love, and bitterly he hated every- 
 thing that prevented him from answering her call. 
 
 Those ten years full of sordid and maddening struggle 
 had changed him: his mind was filled with suspicion 
 of all men and exaggerated self-esteem; he dissimulated 
 his real sentiments and felt unbounded scorn for every 
 human desire except ambition. He believed himself in- 
 vincible, but sometimes, in dark hours of defeat, he felt 
 himself overwhelmed with a sense of weakness. Then 
 his pride was overcome by humiliation, and he regarded 
 himself as only a poor weak creature, unworthy of 
 Rome, the well beloved! Ah, he must curb himself, he 
 must be patient, prove his strength through adversity 
 and purify his soul, in order to be worthy of her! Sa- 
 cred as a priestess, a mother, or a lover, Rome de- 
 manded expiations and sacrifices; she must have a pure 
 heart and a will of iron. 
 
 "Ceprano! Ceprano! Fifteen minutes wait!" cried the 
 guard. 
 
 The Honorable Sangiorgio gazed around, bewildered; 
 he had been in a fevered dream. 
 
 First a ray of pale green showed at the horizon ; then 
 a livid light, which mounted slowly in the dark sky. In 
 the coldness of the waning night, the vast Roman Cam- 
 pagna opened to the view. Sangiorgio regarded it cu- 
 riously. It appeared a wide plain, indistinct in color, 
 with irregularities like the undulations of a petrified sea*
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 9 
 
 In the dim light of dawn it looked like an enormous 
 desert, with its monotony broken here and there by a 
 bush, a shrub, or a hedge. 
 
 The stations became more frequent, wet and shining 
 with the dew, their windows closed behind rusty green 
 blinds. The water dripped from the laurel bushes, and 
 at each station was a large clock with a white face, 
 which, with its long black hands, looked like an enor- 
 mous two-legged spider. The station-master, muffled in 
 his cloak, with head bent low, tramped to and fro among 
 the employes. In the fresh morning air an acrid, pene- 
 trating odor of damp earth mounted to the brain. A 
 large town, built on a hill, surrounded by battlements 
 and flanked by two towers, rose gray and ancient, a 
 relic of the Middle Ages. This was Velletri. 
 
 The train went more slowly; voices were heard from 
 the next coach; at a window appeared the dark, close- 
 shaven face of a Spanish priest, who was smoking a 
 cigar. Now the broad daylight illuminated the whole 
 sky, showing the nakedness of the country in all its 
 grandeur. A short, sparse, marshy grass covered the 
 plain now bathed in the clear light of morning ; here and 
 there were large yellowish-brown spots of dry and arid 
 land. It was indeed a desert, vast, complete, without 
 a tree or the shadow of a human being, or even the 
 flight of a bird; it was desolation itself immense, sol- 
 emn, superb. 
 
 In contemplating this country, which was unlike any 
 other, Francesco Sangiorgio felt a profound astonish- 
 ment, in which were swept away all his former imagin-
 
 10 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 ings. He remained curled up in his corner, mute and 
 motionless, trembling with cold and excitement. At last 
 a weight seemed to descend upon his eyelids, his limbs 
 relaxed, and he realized that his sleepless night had left 
 him greatly fatigued. He would have liked to lie down 
 again at full length upon the cushion, and have a nap 
 in the sunshine, and envied those passengers that had 
 been able to sleep during the night journey. 
 
 By this time the hours seemed interminable, and the 
 sight of the desolate country oppressed him. He was 
 longing for sleep; his mouth was dry and bitter, as if 
 he were recovering from illness ; his impatience increased 
 to such a degree that he actually suffered. The local 
 passenger trains were too slow why had he not taken 
 an express? The rapidly approaching realization of his 
 dreams gave him a throb of joy, yet the consciousness 
 that he was so near Rome filled him with a vague, inex- 
 plicable fear. He strove in vain to be calm, to laugh at 
 his own perturbation, but the last twenty minutes were 
 almost insupportable. 
 
 With his head out of the window, the smoke from the 
 engine blowing in his face, and without noticing the 
 fine aqueducts that traversed the plain, he gazed ahead 
 toward the longed-for goal, thinking each instant that he 
 could see the beloved city. The Campagna seemed to fly 
 past him into the background, carrying with it the wet 
 fields, the yellow aqueducts, and the little white huts of 
 the switch-tenders. The locomotive seemed to augment 
 its speed, and from time to time emitted a prolonged and 
 piercing whistle.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME H 
 
 Where were they? Nothing could be seen. When at 
 last the movement of the train began to slacken, San- 
 giorgio's excitement was so overpowering that he sank 
 back upon the cushions, unnerved for the moment. He 
 stepped down from his compartment, with trembling 
 limbs and throbbing heart. 
 
 The crowd surrounded him, pushed and jostled him, 
 without paying him any attention. Two trains had just 
 arrived, one from Florence, the other from Naples, and 
 the travelers filled the station platform with noise and 
 bustle. 
 
 The Honorable Sangiorgio stood bewildered in the 
 midst of this hubbub ; he leaned against a wall, his hand- 
 bag at his feet, and gazed at the throng as if he sought 
 a familiar face. 
 
 The station was damp and dark, and was filled with 
 boxes, trunks, and packages. The travelers hurried along 
 with tired, bored, and sleepy faces, yawning frankly; the 
 prevailing expression was of absolute, invincible indif- 
 ference to all things. 
 
 These people, as well as the employes and the express- 
 men, went and came without noticing Sangiorgio, who, 
 with a childish impulse, had unbuttoned his topcoat with 
 the sole idea of displaying his medal. Twice he had 
 called a porter, who had disappeared without listening to 
 him. 
 
 A group of railway employes had gathered around sev- 
 eral gentlemen, of bureaucratic appearance, in black 
 coats and white cravats, with their coat-collars turned 
 up to hide the pallor resulting from broken sleep. They
 
 12 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 lifted their hats with great respect as a slender and ele- 
 gant woman alighted from the train from Florence, fol- 
 lowed by a tall and thin old gentleman. 
 
 The group approached them with much solemnity, as 
 if to join in some high social ceremony; one of the gen- 
 tlemen offered a cluster of rare flowers to the young 
 lady, and all bowed low to her elderly companion. 
 Within the now half-opened topcoats could be seen a 
 dazzling array of snowy shirt-fronts, several gold medals 
 shone from their owners' watch-chains, and animated 
 smiles were on every face. 
 
 "His Excellency the Minister!" murmured some one 
 in the throng. 
 
 Then the group broke up, the lady moved away, lean- 
 ing on the arm of the thin old man, followed by the 
 deputies and the other functionaries. The Honorable 
 Sangiorgio walked behind them mechanically. 
 
 When the official party reached the Piazza Margher- 
 ita, they all got into carriages, the lady putting her hand 
 out of the window and smiling once more upon her 
 gallant escorts. Sangiorgio remained alone in the 
 square. The pavement was wet, as if from recent rain. 
 
 All the windows of the Albergo Continentale were 
 closed. At the left, the Corso Margherita was still in 
 the process of building, covered with beams, stones, and 
 rubbish. The omnibuses from the hotels set off, but 
 several fiacres remained standing, through the indolence 
 of their drivers, who smoked and awaited a "fare." 
 
 At the right was a closed variety theater, and on a 
 high stone wall was a flaring poster of the Popolo Romano.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 13 
 
 Over all hung a thick, heavy and penetrating mist, per- 
 meated by some unpleasant odor. The city, in the damp 
 dreariness of an autumn morning, seemed to give forth 
 a disagreeable emanation, like the feverish breath of a 
 sick person. 
 
 The Honorable Francesco Sangiorgio was very pale, 
 and felt a chill in his heart !
 
 CHAPTER II 
 THE GOAL OF AMBITION 
 
 E had told himself that on that day he must re- 
 sist the temptation to go to the Parliament 
 House. The rain had ceased; a slight vapor 
 still hung in the air; the streets were muddy, 
 and the sky remained overcast. 
 
 From a window of the Albergo di Milano the Honor- 
 able Sangiorgio contemplated the Parliament House, 
 painted a pale yellow, and tried to strengthen himself in 
 his resolution not to visit it that day. During the first 
 week after his arrival he had passed all his time there 
 mornings, afternoons, and evenings. In the early morn- 
 ing his first glance, on awaking, was directed toward the 
 great structure. He dressed mechanically, his eyes still 
 fixed upon it, while he planned to see more of the city, 
 to seek a permanent lodging, as this hotel life could not 
 last. But when he set out from the hotel, opening his 
 umbrella, he felt a sudden seizure of indolence ; the slop- 
 ing street leading to the Piazza Colonna looked slippery 
 and dangerous; he shrugged his shoulders and made 
 straight for Montecitorio. He would remain there until 
 it was time to return to his hotel for breakfast, in a din- 
 ing-room on the ground floor, where his favorite seat 
 was one that faced the great plate-glass doors. Seated 
 here, he would order veal, cooked in the Roman style, 
 
 14
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 15 
 
 and while eating he could scrutinize everyone that en- 
 tered or left the palace. 
 
 He ate rapidly, with the absent-minded air of one not 
 keenly alive to the pleasures of the table. His eyes 
 were continually fixed upon the entrance of the palace; 
 sometimes he fancied he recognized Sella, with his stout 
 person, somewhat square and wooden in outline, as if he 
 had been carved with a hatchet, and his black beard just 
 touched with gray. 
 
 Again, he imagined he saw Crispi, with his heavy 
 white moustache and his ruddy face, looking like a 
 military bourgeois. Sangiorgio finished his meal in haste, 
 burning with impatience to obtain a close view of these 
 great statesmen, these leaders among men and again 
 he hurried to Montecitorio. But there a profound dis- 
 illusion awaited him. 
 
 He sought in vain for Sella and Crispi; the Chamber 
 looked cold and blank under the white light from the 
 dome; the benches were covered with white linen, and 
 the floor with a gray carpet bordered with blue. He 
 mounted abstractedly the five steps leading to the chair 
 of the presiding officer, and paused there for a moment, 
 looking at the rows of benches, which grew wider as 
 they rose toward the galleries. 
 
 He felt a boyish impulse to push the buttons of all the 
 electric bells, and in order not to yield to it, he imme- 
 diately left the Chamber by another doorway, carrying 
 with him a melancholy impression of that great empty 
 cone-like space, bathed in pale yellow light. 
 
 He did not find Sella and Crispi anywhere, either in
 
 16 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 the dark circular gallery, which looks like the portico 
 of a crypt, or in the other corridor, long and narrow, 
 where the deputies store away their reports and bills 
 under lock and key. Neither did he find them in the 
 buffet, the hall called the Lost Footsteps, nor in the 
 offices : all was silence and solitude, except for a group of 
 ushers in uniform, without medals, who strolled about 
 with the bored air of idlers. 
 
 Occasionally Sangiorgio met the questor of the Cham- 
 ber, who had come to take the place of the other questor, 
 a nobleman who had gone to pass the month of Oc- 
 tober in his villa on Lago Maggiore; this questor, a 
 baron of the Abruzzi, was a very great lord, and, with 
 his courteous and polished manners, he observed every- 
 thing closely, like a man of honor faithful to his trust. 
 Whenever he encountered Sangiorgio he gave him a 
 slight but courteous salutation, and passed on. This 
 reserved politeness intimidated the young deputy, who 
 blushed at each encounter as if he had committed some 
 error. 
 
 At last he took refuge in the reading-room, near the 
 oval table, where lay scattered the daily journals. In 
 this apartment he always found two deputies: one a 
 socialist from Romagna, with a chestnut beard and 
 flashing eyes behind a pair of spectacles, who wrote at 
 a small table, dashing off letters, proclamations, and 
 pamphlets; the other was an old statesman, with rosy 
 face and white beard, who slept tranquilly in an arm- 
 chair, with his feet on another chair, his hands in his 
 pockets, and a newspaper spread over him.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 17 
 
 The socialist raised his head and examined Sangior- 
 gio, perhaps trying to ascertain whether this newcomer 
 had within him the stuff whereof disciples are made ; but 
 the cold glance, the obstinate brow beneath the bushy 
 black hair, the whole energetic physiognomy of the 
 young man indicated a character already formed, and 
 little likely to be swayed by any man's influence. La- 
 mena, the socialist, bent again over his writing. 
 
 Sangiorgio paused only for a moment in the reading- 
 room on his way to the library on the third floor. Here 
 several clerks were seated at high wooden desks, en- 
 gaged in compiling a general catalogue, and working in 
 perfect silence. 
 
 A bald-headed, red-nosed deputy stood before a desk, 
 turning over and over the leaves of a catalogue, as if he 
 were searching for an undiscoverable work. He was 
 very short, and stood on a footstool in order to reach 
 the desk, and with his nearsighted eyes he tried to read 
 with his nose so close to the book that it looked as if 
 he were about to flatten that organ upon the page like 
 a seal. 
 
 No one else was to be found in the adjoining rooms, 
 which were filled with books, and tables covered with 
 pens, paper, inkstands and pencils for the use of literary 
 workers. 
 
 In one corner, before a half-empty shelf, the librarian 
 rummaged furiously among some books. He had a pas- 
 sion for this library, which he had created and had 
 kept in order. He did not turn his head on hearing 
 
 Sangiorgio's footsteps, or if he did it was only to throw 
 2
 
 18 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 him a rapid glance from his piercing eyes, overshadowed 
 by heavy black brows a glance still absorbed by his 
 literary researches. 
 
 Francesco Sangiorgio, again embarrassed by that sur- 
 prised scrutiny, retreated to the farthest room, selected a 
 book at random and began to read. 
 
 Like a lover who cannot make up his mind to leave 
 his inamorata, and seeks a thousand pretexts to remain 
 beside her, so Sangiorgio again found himself strolling 
 through the corridors, pausing to look at the maps hang- 
 ing on the walls ; he looked again in the Chamber, at the 
 allotment of seats; he glanced over the journals in the 
 reading-room, or turned the leaves of some book in the 
 library. 
 
 With the natural rusticity of his mind, and his pro- 
 vincial timidity, he feared lest the questor, the librarian, 
 the ushers, and the occasional deputies, might regard 
 him as he really was: a provincial, a novice, dazzled by 
 his first political success, who trembled with joy at find- 
 ing himself in the parliamentary armchairs, and who 
 could not tear himself away from the fascination of the 
 place. Again, like a lover, he imagined that everyone 
 could read in his face the secret of his passion. 
 
 But that day he had resolved that he would not set 
 foot in Montecitorio ; he would not even think of the par- 
 liamentary world. He temporized, lingering near the 
 window, and finally resolved to see something of Rome 
 after he had had his breakfast. 
 
 He had been awakened early by an unusual commotion 
 in the next room. A loud, sonorous, virile voice, with a
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 19 
 
 strong Neapolitan accent, was audible at sunrise, talking, 
 laughing, singing, its owner apparently receiving visitors 
 friends, acquaintances, and petitioners who made re- 
 quests, recommended themselves, and set forth their 
 claims in Neapolitan patois, with a persistency to which 
 the Honorable Bulgaro, Deputy for Chiaia, the second 
 Naples district, opposed energetic reprisals. Everything 
 could be heard through the thin partition, and Sangior- 
 gio listened involuntarily. 
 
 No, he could not, no! said the Honorable Bulgaro. 
 He was not the Eternal Father, to dispense favors to 
 everybody. Let everyone go away and leave him in 
 peace! And he strode to and fro with the heavy tread 
 of a large man, grown indolent in a bourgeois life, after 
 losing the elasticity of a handsome and vigorous young 
 officer, once a breaker of tender hearts. 
 
 But his petitioners insisted, supplicated, explained 
 their troubles, told their stories over and over until the 
 Honorable Bulgaro, with the easy Neapolitan good 
 nature, finished the interview by yielding, saying: 
 
 "Very well ! Very well ! We will see whether we can- 
 not do something." 
 
 His visitors departed as satisfied as if they had 
 already attained the object of their desires, and the great 
 man remained alone for a moment, puffing, panting, and 
 swearing : 
 
 "Good Lord! What a racket! What an infernal 
 din!" 
 
 The Honorable Sangiorgio felt ashamed at having 
 listened so long, and he went down to breakfast in a
 
 20 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 very pensive mood. He armed himself with courage 
 to resist the seductions of the Chamber; many deputies 
 must have arrived by this time, since it was barely three 
 weeks before the opening of the Fourteenth Legislature. 
 He was conscious of a weakening of his resolve, but at. 
 that moment a carriage rolling slowly over the wet pave- 
 ment obstructed for an instant his view of the grand 
 entrance to the palace. He ran out, stopped the carriage 
 with a resolute gesture, and jumped in. 
 
 "Where to, Signor?" asked the coachman of this ab- 
 sent-minded patron, who had given him no address. 
 
 "To Saint Peter's yes, Saint Peter's," Sangiorgio 
 replied. 
 
 The driver took a long time, because the streets lead- 
 ing to St. Peter's were thronged with pedestrians and 
 vehicles; besides, they were narrow and winding, lined 
 with dark and dirty little shops of second-hand dealers 
 in iron and papers, and broken by numerous blind al- 
 leys. At the Castle St. Angelo there was an open space 
 where one could breathe, but along the banks of the tur- 
 bid and almost stagnant Tiber was a succession of little 
 brown huts, buildings pierced by innumerable small 
 windows, showing damp, unwholesome-looking stains, 
 the mildewed foundations of which were revealed by the 
 low water. The stream at this point was very repellent. 
 
 In the Via Borgo the influence of the religious atmos- 
 phere was discernible, among the somber palaces, the 
 shops for the sale of sacred objects statuettes, images, 
 rosaries, crucifixes which bore the pompous sign: Ob- 
 jects of Art.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 21 
 
 In the great square, now silent and deserted, played 
 two fountains, tossing their plume-like white spray; and 
 the obelisk stood up tall and straight l like a giant's staff. 
 The carriage passed these and drew up before the grand 
 stairway. 
 
 "Do you wish to go into the church?" asked the 
 coachman. 
 
 "Yes," the deputy replied, shaking himself out of his 
 absent-mindedness. 
 
 When he reached the peristyle, he turned and surveyed 
 the square. He had read that at that distance a man 
 looked no larger than an ant; but no one was in sight, 
 and the vast, empty, watery square appeared to Sangior- 
 gio as dreary as the Roman Campagna. 
 
 Within the church, he experienced no mystic impres- 
 sions; he was indifferent to the subject of religion, 
 never spoke of it, discussed the Pope only as a factor 
 in politics, and left religious faith and ceremonies to the 
 women. He was only slightly impressed with the archi- 
 tecture of Saint Peter's. 
 
 A group of Germans moved about the great church, 
 regarding with disapproval so much Christian pomp. 
 Not a chair, not a bench, not a priest nor a sacristan 
 could be seen. Silent and deserted were the brown 
 confessionals, on which, in gold letters, were the words : 
 Pro hispanica lingua, Pro gallica lingua, Pro gcrmanica 
 lingua. If one wished to kneel, he must do so upon the 
 steps of the pulpit, upon those of the main altar, or upon 
 the cold pavement. 
 
 Francesco Sangiorgio knew nothing about the tombs
 
 22 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 of the Popes, and his ideas of art were exceedingly 
 vague. The monument by Canova, with its sleeping 
 lions, did not impress him ; that by Jean de la Rovere, of 
 bronze, he pronounced admirable; but before the monu- 
 ment by Bernini, with its skeleton of gold, its white 
 marble pope and red marble draperies, he felt only a 
 sensation of profound astonishment. 
 
 He strolled about here and there, his mind dwell- 
 ing on outside matters, not in the least interested in 
 that stupendous mass of stone, freezing and lonely, 
 where nothing moved except shadows. Presently he 
 left the church. 
 
 "To the Coliseum!" he said resolutely to the coach- 
 man. 
 
 This worthy, in order to prolong the drive, passed 
 through the ancient quarters inhabited by the true 
 Roman population, reluctant to abandon their old streets 
 and wretched dwellings swarming with vermin. 
 
 Sangiorgio affected to admire the Forum Trajani, that 
 extensive space below the level of the ground, with 
 its forest of broken columns, which furnish a sort of 
 cemetery for dead cats, and a rendezvous for various 
 kinds of animals, to which the servants of the neighbor- 
 hood generously bring the remains of their dinners. He 
 did not see the roughened fagade of the Capitol, nor the 
 Arch of Septimius Severus, the Temple of Peace, nor the 
 great Roman Forum, because of the demolition that was 
 going on there. 
 
 The coachman took a short cut and stopped before the 
 Coliseum.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 23 
 
 The deputy felt that he ought to get out of the car- 
 riage, so he descended, and passed under a high arch, 
 feeling his shoes sink into the muddy ground. 
 
 A stagnant pool, bordered by grass, was near the arch, 
 and the rain had left smaller pools among the stones 
 scattered here and there, in the time-worn hollows of 
 the steps, and even in the hand of a broken statue. 
 
 Francesco, astonished at the immensity of these walls, 
 sought to get his bearings: where, then, was the im- 
 perial box, the gallery of the vestals, and the gallery of 
 the priests? He walked slowly along to the middle of 
 the amphitheater, and looked around. 
 
 Yes, certainly, the Coliseum was majestic, but the 
 dull light hid part of its grandeur and showed only the 
 decay of antiquity. At a distance the country looked 
 green, with a damp and marshy verdure, and no song of 
 bird, cry of animal, or voice of man could be heard. 
 
 The visitor walked conscientiously along the circular 
 gallery, speculating as to the probable appearance of this 
 great ruin by moonlight. By daylight it appeared to him 
 only a vast and useless thing, the work of a proud and 
 powerful people. 
 
 A gentleman and a lady she, slender and elegant ; he, 
 tall and strong were also promenading in the vast sub- 
 terranean corridor; they walked slowly, without looking 
 at each other, but with clasped hands and speaking in 
 low tones. The lady lowered her eyes on meeting those 
 of Sangiorgio, and the man glanced at him with an 
 expression of annoyance. 
 
 "I dreamed of the Coliseum at midnight, under the
 
 24 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 rays of the moon," said the deputy to himself. "It ap- 
 pears that the old Romans built it only for a rendez- 
 vous for modern lovers !" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders with a secret sneer at the 
 idea of love; the disdain of the provincial who has al- 
 ways lacked time, opportunity, and inclination to love; 
 the scorn of the man wholly absorbed in ambitious 
 dreams. 
 
 "Shall we go now to the Church of San Giovanni, 
 Signer?" inquired the coachman, obsequiously. 
 
 "Yes, let us go." 
 
 They drove first to San Giovanni, then to Santa 
 Maria Maggiore. Sangiogio did not at all comprehend 
 the delicate mysticism of these churches, and he gazed 
 about him abstractedly. 
 
 When he left them, the coachman, without asking for 
 instructions, drove under the Arch of Titus and took 
 him to the Baths of Caracalla. The deputy stopped 
 under the gateway to examine the photographs for sale 
 there; then he entered quickly, as if seized with a sud- 
 den impatience. 
 
 The walls were very high, and were covered with 
 moss and brambles; in the middle of the vast compart- 
 ments the earth had become depressed into a hollow, 
 which was filled with brackish water. 
 
 At one end of the hall for sports and games was the 
 statue of a woman, modestly draped a Hygeia, without 
 doubt. A section of broken wall stood out against the 
 sad November sky, like a giant rock towering up in the 
 gray twilight. At a distance, on the verdant plain, was a
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 25 
 
 round and delicate temple, which perhaps was dedicated 
 to Venus. 
 
 The Honorable Sangiorgio felt ill at ease in that 
 colossal edifice; a chill stole over him; he felt small 
 and petty in the face of this formidable grandeur, which 
 humiliated him and made him suffer. 
 
 "No," he said resolutely to the coachman, who offered 
 to show him the Appian Way, "No, let us go back to the 
 city." 
 
 On the way back he felt himself shivering. Night 
 was coming on, and he fancied that he bore upon his 
 own shoulders all the dampness and humidity of that 
 moist autumn day; his soul seemed saturated with the 
 invincible melancholy of these ruins, the emptiness of 
 these solitary churches, the insensibility of those great 
 stone saints and abandoned altars of precious marbles. 
 
 All these dead things, buried under the dust of centu- 
 ries, mattered nothing to him. Who cared for the past? 
 He belonged to his own day; he loved the present, he 
 loved life, and the struggle for a future. Why stop to 
 indulge in vain regrets over the decadence of modern 
 times? Was not the present age great also, with its 
 wonderful discoveries and advanced civilization? 
 
 The first glimpse of the twinkling gaslight on the 
 Piazza Sciarra aroused him from his melancholy. A 
 newsboy was crying the Fanfulla and the Bersagliere. 
 
 The sidewalks were thronged with people. Sangiorgio 
 felt his spirits revive. A man stood in the middle of a 
 group and was announcing that the opening of the 
 Legislature was fixed for the twentieth of November.
 
 26 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 The cafes were brightly lighted, and Sangiorgio 
 thought he recognized, through the windows of the 
 Colonna Restaurant, the Honorable Zanardelli, whose 
 portrait he had seen. He entered and seated himself at 
 a small table not far from the deputy from Brescia. 
 
 While eating, he noted the tall frame, the small ob- 
 stinate head, nervous gestures, and Southern loquacity 
 of this man. In another corner more deputies were din- 
 ing, and the waiters hovered over these well-known 
 persons, ignoring the lonely and solitary Sangiorgio. 
 
 In this surcharged atmosphere, he resolved to gather 
 all his energies for the imminent conflict; and when 
 later he returned to his hotel and gazed again upon the 
 Montecitorio Palace, his whole being thrilled at the sight 
 of that great building wrapped in the shadows of night. 
 His heart was there !
 
 CHAPTER III 
 FOR KING AND COUNTRY 
 
 glove shop in the Via di Pietra was full of 
 1 activity. The proprietor, a smiling, blond 
 
 Milanese, assisted by two young women, did 
 nothing but take down boxes of gloves from 
 the shelves and put them back again, in response to the 
 demands of fresh customers. These, buttoned up in 
 tight-fitting topcoats, under which one divined that they 
 wore frock-coats, asked for light gloves. 
 
 One gentleman, elegantly attired, and wearing the 
 red ribbon of a commander, called for pale gray gloves. 
 A lady from the provinces, dressed in garnet satin and 
 a white hood, greatly annoyed several impatient cus- 
 tomers who were waiting their turn to be served. She 
 wished a snug-fitting glove, of good quality, with the 
 buttons well sewed on; but when she heard that the 
 price was six lire, she put on a scandalized air, com- 
 pressed her lips, and departed without buying anything, 
 holding in her hand her card of invitation to the 
 Chamber. 
 
 A deputy from the South, with a heavy brown 
 moustache, told one of his constituents that he had just 
 lost his gloves, and the poor miserable devil of a con- 
 stituent listened with a resigned smile, having probably 
 no money wherewith to purchase gloves for himself. 
 
 27
 
 28 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 A lady descended from a carriage and entered the shop. 
 She was tall, and her face was heavily "made up," the 
 lips blood-red and the eyebrows almost a blue-black, 
 contrasting strangely with her light blond coiffure. 
 She was dressed entirely in white, with a heavily plumed 
 hat, and carried a parasol of cream lace. She asked for 
 eighteen-button black gloves. Heavy bracelets rattled 
 on her round, bare wrists. 
 
 A small deputy, short and stout, with a black beard 
 and bright eyes, watched her slyly, while complaining to 
 his colleague, a handsome blond man, of the malicious 
 tricks played upon him by the authorities: for instance, 
 he was always chosen to be one of the party to receive 
 the King and the Queen at the door of the Legislative 
 Chamber he, a democrat of the Extreme Left, was com- 
 pelled to salute and offer his arm to a lady of the Court! 
 
 "I rather like fashionable women myself," said his col- 
 league, with a fatuous smile. 
 
 "Perhaps!" the other replied. 
 
 They left the shop, looking at the dazzling blonde as 
 she got into her carriage, and catching a glimpse of a 
 pink card tucked into the lace on the front of her bodice : 
 a card of admission to a reserved seat in the gallery ! 
 
 "The revenge of the proletariat," said the republican 
 deputy, with a smile. 
 
 By this time there was a throng in the glove shop, 
 composed chiefly of government employes, freshly 
 shaved, with home-laundered white cravats, light top- 
 coats and black trousers; some of these officials sported 
 the green ribbon of St. Maurice and St. Lazarus, which
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 29 
 
 appeared to impart a still more cadaverous tint to their 
 sallow faces. Nearly all wore slightly passe top hats, 
 which had been newly blocked and ironed for the great 
 day. 
 
 The plump and smiling proprietor seemed never 
 weary, never lost her head, and responded to every de- 
 mand with unvarying courtesy. She had sold her whole 
 stock of white cravats, and when the Honorable Di 
 Santamarta arrived a pale Sicilian, with a Mephisto- 
 phelian expression she was grieved to the heart at not 
 being able to supply him with a cravat, as he was one of 
 her best customers. She had just sold the last white 
 cravat, but Salvi, over there, at the corner of the Piazza 
 Sciarra, would surely have some. The Marquis listened 
 to her, his blue eyes lighted by an indolent sceptical 
 smile. 
 
 "And is the Signora Marchesa in Rome now? Of 
 course she will be present at the opening of Parliament?" 
 
 "Yes, I believe so," the Honorable Marquis replied. 
 "She will be there with her sister. I came out early 
 expressly to buy a cravat. What a bore, all this fuss!" 
 
 He moved toward the door with a languid air, as if 
 making a superhuman effort. At the threshold he turned : 
 
 "At Salvi's, did you say?" he inquired with a drawl. 
 
 "At Salvi's, yes; in the Piazza Sciarra." 
 
 For a moment the little shop was quiet. The two as- 
 sistants leaned wearily against the counter, following 
 the example of the proprietor, who rested her arms on 
 the shelf among the open boxes and disordered packets 
 of gloves. The bustle of the morning had been like that
 
 30 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 of one of the mad days in carnival time, when the shop 
 of the pretty Milanese was rilled with a crowd of young 
 gallants, milliners, valets, grumbling husbands, and im- 
 patient lovers. 
 
 A family of Neapolitans now entered father, mother, 
 and daughter and asked to see some gloves. They said 
 at once that they were going to the opening of Parlia- 
 ment ; that they had had three tickets given to them ; one 
 by the Baron Nicotera, another by Philippe Leala the 
 Honorable Leala, the secretary-general who had such 
 a lovely black beard! and the third by an usher at- 
 tached to the Montecitorio Palace a compatriot, this 
 usher, a fine fellow at home, and with five medals, if you 
 please ! It was not easy to get these cards of invitation 
 on the contrary, very difficult, indeed! They knew a 
 lady, the aunt of a deputy, who had been unable to get 
 one. They were a little worried lest they should not 
 all be able to sit together in the same gallery, because 
 of the different colors of their cards, but never mind! 
 they certainly should not get lost ! 
 
 "I believe you will have to go in through separate en- 
 trances," calmly observed the fair mistress of the shop, 
 struggling to fit a glove to the fat red hand of the girl. 
 The father looked at his wife in dismay. 
 
 The shop was again filled with fresh customers, all 
 eager and impatient; a double row of buyers formed in 
 front of the counter, and the air was filled with a pene- 
 trating human odor the subtle feminine aroma that 
 intoxicates. 
 
 The bright autumn sunlight struck obliquely across
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 31 
 
 the Piazza Colonna. The Antonine Column looked som- 
 ber and smoky in the clear white light, and stood out 
 like a dark and wrinkled hunchback against the red 
 fagade of the Piombino Palace. Golden atoms sparkled 
 in the air. In all directions the windows were draped 
 with tricolored flags; at the Austrian Embassy the flags 
 of the two nations were fraternally intertwined, their 
 vivid coloring seemed to sound a joyous note in the 
 golden atmosphere. 
 
 The yellow pavement, extending along the Corso and 
 the Piazza Colonna to the Montecitorio Palace, gave 
 forth a metallic reverberation. The terrace of the Cir- 
 colo Nazionale was gay with parasols red, blue, white, 
 and all colors. From both sides of the Corso came a 
 dazzling multitude, with gold epaulettes glittering on 
 masculine shoulders, and light-tinted feathers waving 
 on feminine hats. 
 
 By half-past nine the military cordon had blocked all 
 points of passage, and, ascending toward Montecitorio, 
 had surrounded the obelisk. 
 
 There were animated disputes at every street corner 
 between the officers and persons who wished to pass the 
 lines without a card; each professed to be an intimate 
 friend of some deputy ah, he could even see him in the 
 distance over there! standing under the arch. And 
 frantic signs were then made, but alas ! the deputy never 
 noticed them. 
 
 A motley crowd pressed close behind the line of sold- 
 diers; here and there a white or a red gown gave a 
 touch of color to the dark ranks.
 
 32 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Before the principal entrance a wide, sandy space was 
 left clear; from time to time a few gentlemen, with top- 
 coats unbuttoned, or two or three ladies, fashionably 
 gowned, crossed this space at a leisurely pace, the bet- 
 ter to be observed. 
 
 A group of three pretty women chatted near the great 
 gate; one was attired in black, her bodice a sparkling 
 mass of jet; another wore a costume of delicate gray; 
 and the third was dressed in blue. They laughed and 
 talked in clear tones, exchanged a profusion of compli- 
 ments, and, conscious that they were envied and admired 
 by the crowd, they prolonged this delightful moment. 
 Then with a gay "A rivederci!" they entered the palace. 
 
 The crowd increased every moment, coming from all 
 directions, ebbing and flowing like a human tide against 
 the wall of the military cordon. 
 
 The windows of the Albergo Milano were filled with 
 curious faces, and from the windows in the mansard 
 roofs appeared the smooth-shaved faces of man-servants 
 and the white caps of maids. 
 
 The large bay-windows of the Pensione dell' Unione, 
 tne small-paned windows of the Fanfulla, and the balcon- 
 ies of the Wedekind Palace, contained several rows of 
 spectators; and in the adjacent streets the houses, ter- 
 races, even the roofs, were black with people. At 
 Aragno's Cafe the women had climbed up on the tables 
 in order to see over the heads of the crowd. 
 
 The solemn hour of the formal opening approached; 
 the invited guests began to cross the open space in front 
 of the main entrance, the gravel crackling under their
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 33 
 
 feet. Occasionally some one appeared with a row of 
 medals glittering on his lapel. The carriages arrived, 
 with their horses at a trot, turning the obelisk with a 
 sweeping curve and drawing up before the grand 
 entrance. These were the official carriages, containing 
 the ministers, senators, and the diplomatic corps; from 
 them descended elderly gentlemen, assisted by a servant 
 or a secretary; a blue or a red uniform was visible an 
 instant, and then disappeared in the palace. 
 
 On a small platform two journalists in black coats 
 and soft hats jotted down the names of the celebrities 
 that passed; one was short, with a pointed beard and 
 cold gray eyes behind gold eyeglasses; the other was 
 stout and pale, with a sparse moustache and a mocking 
 smile. They were the managers of two great Roman 
 newspapers, reporting in person the events of this im- 
 portant day, and laughing slyly at some of the odd-look- 
 ing persons that passed. 
 
 The sun was now shining full upon the Piazza Monte- 
 citorio, lighting up the ranks of the soldiery, with their 
 white gaiters, blue capes, shining leather caps, and the 
 glitter of steel and of gold laces. A low, heavy rumble 
 was heard coming from a distance : the sound of cannon. 
 From that vast throng arose one great sigh of satis- 
 faction : 
 
 "The procession ! The procession !" was heard on all 
 sides. 
 
 The roar of cannon had been audible in the Legisla- 
 tive Chamber. There was a moment of perfect silence; 
 then a light murmur of voices arose, fans fluttered, femi-
 
 34 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 nine chatter went on, mingled with the frou-frou of silken 
 skirts, and laughter discreetly suppressed. 
 
 The Chamber was transformed. A temporary gallery, 
 accommodating four rows of guests, had been construct- 
 ed behind the last row of deputies' benches. The two 
 side stairways were closely packed with people, the 
 ladies sitting on the steps, while the men stood leaning 
 against the frail balustrade. 
 
 The galleries, too, were crowded. The gallery for the 
 press, which was the most advantageously placed for 
 hearing the speeches, had been given up to the public 
 for this occasion, and the reporters were scattered here 
 and there in the best places. 
 
 The ladies' gallery abounded in brilliant costumes, 
 and that of the military fairly glittered with gold lace 
 and epaulettes. The Speaker's gallery resounded with 
 sighs and complaints, for the royal canopy had been 
 placed directly under it, and this would hide the King 
 from view. The two large loges at the corner, for the 
 senate and the diplomatic corps, were still empty, heavily 
 shaded by the blue velvet draperies on their brown walls. 
 
 The benches had been removed from the semicircle, 
 as well as the long bench for the Ministers, called by the 
 Opposition "the bench of the accused." The small table 
 for the stenographers had disappeared also, and a plat- 
 form covered with red cloth had been erected on the 
 spot where the speaker's chair usually stood. Over this 
 a large red velvet canopy, fringed with gold, cast a mys- 
 terious shadow on the royal throne, upon which the
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 35 
 
 gold decoration sparkled like the ornaments on a sacred 
 reliquary. 
 
 The members were grouped in the semicircle, bowing 
 to acquaintances, smiling at pretty women, making 
 friendly signals to their constituents. The light, friv- 
 olous laughing chatter of the ladies could be heard above 
 all other sounds. 
 
 A handsome brunette, wearing a coquettish pink hat, 
 regarded with amused interest the distinguished po- 
 litical personages pointed out to her by the Honorable 
 Rosolino Scalia, a Sicilian member, of correct and serious 
 demeanor, looking like an officer in civilian attire, and 
 wearing a small withered daisy in his buttonhole. 
 
 The lady listened to his explanations, leaned forward, 
 threw quick glances here and there through her lorgnette, 
 with a satirical smile on her pretty face. Oh, was that 
 the Honorable Cavalieri, the Calabrian the deputy 
 who was so notoriously Calabrian? A patriot, was he? 
 Yes, of course everyone knew that; but he wore too 
 many decorations! And that thin blond man, with his 
 hair brushed straight back was that the Honorable 
 Dalma, the literary deputy who talked in the House 
 about Ophelia and against the taxing of women? Why 
 was he not made a Minister? Was it indeed a genuine 
 passion with them, this devotion to politics and why? 
 Scalia, somewhat bored by her frivolous prattle, tried to 
 prove to the lady that, however trifling the great game 
 of politics might seem to those who did not take it se- 
 riously, it was none the less noble and worthy of devo- 
 tion. But she shook her head, unconvinced, her silvery,
 
 36 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 frivolous laugh ringing out again, and she continued to 
 bore her companion with idle questions. 
 
 The public was not impatient. The women were only 
 too happy to sit there on view, shown off like dolls in a 
 window; they fluttered their fans, made quick move- 
 ments of the head in order to make their diamond ear- 
 rings sparkle, and used their opera-glasses continually. 
 
 The men complained of having been compelled to make 
 a formal toilet so early in the day; some affected to be 
 bored to death. But invitations to luncheons circulated, 
 and many appointments to dine at the restaurants were 
 made, in order to talk over the ceremonies of the day. 
 
 The Chamber itself was not in harmony with the bril- 
 liant gathering. Certainly, the windows of the skylight 
 in the dome had been washed, but the rosy light of that 
 bright morning fell white and cold through the glass, like 
 the pale rays that pass through the transparent walls of 
 an aquarium. The dark wood of the vast hall, with its 
 blue border, seemed to absorb all the light, reducing the 
 whole interior to a gloomy monotone. Nevertheless, this 
 place, which equalized the faces of all sorts and condi- 
 tions of men, this democratic uniformity, to which the 
 most rebellious must submit, produced a profound im- 
 pression : the Chamber appeared as a sacred place, where 
 personal individuality was swallowed up; a mysterious 
 spot, wherein reigned intelligence, will, and energy, in 
 which, to be distinguished from the multitude, a man 
 must possess an almost incredible amount of religious 
 ardor, or a degree of sacrilege so audacious as to enable 
 him to overthrow an altar. And the great royal canopy,
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 37 
 
 with its rich and heavy red velvet folds, bordered with 
 gold fringe and gathered up and fastened by the claws of 
 a golden eagle, the throne standing within a mysterious 
 shadow, gave the effect of a tabernacle or of some sacred 
 shrine wherein was hidden an unknown power. 
 
 Suddenly the deputies hastened to their places, silence 
 fell upon the humming galleries; without, the bersaglieri 
 blew the clear notes of the trumpets. A great burst of 
 applause rent the air; even the ladies clapped their dain- 
 tily gloved hands vigorously, leaning forward to get a 
 better view. 
 
 From the diplomatic gallery the Queen bowed to right 
 and left, and the dazzling fairness of her complexion 
 triumphed over the general dinginess of the surround- 
 ings. She looked still fresh and youthful under the wide 
 border of her hat. And, as she seated herself slightly in 
 advance of her suite, a new, resounding, and enthusiastic 
 acclamation greeted her, which drew forth another gra- 
 cious salute. 
 
 The spectators became excited ; they leaned to the right 
 and the left; the journalists exchanged audible remarks: 
 Where is the German Ambassador? Over there, see! 
 with his good-natured face, his white moustache and gray 
 eyes. Who is the lady in violet, behind the Princess Co- 
 lonna? Oh, that is the Princess Lavinia Taverna, a Pi- 
 ombino. The murmur and chatter broke out afresh; 
 questions, answers, and discussions made a sound like the 
 buzzing of a million flies. 
 
 Now the King appeared at the entrance on the right, 
 surrounded by the gentlemen of his household and his
 
 38 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 ministers, and followed by the deputies whose duty it had 
 been to receive him. 
 
 In three steps he was under the canopy, made two or 
 three nervous, involuntary movements, and saluted the 
 assemblage with his beplumed gold helmet. Brown and 
 thin, but strong, wearing the uniform of a general, with 
 white collar, close-fitting trousers, helmet on his head, 
 and taking the attitude of a soldier at attention, he was 
 the ideal picture of a military leader, ready to fight, to 
 ride, or to sleep under a tent ; he resembled one of those 
 ancient portraits of a general-in-chief, with pale brow and 
 eagle glance, presenting with a bold gesture a parch- 
 ment on which is drawn the plan of a fortress. 
 
 The old Prince di Savoia-Carignano, the King's uncle, 
 placed himself at the right of the throne and remained 
 respectfully standing; the Duke di Genoa, brother of the 
 Queen and cousin of the King, stood at the left, a little in 
 the background; and ranged in a semicircle were the 
 Ministers and the members of the royal household. 
 
 The voice of the King, somewhat harsh and strident, 
 rose in the midst of a profound silence. Many of the 
 auditors remembered a former assembly, when another 
 voice, equally harsh and a little indistinct, had pro- 
 nounced the loyal words that had sealed the national 
 compact. Every face was attentive, all eyes were fixed 
 upon the King, whose breathing was distinctly audible 
 between one sentence and the next. 
 
 The Queen, seated in the diplomatic gallery, listened 
 without a smile, her handsome face grave and serious; 
 the ladies of the Court also appeared deeply absorbed;
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 39 
 
 i 
 
 the ambassadors listened with amiable smiles ; the public 
 hung upon the royal words, without losing a syllable; 
 and the deputies, standing, paid the strictest attention 
 to their sovereign's remarks. 
 
 From time to time a thrill of satisfaction ran through 
 the assemblage, and twice his Majesty was interrupt- 
 ed by applause. Occasionally some strongly accented 
 phrase seemed to rise toward the dome : peace justice- 
 finance! Then the King would suddenly lower his voice, 
 as if he disdained the final applause which he knew would 
 follow his words. He hastened his closing phrases, as if 
 fatigued, and the end of the message was barely audible. 
 He took up his helmet quickly from the chair where he 
 had placed it, amid cries of "Long live the King!" 
 
 The assemblage remained motionless a moment, im- 
 pressed by the spectacle of their King, who, once a year, 
 appeared before them to express his wishes and to give 
 them solemn promises. Some of the more sensitive 
 women felt a light, cold moisture of perspiration on their 
 temples; others fanned themselves with feverish haste, 
 murmuring "Beautiful! beautiful!" while the greater 
 number sought to discover traces of emotion on the pale 
 face of the Queen. 
 
 The swearing-in began. The old Depretis advanced, 
 and read the formula for the deputies and the senators, 
 scanning the words as if he wished to imprint them on 
 the memory of his auditors. 
 
 The Duke di Genoa was the first to take the oath, 
 which he did in naval fashion, with an energetic gesture 
 and a vibrant voice ; some one applauded him.
 
 40 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Eight new senators succeeded him. Depretis pro- 
 nounced their names aloud, pausing a moment after each 
 one, and from the group was heard sometimes a weak 
 voice, sometimes a strong one, saying, "I swear!" 
 
 In that moment of waiting, all seemed to hold their 
 breath, while the King looked at the man whose name 
 had been called, examining him curiously. 
 
 The old soldiers took the oath in military fashion, with 
 hand on the heart; the lawyers took it in loud tones, that 
 the whole audience might hear them ; the veteran parlia- 
 mentarians repeated the formula with an indifferent air 
 and in an undertone, while the radicals hurried over the 
 ceremony as if to get rid of a disagreeable duty. When 
 Depretis's own turn came, he withdrew his right hand 
 from the breast of his ministerial uniform, extended his 
 arm and took the oath with much solemnity. For some 
 reason, this made many of the spectators laugh. 
 
 The new members were deeply impressed by all this 
 parliamentary pomp, and those among them who ap- 
 pelired to be the most self-contained and confident trem- 
 bled when they heard their names called, and took the 
 oath in faint tones that were barely audible. Others 
 played nervously with their watch-chains, ejaculated a 
 smothered "I swear !" and fell back into their chairs. 
 
 Between a Florentine duke and the Deputy Santini, the 
 Honorable Francesco Sangiorgio took the oath in a voice 
 so low that no one heard it. 
 
 At the conclusion of the ceremonies, the deputies 
 hastened out to the grand entrance to see the King and
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 4i 
 
 the Queen get into their carriage. The throng inundated 
 the Piazza Montecitorio, and, at the appearance of the 
 royal equipage, from all the streets, houses, balconies, 
 roofs and terraces, a frantic acclamation rose and swelled 
 in the clear air.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 MYSTERIES OF ROME 
 
 50 in the Via Angelo Custode was next 
 door to a great seigneurial palace, gray, damp, 
 and dismal. Francesco Sangiorgio hesitated, 
 for he saw no one to whom he could apply for 
 information. At last he risked himself within the dark 
 vestibule, and on tiptoe approached a winding stairway. 
 
 He began the ascent, first lighting a match in order 
 to see his way. At the first floor there was a little more 
 light, and at the second he could almost see. Three 
 doors opened upon this landing, and upon the middle 
 door was pinned a soiled card bearing the name Ales- 
 sandro Bertacchini. The deputy consulted the paper given 
 to him by the house-agent. This was the right place. He 
 knocked. 
 
 No one came; he knocked again. Then he heard a 
 rattling of keys and chains, of bolts pushing and drawing, 
 and finally the door was half-opened, revealing a man 
 with a red nose and hair curling on his temples. The 
 Honorable Sangiorgio raised his hat, and inquired 
 whether this was the apartment of Signor Alessandro 
 Bertacchini. 
 
 "Precisely, Signor ! I am he." 
 
 "Have you not an apartment to rent on the third 
 floor?" 
 
 42
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 43 
 
 Signer Alessandro eyed the stranger carefully, ob- 
 served the gold medal, and responded affirmatively. He 
 thrust his hands into his pockets, then left the deputy 
 standing on the landing for a moment, while he went to 
 find his keys. Through the half-open doorway Sangior- 
 gio perceived a dim antechamber, containing only a 
 chair, a table and a lamp, and sending forth a disagree- 
 able odor of ancient dust and dirt. 
 
 "Here I am, Signer," murmured Signer Alessandro, re- 
 turning quickly. 
 
 He opened the door at the left, showing a tiny room 
 furnished with a single chair. They entered it, and 
 passed through into a long narrow room. 
 
 On one side of this apartment stood a sofa covered 
 with crimson cloth, flanked by two armchairs decorated 
 with crocheted "tidies," and on the floor lay small squares 
 of carpet serving as rugs. Opposite was a white mar- 
 ble mantelpiece, on which stood two large petroleum 
 lamps, a silent clock, and a few framed photographs. 
 
 Hanging on the wall was a mirror of greenish glass, 
 with little colored pictures of the royal family stuck in 
 its frame. Before the window stood a small writing- 
 table, ornamented with a knitted cover, formed of green, 
 violet, scarlet, and orange stars, with a match-holder 
 sewed to the center. The windows were hung with long 
 lace curtains beneath red woolen draperies. 
 
 "This is the drawing-room," said Signer Alessandro, 
 with an air of fatigue, his chilled hands still thrust into 
 the pockets of his short coat. 
 
 Francesco Sangiorgio approached the window, which
 
 44 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 gave a view of an inside courtyard, surrounded by other 
 windows, back yards, and balconies. A branch of a tree 
 projected from the yard of a neighboring house. From 
 the various kitchens rose an odor of cabbage, dirty ket- 
 tles and stale water. Signer Alessandro said nothing, 
 but allowed the deputy to examine the apartment. 
 
 The bedroom appeared as narrow as a trench; along 
 one side stood the bed, the night-table, and an armchair 
 covered with blue cloth, on which a great stain had ob- 
 literated part of the color. Opposite this was a bureau, 
 the top of which had been stained with dampness, and 
 on which stood a drinking-glass between two empty cop- 
 per candlesticks. 
 
 The toilet-table occupied a corner, and this, too, dis- 
 played lace curtains surmounted by drapery of black 
 cretonne covered with huge blue and yellow roses. The 
 luxury of this room consisted in a brown woolen quilt 
 on the bed, decorated with an arabesque design in many 
 colors. 
 
 "What is the price of this apartment?" asked the Hon- 
 orable Sangiorgio. 
 
 "Eighty lire a month in advance," murmured Signer 
 Alessandro. 
 
 "And the service?" 
 
 "I have a woman who makes the bed, sweeps, brushes 
 the clothes and polishes shoes. Eight lire a month extra 
 in advance." Here he sighed deeply, and smoothed 
 his hair, which was as black and polished as ebony. 
 
 "Ah! That is rather dear eighty lire." 
 
 Signer Alessandro made no reply, appearing not to
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 45 
 
 have animation enough to discuss the matter. He merely 
 added, as they left the apartment: 
 
 "You could have private entrance." 
 
 The deputy departed, shrugging his shoulders. 
 
 In the street he met the wife of the Minister he had 
 seen at the railway station. Tall, slender, and grace- 
 ful, attired in black, with a velvet cloak, she looked very 
 youthful and rosy under her little veil. She walked 
 rhythmically, her hands in her muff, with drooping eye- 
 lids, as if in deep thought. In that face shone so much 
 sweetness and dignity that Sangiorgio saluted her in- 
 voluntarily. She did not notice him, but continued her 
 walk undisturbed. 
 
 The young man felt some annoyance at being thus 
 ignored ; he turned his steps toward the Piazza del Pan- 
 theon, to seek another house mentioned by the agent. 
 
 This building was close to the Pantheon, and next door 
 to a bake-shop. 
 
 In the basement were two windows, with white shades. 
 Sangiorgio mounted to the first floor, and saw three 
 doors, each bearing pink-tinted cards inscribed in violet 
 ink with feminine names. 
 
 The right-hand door, which had the name Virginia 
 Magnani, was opened by a slatternly maid, who stared 
 boldly at Sangiorgio without speaking. Her mistress ap- 
 peared immediately a little woman in a blue tea-gown 
 adorned with white lace, with her hair in curl-papers and 
 diffusing a strong odor of musk. 
 
 "Has the Signer come to inquire about the apartment?" 
 she said sweetly.
 
 46 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "You may go, Nanna! Come, in, come in, Signer; I 
 am entirely at your service. Do excuse me for receiving 
 you like this, but in the morning one never quite finishes 
 dressing. I often go to the theater with Toto to hear 
 Duse, so of course we get up rather late after it." 
 
 The deputy listened, astonished at the loquacity of this 
 powdered and perfumed little woman. 
 
 "Did Pachalsky send you here?" said she inquisitively. 
 
 "Yes, Signora." 
 
 "I thought so. Pachalsky knows that I rent my room 
 exclusively to deputies. But come in, Signor. This is 
 the reception-room, with a table and writing-materials 
 for the use of constituents who may call and find their 
 deputy out. The Honorable Santelli lived here for some 
 time. He was besieged with callers from morning till 
 night ; he never had a minute's rest, and hardly had time 
 to breathe. He used to say to me when we chatted to- 
 gether he was so polite, that Honorable Santelli! 
 'Signora Virginia, I cannot go on like this!' Here, as 
 you see, is the drawing-room neat and elegant. I 
 worked all this tapestry myself, in days when I was 
 younger and happier than now alas ! The general effect 
 is very comfortable with curtains, carpets, cushions 
 everything! The Deputy Gagliardi was so well pleased 
 here that he never would have left me if the voters in 
 his district had not played him the trick of not re- 
 electing him. But political life is full of such disappoint- 
 ments !" 
 
 She assumed a grave air, compressing her lips, and 
 holding her head on one side.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 47 
 
 The drawing-room, as a matter of fact, was not dis- 
 similar to the one in the Via Angelo Custode. There 
 were a few more faded hangings, a greater number of 
 photographs, and a rocking-chair ; the gilded frame of the 
 mirror was covered with green gauze, to protect it from 
 flies. 
 
 "And this," the Signora Virginia continued, in a strong 
 Roman accent, "is the bedroom. There is a little library 
 also, for most of my guests are very studious. There 
 was the Honorable Gatti he was always reading ro- 
 mances. Do you read novels, Signor?" 
 
 "No, Signora, never." 
 
 "I am sorry for that, for you might have lent me some 
 new ones! This room really needs a clothes closet, but 
 I am waiting for a good chance to buy one. But you 
 could let me take your things and I will hang them in 
 my wardrobe, where they will be quite safe. Otherwise, 
 as you see, nothing is lacking here are the toilet-table 
 and bed eider-down quilt everything! And all so 
 clean! It does not become me to say it, of course, but 
 every morning Toto thanks God for having given him 
 a wife like his Virginia! And now to whom have I 
 the honor of speaking?" 
 
 "Francesco Sangiorgio." 
 
 "Deputy from" 
 
 "Tito, in the Basilicata." 
 
 "Well, Honorable Sangiorgio, the price of this charm- 
 ing little apartment is one hundred and thirty lire a 
 month, not a centisimo less, because I really make noth- 
 ing from it. If I had to depend upon letting my rooms,
 
 48 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 I should fare badly. In the reception-room there is a 
 door leading to my own rooms, but when it is locked you 
 have your own private entrance. Should you require a 
 private entrance, Signer?" 
 
 And she regarded him narrowly, with a cat-like gaze. 
 The deputy did not understand. 
 
 "Why really I do not know," he replied at random. 
 
 "Because in that case the price would be twenty lire 
 more each month in all, one hundred and fifty lire. But 
 if you are married, and require other rooms for your 
 wife, my sister has two on this floor that she will rent." 
 
 "I am a bachelor, Signora." 
 
 "Oh, then we will say no more about that. And you 
 are wise not to marry too young. I, thank heaven ! have 
 no reason to complain, because my Toto is the best of 
 men, but liberty is sweet! I used to say that to the 
 Honorable Gatti, who was a bachelor like yourself, and 
 he would say gallantly, 'I would not marry unless I could 
 find another Virginia, but there are no more like her!' 
 Well, as we were saying one hundred and thirty lire a 
 month, ten lire for service, and five lire for the light on 
 the stairs, the gas to burn until eleven o'clock. I could 
 look after your washing, too; I have an excellent laun- 
 dress, and she never uses potash in the water. And if 
 you ever tire of restaurant dinners, and wish for a cozy 
 little meal at home, Toto, my husband, amuses himself 
 with making dumplings that are indeed fit for a king. I 
 never go into the kitchen myself; I am too delicate." 
 
 Sangiorgio remained cold and distant under this flow 
 of words.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 49 
 
 "Well, what is your decision, Signer Deputy?" sud- 
 denly demanded the Signora Virginia, in a harder tone. 
 "I have many applicants, as of course you understand 
 that an apartment like this does not remain long vacant." 
 
 "I do not wish to cause you to lose a lodger, Signora," 
 said the deputy, whose naturally suspicious mind was 
 aroused. "I will write you my decision." 
 
 "I may expect a letter, then. Shall I call for it at Par- 
 liament House?" the little woman replied, again becom- 
 ing obsequious. 
 
 "Do not trouble yourself, Signora. I will send the let- 
 ter here." 
 
 The Signora bowed and extended her hand, with the 
 gesture of a great lady. Sangiorgio left the house quite 
 dazed with her gabble; he felt as fatigued as if he had 
 visited ten houses. 
 
 Two more addresses were inscribed on his bit of paper ; 
 he took a carriage to go to the Via del Gambero, since 
 he did not know the way. This street had the air of 
 mystery peculiar to the streets parallel to the Corso, the 
 thoroughfare of hurrying men and women with affaires 
 on their minds. The great Palazzo Raggi, with its court- 
 yard as large as a whole square, was often passed by 
 persons who were trying to avoid the crowd, or to escape 
 some dangerous encounter, and who walked rapidly 
 without looking behind them. 
 
 Number 37 was a respectable-looking place, with a lit- 
 tle vestibule lighted by small windows. A woman came 
 out to meet the deputy. 
 
 "Have you an apartment to let on the third floor?" 
 
 4
 
 50 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "Yes, Signer. Do you wish to see it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The woman chose a key and entered the house, mak- 
 ing a sign to Sangiorgio to follow her. She wore an old 
 green gown, faded and worn, with soiled satin trimming. 
 Her head was covered with a red wig, with a braided 
 chignon and frizzes on the forehead, and she sported red 
 silk stockings with run-down slippers. In her flabby, 
 freckled cheeks, in the purplish hue of her infantile 
 mouth were traces of a countenance that must once have 
 been full, round and rosy, but which with age had col- 
 lapsed, like that of a doll from which the sawdust has 
 run out. 
 
 The stairway was wide and light, with three doors on 
 each landing. On the first floor, at the right, Sangiorgio 
 read: Barone di Sangarzia, Deputy; no card was on 
 the middle door, but on that at the left an inscription 
 read: Anna Scartozzi, Dressmaker. 
 
 On the second floor, at the right, the card announced: 
 Marchese di Tuttamlla, Deputy; the middle door again was 
 blank, and the one on the left had a card marked: 
 Bureau of Commissions. 
 
 "Do these two deputies occupy furnished rooms?" in- 
 quired Sangiorgio. 
 
 "No, Signor, the furniture is their own, but the plan 
 of the apartments is the same as the others," the woman 
 replied, unlocking the door at the right on the third floor, 
 where a card on the door at the left read : Paul Galasso, 
 Dentist. 
 
 The apartment was very light and gave a good view
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 51 
 
 of the street. The furniture had some pretensions to 
 elegance. A vase of fine faience stood on a table, and 
 there was a fireplace a real fireplace the height of lux- 
 ury in a Roman house of the middle class. 
 
 "You can light a fire here, you see, and on a winter 
 evening, after dinner, that is delightful," said the woman. 
 "Each apartment has its own fireplace; and the deputy 
 on the first floor keeps a fine fire burning all day long." 
 
 "But does he not attend Parliament?" inquired San- 
 giorgio, surprised. 
 
 "Not always not always!" the woman answered, her 
 face wrinkling into a malicious smile. 
 
 "And what is the price of these apartments ?" Sangior- 
 giorgio, surprised. 
 
 "One hundred and eighty lire a month, Signor." 
 
 "That is very dear." 
 
 "Oh, no, Signor ! If you will inquire about prices, you 
 will see that that is very reasonable for an apartment in 
 the middle of Rome, two steps from the Corso. And of 
 course it is not for me to boast, but the rooms are really 
 charming." 
 
 She furtively fluffed up the front frizzes of her shabby 
 wig. 
 
 "It is dear," Sangiorgio insisted. 
 
 "Of course, you are not compelled to take it, Signor, 
 but I assure you that you will not find anywhere an 
 apartment like this, with a fireplace and a private en- 
 trance, elegant furniture, everything quiet, and every- 
 one minding his own affairs and not inquiring about his 
 neighbors'. The deputy on the first floor has been here
 
 52 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 more than four years, and the one on the second floor 
 two years. The dressmaker has only the best custom 
 the most aristocratic ladies in Rome drive up in their 
 carriages to my door" 
 
 "That may be true, but really it does not concern me." 
 
 "True, Signer ! But I am sure you will return, for you 
 will find nowhere a place like this. Yes, you will return, 
 Signer Deputy, believe me!" 
 
 As Sangiorgio descended the stairs, he met a lady com- 
 ing up ; she was enveloped in a large otter cape, and her 
 face was covered with a thick veil. She ascended slowly, 
 and paused near the door of the dressmaker. 
 
 "One of Scartozzi's customers," whispered the woman 
 to Sangiorgio. "She has come to try on a gown, prob- 
 ably." 
 
 But the fair unknown proceeded to ascend the next 
 flight, and knocked at the door of the deputy on the 
 second floor. 
 
 In order to finish this tiresome business in one morn- 
 ing, Sangiorgio ordered his coachman to drive to the 
 last address on his list, in the Via di Due Macelli, a 
 bright, sunny street, having a certain air of aristocratic 
 refinement. 
 
 Number 128 was situated between an English grocer's 
 shop, which gave forth a piquant odor, and a florist's hot- 
 house, with a fine display in the windows of reeds, rushes, 
 baskets of gilded wickerwork or of rustic wood, in which 
 were growing roses and lilies of the valley, the first of 
 the season. The stairs were marble, white and shining, 
 and well lighted from above.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 53 
 
 On each landing were handsome doors of veined maple, 
 ornamented with bright brass knockers. A man in livery 
 opened a door and showed the Honorable Sangiorgio into 
 a dim reception-room, saying that he would inform the 
 Signora of his presence. 
 
 The deputy felt his feet sink into a soft, thick carpet, 
 and groped his way in the half-light to a seat in a low 
 and luxurious armchair. He distinguished a large cen- 
 ter-table, covered with yellow plush, on which stood a 
 Japanese ash-tray and a graceful Venetian vase. 
 
 A light step was heard, and the mistress of the house 
 entered. She was tall, with a finely-moulded figure; 
 her hair was carefully waved, and held in place by light 
 tortoiseshell combs. Her gown was of simple black, but 
 of soft and rich material, with a high collar of snowy 
 linen fastened with a gold horseshoe pin. 
 
 "Will you come with me, Signer?" said the lady softly. 
 
 They went out on the landing ; in the clearer light she 
 appeared to be about thirty years old, with a complexion 
 of ivory whiteness and deep, mysterious black eyes. 
 
 The apartment to which she conducted Sangiorgio was 
 small, but bright and cheerful. The drawing-room was 
 furnished in pink and gray chintz, of delicate tones; the 
 mirror had a frame of handsomely carved wood; a low 
 sofa stood near a window draped with long embroidered 
 muslin curtains that touched the floor. A variety of 
 photographs was scattered over the walls, as if thrown 
 here and there by chance. 
 
 A small cabinet stood in a corner; upon it was a red 
 plush photograph frame, empty. The bedroom had pale-
 
 54 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 blue satin furniture, with the toilet-table draped in white 
 muslin held by knots of satin ribbon. There was a ward- 
 robe with glass doors, a pretty little bed, and at the lace- 
 draped windows the same tender shade of blue was re- 
 peated in transparent curtains of silk. 
 
 "There is a dressing-room also," the lady murmured, 
 without a smile. 
 
 "I will not trouble you to show it," the deputy replied. 
 
 "No, no, I wish to show it to you, because it has a 
 private entrance from the hall. It is very convenient," 
 she added, simply, looking attentively at one of her 
 hands, and stroking it to make it look whiter. In her 
 black robe, with its statuesque folds, her regular Roman 
 features and alabaster skin, she commanded respect. 
 Sangiorgio treated her as if she were a woman of high 
 society. 
 
 "This apartment is too luxurious for me," said he, 
 with a slight touch of shyness. "I admire it very much, 
 but my habits are most plain and simple." 
 
 "Ah!" said the lady, with an expression of polite in- 
 credulity. 
 
 "Yes, I assure you I am somewhat of a savage," he 
 continued. "I need only a quiet place for my work 
 nothing more, I pass all my time at Parliament House. 
 This place is rather rather feminine, I think." 
 
 "Possibly. I had a Russian lady here last, but she 
 was suddenly recalled to her own country." She paused. 
 
 "What is the price?" the deputy inquired hesitatingly. 
 
 "Two hundred and fifty lire a month," the lady replied 
 nonchalantly, adjusting the golden horseshoe.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 55 
 
 "Service and gas included, I suppose?" said Sangiorgio, 
 with polite curiosity. 
 
 "You must arrange about service with my maid." 
 
 "Oh, certainly of course!" said the deputy apologet- 
 ically. 
 
 The lady of the mysterious eyes showed Sangiorgio 
 silently to the door, took leave of him with a smile 
 her first but did not offer to shake hands with him. 
 
 By this time the deputy felt exhausted, overcome by 
 a sort of moral lassitude. The November sun seemed to 
 send forth rays as ardent as those of midsummer, and 
 the air felt stifling. 
 
 There certainly had been some subtly powerful per- 
 fume in that house one of those perfumes that excite the 
 nerves and senses; perhaps it had been worn by that 
 strange woman, so pale, so severe, looking like a patri- 
 cian abbess in her long black robe. As he walked along 
 slowly, he pondered over that pretty pink and gray 
 drawing-room, so fresh in its simplicity, and the dainty 
 blue chamber with its floating muslin curtains, which 
 seemed like a cozy nest, perched high in the air, far from 
 all disturbance. His mind dwelt upon that retreat as 
 the place where the unknown Russian lady must have 
 reposed, with the dreams of an incomprehensible for- 
 eigner ; of that little cabinet where she must have written 
 her letters; of the toilet-table which had reflected her 
 beauty; above all, of that red plush frame, standing 
 empty as if a hasty traveler had taken from it some cher- 
 ished photograph. 
 
 Sangiorgio had unconsciously entered the Cafe Aragno ;
 
 56 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 he sat down in a small room at the rear, and ordered a 
 glass of cognac to cheer his depressed spirits. 
 
 He found himself thinking again of the lady in the fur 
 cloak whom he had passed on the stairs in the Via del 
 Gambero; he had remarked at the time that she had a 
 dainty little foot as she went up the stairs. The janitress 
 must know who she was! What a fright she was, that 
 old janitress, with her frowzy red wig ! But who knows ? 
 She may have been handsome once! Then there was 
 that curious Signora Virginia, who read novels while her 
 husband cooked! What a queer world! 
 
 Little by little his spirits rose, and he felt an irre- 
 sistible desire to decipher all these feminine puzzles : the 
 Via di Due Macelli, the unknown Russian lady, and the 
 mysterious eyes of the hostess ; the Via del Gambero, the 
 absurd janitress, and the veiled lady of the staircase; 
 the house near the Pantheon, and the suggestive prattle 
 of Signora Virginia. 
 
 He felt a strange curiosity to know more of these 
 elusive creatures who appeared to be hastening and hid- 
 ing from some one; and in his mind's eye, far above all 
 these inferior beings, rose a compelling face, and a tall, 
 stately figure, attired in richest black; her cheeks were 
 like roses beneath her lace veil, and she walked with 
 rhythmic step and lowered eyelids. Where could she 
 have been going at that hour that lady the wife of 
 his Excellency? 
 
 At this point in his reflections, Sangiorgio observed 
 passing before his window the stout Duke di Bonito, the 
 popular deputy from Naples. He walked with a heavy
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 57 
 
 rolling gait that made him resemble a pinnace, or mer- 
 chant-vessel one of those flat, black craft, loaded with 
 coal or macaroni that run between small Neapolitan 
 ports. His faithful friend, the Deputy Pietraroia, accom- 
 panied him: a man of calm face but of violent temper, 
 who would sit for months in Parliament without speak- 
 ing a word, and then suddenly break out some day into 
 impassioned speech, astonishing everyone with his South- 
 ern intensity. 
 
 The Honorable Sangiorgio followed them with his 
 eyes; they stopped a moment on the sidewalk, saluting 
 the member of the Neapolitan trinity, the Honorable 
 Piccirillo, blond and rosy, the redoubtable orator of the 
 faubourgs. Piccirillo told a story, gesticulating, waving 
 his hand, which had been injured in a duel, twisting a 
 button on the topcoat of the Duke, who laughed with 
 incredulous irony, while Pietraroia, calm as always, 
 listened, and delicately stroked his moustache. 
 
 The sight of these men brought Sangiorgio's mind 
 back to the parliamentary world; he felt refreshed, re- 
 stored to himself. The women he had seen and talked to 
 all day had filled his mind with idle trivialities and ab- 
 surd perturbation. But now he had found again his 
 moral equilibrium, and suddenly he comprehended the 
 true character of all these furnished houses, apartments, 
 and rooms, which are found in all parts of Rome, peo- 
 pling it with a sordid mingling of bourgeoisie, dressmakers, 
 janitresses, and complaisant servants. 
 
 He realized what must be the intimacy necessarily es- 
 tablished between these women and their lodgers, by a
 
 58 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 continual promiscuity, an existence almost in common, 
 by daily encounters at morning and evening. He could 
 guess at the feminine domination beginning in the care 
 of the rooms, extending to the laundry-work, then to the 
 clothes, books and letters of the tenant, arriving by vari- 
 ous ways to domination over the man himself. He per- 
 ceived all the possibilities dramatic, grotesque, and cor- 
 rupt that might arise from this system of private en- 
 trances, lodgings for various purposes, English latch- 
 keys, doors open or locked, sliding bolts, mute bells, felt 
 slippers, thick veils, and heavy mantles. And the great 
 deceptiveness of Roman life so correct in outward ap- 
 pearance, so corrupt beneath the surface was at last 
 made clear to his mind. 
 
 And, in his instinctive dread of the all-powerful femi- 
 nine influence, in his wild desire for undisturbed solitude, 
 he took the rooms in the Via Angelo Custode, where no 
 women lived.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 A ROMAN CHRISTMAS 
 
 CHE Corso on a holiday : the shops closed, the side- 
 walks deserted, the cafes empty, hardly anyone 
 in the streets, here and there a lady coming out 
 of her house to be swallowed up in her car- 
 riage. A soft breeze seemed to bear caresses on its 
 wings. 
 
 On that warm afternoon of Christmas Day, the or- 
 dinary life of Rome seemed suspended. The central part 
 of the city and the Corso, usually so gay and animated, 
 with its four great squares, its elegant shops, its noisy 
 restaurants, its busy crowds, were plunged in profound 
 silence. 
 
 The peace and calm of this sacred day celebrated in 
 the smaller cities by shouts of joy and discharges of 
 musketry astonished Sangiorgio, as did many things in 
 this wonderful city of Rome, always new, always sur- 
 prising. 
 
 After reading the morning newspapers, which were 
 filled with sentimental poems and prose on the birth of 
 the Christ-Child, Sangiorgio went out and strolled about 
 the streets for an hour. He felt more and more sur- 
 prised at the silence in all quarters, for he had imagined 
 the streets would be filled with a merrymaking throng, 
 full of gayety and rejoicing: while in reality Rome 
 
 69
 
 60 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 seemed filled with the peaceful solemnity of a city of the 
 dead. He regretted bitterly that he had not to spend 
 Christmas with his old parents, in his poor and humble 
 native Basilicata, and watch the burning of the Yule-log 
 on the old familiar hearth. 
 
 While his mind was rebelling against the strange 
 charm that held him in this magic city, he saw in the 
 distance a group of men following one who held a tri- 
 colored flag. Marching with regular step, in advance of 
 the flag, were several men of grave and dignified aspect. 
 
 The color-bearer wore a leather cross-belt and an old 
 hat perched rakishly over one ear. Twenty men, or per- 
 haps more, followed him old men wearing various med- 
 als, some of them with stooping shoulders, others being 
 lame or half blind. These were the veterans of the bat- 
 tles of i848-'4Q. The little procession was brought up in 
 the rear by two men of unprepossessing appearance, with 
 curled moustaches; they were two police detectives in 
 plain clothes, carrying clubs under their coats. As they 
 passed the Cafe Aragno, the waiters did not even turn 
 their heads to look at the procession ; they were well ac- 
 customed to this sort of manifestation. 
 
 Sangiorgio strolled idly along at a little distance from 
 the procession, to see where they were going. As they 
 passed the Pantheon the tomb of the great king, Victor 
 Emmanuel the colors were dipped and the veterans 
 saluted. 
 
 The procession moved on, threading the dark, narrow 
 streets of the old part of the city: everywhere the shops
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 61 
 
 were shut, the windows closed, and a peaceful serenity 
 reigned in the deserted streets and empty houses. 
 
 It stopped at the entrance of the Sistine Bridge. Here 
 a little more animation was manifest: several persons 
 stood looking at the Tiber, which was of a pale yellow 
 under the wintry sky; carriages passed with their horses 
 at a trot, moderating their pace at the curve of the 
 bridge. 
 
 The whole quarter hereabouts was in process of de- 
 molition and reconstruction ; heaps of stones, bricks, and 
 rubbish lay about; in every direction could be seen the 
 interior fittings of buildings, which had been torn out 
 and thrown on the ground; also little lakes of hardened 
 lime, overturned wheelbarrows, tall scaffoldings plastered 
 with posters, and, in the distance, the beginning of a 
 wide street, newly paved, and the barges lying at the 
 quays of the Tiber. 
 
 Light clouds floated along the horizon, over the Via 
 Farnesina, and the yellow river rippled softly. At one 
 point an enormous black raft, looking like some imple- 
 ment of war but used in dredging, appeared to cut the 
 stream in two. 
 
 The procession turned into the Trastavere, crowded 
 with peasants in holiday garb. As the corner of a little 
 street was turned, the procession and its followers found 
 themselves suddenly in a wide avenue. On one side lay 
 Rome, brilliant and attractive in the golden light; on 
 the other rose the green summit of the Janiculum; mid- 
 way between these showed the imposing walls of the 
 Academy of Spain, around which curved the broad, wind-
 
 62 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 ing road. Occasionally the procession was obliged to 
 divide to make room for passing carriages, at the win- 
 dows of some of which delicate feminine profiles could 
 be seen. 
 
 At another turn of the street, Sangiorgio heard his 
 name called. He started, turned, and recognized the 
 Honorable Giustini, a Tuscan deputy and his neighbor in 
 the Chamber. He joined him. 
 
 "Are you following the procession, my dear colleague?" 
 inquired Giustini, in a slightly ironic tone. 
 
 "As a matter of curiosity yes. And you?" 
 
 "Oh, I I am watching it pass, merely as a spectator. 
 It is almost the same thing." 
 
 They turned and walked along together. 
 
 The Honorable Giustini was neither lame, humpbacked, 
 nor deformed, but one of his legs dragged slightly, 
 one shoulder was a little higher than the other, and 
 he appeared not to know what to do with his hands. 
 His complexion had a clayey tinge, and with his pale- 
 tinted eyes, sparse beard, and general air of boredom 
 and fatigue, he suggested a person suffering from phys- 
 ical and moral rickets. 
 
 "These celebrations," he said, "these processions, car- 
 rying flags and laying wreaths on graves, are all alike. 
 I have seen thousands of them, shall see many more, and 
 I have even joined in them myself. Who has not in the 
 course of his life?'* 
 
 "I have, certainly, when I was at the University," 
 Sangiorgio replied. 
 
 "Who cares for all this nonsense?" Giustini continued,
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 63 
 
 shrugging his shoulders. "One must be very young 
 to do so say, twenty the age of folly." 
 
 "Do not speak ill of youth," said Sangiorgio. 
 
 "Ah, to be sure youth, love, death the three themes 
 sung by Leopardi. In reality, he sang only of two of 
 them ; the other claimed him for its own. All Southrons 
 are Leopardists, are they not? What a bore he is! He 
 took advantage of the fact that he was a humpback 
 to write poetry and bore every one. I have a slight 
 hump myself, but, thank God, I never have written any 
 poems ! Neither do I tire my colleagues at the Chamber 
 by making long, windy speeches." 
 
 "That is true; you have not made a speech since 
 Parliament opened." 
 
 "I wish my colleagues had followed my example. 
 What insupportable babblers! What a prosy lot of talk 
 about nothing!" 
 
 Sangiorgio listened to him in silence, continuing the 
 study of men and things which he had begun as soon as 
 he had arrived in Rome, and which later was to prove 
 one of his strongest powers. 
 
 The procession now crossed the spacious square, on 
 which opens the entrance to the Academy of Spain. Sev- 
 eral carriages stood before the porte-cochere, one of 
 which belonged to the Vatican, recognizable by its close- 
 ly-shaved footman, looking like a sacristan in his black 
 livery. 
 
 The pedestrians stopped to watch the little band file 
 past; a tall, thin gentleman, with a blond beard, leaned
 
 64 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 upon a cane and exchanged greetings with the veterans 
 as they passed him. 
 
 "That individual would be very glad to belong to 
 the modern movement, but that has not come yet," 
 Giustini resumed in his malicious tones. "A handsome 
 man, is he not? That is Giorgio Serra of course you 
 have heard of him? His is a striking type: a combination 
 of poet, apostle, dreamer, and believer. He is a man of 
 honor one of the few really likeable democrats. In his 
 tastes he is an aristocrat; though he loves the people 
 because he has a heart naturally tender and affectionate. 
 You will see that he will go up to the Janiculum to wit- 
 ness the ceremonies, but he will not speak; in some re- 
 spects he is as delicately sensitive as a woman. We 
 shall pass him in a moment, and you will see that he 
 barely recognizes me, since he detests nothing more 
 than the party to which you and I, my dear colleague, 
 have the honor to belong." 
 
 "And why do you belong to it, Signer?" 
 
 "Oh I? Why, indeed?" said Giustini, with an indif- 
 ferent shrug. 
 
 The two deputies were obliged very often to stand 
 aside in order to avoid swift-moving carriages. 
 
 "Are all these ladies going to see the ceremonies?" in- 
 quired Sangiorgio. 
 
 "Well, hardly!" said Giustini with a sneer. "Why, 
 they don't even know that any ceremonies are about 
 to take place. They are all going to drive near the Villa 
 Pamfili; the weather is fine, this sweet air quiets the
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 65 
 
 nerves and soothes the mind why bother themselves 
 with serious things?" 
 
 "What you say is only too true !" said Sangiorgio, with 
 a gesture of contempt for the female sex in general. 
 
 Giustini studied his face a moment, a little surprised. 
 They had arrived at the Porta San Pancrazio. Two 
 carabineers paced to and fro before one of those little 
 inns where they sell vin des chateaux; a cross-road de- 
 scended, bordered on the left by a hedge, on the right 
 by a high stone wall, in a projection of which was a 
 worm-eaten wooden door, bearing the name of the villa 
 hidden behind that wall: // Vascello. Beside it was a 
 memorial tablet, surrounded by a withered wreath. 
 
 The procession halted beneath the tablet; the specta- 
 tors pressed close behind it, leaving a free space on the 
 road for the carriages driving toward the Villa Pamfili. 
 
 The more elderly of the veterans grouped themselves 
 around the flag, and stood silent and motionless, lost in 
 recollections of the past. Our two deputies stood a 
 little at one side of this group, Giustini affecting a 
 bored air, while Sangiorgio, greatly interested, observed 
 attentively all that went on. 
 
 A workman mounted a ladder and removed the with- 
 ered wreath, carefully wiped off the tablet with his 
 sleeve and placed upon it a garland of fresh flowers. 
 The group beneath the ladder applauded him. Seated 
 astride of the wall, the guardian of the property, one of 
 those pale and melancholy Roman peasants, looked on 
 indifferently. 
 
 A man suddenly climbed upon the driver's seat of a
 
 66 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 fiacre, and was greeted by an enthusiastic cheer from the 
 bystanders. 
 
 He was a young man, blond and rather stout, with a 
 small moustache and light blue eyes, hands as white as 
 a woman's, with almond-shaped nails and a large dia- 
 mond ring on the little finger. He somehow suggested 
 a hairdresser in Sunday attire, with his pink and slightly 
 vulgar type of face. He smiled amiably, and raised a 
 hand to ask for silence. The crowd pressed closer in 
 order to hear him veterans, students, workmen, cara- 
 bineers and guards. 
 
 The young man began his discourse in the soft and 
 well-modulated voice of a drawing-room tenor, stopping 
 to make effective pauses in his remarks, making gestures 
 almost coquettish in their grace, and explaining the 
 reason why, after the commemoration ceremonies of the 
 previous April, they were conducting the same in 
 December. 
 
 Then he launched into a description of the siege of 
 Rome, with as much interest as if he had been present 
 on that occasion. The veterans nodded approval, much 
 moved. 
 
 The orator spoke with ease and eloquence, although 
 his style was cold. He evinced some warmth, however, 
 in speaking of the priesthood and the Vatican, indicating 
 the latter by a dramatic sweep of his arm toward the 
 left, and rolling his r's theatrically. 
 
 The veterans ceased to listen to him after a time; 
 silent and abstracted, they were absorbed in the memo- 
 ries of that sacred hill where they had fought for their
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 67 
 
 country's freedom, where their brothers-in-arms had 
 fallen with disfigured faces and breasts pierced by the 
 bullets of the chasseurs from Vincennes. Now and then 
 one would murmur a sentence, recalling some incident, 
 shaking his head as he leaned with hands upon his cane. 
 "That night we heard the French talking merrily in 
 their tents" . "Do you remember Garibaldi's negro 
 servant, who died after his shoulder was shattered by a 
 bomb?" "What a superb man was Colonel Marara!" 
 "Handsome and brave!" 
 
 The orator concluded with a bombastic apostrophe to 
 the Seven Hills of Rome, interspersed with a few banal 
 allusions to events in Roman history. His friends, the 
 students, crowded around him, full of enthusiasm, shout- 
 ing and applauding. The young man bowed amiably, 
 smiled, shook hands with everyone, and touched his fore- 
 head lightly with a fine handkerchief, bordered with 
 black and perfumed with new-mown hay. The work- 
 men and peasants looked on, unmoved, with cynical 
 smiles on their thin lips. A voice cried: 
 
 "Serra! Serra! Where is Serra? Let Giorgio Ser- 
 ra speak!" 
 
 But Serra did not respond. Perhaps he was hiding 
 modestly among the throng. 
 
 "Serra! Serra!" cried the people, trying to catch a 
 glimpse of the picturesque head of the artist-poet. 
 
 But Serra had evidently disappeared. Perhaps the 
 gentle dreamer, repelled by realities, had returned to 
 that Rome he loved so well, or perhaps, following the 
 line of the hedge abloom with roses and hawthorn, he
 
 68 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 had lost himself among the shaded paths of the Villa 
 Pamfili, dwelling again upon his cherished illusions in 
 that peaceful seclusion, near to nature's heart. 
 
 "I told you he would not speak," said Giustini to San- 
 giorgio. "He hates oratory." 
 
 "He is wrong," Sangiorgio replied. "Oratory has 
 great power." 
 
 Again the Tuscan deputy looked closely at the deputy 
 from the South. There was no bond of sympathy, friend- 
 ship, or interest between these two men; but each felt 
 a certain curiosity, a desire to know the other's real 
 nature, mingled with a vague distrust, like that of two 
 fencers who have put themselves on guard and try to 
 ascertain each other's skill before making an open as- 
 sault. 
 
 The crowd dispersed slowly; the flag had been borne 
 away; the veterans had disbanded and were returning 
 to the city in little groups, with dragging step, and lean- 
 ing wearily upon their canes. A few turned to obtain 
 a last glimpse of the spot they had left. 
 
 The young orator had jumped out of the carriage, and 
 now moved away with his friends. He had added to 
 his boutonniere a rose plucked from the blooming hedge, 
 and proceeded to smooth his gloves delicately upon his 
 white hands, his slender stick tucked under one arm. 
 The workmen returned to the little inn, where they 
 gathered around a table to drink the sour and sulphur- 
 ous vin des chateaux. 
 
 After ten minutes, not a person remained beside the 
 monument raised in honor of the heroes of 1848. In the
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 69 
 
 solitude, the villa of // Vascello resumed its aspect of a 
 deserted house, of which only the fagade remained 
 standing. The sleepy guard perched on the wall was the 
 only living thing in sight; he leaned his head on his 
 hand, and gazed indifferently down the road. 
 
 The two deputies, chatting idly, had descended the hill 
 as far as the great square of the Fountain of Paul III. 
 Twilight came on, and a warm mist spread over the city. 
 The carriages were now beginning to return toward 
 Rome from the Villa Pamfili. 
 
 Leaning upon the parapet of the terrace that over- 
 looks the city, the two men watched the passing vehicles, 
 and several times Giustini bowed with somewhat per- 
 functory courtesy to certain ladies who recognized him. 
 
 "That is the Countess Baldassarri," he said, as a hand- 
 some carriage passed. "Very pretty woman married 
 to an old senator. But she is a little fool, and I no longer 
 frequent her house. She is mad after literary men, and 
 cares to have only poets call on her! There is always a 
 crowd of them in her drawing-room. 
 
 "That lady is the Baroness Gagliarda stupid, ugly, 
 and full of malice. She is always planning to overthrow 
 the Cabinet, and if by chance it does fall, she puts on 
 an air of triumph. And, as a refinement of cruelty, she 
 goes to visit the wives of the Ministers on the very day 
 they are deposed. But she often launches young depu- 
 ties in the social swim, and is of some importance or, 
 at least, she thinks she is!" 
 
 "Do you visit her house?"
 
 70 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "I? No, not now I am no longer a young deputy! 
 Ah, here is the wife of his Excellency." 
 
 Both men bowed profoundly, and, behind the window 
 of her coupe, the lady graciously acknowledged the 
 salute. Sangiorgio said nothing, but waited with a 
 vague apprehension for some sarcastic remark from 
 Giustini. 
 
 "Pretty woman, his Excellency's wife, but too young 
 and too pretty for him. She is faithful to him, however 
 no one knows why. Her woman friends detest her 
 cordially, but pretend to admire her. She is virtuous 
 by calculation, by hypocrisy, and perhaps by natural 
 coldness." 
 
 "Do you go to his Excellency's house?" 
 
 "No, I am too Ministerial in my leanings." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "What should I do there? I am a convert, you see! 
 You can understand, therefore, that I should not be wel- 
 come. But I might abandon the Opposition if I went 
 often to that house. It irritates me to see so young and 
 charming a creature tied to a dry old stick of a husband, 
 who thinks of nothing but politics. Besides, Donna 
 Angelica is so sweet and kind she might spoil me." 
 
 "Donna Angelica!" murmured Sangiorgio. 
 
 Giustini did not hear him; he had lifted his hat again 
 to the occupant of a passing carriage. This time the 
 coupe stopped; a slender, black-gloved hand lowered 
 the window and made a little sign of summons. Sangi- 
 orgio remained alone, looking at his colleague, who ap- 
 peared to be talking with great animation to the lady
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 71 
 
 in the carriage. Presently he returned to Sangiorgio, 
 saying : 
 
 "Would you like to be presented to the Countess 
 Fiammanti?" 
 
 Sangiorgio had no time either to reply or to resist; he 
 found himself before the door of the coupe. 
 
 "Countess, the Honorable Sangiorgio, member from 
 Tito a Southerner and a new recruit." 
 
 The handsome gray eyes of the Countess were alight 
 with coquetry, and a slightly mocking smile rested on 
 her lips. 
 
 "I am glad, indeed, to make your acquaintance, Signor, 
 because I have a veritable passion for the South. Rome 
 must seem very dull to you Naples is so gay. I adore 
 it! My husband was a Neapolitan, and he taught me 
 to love Naples, and everything southern. Not like your 
 ugly Tuscany, Giustini, with the horrible Tuscan accent 
 of the people." 
 
 "It is no doubt my accent, then, that always makes 
 you stop me when I begin" 
 
 "To make love to me, eh? No, my dear, it is because 
 I like you too well to let you continue. Love is a 
 stale old farce, which no longer amuses anyone, and I 
 have a horror of being bored. We must seem very friv- 
 olous to you, Signor Sangiorgio. But we know how to 
 be serious on occasion for instance, when Giustini talks 
 politics. Now, politics interests me very much it really 
 entertains me. And you, Signor?" 
 
 "Signora, it is the only thing that interests me" the 
 Southerner replied, rather rudely.
 
 72 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "I may say the same," said the Countess, without ap- 
 pearing to notice his lack of courtesy. 
 
 "But in order to amuse oneself, one should not be too 
 much absorbed by politics," murmured Sangiorgio, with 
 so peculiar an intonation that the young woman allowed 
 her eyes to rest upon his for a moment. 
 
 "Then, my dear Giustini, I shall see you again within 
 two hours. Signer Sangiorgio, I am at home every other 
 evening in the month the third, the fifth, the seventh, 
 and so on. I won't compel you to drink tea, but you 
 may smoke. I sing fairly well. There will not be any 
 other women. A rivederci!" 
 
 The carriage proceeded on the road toward Rome. 
 
 "Who is that lady?" Sangiorgio inquired. 
 
 "Why do you wish to know? Does she please you?" 
 
 "Yes, I rather admire her." 
 
 "Oh, very well, then accept her invitation; you will 
 be amused. She is attractive, but not beautiful. Some- 
 times she is irresistible. She sings admirably, and is 
 often very witty, though she talks too much. But she 
 is a good sort." 
 
 "But what kind of woman is she?" Sangiorgio per- 
 sisted. 
 
 "Oh really, I don't know," the other replied, with a 
 shrug. "I never have been able to become her lover." 
 
 "What is her name?" 
 
 "Elena Fiammanti." 
 
 They had arrived at the square before the Academy of 
 Spain, deserted in the winter twilight. 
 
 "Behold Rome !" said Giustini, standing at the parapet
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 73 
 
 of the terrace. "Have you ever looked at it from this 
 spot?" 
 
 "No, never." 
 
 "Rome is great very great," said the Tuscan deputy, 
 with an accent of melancholy. 
 
 "One would say she sleeps," said Sangiorgio. 
 
 "Sleeps? Do not deceive yourself! She does not 
 sleep she dreams and watches. Look down there far 
 to the left at that great dome that seems to be effaced 
 against the white clouds. Do you see it? That is Saint 
 Peter's. Near Saint Peter's are several edifices surround- 
 ed by gardens. From this point they look small and 
 plunged in profound darkness; that is the Vatican, and 
 therein dwells the Pope. He is more than eighty years 
 old, he is ill, Death hovers near him, but what matters 
 that? He is strong! One half of the people in the world 
 believe in him, prostrate themselves before him; implore 
 him, and die in his name. Sangiorgio, do you believe in 
 God?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Nor I. But the Pope is strong. His adherents are 
 the unfortunate, the weak, the humble, the poor, the 
 young people, and the women the women who transmit, 
 from mother to daughter, not religion but the religious 
 cult. It seems to you that all is sleeping, down there 
 on the bank of the river, in the great palace decorated 
 by Michelangelo? Undeceive yourself! That colossal 
 edifice teems with a population of cardinals, bishops, 
 curates, priests, monks, seminarists ecclesiastics who 
 by no means confine themselves to celebrating masses,
 
 74 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 praying and singing. They go into many houses, pene- 
 trate into many families, teach in the schools ; they love, 
 hate, struggle, live for themselves, for the Church, and 
 for the Pope. No one can realize their strength, their 
 number, and their power." 
 
 "But Rome itself is atheistical," interrupted San- 
 giorgio. 
 
 "I am not talking of belief or of disbelief. Do you 
 think that I am glorifying religion? The day of great 
 convictions is past, but human interest is keener than 
 ever. We dwell beside a vast mystery which works its 
 will in darkness, but of which we do not even suspect 
 the existence." 
 
 Giustini was silent a moment, absorbed in contem- 
 plation of the great city, which was rapidly being effaced 
 in the shadows of evening. Sangiorgio listened, dis- 
 turbed, conscious of a throbbing of the heart, as at the 
 approach of a great danger. 
 
 "Over there is the Quirinal," Giustini continued. "Yes 
 over there under that rosy light. There are the King, 
 the Queen, and the Court. Four balls, eight official re- 
 ceptions, forty dinners, four concerts, thirty private re- 
 ceptions, four hundred presentations, diamonds at the 
 throat, decorations on the breast, plumes in the hair, 
 bare shoulders, quadrilles of honor but there is some- 
 thing besides all that vain show. That beautiful Queen, 
 who greets with the same amiability her friends and her 
 enemies, is a woman who feels, who thinks, who knows, 
 who listens. The King, who bears so heavy a burden, 
 sworn to perpetual obedience, has he not, too, a con-
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 75 
 
 science, an ideal, a will of his own? And the people of 
 the Court, military or civil, ladies-of-honor or diplomat- 
 ists, majordomos or valets all are occupied with their 
 own concerns, their own struggles. They love, they 
 hate, they have their own ambitions. All those women 
 have certain desires, jealousies, regrets, perhaps suf- 
 ferings." 
 
 As Giustini spoke, he scratched his finger-tips nervous- 
 ly along the top railing of the parapet, and threw pebbles 
 and bits of rubbish out into the air. Sangiorgio followed 
 attentively the movement of those thin brown hands, 
 with their distended veins. 
 
 "From this point we cannot see Montecitorio," the 
 Tuscan deputy went on, in a hard voice; "but I tell you 
 it is a veritable furnace, wherein we are all slowly con- 
 sumed an even temperature such as silkworms are 
 raised in, which weakens the will and engenders timidity. 
 All the inhabitants of that palace of cards excite them- 
 selves, struggle, cry out, argue for a law, a railway, or 
 a bridge. They wish to become Ministers, to wear a 
 uniform, to turn their former friends into enemies, to 
 be called rascals and robbers by such newspapers as have 
 not been bribed, and other similar pleasant experiences. 
 Some poor fellows even long to be prefects ! Once I was 
 one of them! Oh, that terrible furnace which desiccates 
 the heart, burns it up with vain desires, and takes away 
 all independence of will!" 
 
 By this time the horizon had turned to a delicate 
 gray; the shadows of night floated above the city like 
 a dusky veil.
 
 76 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Sangiorgio felt strangely disturbed ; the Tuscan deputy 
 appeared to him uglier and more disagreeable than ever, 
 with that sneering grin which revealed two rows of yel- 
 low teeth. 
 
 "How quiet the city is!" Giustini resumed. "One 
 would say that while sleeping it rejoices in the Christ- 
 mas-tide. Well, such is not the fact. Up there, under 
 the great trees of the Pincio and of the Villa Medici, the 
 painters laugh, sing, amuse themselves, discuss heresies 
 as they would discuss matters of art, and paint bad pic- 
 tures. Over there, where you see that great white spot, 
 are the new quarters. Have you ever been there? You 
 would find sixty thousand workingmen, with their fami- 
 lies, servants, dogs and cats an encampment of hungry 
 and disarmed barbarians, hating Rome, which they can- 
 not comprehend. Their women can only bear ugly 
 children and cook their miserable meals pale women, 
 with flat bosoms and red hands. These poor wretches 
 have been celebrating Christmas in their duress, like 
 true barbarians, dull and miserable, complaining of the 
 government, of their servants, of Rome, the butcher and 
 the baker. And the Romans the true Romans who 
 put the adjective Roman to their names, like a title of 
 nobility, who eat dumplings on Thursday, tripe on Sun- 
 day, and lamb every day, who like light wines and 
 fireworks at Saint Angelo, who are proud of their eau 
 Marcienne and allow vermin to swarm in their ruinous 
 old houses these Romans, sceptical, intellectual, calm 
 and industrious, excellent husbands and passionate lov- 
 ers, assuredly they do not sleep. And above all, the
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 77 
 
 women Neapolitan or Roman, Italian or foreign who 
 walk, chatter, gossip, love or permit love, they are not 
 sleeping, either. The women never sleep even at night ! 
 Rome is ever vigilant, though she may seem somnolent; 
 she is so great, so complex, so mystical and so power- 
 ful that, as I lean here gazing upon her, she terrifies me 
 as might some infernal machine ! 
 
 "And what dreams she encourages, deceiver that she 
 is! She receives you with the affected severity of an 
 amorous mistress who awaits you; you open your arms, 
 you smile ! I, too, dreamed of her love. And after years 
 of torment, of suffering, of disillusions, I learned many 
 things: that I was too frank to succeed in politics, too 
 ugly to please the women, too feeble to devote myself 
 to science, too abrupt to succeed in diplomacy. I learned 
 also this truth, as glaring as the sun : Rome yields her- 
 self to no one!" 
 
 "And what must one do?" Sangiorgio asked, almost 
 trembling. 
 
 "Conquer her!" 
 
 And Giustini made a sweeping gesture toward the 
 city. 
 
 "Conquer her! Away with the mediocre, the cowardly, 
 the weak ones, like myself! Rome neither combats you 
 nor repels you; her power lies in a virtue almost divine 
 indifference! You may struggle, cry out, howl with 
 grief ; she will not be moved, for you are only an imper- 
 ceptible atom borne along on the wings of the whirl- 
 wind. She preserves the immovable calm, imperturb- 
 able serenity and inexorable heart of the woman ivho
 
 78 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 does not know how to love, but who has seen everything 
 and knows everything. Her soft and feverish sirocco un- 
 settles the nerves, weakens the character, arouses internal 
 revolt, followed by intense dejection. But there must be 
 something, some one in the world that one day will come 
 to trouble that serenity. He that would conquer Rome 
 be it for a decade, a year, or a month must dominate her, 
 take her by storm, conquer her, and avenge the thousands 
 of dead, wounded, and weak ones who have touched 
 her walls without being able to subjugate her. Ah! 
 such a man must have a heart of steel and an iron will; 
 he must be young, healthy, robust, audacious, without 
 weakness and without affection ; he must devote himself 
 absolutely to that unique ideal, that incomparable ob- 
 ject. Yes, some one must conquer the superb city of 
 Rome!" 
 "I will!" said Francesco Sangiorgio.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 SANGIORGIO BEGINS THE CONFLICT 
 
 HE Minister had occupied the floor for an hour. 
 He spoke quietly and modestly, without strain- 
 ing for any oratorical effects, of various things 
 in their regular order, as they presented them- 
 selves to his clear, logical mind. 
 
 His discourse was interlarded with numerous quota- 
 tions of figures and technicalities. His style was me- 
 thodical, and his remarks were made in a mild and some- 
 what familiar tone, but were clearly audible in the si- 
 lence of the Chamber. His tone was almost as confiden- 
 tial as if he were speaking in a Cabinet council; the 
 parliamentary accent was altogether lacking. Occasion- 
 ally he drew forth a large silk handkerchief, checked in 
 red and black. 
 
 In that short, stout little man dressed in plain black, 
 his placid face framed in English side-whiskers, was 
 embodied the untiring worker, the model servant of the 
 public, who passed twelve hours a day at his desk, 
 piled high with documents reading, writing, inspecting 
 registers, advising with his chief assistants and with 
 general directors. 
 
 The members listened abstractedly. His friends were 
 sure of him, and even his adversaries recognized his su- 
 periority, thus rendering his triumph more complete. 
 
 79
 
 80 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 In observing him, one could understand that his passion 
 for figures prevented him from liking politics. 
 
 The atmosphere of the hall was stifling, because of the 
 waves of hot air coming from the stoves. It was one of 
 the three cold days of that Roman winter, and outside 
 blew a dry, sharp wind, cutting and lashing. 
 
 The Speaker, a handsome man of fifty, had enveloped 
 his legs in a blue velvet covering, lined with fur, and 
 while lending half an ear to the Minister, he allowed his 
 gaze to wander to the galleries, as if he sought a familiar 
 face. The secretaries sat motionless at his right and left ; 
 Palucci, a tall fellow, strong and muscular, with a shaggy 
 leonine mane, whispered to the handsome Sangarzia, 
 who only nodded, being accustomed to patient silence. 
 Varrini, the agreeable and intelligent Calabrian, with an 
 expression that suggested a sly mouse, was writing 
 letters. 
 
 The chair of Bulgaro, the Neapolitan deputy, creaked 
 under his great weight, as he moved restlessly, without 
 attempting to hide the fact that he was bored. 
 
 There was now continual going and coming of depu- 
 ties making their way to talk to the Speaker, to joke 
 with the secretaries, or to take a turn in the hall of the 
 Lost Footsteps, returning after a time to their places. 
 
 The Minister was speaking to-day on a very serious 
 matter, and both sides, friends and adversaries, were 
 obliged to listen to him. 
 
 The members of the Right, a group of elderly depu- 
 ties, appeared resigned, realizing that the victory was
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 81 
 
 already gained, and they listened with the air of veterans 
 faithful at the post of duty. 
 
 The Extreme Left was indifferent, because it disdained 
 all economic-administrative questions, and reserved its 
 interruptions for political discussions pure and simple. 
 One member of this small phalanx slept peacefully, his 
 face hidden by one of his hands; another dozed openly, 
 without pretense at merely assuming an attitude of deep 
 thought. 
 
 The members of the Center were the only ones that 
 really paid attention to the speaker; those were eager 
 pupils, who drank devotedly the words of wisdom of 
 their master. 
 
 But the whole Chamber, Speaker, secretaries, commit- 
 tees and deputies, was influenced by the overheated 
 atmosphere of that tightly-closed room, and the silence 
 broken only by the calm voice of the Minister. 
 
 There were numerous spectators that day; the cold 
 without had probably induced the ladies to enter the 
 gallery and rest awhile in their reserved chairs, where 
 they sat with cloaks thrown open and hands tucked in 
 their muffs, their cheeks rosy from the heat of the hall. 
 
 The public gallery, too, was crowded: there were the 
 weary faces of idlers, the anxious countenances of 
 petitioners seeking the cousin of the friend of a deputy, 
 and lazy saunterers who had gone up there merely to 
 get warm. 
 
 The press gallery was full ; those representing the Op- 
 position had already made a good-natured attack, and the 
 Ministerialists had been preaching for a week about
 
 82 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 the expected address of the Minister of Finance. All 
 sat calm and unruffled, save Gennaro Casale, an impetu- 
 ous Neapolitan publicist, and an enemy to all govern- 
 ments, who cried: 
 
 "Gentlemen, this expose is a ministerial disloyalty!" 
 
 In the diplomatic gallery, leaning against the blue 
 velvet railing, sat the graceful Countess Beatrice di San- 
 taninfa, with a dreamy look in her large, soft eyes that 
 showed she was not listening to the Minister's remarks. 
 
 When, at half-past four, the orator had finished his 
 speech, a general movement of admiration was visible 
 throughout the Chamber. The Minister quietly gathered 
 his documents and placed them in a large portfolio, while 
 a throng of his fellow-members hastened forward to 
 shake hands with him and congratulate him. One of his 
 predecessors in the Department of Finance descended 
 from the benches of the Right to compliment the stout 
 little man with the round head. After a moment or two 
 of noise and confusion, the Speaker's voice rose clear 
 and distinct above the hum: 
 
 "Gentlemen, I ask for silence. The Honorable San- 
 giorgio has the floor." 
 
 "Who? Who?" was heard from all sides. 
 
 The Speaker repeated: 
 
 "I ask for silence. The Honorable Sangiorgio has the 
 floor." 
 
 The eyes of all the members were turned curiously 
 upon the newcomer, whom no one knew. He stood erect 
 and calm, waiting for the opportunity to speak, standing 
 at the head of the flight of steps, that he might be seen
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 83 
 
 by all. He looked unusually tall, because he held him- 
 self upright and his figure was robust. He was not hand- 
 some, but his head showed all the characteristics of 
 strength : his hair grew thick upon a low brow, his nose 
 was aquiline, his moustache was heavy, and his chin was 
 firm and self-willed. No one thought him insignificant. 
 
 Among the drowsy members a new curiosity was 
 awakened. Would the new member speak for or against 
 the Minister? Was he one of those transparent flat- 
 terers who hasten to curry favor with the Government 
 as soon as they reach the city? Or was he one of those 
 insolent ignoramuses who babbled ridiculous criticisms, 
 only to be suppressed by the ironical murmurs of the 
 assemblage? He was a Southerner and a lawyer; that 
 was all that was known about him. 
 
 The Honorable Sangiorgio began to speak slowly, in 
 a virile and sonorous voice, which filled the great hall 
 and drew from the auditors an involuntary sigh of 
 relief. 
 
 The ladies, who had been more than half asleep, were 
 now fully awake, and they leaned forward in coquettish 
 poses, to listen. The press gallery, from which the re- 
 porters had been departing, gradually filled up again as 
 the surprised journalists paused to listen to the new 
 man. 
 
 Sangiorgio began with an exordium full of deference 
 for the illustrious man that directed Italy's financial 
 affairs, and his eulogy had no savor of flattery, but was 
 kept well within the bounds of good taste. 
 
 He made a brief allusion to his own youth, to the ob-
 
 84 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 scurity of his early life, passed in a humble province, 
 but with eyes ever fixed upon Rome, the compelling 
 and all-powerful. He lauded politics, saying that it was 
 greater than all arts, greater than science, embodying 
 in itself the history of human activity, as the statesman 
 embodied the supreme type of man, apostle and work- 
 man, arm and head. 
 
 A resounding Bravo! burst forth from the Right. San- 
 giorgio paused only a moment. This homage to the sub- 
 limity of the pursuit of politics had pleased the assem- 
 bly. 
 
 The Minister of Finance who at first had fixed his 
 penetrating gaze upon the young deputy with interest, 
 now lowered his head, feeling that he was about to be 
 bored by one of those verbose oratorical efforts that 
 tire and embarrass the audience. 
 
 But Sangiorgio went on to explain that the period of 
 youth passed in obscure provinces was not without val- 
 ue for those that wished to know the world of to-day, 
 its sufferings and its needs. The great cities were de- 
 vourers of men, exhausting strength, stifling conscien- 
 ces, breaking the will, drowning the memory. Who 
 knew the true state of the provinces? Who cared about 
 their inhabitants? It was true that once in a while some 
 courageous soul would recite their woes in the Cham- 
 ber; but these were isolated voices which, after making 
 one despairing appeal, relapsed into silence. But that 
 silence must be broken ; the truth must be made known ! 
 
 The Assembly was in an indulgent mood, the natural 
 reaction from the effort to comprehend the preceding
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 85 
 
 speech. Sangiorgio's easy eloquence afforded relaxa- 
 tion to minds that had suffered a painful tension for two 
 hours in attempting to follow the fantastic array of fig- 
 ures in the Minister's speech. And the contrast, at this 
 twilight hour, between the darkness and chill of the 
 streets and the warm, brightly lighted Chamber, put 
 the audience in a comfortable frame of mind and awak- 
 ened a vague sentiment of tenderness and generosity 
 toward mankind. What were the crying wrongs of the 
 provinces, then? 
 
 Sangiorgio continued, saying that his whole soul had 
 revolted against an apparently innocent proposal made 
 by the Minister of Finance. He had declared that, 
 having been obliged to give several millions to the Sec- 
 retary of War, he had found it necessary to economize. 
 That was well; economy was the strength of young 
 nations. But he had further demanded an increased 
 tax on salt. Sangiorgio said he understood perfectly 
 the reasons of state that made necessary an increase 
 in taxes, but that those few additional centesimi would 
 greatly augment the already heavy burden of the 
 peasant. 
 
 Then the new deputy drew a vivid word-picture of 
 the poverty of the villages, more terrible than that of 
 the city; he cited facts, told short and pathetic stories, 
 and described the collector of taxes as the spectral fore- 
 runner of hunger and death. He spoke of the rough 
 nakedness of the red-soiled Basilicata, its arid mountains, 
 from which came continual land-slides, covering the 
 meager pastures with stones; of the distance of those
 
 86 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 villages from all railways, and of the unwholesome 
 plains, where engineers, switch-tenders, and station- 
 masters shook with malarial fever. 
 
 When he spoke of his own country, so wretched and 
 so poor, his sonorous voice grew tremulous with emo- 
 tion; but he soon recovered himself and came at once 
 to his point. The proposed additional tax on salt would 
 be felt most seriously by the peasant class; already they 
 used as little salt as possible in their soup, and a fresh 
 tax would compel them to do without it altogether. 
 And hygienic science, cruel but exact, had proved that 
 an insufficient supply of salt was the cause of the fevers 
 peculiar to Lombardy and Piedmont. 
 
 Sangiorgio proceeded to say that in the smaller towns 
 the bakers always made two qualities of bread salted 
 bread for the rich, and tasteless and insipid for the 
 poor. Sometimes the baker, finding salt too dear, pass- 
 es over the fresh loaf a cloth soaked in sea water! In 
 some of the poorer shops they used a coarse salt, black 
 and dirty, fit only for cattle. Now, with the proposed 
 tax, he said, the Government would condemn a whole 
 class of tax-payers to intolerable privations, perhaps to 
 a physical condition of serious menace. Millions were 
 lavished upon the national defense and for new armo- 
 ries, but was it necessary to be so powerful when we were 
 so poor? Should the Minister of War call to arms the 
 young men of the Basilicata, no doubt he would expect 
 them to be a band of hardy mountaineers, but he would 
 find only pale weaklings, consumed by fever. Or 
 worse yet the provinces, little by little, would become
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 87 
 
 depopulated; the peasant, driven desperate by the aridi- 
 ty of the soil, staggering under the burden of taxation, 
 persecuted by man, without help or redress, will emi- 
 grate to foreign shores, preferring a new country and a 
 strange people, whence he will nevermore return. When 
 called to arms in case of war, the sons of the Basilicata 
 will not answer. Vanquished by hunger and despair, 
 they will have departed to die far from their ungrateful 
 country ! 
 
 The Honorable Francesco Sangiorgio returned to his 
 bench and seated himself calmly. 
 
 A burst of applause struck his hearing, but he was 
 only vaguely conscious of it, or of the confused buzzing 
 that follows an important speech. Close beside him was 
 a group of deputies, discussing his speech and pronounc- 
 ing his name in tones of respect. 
 
 Sitting bolt upright on his bench, with eyes cast down, 
 alone, with no friends to come and congratulate him 
 on the success of his maiden speech, Sangiorgio yet 
 heard the buzz of approval that swept through the whole 
 Chamber. 
 
 The Right felt its political pride flattered; the Ex- 
 treme Left fancied it had secured a strong adherent; 
 while the economists believed that in him they would 
 find some vague notions of agrarian socialism. 
 
 This speech, which at some other time might have 
 passed for a mere literary effort, seemed to-day to have 
 conveyed an important message. In the person of San- 
 giorgio triumphed the modest and intelligent deputies 
 of the Basilicata, who, by a strange fatality, had always
 
 88 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 remained in the background; in him triumphed the 
 lawyers, who assumed to be masters of parliamentary 
 regime; and in him triumphed the South, whose success 
 in oratory had always been disputed. In short, the whole 
 parliamentary body, in this moment of good fellowship, 
 took the new member to its heart with almost feminine 
 tenderness, pleased with those rounded periods so full of 
 human sympathy and of pride.
 
 small-paned glass door of the reception- 
 
 .'m room on the ground floor of the House of Par- 
 liament, facing on the Villa della Missione, 
 opened often to admit a newcomer, and with 
 him a gust of cold air. Those that were already in the 
 room, standing, or lounging on the divans, had their eyes 
 fixed eagerly upon the door leading to the Chamber. 
 
 Each newcomer went straight to a large desk placed 
 in the middle of the antechamber, and wrote on a bit of 
 paper his own name and that of the deputy he wished 
 to see. From this desk the uniformed ushers, their 
 breasts covered with medals, and wearing tri-colored 
 bands on their arms, carried these notes, five at a time, 
 into the Chamber of Deputies. The visitor, satisfied 
 for the moment at having at least sent in his name, 
 would wait for a reply with an air of confident security. 
 The ushers would return, still carrying the slips of paper. 
 Everyone pricked up his ears. 
 
 "Who asked for the Honorable Parodi?" cried the 
 usher. 
 
 "I !" called a voice from the crowd. 
 
 "He is not there." 
 
 "Have you looked carefully?" insisted the voice, 
 which came apparently from an old man with a red nose 
 and thick, purple lips. 
 
 80
 
 90 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "The Honorable Parodi is not there," repeated the 
 usher patiently. 
 
 "But he must be there," muttered the other. 
 
 "Who asked for the Honorable Sambucetto?" 
 
 "I!" said a pale and sickly-looking young man. 
 
 "He cannot come now." 
 
 "Why cannot he come?" demanded the young man, 
 becoming paler. 
 
 "That was all he wrote: he cannot come." 
 
 The young man went to a corner and sat down, with- 
 out being able to make up his mind to depart. He 
 grumbled menaces between his teeth, with a sullen air, 
 and his hat drawn over his eyes. 
 
 On all the other faces was the same mingling of anxi- 
 ety, despair, and fatigue. The antechamber resembled 
 the reception-room of a celebrated physician, where pa- 
 tients awaiting their turn look idly about them, with in- 
 difference to everything except their own infirmities. 
 All moral maladies were represented in this vast cold 
 hall, contracting faces, contorting mouths, wrinkling 
 cheeks and causing feverish spots to appear in them. 
 All these beings, each absorbed in his own suffering, 
 bore the marks of grief, chagrin and pain, with all the 
 melancholy symptoms of dilated nostrils, nervous move- 
 ments, involuntary frowns, pinched lips, trembling 
 hands, sad smiles; and in each over-excited brain was a 
 fixed idea, a single thought, ever present, ever vivid. 
 
 "Who wished to see the Honorable Morladi?" cried an 
 usher. 
 
 "I!" responded a small, stout man.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 91 
 
 "He begs that you will wait a short time; he is en- 
 gaged with the Minister." 
 
 The stout man strutted about the room, his topcoat 
 buttoned tight over his protruding stomach. The other 
 expectant ones looked at him enviously: at least, his 
 deputy had asked him to wait, while their own had sent 
 them their dismissal without a word of politeness. 
 
 The restless movement in the room continued. Those 
 who had received a definite refusal stood in undecided 
 fashion near the outer door, pale, and lacking courage 
 to go out again into the cold; then they made a sudden 
 movement of resolution and departed without looking 
 back, their backs bent and cowering under their thin 
 coats. 
 
 Other persons entered; the ushers were kept busy 
 going to and fro with notes, but it rained refusals. 
 
 "Who called for the Honorable Nicotera?" 
 
 "I !" answered a tall, thin man, with scraggy neck and 
 beardless, cadaverous face. 
 
 "He begs that you will excuse him he cannot come." 
 
 The thin man bent himself almost double over the 
 desk, wrote a name on a slip and handed it to another 
 usher, who soon returned crying out : 
 
 "Who asked for the Honorable Zanardelli?" 
 
 "I !" said the skeleton-like man. 
 
 "He cannot come ; he is engaged with the Minister." 
 
 The persistent one, without losing patience, wrote a 
 third name. 
 
 One deputy, more obliging than his colleagues, had 
 come out to see the man that had called him, and con-
 
 92 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 ducted him into another room, where sat a small group 
 of ladies, quietly waiting in the semi-obscurity of the 
 place. The two men walked to and fro, the constituent 
 speaking and gesticulating with great animation, the 
 deputy listening with downcast eyes, nodding approval 
 at intervals. 
 
 In the large waiting-room, the anxious group had grown 
 weary; a physical and moral lassitude discouraged them 
 and destroyed their illusions. Several men, tired out, 
 leaned against the wall; and the anxieties of all these 
 people, borne in silence, seemed to create an atmosphere 
 of oppression and sadness, and of bitter regret at having 
 come to knock in vain at a door that never would open 
 to them. 
 
 The gas jets were lighted, illuminating those care- 
 worn faces with cruel distinctness. Three ushers en- 
 tered, and spoke simultaneously: 
 
 "Who asked for the Honorable Sella?" 
 
 "Who asked for the Honorable Bomba?" 
 
 "Who asked for the Honorable Crispi?" 
 
 "I! I! I!" breathlessly cried the skeleton-like man. 
 
 "The Honorable Sella cannot leave the session." 
 
 "The Honorable Bomba is particularly engaged in the 
 Chamber." 
 
 "The Honorable Crispi is with the Budget Com- 
 mittee." 
 
 Quietly the petitioner wrote another name, and handed 
 the paper to the usher. 
 
 "Pardon me," said the man, "but we cannot ask for 
 the Ministers, especially the President of the Council."
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 93 
 
 "Why not?" inquired the thin man, with surprise. 
 
 "It is the rule." 
 
 Without apparent discouragement, the man wrote 
 and handed over another name, and walked about fever- 
 ishly, his tall form towering over the other persons in the 
 room. Many of the lingerers had left the place, dis- 
 couraged, walking with slow step and heads bowed in 
 humiliation; others, following a despairing resolution, 
 had gone to stand beside the gates of Montecitorio, in- 
 tending to waylay the deputies as they came out of the 
 Parliament House. A few of the timid ones, however, 
 remained in the anteroom, tapping their feet impatiently 
 on the floor. 
 
 A carriage drew up before the door, a footman sprang 
 down, handed a note to an usher, and stood waiting, 
 haughty and disdainful. 
 
 "Who asked for the Honorable Barbarulo?" called an 
 usher returning from the Chamber. 
 
 "I!" again said the tall, thin man. 
 
 "He is not there." 
 
 "Has he gone away?" 
 
 "He has been dead three months." 
 
 The unhappy man was struck dumb by this last blow; 
 he appeared lost in thought, but probably he could recall 
 no more names, for he finally left the room with slow, 
 sad step. 
 
 Francesco Sangiorgio appeared, crossed the hall, said 
 a word to the waiting footman, who accompanied him to 
 the coupe, into which he jumped, still excited with the 
 recent applause of his speech.
 
 94 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "Let me congratulate you sincerely on your success!" 
 said the Countess Elena Fiammanti, pressing his hand. 
 
 The carriage rolled away. In the antechamber the 
 waiting ones slowly dispersed; the tired ushers rested 
 on the empty chairs ; two deputies chatted with the ladies. 
 
 A fire burned brightly on the hearth, three logs having 
 been laid dextrously to form a triangle. Elena Fiam- 
 manti thrust away the ashes and stirred the hot coals, 
 making them send up a cloud of sparks. Then she sank 
 back, half reclining, in her deep chair, deftly spreading 
 her billowing skirts. 
 
 "Do you like a fire, Sangiorgio? It must be cold 
 down in your Basilicata." 
 
 "Very cold," he replied, seating himself in an easy 
 chair near her. "They have great chimneys in their 
 houses, and on the hearths they have a large bench, 
 where the father of the family sits in winter, surrounded 
 by his children." 
 
 "I love a fire," she said slowly, her eyes half closed, 
 as if she were fatigued, "when I have some one to en- 
 joy it with me. I do not like to be alone." 
 
 Her hands rested upon the arms of her chair, her head 
 leaned against its velvet back. The lamplight drew 
 forth scintillations from her jewels; one slender little 
 foot tapped the dark, rich rug. 
 
 "You never are alone, I fancy." 
 
 "No, never," she replied, frankly. "I detest solitude." 
 
 "Yes, certainly," he answered, vaguely. 
 
 "No, do not say that from mere politeness. I know
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 95 
 
 that you men, when your minds are full of a great am- 
 bition or a grand passion, always seek solitude. But we 
 women never do! If any woman ever tells you she 
 does, do not believe her, Sangiorgio. She is simply de- 
 ceiving you. All women are like me or rather, I am 
 like all other women in that respect. People amuse me 
 even a fool interests me. To-day, at the Chamber, 
 for instance" 
 
 "Well, for instance" said Sangiorgio, with a half 
 smile. 
 
 "There was a foolish creature sitting behind me in 
 the Speaker's gallery, who did nothing but chatter non- 
 sense to me for an hour." 
 
 "Did he not bore you?" 
 
 "No, indeed he prevented me from hearing the 
 Minister's speech. Will you smoke?" 
 
 "Thank you, yes." 
 
 She handed him a box of cigars. Her hands were 
 plump, with rosy nails. 
 
 "Do you know, you spoke exceedingly well to-day, 
 Sangiorgio?" she went on, lighting a cigarette. 
 
 Sangiorgio looked at her in silence. 
 
 "If you doubt my sincerity, buy the newspapers to- 
 morrow morning they will be full of you." 
 
 "I hardly think so. The Minister is a great favorite." 
 
 "Bah! He is like Aristides his fellow citizens are 
 tired of always hearing him called 'the just.' Do not 
 let that quotation alarm you, Sangiorgio; I know neither 
 Greek nor Latin; that was only a recollection belonging 
 to my youth, when I used to read."
 
 % MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "Do you not read now?" inquired Sangiorgio, surprised. 
 
 "No; books bore me now," the lady answered. 
 
 "They are useless, indeed." 
 
 A servant entered, bearing a coffee service on a lac- 
 quer tray; the tiny cups were of faintest blue trans- 
 parent Japanese porcelain. 
 
 "How many lumps?" inquired Elena, lifting the silver 
 sugar-tongs. 
 
 "Two." 
 
 While they sipped their coffee, Sangiorgio looked 
 about the room with interest. It was not large, and it 
 held no furniture of wood ; all was soft, luxurious, yield- 
 ing, with a profusion of easy-chairs, couches, low divans 
 and taborets. Even the piano was half hidden under 
 Turkish and Persian draperies, and on the wall hung a 
 wonderful ancient cope of pink silk embroidered with 
 gold. 
 
 "You will see, Sangiorgio," the lady continued, "that 
 to-morrow many deputies will ask to be presented to you. 
 You will taste all the sweets of success." 
 
 "And must I believe in the professed admiration of my 
 colleagues?" 
 
 "No, my friend, but you may as well enjoy it. Many 
 good, delightful things are false in their essence. The 
 part of wisdom is to profit by them as much as possible, 
 to take them as we find them, and ask nothing more." 
 
 She cast at him a swift, furtive glance. He under- 
 stood her immediately, for, even in that warm and 
 luxurious boudoir, his judgment was as calm and cool as 
 it had been when he addressed the Parliament.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 97 
 
 "That philosophy applies to love also," he murmured. 
 
 "Particularly to love," said Elena, quickly, letting 
 dwell upon him her large gray eyes, which that evening 
 had a tinge of blue. "Have you ever been in love, 
 Sangiorgio?" 
 
 "Never seriously," he declared, "and yet" 
 
 "Very well! When you do love, remember what I 
 have just said. We must not demand more of love than 
 it can give. But men are authoritative, selfish; each 
 wishes to be the only one, and then the woman lies! 
 And really, love is a very ordinary sentiment; there are 
 others far nobler and stronger. Love is only an illusion, 
 a passing shadow, often futile." 
 
 While she gave utterance to these romantic paradoxes 
 
 % 
 with a slightly pedantic air, her rosy lips smiled tenderly, 
 
 one white hand ruffled the little curls on her forehead, 
 the tiny foot still patted the rug, the thin black silk 
 stocking allowing a glimpse of the pink skin through 
 the dainty meshes of lace. Sangiorgio, now feeling much 
 more at his ease, regarded her with a fatuous smile, 
 which she appeared too much absorbed to notice. 
 
 "Women like to be deceived," she continued, throwing 
 her cigarette into the fire. "Men do not know how to 
 love, you will hear them cry, and they weep over it. 
 And above all things they demand from them fidelity! 
 As if men could be faithful, with their nerves, tem- 
 perament, imagination ! A hundred thousand lire to any 
 one who will show me a man and a woman really faith- 
 ful, absolutely faithful!" 
 
 By this time Sangiorgio had taken her little hand in 
 
 7
 
 98 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 his; he softly stroked her taper fingers, sparkling with 
 diamonds and milky opals. Presently he bent his head 
 and kissed the round, dimpled wrist. He was no longer 
 in awe of her ; he felt as if he had known her a long time, 
 and, while he was speculating about her, certain auda- 
 cious ideas came into his mind. 
 
 Notwithstanding his outward calmness, his nerves 
 were still stirred by his success of that day, and now in 
 that perfumed boudoir the delicate intoxication was aug- 
 mented by this alluring woman, whose apparent para- 
 doxes were easy to read, and who plainly invited him to 
 woo her. 
 
 To assert his growing feeling of intimacy, he would 
 have liked to throw himself upon a sofa, to lie at full 
 length on the rug, to toss matches into the fire, in short, 
 to commit all the silly impertinences of an ill-bred boy. 
 He resisted these temptations by a strong effort, but he 
 felt himself weak before that ironic mouth, those quiv- 
 ering nostrils, and that straight, aquiline nose the 
 mingled aristocracy and coarseness of that face. 
 
 While caressing her hand, he had playfully drawn 
 off all her rings, and now shook them lightly in the hol- 
 low of his large hand, his mind possessed with an in- 
 sane desire to draw off one of her slippers, so that he 
 might see her little foot curling itself up shyly in its 
 black silk stocking. 
 
 "Of course, there are virtuous women," continued Ele- 
 na. "No one denies that. There are cold women, who 
 do not know how to love. I know some not very many, 
 but a few. Naturally, in that case, no great effort is
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 99 
 
 necessary to remain faithful. Now, Donna Angelica, the 
 wife of the Minister, is absolutely virtuous. Do you 
 know her, Sangiorgio?" 
 
 "Yes that is by sight!" he murmured. He felt em- 
 barrassed, and held the rings awkwardly, not knowing 
 what to do with them; at last he put them on a table, 
 without venturing to replace them on the young woman's 
 fingers. 
 
 The cloud that had floated in his brain was suddenly 
 dissipated, and he felt ashamed of the childish things 
 he had wished to do. In a moment more, he would have 
 asked Elena's pardon, but she appeared unaware of his 
 embarrassment. Nervously she smoothed her silken 
 draperies with a mechanical movement, drawing out a 
 long fold toward Sangiorgio as if she wished him to 
 take it in his hand. 
 
 "Well, what do you say to my sermon?" she inquired, 
 smilingly. 
 
 "I am an ardent disciple; I do not understand it all, 
 but 1 admire it." Sangiorgio replied, now completely 
 master of himself. 
 
 "I will give you some music you will understand 
 that," said the lady, rising suddenly. "You may smoke, 
 sleep, or read; if you do not listen to the music I shall 
 not care. I like to make music for myself." 
 
 The next moment a delicate yet penetrating voice be- 
 gan the first strains of Tosti's Ave Maria. 
 
 Sangiorgio was thrilled and surprised. Indeed, Ele- 
 na's voice was always a surprise, because it did not seem 
 to belong to her ; or perhaps one should say it completed
 
 100 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 her and revealed her true character. She had a rich, 
 warm contralto, at times a trifle harsh, but with passion- 
 ate accents, amorous quivers, cries of jealousy, violent 
 ecstasy. Then came tones of strange softness and ex- 
 traordinary purity, of a tenderness almost virginal. She 
 revealed a delicacy of ideal, a harmonious transfigura- 
 tion of ardor, an indefinite, vague, but exquisite mystery. 
 She sang with her head slightly raised ; her languorous 
 eyelids cast shadows on her cheeks, her lips were half 
 open, and her white throat swelled under her jeweled 
 collar. Her agile hands flew over the keyboard, light as 
 two white doves. A new serenity, a tender peace filled 
 the boudoir, a soothing caress that seemed to touch the 
 furniture and the ornaments, tempering their former 
 seductiveness. She sang a melancholy romance by 
 Schumann, which sounded like a mingling of sighs and 
 tears : 
 
 Va, prends courage, cceur sou ff rant! 
 
 At the end of this triumphal day, Sangiorgio listened 
 pensively, his heart filled with a new and sad emotion.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 THE ADVENTURE OF THE MASKED BALL 
 
 HE night of the last masked ball of the season 
 
 " I had come. It was held at the Theater Cos- 
 tanzi. All the unimportant people, for whom 
 one masked ball was the extent of their season's 
 gayety students who had still ten lire in pocket, clerks, 
 delighted to indulge in this mild orgy; book-keepers, 
 whose ledgers would be closed until the next day ; young 
 lawyers, budding physicians all these, and many others, 
 passed through the grand entrance about six o'clock 
 in the evening. 
 
 In the corridor on the ground floor the ushers were 
 rushing here and there, almost losing their heads with 
 trying to check the topcoats and mantles, to hang up in 
 safety the accumulating veils, scarfs, canes, and shawls. 
 The crowd launched itself into the vast ballroom, and 
 began that circular promenade characteristic of all Ro- 
 man public balls. 
 
 A rollicking band of twenty-four young men, disguised 
 as polichinelksy raced about hither and thither, each hold- 
 ing fast the tail of the white blouse of the man in front 
 of him, and all laughing and singing at the top of their 
 lungs. 
 
 In the middle of the hall, in a wide, cleared space, 
 
 stood a group of youths and girls, the latter dressed in 
 
 101
 
 102 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 short white blouses, held in at the waist by pink or 
 blue sashes; each girl wore a baby's white cap, and car- 
 ried an infant's rattle in her hand. They remained close 
 to their youthful escorts all the evening. 
 
 The orchestra was placed on a small stage, behind a 
 playing fountain, and as soon as the first strains of a 
 waltz or a polka were heard, these couples began to 
 whirl with a business-like gravity, marking the time 
 with great precision, avoiding collisions, dancing consci- 
 entiously. 
 
 When the music stopped, they ceased dancing abrupt- 
 ly, as if surprised; each cavalier offered an arm to his 
 partner, and without exchanging a word, these young 
 couples resumed the promenade with an air of great dig- 
 nity. At the next call of the music, they began a new 
 dance, with an unflagging zeal that drew forth admira- 
 tion from the ranks of spectators, who stood three deep 
 around the dancers. 
 
 Three girls, attired in black, with white aprons and 
 enormous muslin caps, walked about arm-in-arm, waving 
 their black-gloved hands and coquetting with everyone. 
 
 In a box on the second tier sat a person in a red 
 domino, with an odd head-dress like a cock's comb. She 
 was alone, and sat motionless, her red arms leaning on 
 the velvet railing. Other dominoes, elegant and mys- 
 terious, appeared here and there ; one was strikingly tall 
 and graceful, in pale blue satin, accompanied by a friend 
 in black satin, whose face was hidden under a thick 
 lace veil. 
 
 One opulent lady permitted her flowing domino to
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 103 
 
 open and reveal a rich ball gown of cream-colored bro- 
 cade embroidered with gold. 
 
 But the majority of the merrymakers were good, 
 middle-class families fathers, mothers, sons, and daugh- 
 ters, who had come there dressed as for an evening 
 promenade, in dark gowns, simple hats and thread 
 gloves. These excellent people felt perfectly at home, 
 and stopped to chat and jest with one another with the 
 good humor and equanimity of the Roman people, who 
 are easily entertained. 
 
 The crowd was densest in front of the boxes occupied 
 by the Hunt Club, whose members, in full evening dress, 
 with white cravats, called out jests and questions to the 
 passing masks, and kept up a ceaseless hubbub. 
 
 When Francesco Sangiorgio appeared in the hall it 
 was half-past eleven. A feminine form, attired in Turk- 
 ish draperies, her head and face wrapped in a white veil, 
 glided to his side. A soft voice said: 
 
 "Ah, here is the charming Sangiorgio! Why do you 
 look so sad, Signer?" 
 
 "Because I do not recognize you, dear lady!" 
 
 "You do not know me you must not know me you 
 never will know me! I know why you are sad. Let 
 me whisper it in your ear: you are in love!" 
 
 "Yes, with you, my charmer!" 
 
 "What nonsense! Ha! Ha! You are altogether too 
 gallant, Signer! That is not the custom here. Be rude 
 and brusque your reputation demands it. But hark! 
 Ferrante is no longer a candidate for the Budget Com-
 
 104 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 mittee. You are being discussed for membership. Be 
 prudent! I warn you!" 
 
 Sangiorgio stood still, astonished. The mask slipped 
 away, and disappeared in the crowd. 
 
 The news surprised him greatly; he had not expected 
 this. So far, his famous speech had brought no par- 
 ticular results. He had had a flattering interview with 
 one of the leaders of the Right, Mario Tasca, the cold 
 and polished orator, of moderate socialistic views, the 
 politician who had caused his own party to lose because 
 of his indecision at a critical period. 
 
 The new deputy had met other dignitaries and had 
 been politely greeted and congratulated ; the Minister, in 
 replying to Sangiorgio's plea, had rendered all honor to 
 his adversary, but had insisted on presenting his mo- 
 tion, and the Chamber had voted in favor of it by a large 
 majority. No one ever remembered his speech now, 
 apparently. The Honorable Dalma, with his poetic par- 
 liamentary cynicism, had said to him: "In politics all 
 is soon forgotten." 
 
 In the vestibule, many couples were strolling about, 
 arm-in-arm, chatting and laughing; young men were 
 making important financial combinations in organizing 
 supper parties; solitary dominoes wandered to and fro, 
 awaiting the chimerical unknown. 
 
 Near the entrance Sangiorgio ran into the Honorable 
 Gulli-Pausania. The Sicilian deputy was leaning against 
 the wall, waiting for some one, correct and distinguished 
 in his evening clothes, his pointed chestnut beard, and 
 an opera hat, which hid a premature baldness.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 105 
 
 "Ah, my dear Sangiorgio!" said Gulli, with a marked 
 Sicilian accent; "What, alone; alone at a masked ball?" 
 
 "Yes, alone. I expect no one, and no one expects me. 
 But I fancy my honorable colleague, Gulli-Pausania, can- 
 not say the same." 
 
 "What do you suppose?" laughed Gulli; "we pass our 
 lives in waiting for some one." 
 
 "Not always the same person, I hope." 
 
 "Oh, no ! That would be too serious a business. Any 
 news from the House?" 
 
 "None, my dear colleague. Amuse yourself well!" 
 
 "Many thanks!" said Gulli-Pausania, smiling softly. 
 
 Sangiorgio made his way to the ballroom, and stood 
 dazzled at the spectacle. 
 
 The great hall, with its three rows of boxes, its gal- 
 leries and amphitheater, was brilliantly illuminated, its 
 white and gold decoration bathed in a soft haze. Before 
 the stage, the fountain's high-springing jets were rose- 
 tinted by means of an electric light. 
 
 The throng was already dense, and at every moment 
 new arrivals came from the cafes, balls, and other mas- 
 querades ; it was difficult to walk, and impossible to stand 
 still. 
 
 At first Sangiorgio could see only the back of a large 
 man in front of him; at the right the red ear of a nurse, 
 whose mask must have been too tight; at his left the 
 sharp profile of a thin and pale young girl. The large 
 man stared persistently at the occupants of the boxes. 
 
 Presently Sangiorgio managed to press forward a 
 little till he reached the gentleman's side, and recognized
 
 106 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 the Honorable Prince di Smirnio, who bore the title of 
 Most Serene Highness, and was one of the wealthiest 
 noblemen in Rome. 
 
 "Good evening, my dear colleague," said the Prince, 
 in the peculiar drawl he always affected. "Is this your 
 first visit to this gateway of perdition? I suppose that 
 when you lived in the country you heard that we men 
 of the city led wild lives, eh? Well, now you can see 
 for yourself that we occupy ourselves in merely taking a 
 turn about the place, with the most innocent intentions. 
 Personally, I am looking for my wife and her sister in 
 one of these boxes. Then, too, I like to mingle with a 
 crowd, just to listen and learn. Everyone knows how 
 democratic I am. I have a taste that way. You are in- 
 terested in politics, are you not, my dear colleague? 
 It is not a very amusing game I had enough of it long 
 ago. I belong to the party of Emilio Castelar. the Span- 
 ish Republican. Does that surprise you?'* 
 
 Francesco Sangiorgio smiled, but made no reply, for 
 he knew that the Prince preferred to talk without in- 
 terruption. 
 
 "Ah, there is my wife!" he said suddenly. "Who is 
 in that box next to hers? Oh, it is the Minister of For- 
 eign Affairs, with his two daughters. Good night, my 
 dear colleague." 
 
 Sangiorgio bowed, and turned away to make the grand 
 tour of the hall, first approaching the stage, on which, 
 at each side, were ranged little tables, surrounded by 
 respectable families regaling themselves with lemonade, 
 and inseparable couples, rather fond of drinking bock
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 107 
 
 beer. The deputy reached the fountain, now of an ex- 
 quisite violet hue; he passed between it and the great 
 mirror back of it and paused at the gallery occupied by 
 the orchestra. 
 
 At that instant the musicians burst out with a pop- 
 ular mazurka. There was a general movement of the 
 crowd toward the central space, in order to see the 
 dancing. The Honorable Schuffer, sitting alone at a 
 small table, with a glass of beer before him, fixed his 
 little twinkling eyes on the gay maskers with a mocking 
 smile. 
 
 "Oh, my dear friend," said he, with his soft Venetian 
 accent, "will you take a glass of beer with me? But you 
 are a Neapolitan perhaps you do not like beer." 
 
 "I thank you a thousand times, Signer! I will not 
 take anything just now, for I have only just come." 
 
 "I have been here an hour, being amused with having 
 my sides punched, my feet trodden, and hustled about 
 in every direction. I took refuge here in order to be 
 quiet you know that I am likely to get into trouble." 
 
 Sangiorgio smiled; the Honorable Schuffer, notwith- 
 standing his mild air, had already had several quarrels. 
 By a strange fatality, he could go nowhere without get- 
 ting into some dispute or imbroglio, so that the Cham- 
 ber had been obliged, more than once, to give legal 
 authorization for actions against him. 
 
 "I learned to drink beer in Japan," he went on. "Ah, 
 that is a great country, my dear fellow! I never had 
 trouble with anyone there, I assure you." He added in 
 a lower tone, as if struck by a sudden thought : "You
 
 108 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 are Ministerial shall you vote those millions for the 
 Minister of War?" 
 
 "Shall you?" Sangiorgio rejoined quickly. 
 
 "Shall I?" Schuffer replied, a little disconcerted; 
 "well, I don't know just yet. We must talk it over, 
 and come to an understanding. It is a serious matter. 
 War devours the substance of a nation." 
 
 "I ask nothing better; we will discuss this again. 
 Good night, my friend!" 
 
 The reckless strains of the mazurka had lent new ani- 
 mation to the ball. Everyone was dancing. A little 
 woman, dressed as an officer of bersaglieri, with her hat 
 tilted over one ear, her bare arms emerging from the 
 gold fringe of her epaulettes, and wearing tight knee 
 breeches, danced with a pretty girl disguised as 
 Mephistopheles. Both were ^s serious as possible, and 
 drove away anyone that tried to separate them. 
 
 The boxes had now filled up with ladies in full eve- 
 ning toilet; in one of the proscenium boxes sat the deli- 
 cate Florentine beauty, Elsa Bellini, wife of the actor 
 Novelli, and the luxurient blond tresses of Lalla Ter- 
 ziani. Their companions were the little Prince de 
 Nerola, the new deputy from the Abruzzi, and their 
 husbands, Novelli and Terziani. 
 
 "Sangiorgio !" called the little Prince, leaning over the 
 railing of the box. 
 
 "Well, my dear colleague?" said Sangiorgio, looking 
 up at the Prince. 
 
 "If you see Sangarzia anywhere, will you be kind 
 enough to tell him I am here. By the way, do you know
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 109 
 
 who will be elected to fill the vacancy on the Budget 
 Committee, the day after to-morrow?" 
 
 "Ferrante, naturally." 
 
 "I think not!" said the Prince, smiling maliciously. 
 
 As Sangiorgio moved away, he caught the words "Clev- 
 er young fellow" "Brilliant Southerner." 
 
 He set out to find Sangarzia in one of the boxes. 
 
 In a box on the first tier sat the two sisters Ac- 
 quaviva, one the wife of the Marchese di Santa Marta, 
 the other married to the Count Lapucci. 
 
 The Countess was a vivacious brunette, with brilliant 
 eyes and ripe red lips, a striking contrast to her husband, 
 who was tall, pale, taciturn, and thoughtful. He was 
 called haughty, in spite of his socialistic opinions. The 
 Santa Martas were entirely different; he was blond and 
 fair, with sleepy eyes and pink cheeks; she had a mass 
 of curls and a frank, child-like expression. The Countess 
 Lapucci laughed; the Marchesa di Santa Marta smiled; 
 the Count Lapucci scanned the passing faces, with hands 
 thrust in his pockets; and Santa Marta talked loudly 
 with the Honorable Melillo, a confirmed bachelor, al- 
 though a devoted admirer of the fair sex. He made a 
 friendly sign to Sangiorgio, and the young deputy fan- 
 cied he might be speaking favorably of him to Santa 
 Marta. 
 
 In the adjoining box, the wife of the Secretary-General 
 of Finance arrived from a reception at the Quirinal. She 
 was a slender, supple Piedmontese, with an interesting 
 though pale face. Her neck was covered with jewels, 
 and she drew off her long gloves with a quick, nervous
 
 110 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 movement. The Honorable Pasta, the celebrated law- 
 yer, with shaven lips and gray side-whiskers, murmured 
 in her ear little stories that made her smile. The Hon- 
 orable Cimbeo, the political journalist, gazed absently 
 through his spectacles, while his cravat crept up his 
 collar till it nearly touched his ears. The Secretary- 
 General, a short, bald man, with a bristling moustache, 
 preserved a solemn, unbroken silence. When Sangiorgio 
 passed, he bowed impressively, with an air of sympathy 
 and gratitude, almost of affection the salute he reserved 
 for those who pleased him by attacking the Minister 
 of Finance. 
 
 "Where can Sangarzia be?" thought Sangiorgio, mak- 
 ing his way with difficulty through the crowd. 
 
 The Baroness Noir was enthroned in her box, her ser- 
 pentine form arrayed in a strange robe of changeable 
 silk, embroidered with tulips and scarlet poppies. Her 
 husband remained in the rear of the box, with the grav- 
 ity of a diplomatist awaiting an appointment; but the 
 Honorable di San Demetrio, a future Minister of Foreign 
 Affairs, occupied a seat well toward the front, in a strong 
 light. Beside him sat the Honorable di Campofranco, 
 a cold and stiff Sicilian, son of the most influential 
 woman politician of the time, the Princess di Campo- 
 franco. 
 
 The Honorable di San Demetrio was speaking, per- 
 haps explaining some points of his speech on the Budget, 
 and the little Baroness listened with interest, sometimes 
 giving his fingers a light tap with her fan. 
 
 Sangiorgio halted for a moment before this box. He
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 
 
 felt tired; the lights dazzled him, and the heavy, per- 
 fumed air was oppressive. 
 
 "Sangiorgio !" called San Demetrio from the box. 
 
 He started, as if from a dream. 
 
 "Do you know whether the Honorable Massari is 
 registered to speak in the discussion on the Budget?" 
 
 "No, he is not registered." 
 
 "Are you sure?" 
 
 "Quite sure." 
 
 "Thank you a thousand pardons for troubling you!" 
 
 He resumed his seat, comforted by the thought that 
 he would have one adversary the less to answer. San- 
 giorgio still leaned against the wall, closing his eyes to 
 shut out the glare of light. 
 
 Seymour and Marchetti, arm-in-arm, stopped near 
 him; the two apostles of social science Seymour, dark 
 and thin, with an energetic British chin, Marchetti with 
 rosy face, chestnut hair, and bright eyes. 
 
 "Are you bored, Sangiorgio?" Seymour asked. 
 
 "A little. I am tired." 
 
 "Were you at the session of the committee this eve- 
 ning?" 
 
 "No. What was done there?" 
 
 "Nothing. No one does any work. Why don't you 
 have your speech printed, Sangiorgio?" 
 
 "What would be the use?" said Francesco, with an 
 accent of resignation. "I shall return to the charge, 
 however when they begin to discuss the Agricultural 
 Budget," he added, standing erect, as if revived. 
 
 The orchestra played the prelude to Strauss's waltz,
 
 112 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Le Salut a La Joie; the assembly thronged the corridors; 
 the deputies separated; Sangiorgio remained alone. 
 
 The ladies in the boxes gazed down at the ballroom 
 floor, envying the little dancers enjoying themselves be- 
 low, while social etiquette kept them in the boxes, re- 
 gretfully listening to the entrancing strains of the music. 
 
 A fresh group entered several ladies who had been 
 at a ball given by the Baron Huffer; they considerately 
 remained standing a few minutes, that all might see the 
 splendor of their gowns. 
 
 The little Prince di Nerola was now in the box of 
 his cousin, the Countess di Genzano, an imposing Titian 
 blonde; behind them showed the classic and noble pro- 
 file of the Minister of Justice, the inflexible and gallant 
 magistrate, as unchanging in his inflexibility as in his 
 gallantry. 
 
 Sangiorgio shook off the fit of dullness into which he 
 had fallen, and resumed his search for Sangarzia. He 
 looked intently into one box after another, and at last 
 discovered him on the second tier, near the royal box. 
 Near the railing sat a woman of strikingly elegant ap- 
 pearance, in a domino of black satin, her head covered 
 with a black lace mantilla caught up with a cluster of red 
 carnations. Next to her was the Honorable Valitutti, 
 a rich Calabrian, with the olive skin and jet-black beard 
 of an Arab. Toward the middle of the box sat the Hon- 
 orable Fraccacreta, one of the richest cereal merchants 
 from the Puglia district ; next to him was the Honorable 
 Sangarzia, the sympathetic Sicilian, the accomplished 
 swordsman, the gallant gentleman beloved by all.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 113 
 
 "I wonder who is the fair unknown," murmured San- 
 giorgio, as he mounted to the second tier. 
 
 A lady, vexed at not being allowed to dance, was 
 sweeping down the stairway in very bad humor, on the 
 way to her carriage. She let the train of her gown drag 
 its full length over the floor, and kept her lips pressed 
 together with the sulky expression of a woman to whom 
 something has been denied. She was followed by her 
 husband and her favored admirer, each wearing the re- 
 lieved look of men who have got through with a boring 
 evening and hope soon to be able to go to bed. 
 
 Five black dominoes who had passed the whole even- 
 ing in a box without speaking or moving, like a group 
 of conspirators, now descended the stairs on the arms of 
 five young men, also silent ; the lugubrious little proces- 
 sion might have been on the way to a funeral banquet. 
 Behind them came the Honorable Carrusio, a little dep- 
 uty with a head as smooth as a billiard-ball, and an 
 absurdly long black imperial, which gave a grotesque ap- 
 pearance to his round and somewhat boyish face. 
 
 "Excuse me, my dear colleague," said he, stopping 
 Sangiorgio on the stairs ; "Pardon my interruption, but I 
 am very much disturbed. A relative of mine from the 
 country made me come to this affair something that I 
 do not care for in the least. You can fancy how it bores 
 me! I am so disturbed at the news I have heard they 
 say that the Prime Minister is very ill. Is it true?" 
 
 "Not at all, not at all!" Sangiorgio replied, smiling. 
 "Only a little touch of gout, I believe." 
 
 "Are you sure of that?" 
 
 8
 
 114 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "I went to inquire for him in person, my dear Signer." 
 
 "Ah, I thank you, my dear colleague ! I was fortunate 
 to meet you you have relieved me from a great anxiety. 
 If the Prime Minister were really seriously ill, only fancy 
 what trouble it would cause! Suppose he should die 
 what would happen?" 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" said Sangiorgio, still smiling at the 
 earnestness of the little man. 
 
 "Yours to command, dear colleague! I feel quite re- 
 assured a thousand thanks! Call upon me at any time 
 I am always at your service. I could not have met 
 you more opportunely. Good night!" 
 
 "Good night! Rest assured the Prime Minister will 
 be quite well to-morrow." 
 
 "Thank you again thank you!" 
 
 Sangiorgio tapped gently at the door of Number 15. 
 Fraccacreta's voice said, "Come in!" 
 
 Sangiorgio half opened the door, saying: 
 
 "Pardon me, gentlemen ! I am searching for the Hon- 
 orable Sangarzia." 
 
 "Here I am, Signer." 
 
 The two men left the box; the black domino with the 
 carnations did not even turn her head. 
 
 "The Prince di Nerola wishes to speak to you, my 
 dear colleague." 
 
 "Oh, Sangiorgio, you and the Prince could not have 
 done me a greater service! I really did not know how 
 to get away gracefully. Where is he?" 
 
 "In the Countess di Genzano's box, on the first tier." 
 
 "Let us go at once."
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 115 
 
 Sangarzia reentered the box, took his topcoat, bowed 
 to the lady, shook hands with the two men, and followed 
 Sangiorgio down the stairs. 
 
 "What luck!" he said. "The lady was very much 
 bored, and wished to dance. Will you come into the 
 Countess's box with me?" 
 
 "I do not know her." 
 
 At that moment a feminine form slipped out of a box 
 on the first tier, attired in a Turkish costume, with head 
 and face concealed beneath the folds of a white veil. 
 She approached Sangiorgio. 
 
 "Come with me !" she murmured to him caressingly. 
 
 "No need to wish you good luck!" whispered Sangar- 
 zia laughingly to Francesco, as he left him. 
 
 "Come with me!" repeated the veiled lady, laying her 
 hand on Sangiorgio's arm. 
 
 It was almost three o'clock in the morning. The 
 dressing-rooms were full of people getting into their top- 
 coats or wrapping themselves in mantles, with the weary 
 air of mountebanks who, having finished their tumbling 
 in the public square, put on old coats over their spangled 
 satin jackets. 
 
 "Come quickly!" said the lady impatiently, as San- 
 giorgio was putting on his topcoat. 
 
 When they reached the street, she found her own car- 
 riage at once, and, with an apprehensive glance to right 
 and left, jumped in, almost dragging the deputy in after 
 her. 
 
 "Home !" she said to the coachman. 
 
 As soon as she was fairly seated, she drew down the
 
 116 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 blinds, took off her veil and threw it on the seat in front 
 of her; she then removed her Oriental robe, pulling out 
 pins and tearing the material, and wrapped herself in a 
 great fur cloak which she took from the opposite seat. 
 Sangiorgio assisted her in silence. She gazed out at the 
 street a moment. 
 
 "Ah, the moon is shining !" she murmured sweetly. 
 
 She tapped on the little window to give an order to the 
 coachman, who drew up immediately in the Piazza Bar- 
 berini. She descended quickly, resuming her white veil. 
 
 "Go home !" said she to the coachman. "Tell Carolina 
 she may go to bed now. I have my keys." 
 
 They were left alone. The fountain showered bril- 
 liant jewels in the silvery light of the moon. 
 
 "Shall we walk a little?" said the lady. "It was stifling 
 in that ballroom." 
 
 Sangiorgio offered his arm, resolved to show no sur- 
 prise, whatever happened. They turned into the Via 
 Sistina, that great thoroughfare so aristocratic by day 
 and so gloomy at night. 
 
 The lady drew closer to her escort, as if both cold 
 and timid, as if she were pretending to be a little creature 
 seeking his protection, although she was a commanding 
 figure in her long black mantle, her eyes sparkling be- 
 hind the thin white veil. Those eyes had a strong mag- 
 netic fascination. 
 
 Again Sangiorgio felt himself under the same spell she 
 had cast over him in her boudoir, when she had mocked 
 at love. But this time the charm was deeper and keener,
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 117 
 
 with no mingling of sweetness; rather, it was a posses- 
 sion, an inebriation. 
 
 "How still it is!" she said in a trembling whisper, 
 which stirred Sangiorgio's being to the heart. 
 
 "Speak again !" he murmured ; "say something more !" 
 
 "What shall I say?" the lady whispered again, leaning 
 against his shoulder. 
 
 "Whatever you will your voice is so sweet!" 
 
 Elena Fiammanti made no reply. They had wandered 
 to the square before the Trinita de' Monti. The obelisk 
 towered high in the bright moonlight, throwing a long 
 shadow across the fagade of the church. 
 
 They leaned on the parapet overlooking the terrace, 
 and contemplated Rome bathed in a luminous haze 
 which appeared to be a continuation of the sky, a veil 
 descending from heaven, enveloping houses, steeples 
 domes, and all the wondrous city. 
 
 "We can see nothing clearly. What a pity!" said 
 Elena. 
 
 Again she took the arm of her companion, and recon- 
 ducted him to the little stairway of the Trinita, near the 
 entrance to the convent. 
 
 "Shall we go in?" she asked, pointing to the iron chain 
 across the door. "We are two frozen pilgrims begging 
 for hospitality." 
 
 She laughed, showing the beautiful white teeth that 
 made her mouth irresistible. She never smiled, but al- 
 ways laughed. 
 
 From the point where they now stood, nothing was 
 visible in front of them but that limitless, milky-white,
 
 118 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 silvery haze. At the right, they perceived the gas-jets 
 still burning in the Via Condotti; below them extended 
 the Piazza di Spagna, with all its imposing architectural 
 beauties. 
 
 "Come, let us go," said Elena. 
 
 He allowed her to guide him; this first romantic ad- 
 venture gave him inexpressible delight. This woman a 
 lady, notwithstanding her audacity and the lightness of 
 her behavior embodied all the ideals and desires of a 
 strong provincial man, dreamy, imaginative, but chaste 
 and serious. This was a real love romance, into which 
 he had been led by this perfumed beauty, wrapped in 
 furs, with sparkling diamonds, who allured him by her 
 personal charm, and by all that she represented. In the 
 overthrow of his will power and the intoxication of the 
 moment, he said to himself that this was only a passing 
 caprice, and his moral resolution weakened under the new 
 triumph of his vanity; charmed and flattered, he yielded 
 to the delight of his conquest. 
 
 They descended the steps in the opalescent moonlight 
 that bathed the stones of the ancient city. On the last 
 step, Elena withdrew her arm from Sangiorgio's, and 
 sat down. She now looked small and dark, leaning for* 
 ward on the step, her head resting on her clasped hands 
 and her elbows on her knees, her eyes fixed on the beau- 
 tiful Bernini fountain, with brimming bowl. Sangior- 
 gio stood beside her, filled with a sense of masculine 
 pride, which was perceptible through his air of lover-like 
 submission. 
 
 Elena appeared tired, as she still sat there, a dark spot
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 119 
 
 in the moonlight, a mass of black draperies, within 
 which, perhaps, throbbed an anxious soul, a troubled 
 heart. The man appeared to tower over her in domina- 
 tion. 
 
 "Do you admire this fountain?" she asked, raising her 
 head. 
 
 "Very much; it is beautiful." 
 
 "Yes, it is. Why do you not sit here beside me?" 
 
 She did not look up at him, but seemed to be ad- 
 dressing the rippling waters of the fountain. He sat 
 down at her side. 
 
 "Have you no cigars? Won't you smoke a little?" 
 
 "I am sorry I have no cigarettes for you." 
 
 "Never mind that you must smoke." 
 
 He lighted a cigar, and she inhaled its aroma. 
 
 "What cigar is that?" 
 
 "A Minghetti." 
 
 "It smells good," she observed. 
 
 She followed with her eyes the blue smoke that rose 
 in the air. 
 
 A closed carriage emerged from the Via di Due Ma- 
 celli, passed them rapidly, and disappeared in the Via 
 Babuino. 
 
 "They must be coming from the ball," said Sangiorgio. 
 
 "What a tiresome affair that was!" whispered Elena 
 tenderly. 
 
 "Yes," replied Sangiorgio to that sweet whisper, which 
 gave him a pleasure that was almost pain. 
 
 Suddenly she rose to her feet, as if propelled by a 
 spring.
 
 120 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "I am cold very cold. Let us go !" she said abruptly. 
 
 She wrapped herself closely in her fur robe, and drew 
 him toward the Via Propaganda. 
 
 He tossed away his cigar, and suddenly felt that the 
 lady's mood had changed; that she was ready to quit 
 him, perhaps regretting her momentary caprice. But he 
 remained proudly silent. Could anyone count on a 
 woman's caprice? He shrugged his shoulders, laughing 
 internally at his own naivete, which had led him into 
 trusting for a moment in one of these frivolous beings. 
 
 Elena, too, was silent; she walked swiftly, as if she 
 were indeed cold; she looked at the ground and did not 
 address her companion, who respected her silence, re- 
 solved to follow this adventure to the end, in spite of 
 the blow given to his self-esteem. When they reached 
 the corner of the Via di Due Macelli, she suddenly 
 turned into the Via Angelo Custode. 
 
 "I live here," said Sangiorgio at a venture. 
 
 "Where?" she exclaimed, stopping short. 
 
 "At Number Fifty." 
 
 "Do you live alone?" 
 
 "Yes, alone." 
 
 "Let us go up," she said, crossing the street. "I vrill 
 warm myself at your fire." 
 
 "I have no fire." 
 
 "Then I will warm myself by playing the piano." 
 
 "I have no piano either." 
 
 "That doesn't matter!" was her only reply. 
 
 Two days later, Francesco Sangiorgio was elected a 
 member of the Budget Committee.
 
 ITTLE, idle, feminine hands, daintily gloved, 
 amiably but rather listlessly applauded the 
 brilliant finale of the pianist, a thin, dark, 
 shabby man who disappeared behind the piano. 
 
 "What expression!" exclaimed the wife of a deputy 
 from Puglia, a stout person with a mass of black frizzes 
 on her red and shining forehead. 
 
 "Ah, delicious!" murmured Signora di Bertrand, the 
 wife of a well known functionary, a delicate Piedmon- 
 tese, with a Madonna-like face framed in the high collar 
 of a brocade mantle embroidered with gold. 
 
 From group to group, from the ladies on the divans, 
 in the easy-chairs, under the palms, and near the cabinets 
 heaped with bric-a-brac, swept a wave of enthusiasm. 
 Even those who only stood at the threshold of the Min- 
 isterial drawing-room nodded their heads in sympathy 
 with the general movement of admiration. Only his 
 Highness, the Egyptian Prince, reclining in an easy- 
 chair, remained calm in his impassive Oriental obesity, 
 with his sallow face, beard of a nondescript color, his 
 great eyes half closed under a red fez, perhaps dream- 
 ing of the dramatic melodies of the Ai'da, who had been 
 one of the glories of his reign. 
 
 The feminine chatter began again, louder than ever, 
 
 121
 
 122 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 and Donna Luisa Catalan!, the hostess, wife of the Min- 
 ister, who had snatched a moment's rest during the 
 music, resumed her bows and smiles and curtseys. Her 
 white gown, her diamond earrings, her little head, 
 piquant face and original coiffure, appeared to be every- 
 where at once, so that one fancied there were ten Luisa 
 Catalanis. 
 
 "These afternoon concerts are so tiresome!" languidly 
 remarked the Countess Schwartz, a tall, thin woman, 
 with pale face and fringed hair, who slightly resembled 
 Sarah Bernhardt. Ensconced in an armchair, shivering 
 in her furs like a chilled bird, she barely moved her lips 
 in sipping her tea. 
 
 "Luisa is made of steel !" murmured Signora Gallenga, 
 wife of the Secretary-General of Finance, coughing 
 slightly and elevating her eyebrows, slanted like those 
 of a Chinese. "She endures what I could not; fortu- 
 nately, I am not obliged to receive all the world. Were 
 you at the Chamber to-day, Countess?" 
 
 "I never go there." 
 
 Signora Gallenga suddenly understood that her ques- 
 tion was lacking in tact. Count Schwartz had succeeded 
 in being elected to a provincial councilorship, but could 
 not obtain the office of deputy. 
 
 "I was there," said Signora Mattei, wife of another 
 secretary-general, a Florentine brunette wearing a large 
 black hat loaded with red poppies. "It was a very in- 
 teresting session." 
 
 "And I was not there what a pity!" exclaimed Sig- 
 nora Gallenga. "Did you speak to Sangiorgio?"
 
 THE CONQUEST- OF ROME 123 
 
 "Yes, I did," said the coquettish Florentine, smiling. 
 
 A sibillant "Sh! sh!" ran through the room. A stout 
 lady with a double chin, tightly encased in a cuirass- like 
 bodice of red satin, and wearing a good-humored smile 
 on her pasty face, began to sing one of Tosti's emotional 
 romances. She had thrown back her mantle from her 
 shoulders, and with hands tucked in her muff, and veil 
 slightly lifted, she sang, with complete serenity and lack 
 of feeling, the expressive music of the Abruzzian master. 
 
 Luisa Catalani, standing, encircled by fifty invited 
 guests, seated, listened politely, although her mind was 
 distracted by the arrival of several ladies, who were wait- 
 ing in the anteroom for the conclusion of the song. 
 
 This reception was the most important of the season; 
 the temperature of the drawing-room was like that of a 
 hothouse, with the sweet, saccharine odor peculiar to a 
 place where many women are present. Along the sides of 
 the room, attired in severely conventional frock-coats, 
 stood a row of public officials, bald and taciturn, who 
 had left the Court of Accounts at half -past four; there 
 were also treasury and ministerial officials, all of whom 
 preserved a bureaucratic dignity. All were schooled to 
 tireless patience and resignation, whereby they passed 
 from one grade to the next higher, until forty years of 
 public service permitted them to retire. 
 
 The song was finished; a sigh of relief was audible; 
 the singer complacently accepted the offered compli- 
 ments, a broad smile upon her moonlike face. 
 
 Luisa Catalani hastened to the next room to receive the 
 latest arrivals.
 
 124 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "What went on at the Chamber to-day?" she inquired 
 of a young girl, pale and blond, the daughter of a 
 minister. 
 
 "Oh, it was atrociously hot that is all I noticed," the 
 young woman replied, drawing a paper fan from her 
 pocket. "Really, I don't see how the men endure that 
 place." 
 
 "Sangiorgio spoke well," said Signora Giroux, a little 
 woman with white hair and a shrewd smile on her rosy 
 lips. She was the wife of the Minister of Agriculture. 
 
 "He is a Southerner, I believe," said Luisa Catalani. 
 "Who was in the diplomatic gallery?" 
 
 "The Countess di Santaninfa and the Countess di 
 Malgra." 
 
 "Pretty hats?" 
 
 "Oh so-so not particularly," the blonde replied ab- 
 stractedly. 
 
 In one corner a group of young girls chattered gayly, 
 their loosened wraps showing their slender figures in 
 dark, tailor-made gowns. Enrichetta Serafmi, daughter 
 of the Minister of Public Works, a vivacious brunette in 
 fashionable mourning, talked enough for four; around 
 her were grouped the Signorina Camilly, an Italian born 
 in Egypt; Signorina Borla, a somewhat mature damsel, 
 afflicted with a perennially youthful mother; Signorina 
 Ida Fasulo, a sympathetic young creature, with large, 
 dreamy eyes; Signorina Allievo, with a sad but pretty 
 face; and, finally, the only sprig of aristocracy in the 
 group Donna Sofia di Maccarese, blond and fair under 
 the drooping white plumes on her hat.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 125 
 
 "I prefer Tosti to any other composer," said Enrichetta 
 Serafini. "He always makes me feel like weeping." 
 
 "Denza's music, too, brings tears to my eyes," ob- 
 served Signorina Borla, who did not know how to sing, 
 and was compelled always to listen to the superannuated 
 warbling of her mother. 
 
 "And you, Sofia, what composer is your favorite?" 
 
 "Schumann," Sofia replied simply. 
 
 The others were silent a moment. They did not know 
 Schumann's music; but Enrichetta, nervous and rattle- 
 brained, went on: 
 
 "But the music of all these composers should be sung 
 extremely well." Then, lowering her voice: "Did you 
 like the singing of the lady who has just favored us?" 
 
 All the girls tittered and giggled. 
 
 "The Countess Fiammanti is called the best singer in 
 Rome at present," remarked Signorina Camilly. 
 
 The girls made no reply; Signorina Borla compressed 
 her lips with an air of disapproval; Ida Fasulo cast a 
 downward glance; Signorina Allievo blushed. Sofia di 
 Maccarese alone made no sign; either she did not know 
 or she did not trouble herself about the Countess Fiam- 
 manti. 
 
 "Is it true that she is to marry the Deputy Sangior- 
 gio?" inquired Enrichetta. 
 
 "Well, no I think not!" replied Signorina Camilly, 
 with a malicious smile in her Oriental-looking eyes. 
 
 Around the group flashed one of those mute but ex- 
 pressive signs, to which the rules of society compel 
 young girls to restrict themselves.
 
 126 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 The gathering in the drawing-room had greatly in- 
 creased; the air was heavy with perfumes, with the odor 
 of tea, and of warm furs. The women were chattering 
 in groups, with pretty movements of the head and softly 
 modulated voices. Several ladies were talking about the 
 Chamber, discussing gravely the merits of the Honorable 
 Bomba, criticising the color of the carpet, ridiculing the 
 waistcoats of the Count Lapucci, and admiring the pen- 
 sive, Christ-like physiognomy of the Honorable Joanna. 
 
 Signora Gallenga, who posed as a highly intellectual 
 person, said: 
 
 "This year the Abruzzi are the fashion in literature, 
 and the Basilicate in politics." 
 
 The frivolous babble stopped suddenly. Signora An- 
 gelica Vargas, tall and beautiful, had entered, and 
 crossed the room with her rhythmic step, seeking Luisa 
 Catalanr. 
 
 She was attired in black, as usual, with sparkling jet 
 trimming on her bodice and hat. 
 
 Luisa Catalani hastened to greet her with her sweetest 
 smile. Each bowed with great ceremony, and then a 
 low-toned colloquy followed between the two women 
 the one in white, with ash-blond hair, the other in black, 
 with rich, dark waves above her smooth brow. 
 
 The guests near them politely affected not to hear 
 their quiet conversation. His Highness Mehemet Pacha 
 roused himself from his torpor and contemplated that 
 chaste countenance, whose large clear eyes reminded 
 him of those of the women of his own land, for which, 
 perhaps, he felt homesick.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 127 
 
 Those brilliant, jet-black eyes threw a comprehensive 
 glance around the apartment, and when the hostess had 
 turned away, several other ladies approached to salute 
 Angelica Vargas, and soon she was the center of an ad- 
 miring group. Although among them were the wives 
 of many influential politicians, pillars of the state, she, 
 the wife of a cabinet officer of the second rank, a simple 
 Minister of Fine Arts, seemed the most distinguished 
 woman present, and the quiet dignity of her mien had 
 something about it almost royal. 
 
 In order to feel the cold less keenly, while writing in 
 his long, narrow sitting-room in the Via Angelo Custode, 
 Sangiorgio had wrapped an old coat around his legs. 
 
 At eight o'clock the maid-of-all-work had brought him 
 a cup of coffee while he was still in bed. Then he 
 arose and dressed quickly, while she put the rooms in 
 order. When her work was finished, the girl departed 
 without a word, her face wearing the sulky scowl of 
 ill-paid underlings who rebel at their fate. 
 
 The hasty sweeping had scattered dust everywhere; 
 the window-curtains were yellow, and a nauseating 
 odor of stale dirt permeated both rooms. Sangiorgio, 
 without a glance at the depressing view of the court- 
 yard, with its balconies full of old pots and broken ket- 
 tles, began to write at a small student's table, piled 
 high with official documents and letters from trie Basi- 
 licata. He wrote on large sheets of commercial paper, 
 dipping his pen into a cheap glass inkstand. 
 
 Toward ten o'clock he began to feel intolerably cold
 
 128 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 in his feet and legs, and, as he had still three hours' 
 work to do, he went to his bedroom and brought out 
 an old coat, which he spread over his knees. This he did 
 as mechanically as an automaton, without taking his 
 mind from the speech he had been preparing for a week. 
 The ardor that consumed him was expressed in the large 
 handwriting, clear and flowing, which covered the sheets 
 of paper; in the tension of his facial muscles, and in his 
 absent look, lost to exterior things. 
 
 The pile of manuscript at his left increased, and he 
 paused only to consult Parliament blue-books, to refer 
 to a thick volume of agricultural reports, or to a soiled 
 and torn notebook. At eleven o'clock, when he was 
 deep in his work, he heard the sound of a key in the 
 lock, and a woman entered very quietly, closing the 
 door behind her. 
 
 "It is I," she said, holding a large bunch of roses 
 against her breast. Sangiorgio raised his head, and 
 gazed at her for an instant without recognizing her, so 
 absorbed was his mind in his occupation. 
 
 "Am I disturbing you?" inquired Elena, in her musical 
 voice. "Ah, yes, I do disturb you! Go on writing 
 stay there at your work. I was so bored at home by 
 this gloomy rainy weather that I went out to drive; but 
 my horse slipped down in the mud, and people were 
 falling, too, with their shoes simply thick with mud. It 
 was horrible, so I did not care to stay out any longer, 
 and have come to have luncheon with you. But you are 
 writing. Go on; I will take a book and read." 
 
 "My poor sweetheart, I have no books here that you
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 129 
 
 would like," Sangiorgio replied, without remembering to 
 thank her for having come. 
 
 She rummaged among his papers, her daintily-gloved 
 hands encumbered by the roses. Sangiorgio regarded 
 her with a complacent smile. She was always very at- 
 tractive, with her pouting red lips, her strangely variable 
 eyes, her full white throat; and he felt a joyous pride to 
 have her there near him, in his own room. 
 
 "You are right there is nothing one can read," she 
 laughed. "I don't care to know how much polenta the 
 Lombards eat, nor how many potatoes the Southerners 
 raise. That sort of thing bores me. But go on with 
 your writing, Francesco; never mind me." 
 
 He rose, took her in his arms and kissed her eyelids 
 through her little veil, as she liked to have him. She 
 laughed like an eager child receiving a bonbon. Then 
 he returned to his work, while Elena walked about the 
 rooms to warm herself, for it was very cold, this rainy 
 March day, in the fireless room. 
 
 "Aren't you cold, Francesco?" she inquired presently, 
 sinking on the divan, where she contemplated curiously 
 the profusion of tidies with which it was decorated. 
 
 "A little," he answered, without raising his head. 
 
 She glanced again around the room in all its shab- 
 biness, and comprehended the state of decent proverty 
 in which her lover lived ; she looked long at him, writing 
 busily at the little table, so small that the least move- 
 ment knocked the papers off it; and in the young 
 woman's eyes shone a new tenderness which Francesco 
 did not see. Twice she opened her lips to speak to him,
 
 130 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 but remained silent. Now, leaning against the mantel- 
 piece, she reviewed the collection of photographs, and the 
 sacrilegious representations of the royal family. 
 
 "Francesco, have you ever had your photograph 
 taken?" she asked presently, admiring herself in the mir- 
 ror, and straightening a bow on her hat. 
 
 "Yes, once, in Naples, where I was a student," he re- 
 plied, stopping to consult a blue-book. 
 
 "And have you one of the pictures now?" 
 
 "No, of course not." 
 
 "I wish I had one !" she said, in the wheedling tone of 
 a child. 
 
 "Is not the original enough for you?" 
 
 "No," Elena replied, pensively. 
 
 He rose again, and took both her hands in his, asking 
 tenderly : 
 
 "You really love me, then?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes !" she sang, in three musical notes. 
 
 Francesco sat down at the table once more, and Elena 
 approached the bedroom. She paused at the threshold, 
 and said: 
 
 "Francesco, why were you not at the theater last 
 night?" 
 
 "The council of the Budget Committee lasted until 
 eleven o'clock, and after that I was tired." 
 
 "A great many visitors came to my box Giustini, for 
 one. Tell me, why are you so intimate with him?" 
 
 "He is useful to me," Sangiorgio answered simply, still 
 bending over his writing.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 131 
 
 "Oh !" After a slight pause : "Do you know, he speaks 
 ill of you?" 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "It is true that he never has a good word for any but 
 mediocrities. I believe that you will some day be a great 
 statesman, Francesco." 
 
 "Oh, not for a very long time," he replied, jotting 
 some figures on a slip of paper. 
 
 "Then Gallenga and Oldofredi came in for a little 
 while, and Oldofredi made love to me!" 
 
 "Oldofredi has good taste," was the gallant reply. 
 
 Elena smiled, and entered the adjoining room, which 
 was so shabby and ugly that she almost recoiled in 
 disgust. 
 
 She surveyed the arabesques on the quilt, from which 
 the servant had shaken the dust, but the huge grease- 
 spot on the blue chair made her turn away her head, 
 her feminine instinct of neatness offended. She moved 
 about the room, searching for something she wanted. 
 
 On the bureau were only two empty candlesticks and 
 a clothesbrush, neither of which was of any use to her; 
 on the table she found two combs and a broken bottle 
 of toilet water. The room was as bare as the abode of 
 an anchorite. 
 
 Finally, in a corner she discovered a carafe and a 
 drinking-glass. Delighted, she untied her cluster of 
 flowers, slipped three or four roses into the neck of the 
 carafe, and put another bunch in the glass, tossed a few 
 on the quilt at the foot of the bed, and then, not know- 
 ing what to do with the remainder, she tucked two or
 
 132 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 three under the pillow. Next she opened one of the 
 bureau drawers, where Sangiorgio kept his gloves and 
 cravats, and there she dropped the last of the roses. 
 
 She espied a photograph, still in its envelope, which 
 had apparently been tossed in carelessly: it was her 
 own! A shade of sadness passed over her face, but did 
 not linger. Into that wretched room, with only the gray 
 light from the dingy court, which sent up indescribably 
 unpleasant odors, the roses now brought a breath of 
 springtime, suggesting the sunny corner of some per- 
 fumed garden. 
 
 "I have finished," said Sangiorgio, appearing at the 
 door. 
 
 "Then let us go to luncheon." 
 
 "Do you think we shall have finished by half-past 
 one?" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I have an appointment with a constituent.'* 
 
 "Oh, indeed ! I think we shall finish by that time. I 
 hope so, for I too have an appointment for two o'clock 
 with Oldofredi!" 
 
 "Ah !" said Sangiorgio, putting on his topcoat. 
 
 "Yes. I mean to make him tell me the reason why 
 he did not wish to marry Angelica Vargas." 
 
 "Did he ever intend to marry her?" 
 
 "Yes, but he says he refused to do so, after a time. 
 Perhaps it was she that refused him ! Nearly everyone 
 dislikes Oldofredi. Do you know him?" 
 
 "No; he does not interest me." 
 
 "You are very pale; what is the matter?"
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 133 
 
 "I don't know. Perhaps it is because I am cold." 
 "Well, come home with me. There is a good fire in 
 
 the drawing-room, and you shall warm yourself beside 
 
 it and be happy." 
 He followed her, without even seeing the roses. 
 
 The Honorable Oldofredi went seldom to the Parlia- 
 ment library; occasionally he dropped in to look for a 
 friend, but never asked for a book or a newspaper. Some 
 malicious tongues spread a report that he did not know 
 how to read. 
 
 On this particular afternoon, he entered the great read- 
 ing-room, and found Sangiorgio sitting behind a small 
 mountain of books, dipping here and there into works on 
 social science, volumes of history, statistics, and political 
 economy. Oldofredi's face wore a sneering smile at the 
 sight of so much industry, and he strolled aimlessly to 
 and fro, blowing bits of tobacco out of a small amber 
 cigarette-holder. 
 
 The Honorable Oldofredi, despite his reputation as a 
 formidable swordsman and a Don Juan, was neither 
 handsome nor athletic; he had a tall, shambling figure, 
 clayey complexion, a cruel and stupid face, and all his 
 limbs seemed as loose-jointed as those of an acrobat. 
 His whole person, in short, was extremely disagreeable. 
 
 Sangiorgio looked at him curiously, following the 
 movements of this grotesque and clumsy creature, whom 
 he hated with an instinctive feeling of jealousy and envy. 
 He watched him striding to and fro, and held his pen in 
 the air, forgetting his volumes of statistics and his polit-
 
 134 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 ical economy. This specimen of a Don Quixote, dis- 
 liked by all his colleagues, odious to all the women, 
 ignorant, stupid and tactless, nevertheless succeeded, in 
 spite of these facts, in getting himself reflected, in mak- 
 ing people talk about him, and in holding a certain place 
 in society. 
 
 Oldofredi was a political fighter, but his duels had 
 ceased to be a topic of conversation, for no one had 
 dared to offend him for a long time. But he was always 
 called upon as a second, an arbiter, or a counselor in 
 very serious disputes, for his word was law in affairs of 
 honor. This lent him a certain romantic prestige, ugly 
 and vulgar though he was, and scandal-lovers said mali- 
 ciously that ladies who felt their virtue weakening made 
 a friend of this modern Roland, because he was a bug- 
 bear to tender inclinations. 
 
 "Have you happened to see our friend Bomba, Signer 
 Sangiorgio?" at last said Oldofredi, stopping beside the 
 deputy's desk. 
 
 "I? No," the other replied briefly. 
 
 "Where can he be hiding himself? He is not in the 
 Chamber; that fish of a Borgonero is making an idiotic 
 speech down there. I have searched everywhere for 
 Bomba. He can only be here in the library, in com- 
 pany with that imbecile of a Giordano Bruno. Do you 
 believe, Sangiorgio, that such a person as Giordano 
 Bruno ever existed. 
 
 "I? Certainly!" was the curt reply. 
 
 Sangiorgio, impatient, measured from head to foot, 
 with a scornful glance, this vain braggart, who tramped
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 135 
 
 about heavily, swaying his clumsy form awkwardly, and 
 creating an irritating noise in that quiet library. 
 
 The Honorable Gasparini, the Tuscan with a white 
 beard and a shrewd smile, who was writing in an ad- 
 joining room on the right, had already looked up im- 
 patiently once or twice, unable to continue his work be- 
 cause of the conversation. 
 
 Oldofredi strolled over to the open door of the room 
 on the left, leaned against the jamb for a moment, with 
 his hands in his pockets, and looked with a sneering 
 smile at the Honorable Giroux, an elderly deputy, slow 
 and serious, who had before him an ancient tome, al- 
 though his expression was drowsy and his eyes were 
 half closed. Then he returned to Sangiorgio, and said, 
 still sneering: 
 
 "There he is in there with Copernicus." 
 
 "Who?" said Sangiorgio, coldly. 
 
 "Giroux. It isn't enough for him to bore everyone 
 with his own philosophical foolishness; he must go and 
 dig up Copernicus. Bah ! Giroux will be telling us next 
 that he knew him in Turin, when he was a carbonaro!" 
 
 He burst out laughing without noticing Sangiorgio's 
 disgusted expression, or the nervous quiver that made 
 the pen tremble in the Southern deputy's hand. 
 
 "And Gasparini is over there, studying up English 
 law, in order to be able to argue against Giroux to-mor- 
 row. What do you think?" 
 
 "I? Nothing." 
 
 "I am going to take Gasparini by the hand and lead 
 him to Giroux, and bring about a reconciliation. Ben-
 
 136 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 tham and Copernicus will bless them, and the financial 
 situation of Italy will be just as badly off as it was 
 before." 
 
 He made these remarks in a loud tone, as if he wished 
 the two men to hear him. 
 
 Sangiorgio, disturbed, made a sign with his head which 
 Oldofredi understood immediately. 
 
 "Oh, they don't hear! When Giroux is with Coper- 
 nicus, he hears nothing more; and Gasparini always 
 goes to sleep over his English laws!" He shrugged his 
 shoulders slightly, with one of the swaggering move- 
 ments that had helped to gain for him his reputation 
 for courage. 
 
 "Who knows? They might hear you and answer 
 you," said Sangiorgio significantly. 
 
 "Not they they would say nothing whatever. A lit- 
 tle unsigned letter, criticising me, might appear to-mor- 
 row morning in the journal of the Opposition that is all. 
 That is the custom in politics. Or they will pretend 
 they have heard nothing as always. You are young 
 that is easily seen and you have many things to learn. 
 Let me tell you something: in political life, never reply 
 to a man's face. Either forget or wait !" 
 
 "But suppose they should act otherwise than as you 
 have said," Sangiorgio replied, more coldly than before. 
 
 "Pooh ! Why, my dear sir, for five years I have had 
 the run of this palace, criticising whomsoever I chose, 
 and saying exactly what I think of everything and every- 
 body. Has anyone ever forbidden me to do so, or at-
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 137 
 
 tacked me to my face, like a courageous adversary? No 
 one, I assure you, my good sir!" 
 
 "And why have they not?" inquired Sangiorgio, his 
 eyes fixed on his paper, appearing to reflect deeply. 
 
 "Why? Because the older men have exhausted their 
 stock of courage if they ever had any! and the 
 younger have not begun to use theirs supposing that 
 they possess any !" 
 
 "Do you really believe that, Oldofredi?" 
 
 "Heavens! Do I believe it? The Chamber is full of 
 cowards and sneaks!" 
 
 "No, it is not, Oldofredi!" 
 
 "Rascality, Cowardice and Company that is the name 
 of the organization." 
 
 "I tell you it is not, Oldofredi." 
 
 "Do I understand that you give me the lie?" 
 
 "Precisely!" 
 
 "You persist in it?" 
 
 "Absolutely!" 
 
 "You assert that the members of Parliament are 
 neither cowards nor rascals?" 
 
 "Certainly I do." 
 
 "Very well! I live in the Via Frattina, Number 
 Forty-six; I dine at the Colonna, and I shall be at the 
 Apollo this evening." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 "Good-day!" 
 
 "Good-day!" 
 
 Oldofredi made an elaborately careless gesture,
 
 138 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 knocked the ashes off his cigarette, and went out, swing- 
 ing his long arms. 
 
 Sangiorgio dipped his pen into the ink and resumed 
 his writing. No one had overheard the conversation. 
 Gasparini turned the leaves of the English law-books; 
 Giroux dozed over Copernicus; and Sangiorgio took 
 notes from a work on political economy.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 ANOTHER STEP TOWARD CONQUEST 
 
 the Honorable Sangiorgio entered the 
 Parliament cafe for dinner, at seven o'clock 
 that evening, every head in the dark-red, 
 crypt-like Egyptian room turned toward him, 
 and his name flew from one to another. 
 
 The young deputy, after a moment of indecision, seated 
 himself at a little vacant table. Immediately the Hon- 
 orable Correr bowed to him amicably, as did the Hon- 
 orable Scalatelli, a colonel of carabineers. Meanwhile, 
 the tall, stout Paulo continued to dispute with Berna, the 
 little Mephistophelian deputy from Padua, who had a 
 wicked wit and a caustic tongue. 
 
 "Is this news true what we hear about a duel, San- 
 giorgio?" asked Correr in a low tone. 
 
 "Quite true," Sangiorgio replied, calmly examining the 
 menu. 
 
 "Is it your first duel?" 
 
 "My first." 
 
 "Have you ever fenced?" 
 
 "A little." 
 
 "You have been rather rash. Oldofredi is tremend- 
 ously strong." 
 
 "A duel a duel, did you say? Who are the com- 
 batants?" cried Paulo. 
 
 139
 
 140 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "The Honorable Sangiorgio is to meet Oldofredi," 
 Correr explained. 
 
 "By Jove ! a good adversary ! Oldofredi is left-handed 
 don't forget that, Sangiorgio." 
 
 "I was not aware of it, but I will remember it," was 
 the cool reply. 
 
 "And how about seconds? Whom have you for sec- 
 onds?" demanded the enormous Paulo, the colossus, tht- 
 molossus, who grew excited at the mere idea of a duel. 
 
 "The Count di Castelforte and Rosolino Scalia. I am 
 expecting them to dine with me," said Sangiorgio. 
 
 "Good! An excellent choice; they are sensible fel- 
 lows, and will not try to patch up a reconciliation when 
 you get on the ground." 
 
 "Was this duel inevitable?" inquired Scalatelli. 
 
 "Inevitable." 
 
 "Oldofredi is a fine swordsman. I fought with him 
 once, years ago, and he wounded me on the wrist," the 
 Colonel calmly explained. 
 
 At that moment the Count di Castelforte and Rosolino 
 Scalia entered, glancing about to discover their principal. 
 The Count had an aristocratic air, with his tall figure, 
 his dark beard streaked with silver, and his cold, impas- 
 sive demeanor. Rosolino Scalia still looked like an of- 
 ficer in civilian dress; he had a flower in his coat, and 
 his moustache was waxed and perfumed; he too was 
 cold and grave. Castelforte stopped to speak to Correr 
 and Scalatelli, while Scalia removed his topcoat. 
 
 "Well has anything new happened?" Sangiorgio 
 asked.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 141 
 
 "Nothing or almost nothing," said Scalia, in a tone 
 of reserve. 
 
 Sangiorgio asked no more questions. The dinner be- 
 gan in silence ; Castelforte was very stiff, Scalia serious, 
 and Sangiorgio indifferent. 
 
 "The other seconds are Bomba and Lapucci," said Sca- 
 lia at length, pouring himself some wine. "The rendez- 
 vous is appointed for half-past nine o'clock. Have you 
 your swords, Sangiorgio?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Good!" said Castelforte. "I hope they have been 
 newly sharpened nothing is worse in a duel than dull 
 swords. The conflict is prolonged, and the wounds are 
 ridiculous." 
 
 "I gave them to Spadini himself to grind." 
 
 "Excellent!" said Scalia. "A duel should not last too 
 long, for it easily becomes a farce. A word of advice, 
 Sangiorgio : think of nothing, and disturb yourself about 
 nothing, but, at the first assault, make a bold rush and 
 press on; never mind the movements of your adversary, 
 but throw yourself upon him; this is the best way for 
 novices to begin." 
 
 "Lapucci has given me to understand," put in Castel- 
 forte, "that the conditions of this combat are very se- 
 rious. You may not realize, Sangiorgio, that between 
 responsible seconds these matters are of grave consider- 
 ation." 
 
 "I have no desire to jest on this subject," Sangiorgio 
 replied, taking some salad. 
 
 "So much the better. Have you a surgeon?"
 
 142 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "No," said Sangiorgio, beginning to feel impatient. 
 
 "Let us take Alberti he is accustomed to these affairs. 
 I will see him this evening." 
 
 A groom in livery, on whose cap appeared the words 
 Caffe di Roma in gilt letters, now entered the restaurant, 
 looking around to find some one. He had a note for 
 Sangiorgio, who read it at once. 
 
 "The Speaker of the Chamber asks me to see him at 
 the Caffe di Roma, where he will be until ten o'clock." 
 
 "See him, by all means," Castelforte advised, "but be 
 firm, and do not allow him to change your intentions." 
 
 "Scalia! Scalia!" from another table called the huge 
 Paulo, who was fairly stamping with impatience; "for 
 heaven's sake, select some place for the encounter near 
 an inn, a house, or even a cabin. Since the time when 
 I had to bring back that poor Goffredi, wounded in the 
 lung, and vomiting blood at every jolt during a three 
 hours' ride over a stony road, I have vowed never to act 
 as second in a duel unless there was a bed to be found 
 within fifty paces." 
 
 "Wouldn't it be better, then, to have it in a house?" 
 Correr observed. 
 
 "No, indeed! That always brings bad luck a duel 
 in the house," said Scalia. "A duel in the open is much 
 better." 
 
 The two seconds now rose, and exchanged a few part- 
 ing words with their principal. The men at the other 
 tables eyed them curiously, but the three faces were im- 
 passive They parted with cordial bows and ceremonious 
 handshaking.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 143 
 
 "Good luck, colleague!" said the Honorable Correr. 
 
 "Keep cool!" added Scalatelli. 
 
 "If you think he has the evil eye, carry a bit of coral 
 in your pocket," suggested Berna. 
 
 But, from his table, the giant Paulo called out fami- 
 liarly, with a laugh: 
 
 "Good night, Sangiorgio! Good luck, old fellow and 
 listen ! aim at his face !" 
 
 As Sangiorgio left the restaurant, he met the reporter 
 of a morning newspaper, who asked him for news. 
 
 "I have nothing to say," was Sangiorgio's only reply 
 to the first question. 
 
 "But may I call at your house to-morrow morning, to 
 know the result of the duel?" the reporter persisted. 
 
 "Via Angelo Custode, Number Fifty," Sangiorgio said, 
 moving off abruptly. 
 
 At the Caff e di Roma, the Speaker was finishing dinner 
 with his friend, Colonel Freitag, a stout man with a 
 boyish face and high-pitched voice. The Speaker looked 
 tired and bored. As soon as Sangiorgio joined them, he 
 came straight to the point. 
 
 "Cannot this miserable affair be adjusted, my dear 
 colleague?" 
 
 "I think not, Signer." 
 
 The Speaker made a little movement and bit his lip. 
 
 "Come, now, some misunderstanding has arisen be- 
 tween you and your adversary, eh? Nothing more se- 
 rious, is it? You know, a duel between two deputies is 
 a serious thing, and should not occur unless for a very 
 grave cause."
 
 144 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "I assure you, Signer, that no misunderstanding ex- 
 ists," said Sangiorgio quietly. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know Oldofredi is rather free. You are 
 young, and have taken offence at one of his jests. Take 
 care, colleague! To-morrow morning the newspapers 
 will be full of it, and there will be a scandal." 
 
 "I hope not, but in any event, there is no remedy." 
 
 "Some one will be sure to say that you have picked 
 this quarrel with Oldofredi simply to make a sensation 
 to get yourself talked about." 
 
 And the Speaker looked sharply at Sangiorgio, but his 
 face betrayed nothing more than an expression of min- 
 gled indifference and disdain. He decided to renounce 
 for the present his project of reconciliation. 
 
 "What are the conditions of the duel?" he asked. 
 
 "I do not know yet, but I have a rendezvous with my 
 seconds fixed for eleven o'clock." And Sangiorgio rose, 
 as if to go. 
 
 "I beg that you will not talk to any reporter. A par- 
 liamentary duel is a rare morsel for them. Good luck, 
 my dear colleague!" 
 
 Sangiorgio bowed and departed, fully understanding 
 the meaning of the distant silence of Colonel Freitag and 
 the coldness of the Speaker. 
 
 On reaching the street, he paused, undecided. He had 
 agreed to meet his seconds at the Caffe Aragno, but he 
 now felt a sudden disgust at this wandering from cafe 
 to cafe, talking to these men apparently without families 
 and without homes, who passed their evenings in these 
 smoky haunts.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 145 
 
 He was weary of the idly curious questions from per- 
 sons who were totally indifferent to him. He preferred 
 to stroll slowly up to Montecitorio, and on the way he 
 bought some evening journals at a kiosk in the Piazza 
 Colonna, and read them under a street-lamp. 
 
 Two or three of the journals announced the duel ; one 
 used only the initials of those concerned, and added that 
 all attempts at reconciliation had been futile. He thrust 
 the papers into his pocket, and paced to and fro opposite 
 the Parliament House, awaiting the arrival of his sec- 
 onds, who were then in consultation with the opposing 
 seconds within the palace. 
 
 The windows of the Bureau of Commissions were bril- 
 liantly lighted, for the bureaux are always busy places; 
 otherwise the square was deserted the great somber 
 square, without a shop to be seen. 
 
 He strode this way and that, with his hands in his 
 pockets and head down, walking quickly because of the 
 dampness of the night air. 
 
 The large doors of the Albergo Milano, opening on 
 the square, had closed loudly after the arrival of the 
 last omnibus from the railway station, and still the ex- 
 pected seconds had not arrived. Sangiorgio felt irritated 
 at being observed by the deputies, now coming out of the 
 Palace, having finished their work. 
 
 At last Castelforte and Scalia appeared at the door; 
 the tall form of the Lombardy Count towering above the 
 squatty little body of the Sicilian deputy. They were 
 chatting gayly together; Sangiorgio hastened to meet 
 
 them. 
 10
 
 146 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "I do not wish to wait for you in a cafe," he said, 
 apologetically. "They are all full of people, and I do 
 not care to have the air of posing for the gallery." 
 
 "You are quite right," said Scalia. "When a man is 
 about to fight a duel, it is in good taste for him to keep 
 out of sight as much as possible. There is that poseur 
 of an Oldofredi, running about all the evening from one 
 cafe to another, making swaggering speeches. He is 
 now at the Apollo, challenging the admiration of every- 
 one. Well, at last we can say that everything is ar- 
 ranged." 
 
 "The Acqua Acetosa, near the Porta del Popolo, is an 
 excellent place," Castleforte added. "It is not far. The 
 meeting is fixed for ten o'clock, and we will call for you 
 at half-past eight." 
 
 All three turned their steps in the direction of San- 
 giorgio's lodgings; he smoked in silence. 
 
 "Are you nervous?" Castelforte asked. 
 
 "No, not at all." 
 
 "Then try to get some sleep. Have you any brandy 
 at home?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Brandy is a good thing to have. I will bring you 
 some to-morrow. But you must try to get a good 
 night's sleep." 
 
 "Don't disturb yourself about me. I shall sleep." 
 
 "We have not forbidden any strokes," the Count con- 
 tinued. "That was your wish, I believe." 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 "I have notified Doctor Alberti," added Scalia, "and he
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 147 
 
 will be there. His experience is invaluable. Do not 
 trouble about a carriage; we shall come in a landau. 
 Only, be sure to be ready, for we must arrive punctually 
 to the minute." 
 
 "How does it happen, Sangiorgio, that you never have 
 fought a duel before?" 
 
 "Oh, we in the Basilicata do not get angry easily." 
 
 "One would not think so!" said Castleforte, laughing. 
 
 They turned in silence into the Via Angelo Custode. 
 The three shadows moved along the deserted street; 
 that of Castelforte lean and spectral, Scalia's stiff and 
 solid, Sangiorgio's slender, but firm. 
 
 Alone! The candle threw a dim light over the cold, 
 bare room, where a close air was mingled with the stale 
 odor of cooking that mounted from the court. 
 
 Alone! He was glad of this solitude, for he felt an 
 imperious need of complete isolation. 
 
 Since the morning he had been conscious of an ever- 
 increasing contempt for his fellow men; the experience 
 he was passing through embittered his soul and filled his 
 mind with disillusion and disgust. Upon his healthy 
 moral equilibrium, which heretofore nothing, no being, 
 no event had ever troubled, had been precipitated, with 
 astonishing swiftness, the most unexpected meannesses, 
 trickery, coldness and indifference, and all within seven 
 short hours : first, the difficulty of finding seconds against 
 Oldofredi, who had such a reputation as a swashbuckler; 
 then the lukewarm interest of Scalia and Castleforte, fol- 
 lowed by advice, insinuations, tactless warnings, lugu-
 
 148 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 brious conversations, polite but insincere remarks the 
 recollection of these disagreeable things passed through 
 his mind, a revelation of the hypocrisy of mankind. 
 
 All these people strangers, friends, enemies, admirers 
 or detractors judged him unfavorably: some with a 
 pitying concern, others with spiteful irony or jealous 
 anger all with unmistakable contempt. His audacity 
 in presuming to measure swords he, the young, inex- 
 perienced newcomer with a bully whom no one dared 
 insult, had gained him nothing but the disdain, compas- 
 sion, or jests of his colleagues. So he was glad to be 
 alone to compose his mind away from his mocking 
 fellows. 
 
 Alone! No, he was not alone; sjmething glittered on 
 that divan. And as he approached it, candle in hand, a 
 metallic gleam shone under the light: the two swords, 
 newly sharpened, were to keep him company. 
 
 These, at least, would not lie to him. There they lay, 
 always loyal, always ready to parry a mortal blow, to 
 strike, to cut down, to kill, one in his own hand, the 
 other in that of his adversary, blade against blade, throw- 
 ing off scintillating sparks. Yes, the swords were ready. 
 
 Irresistibly drawn toward them, Sangiorgio sat down 
 on the divan. What cared he now for reporters, depu- 
 ties, seconds, friends or enemies? His whole attention 
 was concentrated on the weapons. The result depended 
 upon those sharp and glittering blades. The result! 
 What result? He started, and glanced around involun 
 tarily as if to see who had pronounced that word; but 
 he was alone alone with the swords.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 149 
 
 For most men, the night before a duel is agitated and 
 sleepless; the expectant combatant has a wife to con- 
 sole, a friend to communicate with, a relative to write 
 to, a servant to instruct. He is not afraid, but in the 
 depths of his mind there is a mingling of troubled 
 thoughts, anxiety, and regret. In thinking of the ap- 
 proaching conflict, however, his disturbed mind finds dis- 
 traction and a kind of exaltation. 
 
 But for Sangiorgio there was nothing of all this: he 
 had no wife, no relatives near him, no friend, no ser- 
 vant not a line to write, not a word to say, not an order 
 to give! 
 
 He tried in vain to arouse some emotion within him- 
 self at the thought of the possible end. Who would 
 weep if he should die to-morrow? No one no one! he 
 was alone alone with the swords! And, in this crisis 
 of bitter misanthropy, in this mental review of men and 
 events, he thought of himself, of his great and only pas- 
 sion political ambition. A wound whether grave or 
 slight would do considerable damage to his reputation, 
 and his need of political eclat. In case of ignominious de- 
 feat, no woman's tears, no affection of a friend, no family 
 concern, would be his, as a consolation for such a mis- 
 fortune; he would be left alone to weep over his own 
 fate, over his lost dreams of glory and lofty ambitions, 
 vanished in the moral and physical shame of this dis- 
 aster. The sword-thrust which to-morrow might pierce 
 his flesh, cut the muscles, or open a vein, would find 
 also the way to his heart that heart so cold and hard 
 wherein dwelt a single overwhelming passion.
 
 150 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 The task at which he had labored so long, witfi tfie 
 patience of an ant and an unparalleled persistence, might 
 fall in ruins to-morrow. Of what use had been so many 
 efforts, so many privations, so many pangs endured in 
 silence? One stroke of the sword, and all that would 
 become in vain. In the profound silence and absolute 
 solitude of the night, for one moment those sabers, shin- 
 ing in the smoky light of the candle, made him tremble. 
 
 The seconds arrived precisely at half-past eight. San- 
 giorgio, his topcoat buttoned up, his tall hat resting on 
 a table, was pale, but perfectly calm. Only a slight 
 quiver of one corner of his mouth was visible. 
 
 "Where are the swords?'* Castelforte asked. 
 
 "There they are." 
 
 The Count drew them from their scabbards, one after 
 the other, touched the points, and tried the blades by 
 pressing them against the floor. 
 
 "Have you a silk scarf or handkerchief, or something 
 to tie them together with?" 
 
 Sangiorgio had a scarf. Scalia put the swords in a 
 bag, tied it around with the scarf, took up the gauntlet, 
 and said to Castelforte: 
 
 "Shall we go?" 
 
 "Yes, let us go." 
 
 They descended the dark stairs. The coachman 
 opened the door of the landau. Scalia threw the swords 
 on the front seat, and the three men jumped into the 
 carriage. 
 
 They drove through the Via di Due Macelli, where an
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 151 
 
 early florist was watering his roses, and turned into the 
 Piazza, di Spagna. A few drops struck against the car- 
 riage-windows. 
 
 "It rains," said Sangiorgio. 
 
 "That is nothing," Castelforte replied, "a duel in the 
 rain is more dramatic." 
 
 The Via del Babuino was in process of reconstruc- 
 tion ; piles of stones and rubbish blocked the side streets, 
 and the entrance to the Via Vittoria was impassable, be- 
 cause of repairs to the drain-pipes going on. 
 
 When they reached the Piazza del Popolo, the storm 
 increased, and the rain-drops had turned to hail, which 
 struck the glass with a sharp rattle. 
 
 "A squall," said Scalia; "the winds are having a com- 
 bat also. 
 
 The carriage stopped to take up the surgeon, who 
 awaited the party on the steps of the Caffe dei Tre Re, 
 his instrument-case tucked under his arm. He seated 
 himself next to Sangiorgio, and began to talk, with great 
 gayety and good humor, about the various duels at which 
 he had assisted. 
 
 The landau rolled swiftly along the muddy pavement 
 of the Flaminian Way, meeting the first car on the tram- 
 way of the Ponte Molle, which was almost empty. In 
 the distance, the first glimpse of the country was visible ; 
 trees were outlined against the stone walls. 
 
 Then Sangiorgio, who up to that moment had re- 
 mained in a sort of moral and physical stupor, awakened 
 from it with a start ; Scalia had lowered a window. He 
 began to think and to revive. His nervous force con-
 
 152 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 centrated itself in his hand, which clutched the tassel o 
 the window-curtain ; small flushed spots appeared on his 
 cheeks. But his mind became wholly self-centered, and 
 to the remarks of the surgeon and his seconds he replied 
 only with nods of the head. 
 
 The horses trotted steadily on, puffing as they climbed 
 the hill. The descent began at the Villa Glori, and then 
 they accelerated their pace. The walls had disappeared ; to 
 right and left were flowery hedges; Sangiorgio thought 
 that children ran after the carriage, offering him bunches 
 of hawthorn. Then the hedges gave place to rows of 
 elms, which murmured softly in the breeze. 
 
 They stopped. A sudden tremor shook Sangiorgio, 
 and every trace of color left his face. He made a move- 
 ment to alight, but Castelforte restrained him. 
 
 "Remain in the carriage with the doctor," he said. 
 "The exact spot has not been chosen yet. Wait a little." 
 
 The seconds alighted, while their principal looked out 
 of the window at them. They were the first to arrive. 
 The cabin at the Acqua Acetosa appeared abandoned; 
 the blinds were down, the doors closed. The river 
 flowed through the green and lonely plain; in the dis- 
 tance a flock of sheep was grazing, under the eye of a 
 shepherd, who sat motionless, his cap pulled over his 
 eyes. 
 
 Castelforte and Scalia moved off, gesticulating, their 
 well-dressed figures making a strange contrast to the 
 surroundings of that wild spot, where the sky and the 
 gray earth seemed all of one color, and the livid waves 
 of the Tiber rolled slowly along. Presently they re-
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 153 
 
 turned, talking animatedly. Sangiorgio was beginning 
 to be impatient; the carriage seemed irksome; he felt 
 stifled. 
 
 The seconds approached; Castelforte, leaning against 
 the door, said: 
 
 "We have found an excellent spot; the ground is a 
 trifle spongy, but it is not slippery. We must wait to 
 see whether the others are satisfied with it." 
 
 "Here they come !" said Sangiorgio, whose nerves were 
 strangely irritated by his inaction. 
 
 A sound of wheels was heard; a landau approached 
 rapidly, turned before the cabin, and drew up beside the 
 other carriage. From it descended Oldofredi, Lapucci, 
 and Bomba. The two latter advanced to meet Sangior- 
 gio's seconds, while the two surgeons, after saluting each 
 other, set their instrument-cases on the ground. 
 
 Oldofredi, standing near his carriage, his topcoat un- 
 buttoned, smoked, and struck playfully at the horses' 
 cruppers with his cane. Sangiorgio regarded him from 
 the carriage, furious at his own ignorance as to the 
 etiquette of dueling. Should he remain in the carriage 
 still, or get out, like his adversary? 
 
 The four seconds talked and argued ; in the soft, damp 
 air, the Lombardy accent of Castelforte was clearly dis- 
 tinguishable, while the voices of the others were indis- 
 tinct. 
 
 At last Scalia and Bomba approached their respective 
 principals. Castelforte and Lapucci cleared the ground 
 at the chosen spot, and traced lines with their canes. 
 Scalia, on reaching Sangiorgio, said:
 
 154 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "Undress now! Leave your topcoat and hat in the 
 carriage." 
 
 Then he took the swords and the gauntlet, and re- 
 turned to the field; Bomba joined him, carrying other 
 swords and another gauntlet. 
 
 Sangiorgio, who trembled with impatience and eager- 
 ness for the combat, removed his hat, tore off his topcoat, 
 coat, waistcoat, and cravat, and hastened to his seconds. 
 The clanking of the weapons as they were laid on the 
 ground made him start. Castleforte called to him : 
 
 "Keep on your topcoat it is cold." 
 
 Sangiorgio returned, took the coat, threw it over his 
 shoulders, and rejoined his seconds. Castelforte and 
 Lapucci were drawing lots for the privilege of giving the 
 word of command and of having the choice of arms. 
 
 "Have you had a glass of brandy?" the surgeon asked 
 of Sangiorgio. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "That is wrong; one should always take a stimulant." 
 
 "I hardly have need of it," said Sangiorgio to him- 
 self. 
 
 "I am to command the combat," Castelforte an- 
 nounced. "You, gentlemen, are to choose the weapons. 
 Will you examine ours?" 
 
 "I choose the swords we brought," said Lapucci. 
 "Here they are." 
 
 Oldofredi was coolly surveying the landscape, an anem- 
 one between his lips, his back turned to the others. 
 Castelforte handed a sword to Sangiorgio, fastened the 
 handle to his wrist, and led him to his place.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 155 
 
 The two surgeons moved away about twenty paces. 
 Scalia stood at Sangiorgio's left, and Bomb a at Oldo- 
 fredi's. Lapucci and Castelforte stood near the middle, 
 one on each side, sword in hand. 
 
 Oldofredi looked more stupid and insignificant than 
 ever, seeming not to comprehend what was taking place. 
 
 Castelforte, with his military air like that o! a captain 
 of cavalry, looked imperiously at the two adversaries. 
 
 "Gentlemen!" he began. 
 
 Sangiorgio's face flushed suddenly; Oldofredi threw 
 away his anemone, and with a graceful movement disem- 
 barrassed himself of his topcoat. 
 
 "Gentlemen ! It would be an insult to recommend to 
 two such men as you that you comport yourselves ac- 
 cording to the rules of courtesy. I will only request 
 that you stop when I say 'Halt!' and not make an at- 
 tack until I give the word. Now we will begin." He 
 glanced at Lapucci, and cried: 
 
 "En garde!" 
 
 Oldofredi, with a swift movement that was hardly per- 
 ceptible, advanced his right leg, bent one arm behind his 
 body and assumed the proper position. Sangiorgio ab- 
 ruptly struck the attitude of guard, and extended his arm 
 as stiffly as if it were of iron. 
 
 "A vousf" commanded Castelforte. 
 
 They sprang toward each other. Oldofredi's sword 
 struck that of Sangiorgio, who had made a thrust at him, 
 and it fell from his hand; but Sangiorgio had raised his 
 arm with such force that the stroke had bewildered his 
 enemy.
 
 156 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "Halt!" cried Castelforte, lowering his own sword be- 
 tween the two combatants. They paused, and resumed 
 their former places. 
 
 Oldofredi, a little pale, was smiling; Sangiorgio 
 breathed hard, like a bull that sees a red garment. 
 
 "En garde!" again came the command. Sangiorgio, 
 his arm extended, the point of the sword aimed di- 
 rectly at Oldofredi's face, looked at his opponent with 
 so furious and fierce a stare that Oldofredi remarked it. 
 
 "A vous!" cried Castelforte. 
 
 This time Oldofredi sprang at Sangiorgio, who re- 
 ceived him motionless, with extended arm, without par- 
 rying; but he met the stroke with a thrust so neat and 
 prompt that the weapon fell from the hand of his ad- 
 versary, and remained hanging from his wrist. 
 
 "Halt!" 
 
 Lapucci and Bomba ran to refasten Oldofredi's sword. 
 
 "A fine thrust!" murmured Castelforte. 
 
 Sangiorgio had recovered all his serenity. A smile of 
 gratified pride illuminated his face. Oldofredi returned 
 to his place, sword in hand; his face was white with 
 rage, his brows were knit in fury. 
 
 At the next signal, he precipitated himself brutally on 
 his enemy, without feint, or any sort of artifice of fenc- 
 ing, apparently intending to cut open his head. But be- 
 fore his weapon could reach its aim, the point of San- 
 giorgio's sword cut his lower lip, and cut his cheek open 
 in an upward stroke as far as the temple. 
 
 The four seconds threw themselves between the com- 
 batants, and the surgeons ran toward them.
 
 -moo am visa NT- 
 
 
 am 

 
 156 MATILDE SEfc* 
 
 "Halt T cried Cwteiloi be- 
 
 tweer the two camimam* They *,-i- med 
 
 thtir for<*w.- 
 
 '".-- 1 &;. fftft tS-n.-i- 
 
 r4MP 
 
 - --gio. 
 
 j^ --l.di- 
 
 :-fV 
 
 "A vtnuf' cried Castelfortc. 
 
 Thig iim Oldofrcdi sprang at Sangiorgio, who re- 
 ceived him motionless, with extended arm, without par- 
 rying; but he met the stroke with a thrust so neat and 
 
 THE SECONDS THREW THEMSELVES BETWEEN THE COM 
 BATANTS, AND THE SURGEONS RAN TOWARD THEM 
 
 rlaltflrom an Original Drawing by Arthur Crisp 
 Lapucci and Bomba ran to refasten Oldofrcdi's sword. 
 ; "A fine thrust!" murmured ' 
 
 Sangiorgio had recovered all his EC A smile of 
 
 -de illuminated his f- 
 to his place, sword tu ha<! ; few 
 :ows were I 
 
 Brutally on 
 
 artiftce of fenc- 
 
 * bs,^ But be- 
 -t point ot San- 
 ;t hU cheek open 
 
 ; ' ' ; ween the com- 
 
 batants, a
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 157 
 
 The wounded man was lifted to a stretcher, sur- 
 rounded by the six men ; Sangiorgio remained alone, half 
 dazed and nearly stripped, in the falling rain. 
 
 As they were passing through the Porta del Popolo, on 
 the way home, Sangiorgio heard confusedly Castleforte 
 say to the surgeon: 
 
 "How many stitches were you obliged to take?" 
 
 "Ten." 
 
 "How long will be he laid up?" 
 
 "About twenty days unless fever develops." 
 
 "By Jove ! what a fine stroke !" Scalia interrupted, puf- 
 fing furiously at his cigar. 
 
 "And he will have a scar!" added Castelforte, laughing. 
 "He won't forget this duel soon." 
 
 The surgeon left them at the San Giacomo hospital, 
 after making an appointment to sign the certificate of 
 the duel. Sangiorgio began to come out of his trance- 
 like state. 
 
 "Are you hungry?" Scalia inquired. 
 
 "He should be, he deserves it," Castelforte interposed. 
 
 Both men smiled complacently. 
 
 While they were on the dueling ground, these two 
 seconds had not embraced their principal, through a 
 sentiment of delicacy; but now they gave free vent to 
 their feeling of satisfaction. All coldness and ceremony 
 had disappeared; they looked at Sangiorgio affection- 
 ately, and spoke of him with loving pride, as of a be- 
 loved son who has successfully passed a difficult exam- 
 ination. Castelforte went so far as to pat his shoulder
 
 158 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 an unheard-of familiarity on the part of this grand seign- 
 eur. They caressed him with eyes and with voice, proud 
 of his courage; they said the kindest things to him, all 
 of which he received quietly. 
 
 His excited nerves were now relaxed, and he was con- 
 scious of a craving for the comforts of physical life 
 he wished to eat, to drink, to sleep for hours in a warm 
 bed. He smiled proudly at his seconds, having put out 
 of his mind all unpleasant remembrance of the duel, the 
 gloomy Acqua Acetosa, and the livid face of his adver- 
 sary, slashed by a wound whence the blood flowed in a 
 crimson stream. He rested on his triumph, his face 
 serene, his eyes radiant, his lips half open in an almost 
 childish smile. 
 
 The luncheon at the Caffe di Roma was loud and gay. 
 Castelforte or Scalia filled Sangiorgio's glass every other 
 minute, and he ate and drank enough for four, nodding 
 at his seconds, laughing with them at the thought of 
 Oldofredi's anger more bitter to him, no doubt, than 
 the pain of the wound itself. By the time dessert ar- 
 rived, their gayety knew no bounds. 
 
 "At first," said Scalia, "I feared for you, my dear 
 friend. Your adversary was strong and courageous, and 
 has had wide experience. You were young, without x- 
 perience, and so I felt anxious, which was very nat- 
 ural." 
 
 "That is more than Oldofredi was !" said Castelforte. 
 
 "He seemed to me, on the ground, to be rather in- 
 clined to trifle," Sangiorgio observed. 
 
 "Oldofredi never trifles," said Scalia sententiously.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 159 
 
 "It is not necessary to pay any heed to his posing. I 
 assure you that at the third attack he was furious, and 
 he went at you, my friend, with a fixed intention to 
 break your head. Ye gods ! What a stroke !" 
 
 "What a stroke!" echoed Castleforte. 
 
 And the same complimentary phrases began anew, a 
 little monotonous and incoherent by this time, with a 
 hundred repetitions of the same thing, and a rehashing 
 of the same details. 
 
 The Honorable Melillo, who had lunched at the Co- 
 lonne restaurant with the Honorable Cermignani, being 
 anxious about the fate of his colleague from the Basi- 
 licata, had come to learn what had happened. The fat 
 Melillo, with radiant countenance, embraced Sangiorgio, 
 while Cermignani remained standing, listening to the 
 story of the combat in a heroic attitude, as if inspired by 
 war-like anger. 
 
 Bencini, the old deputy of the Right, the witty and 
 clever Catholic, who was said to fear neither God nor 
 the devil, talked animatedly at the end of the room with 
 Gambara, the dean of the Conservative party. Bencini, 
 curious and audacious as a woman, advanced to compli- 
 ment Sangiorgio, for he had a profound antipathy for the 
 stupid belligerency of Oldofredi. He shook with laugh- 
 ter at the thought of the rage of the deputy from the 
 Marches. 
 
 "Ah!" he cried, "that braggart Oldofredi never will 
 boast of this duel. And you say he had to have his 
 cheek sewn up. It's lucky this isn't midsummer he 
 might go mad and bite!"
 
 160 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Everyone laughed. Scalia bought some roses of a 
 flower girl ; Castelforte described the wonderful stroke to 
 Gambara, who smiled amiably, with the indulgence of an 
 old parliamentarian for hard-working and courageous 
 young deputies. 
 
 Cermignani and Melillo laughed at Bencini's jests; 
 and when Sangiorgio went out to get into his landau, a 
 little triumphal procession accompanied him. 
 
 The sun had come out, dispersing the rain-clouds; the 
 carriage stood by the curbstone, and Melillo insisted on 
 getting into it with Sangiorgio. 
 
 As they proceeded along the Corso, they were met with 
 bows and smiles, and friendly greetings from the throng 
 of strollers who were taking the air while waiting for 
 the hour for Parliament to open. 
 
 In the Piazza Colonna the Deputy Carusio stopped the 
 carriage, embraced Sangiorgio with fervor, and declared 
 that he intended to go immediately to the Speaker and 
 inform him of the good news. 
 
 In the Chamber itself, the demonstration of approval 
 was general. The Speaker maintained his usual dignity, 
 but in his smile of greeting to Sangiorgio was some- 
 thing cordial and affectionate one might say grateful. 
 
 The Honorable Freitag, with head sunk between his 
 shoulders, his heavy body swaying like that of an ele- 
 phant as he slowly paced the corridors, approached the 
 Southern deputy, saying: 
 
 "In the face, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, Signer in the face." 
 
 Others stopped him, shook hands with him, and asked
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 161 
 
 for details of the duel. The seconds, and even Melillo, 
 were surrounded, and questioned as to that marvelous 
 final stroke. 
 
 Those deputies with war-like inclinations listened with 
 sparkling eyes and exclamations of astonishment; the 
 more peaceful remained silent, thinking of this duel with 
 as much wonder as if it had been a tournament. The 
 cruel ones asked for descriptions of the wound, inquired 
 as to the quantity of blood shed, how many stitches had 
 been taken, and how large a scar would result. Others, 
 more circumspect, but inspired by example, frankly 
 owned to the antipathy they felt for the noisy, stupid, 
 boasting Oldofredi, each harboring the recollection of 
 some rankling word, gratuitous insult, or irritating bra- 
 vado, borne in silence in order to avoid a scandal. 
 
 The few that were Oldofredi's friends stood aloof, con- 
 tenting themselves with refraining from any congratu- 
 lations to the happy conqueror. When Lapucci and 
 Bomba entered the Chamber, about four o'clock, no one 
 advanced to meet them, and only a few persons made 
 perfunctory inquiries as to Oldofredi's condition, in a 
 tone of contemptuous pity. They felt themselves in- 
 cluded for the time being, in the unpopularity of their 
 principal, tossing on his bed, his head bandaged, and 
 burning with fever. 
 
 The enthusiasm tor Sangiorgio lasted all day, aug- 
 menting still more at dinner-time. Bewildered, con- 
 fused, and still somewhat excited, but preserving an out- 
 ward calm, he let everyone say and do whatever he 
 11
 
 162 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 pleased, smiled on everyone, and greatly enjoyed this 
 new popularity. 
 
 After dinner, he went to the Costanzi Theater, and 
 occupied an orchestra chair. The opera was Les Hugue- 
 nots, with which he was unacquainted. He listened to 
 the music like one in a dream. Behind him, two young 
 men were talking of the duel and pointing him out as 
 the person who had vanquished Oldofredi. They spoke 
 in an undertone but Sangiorgio could hear all that they 
 said. 
 
 Between the acts, he felt suddenly the magnetic glance 
 of a pair of eyes fixed ardently upon him. He looked 
 up: Elena Fiammanti was in her box. Mechanically 
 he ascended the stairs, opened her door, and in the dark 
 shadow of the back of the box he felt two soft arms 
 clasping his neck, while a tender voice murmured in his 
 ear: 
 
 "Oh, Francesco, Francesco! why did you fight on my 
 account? It was not worth the trouble!" 
 
 When the opera was over after receiving at least a 
 dozen visits in her box Elena descended the stairs lean- 
 ing tenderly on Sangiorgio's arm, her eyes sparkling 
 with pride and pleasure. At the door of the coat-room 
 they met the gigantic Paulo putting on his topcoat. San- 
 giorgio felt as if suddenly sobered from intoxication, and 
 longed to throw himself on the ample breast of the gal- 
 lant man, for it was he who had advised the novice to 
 aim at the face, and at the crucial moment Sangiorgio 
 had thought of nothing but that advice.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 AN ESSAY IN DIPLOMACY 
 
 A GRAVE question had come up two days after 
 the national holiday. 
 In a small Italian town, on the Sunday de- 
 voted to patriotic celebration and rejoicing, 
 certain members of the municipal council had mani- 
 fested the most advanced republican sentiments. The 
 monarchist members had immediately tendered their 
 resignation en masse, and had sent indignant telegrams 
 to their deputies, to the newspapers, and to influential 
 men. The affair, all in a moment, had become very 
 serious. 
 
 It was midsummer, and the sessions at the Chamber 
 had become dull and tiresome; foreign politics had 
 lapsed into their usual summer lethargy, and no impor- 
 tant bills were to be voted on. This new excitement, 
 therefore, sudden and unexpected, awakened passionate 
 interest. The love-making between the Chamber and 
 the Ministry had cooled off considerably, as is always 
 the case with a passion equally shared and gratified. 
 
 The new debate was the crack of the whip that awak- 
 ened this drowsy circle of mutual admirers. Once more 
 they felt the inclination to argue, dispute, and insult; to 
 wage a war of suspicion, of political lies and private 
 calumny. The person most bitterly attacked was the 
 
 163
 
 164 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Minister of the Interior, who, obedient to his cherished 
 ideal of Liberty, had objected to the summary dismissal 
 of the whole misguided municipal council. 
 
 This Minister was a man of profound thought, high 
 character, and liberal ideas. He was accustomed to con- 
 sider political questions with great breadth of view, and, 
 with the generosity of a superior mind, he always main- 
 tained that liberty of conscience should be respected. 
 In private conversation with his friends, he laughed at 
 the importance accorded to this tempest in a teapot, 
 quoting the words of the monatti of Milan to Renzo 
 Tramaglino: "Fear nothing it will not be these little 
 rascals, disguised as Erostratus, that will burn the Tem- 
 ple of Law." He said to everyone that the affair was 
 not serious, and his tranquil serenity was in marked con- 
 trast to the excitement of those that sought to interview 
 him. 
 
 But, in spite of his efforts, the disturbance increased 
 and threatened a crisis. All the malcontents, the am- 
 bitious, the mediocre, the envious, agitated, held meet- 
 ings, talked and argued. They shouted in the cafes, 
 made orations in the restaurants, discoursed at the beer- 
 saloons, hatched plots in the furnished lodgings of all 
 the provincial deputies, and gathered with the myste- 
 rious air of conspirators around the little tables set out 
 in summer-time by Ronzi and Singer, the pastry-cooks, 
 in front of their shop in the Piazza Colonna. 
 
 At the railway station, every train brought returning 
 deputies, carrying their traveling-bags the small bags 
 used for hasty journeys, in which the wife packs four
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 165 
 
 shirts, six handkerchiefs, a pair of slippers, and a cake 
 ot soap. 
 
 Three hundred and fifty deputies had assembled in 
 Rome an exceptional number, rarely gathered in the 
 most important winter sessions and each of these three 
 hundred and fifty men hoped, waited, wished and prob- 
 ably believed that he would become a Minister after the 
 fall of the present cabinet. 
 
 The Minister of the Interior a strong", wise and lib- 
 eral soul thought best to seem to ignore this general 
 excitement. 
 
 "There will be no crisis," he replied calmly to such 
 friends as questioned him. 
 
 He well knew the political world, however, and the 
 men that composed it. He well knew that the Prime 
 Minister was on his side, and also the six other min- 
 isters, and that this group of resolute and powerful 
 men would not allow themselves to be deposed sim- 
 ply because the public authorities in an unimportant 
 town had refused to sign an address to the King, and 
 had raised the tri-colored flag. 
 
 He was fully aware of the thirst for power of his eight 
 colleagues, of their struggles to attain it, their desperate 
 tenacity and their passionate attachment to the blue 
 portfolio. He smiled at the thought of the strength of 
 the weak; he smiled, sure of his own victory. 
 
 But his friends advised him to be on his guard and 
 to consider the gravity of the situation, pointing out 
 the fact that in this great political caldron were boiling 
 and seething all varieties of Italian temperament.
 
 166 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 The Sicilians abandoned themselves to enthusiasm, in 
 which was a mingling of irony and good sense; the 
 Neapolitans shouted and gesticulated; the Romans, pru- 
 dent and temporizing, waited for the propitious moment 
 to act; the Tuscans laughed in their sleeves, assumed a 
 Machiavellian air of craft, while mocking at themselves 
 and at everyone else; the Lombards held aloof from all 
 others, in aristocratic exclusiveness ; the Piedmontese 
 went and came, made a great commotion without say- 
 ing anything, understanding one another by nods and 
 winks. But the most ardent, the most excited, the fierc- 
 est, were the representatives from the smaller provinces 
 the Abruzzi, the Marches, the Romagnas, the Cam- 
 pania, the Calabria representatives for whom politics 
 is a grand passion, who regard it as the greatest earthly 
 power, and revel in it as in a generous wine. 
 
 In the midst of all this tumult, the men from the 
 Basilicata were silent, did not form themselves into a 
 group, asked for nothing, answered no queries, but re- 
 mained consistently cold and correct in their public de- 
 meanor. 
 
 The Minister of the Interior, that man of sterling in- 
 tegrity, felt secure; he never had had occasion to fear 
 anything, so he continued to smile. When he entered 
 the Chamber, on the day when the great question was 
 to be discussed, a prolonged murmur swept along the 
 benches. He noticed it, but being strong and self-con- 
 tained in all things, great or small, he was shrewd 
 enough not to look around him, nor to raise his eyes to 
 the galleries. He understood, however, that this affair
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 167 
 
 was more serious than he had supposed. The evening 
 before, he had said to the Prime Minister, uncon- 
 cernedly : 
 
 "They are making a tremendous fuss about this affair 
 of the municipal revolt." 
 
 "Nothing but midsummer madness." 
 
 "Then you agree with me?" 
 
 "Certainly I do," the Prime Minister had replied, with- 
 out inquiring as to details. 
 
 "Do you think Mario Tasca's speech will be im- 
 portant?" 
 
 "As much so as his speeches usually are." 
 
 That was all the Prime Minister would say to him. 
 His other colleagues maintained a strict reserve, save 
 Vargas, the thin, dried-up old Minister of Fine Arts, 
 consumed by burning ambition, who made only one re- 
 mark, of slight importance, to which the Minister of the 
 Interior made no reply. But now, in the presence of this 
 demonstrative assemblage, he fully comprehended the 
 gravity of the situation. 
 
 While he was preparing his documents, he guessed, 
 from the volume of sound going on about him, that at 
 least four hundred deputies were in the hall. He threw 
 a quick glance at the diplomatic gallery. The beauti- 
 ful Countess di Santaninfa, fair and dreamy, bent her 
 large, melancholy eyes upon the amphitheater; the 
 Countess di Malgra, a fascinating blonde, attired in black, 
 looked attentively at the gathering below her ; the public 
 gallery was full, and in the press gallery a triple row of 
 heads leaned eagerly forward.
 
 168 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "Ah ! they smell the powder of battle !" said the Min- 
 ister to himself. 
 
 He was about to address his fellow Ministers, but 
 they appeared so indifferent that he remained silent. 
 The great hall had become more quiet, but the assembly 
 presented an aspect universally hard and fixed a solid 
 body of four hundred silent and attentive men. 
 
 At three o'clock, precisely, Mario Tasca, a deputy of 
 the Right, rose and began to speak from his place in 
 the last row of benches. He was an old diplomatist, with 
 a pink-and-white complexion and a graceful figure, and 
 spoke in flowing phrases, accompanied by sweeping 
 gestures. His discourse ran on and on, without hesi- 
 tation, without stopping, like the song of a nightingale; 
 the orator gazed upward, like a dramatic tenor sure of 
 his notes. But beneath this mild demeanor the knowing 
 ones perceived a sharp rebuke. While he spoke in vague 
 and general terms, he nevertheless managed to convey 
 the impression that certain ideas and institutions, 
 which heretofore had been sacred and which no one had 
 dared to criticise, had been grievously assailed. He 
 made his charges in a tone of moderation, mentioning no 
 names; nor did he set forth the exact facts, contenting 
 himself with making a direct appeal to the conscience. 
 
 The Minister of the Interior listened attentively; the 
 Prime Minister appeared to be taking notes; all the 
 other Ministers looked grave ; the deputies turned toward 
 Tasca, in order to hear all his remarks; the occupants 
 of the public gallery leaned over the railing; the two 
 Countesses, blonde and brunette, seemed to listen with
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 169 
 
 delight to the flowing, melodious tones of the Tuscan 
 deputy. 
 
 He spoke a whole hour in this way, but his closing re- 
 marks and gestures were more animated. A long mur- 
 mur of satisfaction and approval followed his peroration. 
 
 The Minister of the Interior sought the eyes of the 
 Prime Minister, but that gentleman went on with his 
 writing. So he rose, and began his reply in a tone of 
 equal moderation, reducing the question to its just pro- 
 portions, smoothing over the facts, and avoiding all high- 
 sounding phrases and long words. ' He spoke quietly, 
 trying to read the effect of his words in the faces of his 
 auditors, but all looked frowning and dissatisfied; what 
 they had wished for and expected was a session full of 
 spirited debate and hot argument this moderation was 
 far from interesting. 
 
 Vainly did he lavish his most specious reasoning and 
 all the ingenuities of his mind; he was not in harmony 
 with the prevailing spirit, and public disapproval of 
 his remarks became more manifest every moment. 
 
 A glacial silence greeted the end of his discourse. 
 Niccolo Ferro, the great orator of the Extreme Left, 
 asked for the floor. The Minister frowned; he felt that 
 here was the danger. 
 
 Ferro, the Radical deputy, with a clear voice and cool 
 manner, spoke in phrases as cutting as steel blades. He 
 threw a new light upon the situation as presaging the 
 dawn of a new era; the manifestation of the municipal 
 council was a sign of the times; who would dare to vi- 
 olate the liberty of conscience by punishing such a mani-
 
 170 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 festation? A councilor is a citizen free to think accord- 
 ing to his convictions, and to act as he thinks. Ancient 
 institutions do not decline by the mere act of men; 
 modern ideas and progress are the cause of their down- 
 fall. 
 
 Niccolo Ferro then declared openly that he was both 
 pleased and displeased with the Minister's speech: dis- 
 pleased because the audacity and courage of those brave 
 men had been ridiculed; and pleased, because he felt 
 well assured that notwithstanding the hallucinations of 
 those who held the reins of power, no act of repression 
 toward those citizens would take place. 
 
 The Minister of the Interior understood the purport 
 of these words, and he looked at Niccolo Ferro, his friend, 
 with a kind glance, unmingled with reproach. He felt 
 the astonishment of the Chamber at the temerity of the 
 Radical deputy; he realized that they wished to force 
 him into an equivocal position from which he could not 
 escape. He could neither declare himself at one with 
 Niccolo Ferro, nor oppose himself directly against him. 
 What! he at one with the Republicans; he, a Minister 
 of the Crown! How should he reply? The Prime Min- 
 ister alone, with his shrewdness and goodfellowship, 
 could save the situation, and put back in their places the 
 wordy Tasca and the impudent Ferro. But the old Pre- 
 mier read a letter placidly, as calm as if he were in the 
 silence of his own study. 
 
 The floor was given to the Honorable Sangiorgio, who, 
 in his very first words, began a fierce attack upon the 
 Cabinet, saying that the facts of the case in question
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 171 
 
 were very serious ; that during a whole year the greatest 
 disorder had existed in the management of home affairs , 
 there was no one that guided matters, no authority any- 
 where ; all officials acted at their own discretion, receiv- 
 ing no orders from anyone; and that this culpable un- 
 concern, these ultra-liberal theories would carry the 
 country to its ruin. 
 
 Sangiorgio enumerated the increasing number of po- 
 litical associations; he called attention to the fact that 
 socialists held meetings in all localities, and named a 
 prefect who had been present at a banquet where the 
 King's health had not been drunk and added that the 
 Minister of the Interior, who was perfectly cognizant 
 of this affair, had not removed that prefect from office. 
 
 The orator went on to say that everything was done 
 helter-skelter and without system: that no energetic 
 circulars of instruction were sent out from Rome, nor 
 were any strong and salutary measures carried out with- 
 in it. Important communications remained unanswered, 
 and the Government amused itself in making philosophic 
 or moral deductions! 
 
 The excited listeners shouted their approval of these 
 remarks. The young deputy spoke in a hard voice, in 
 short phrases and with such exactness of statement that 
 every sentence told: it was an act of direct accusation, 
 like the address of a public prosecutor to a malicious and 
 obstinate magistrate. Sangiorgio had a rugged physi- 
 ognomy, a look of firmness on his tense face ; he did not 
 smile, nor did he gesticulate, or resort to any of the 
 tricks and graces of an orator. His speech was a recital
 
 172 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 of facts, nothing but facts, and yet more facts; and after 
 each statement he added, "But that is not all there is 
 more to follow;*' and these words, repeated again and 
 again, with the monotony of a tragic Chorus, made a 
 deep and unexpected impression. 
 
 The very air was charged with electricity ; no one read 
 or wrote now; all heads were turned toward the speaker. 
 In the diplomatic gallery sat the perennially beautiful 
 Lalla d'Ariccia; her appearance was the sure barometer 
 of crises, as she never attended the Chamber except to 
 witness the fall of a Cabinet. Louisa Catalani, in a lace 
 frock and mantilla, leaned over the railing, and Angelica 
 Vargas listened gravely, her face alight with interest and 
 curiosity. 
 
 After summing up all that he had said in one brief 
 final charge, Sangiorgio, without waiting for anyone to 
 make a reply, read the following: "I move that the 
 House, disapproving of the home policy of the Ministry, 
 do now proceed with the business of the day. Francesco 
 Sangiorgio." 
 
 An instant of silence followed, in which was audible 
 the deep bass tones of the Honorable Scheffer, growling: 
 
 "Thunder and lightning!" 
 
 Then such a cheer and clamor arose that the Speaker 
 rang his bell in vain for order fully five minutes. Argu- 
 ment and discussions sounded on all sides in the Cham- 
 ber, in the semicircle, on the benches and stairs, and in 
 the galleries. 
 
 The Minister of the Interior strong, honest man that 
 he was! was compelled to admire the skill and vigor
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 173 
 
 of Sangiorgio's attack upon him, but he began to feel 
 some apprehension. So vigorous an attack, made by a 
 deputy well known for his ministerial sympathies, ag- 
 gravated the situation to the verge of actual peril. 
 
 The defence now lay only in the hands of the chief, 
 the old parliamentarian the Prime Minister. But the 
 Minister of the Interior felt a sudden suspicion. The 
 Prime Minister remained silent, continuing to write and 
 to stroke his beard with his left hand. 
 
 The Minister of the Interior controlled himself by a 
 strong effort, and appeared calm, though very pale. His 
 suspicion was well grounded, then. He felt that he had 
 been betrayed and abandoned, and that his associates 
 wished to get rid of him. The base stratagem had suc- 
 ceeded, and they now wished to cut him off, as if he were 
 a decomposing limb and the whole Chamber approved 
 the operation! 
 
 When the Speaker gave him the floor, that he might 
 reply, he replied in a clear and tranquil voice: 
 
 "I have nothing to say; I accept the Sangiorgio mo- 
 tion." 
 
 There was a majority of thirty votes against him. 
 The Minister of the Interior had fallen ! 
 
 A week later, an official newspaper announced: 
 
 "At the present writing, we are able to declare that, 
 in the reorganization of the Cabinet, Don Silvio Vargas 
 will be transferred from the Fine Arts to the Depart- 
 ment of the Interior. The Honorable Sangiorgio, who 
 has been solicited to join in the new combination, has re- 
 fused, and has left Rome for a visit to the Basilicata."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 THE ONLY WOMAN 
 
 A FUNEREAL atmosphere; an interior whose 
 dimness is barely relieved by the blue flame of 
 the pagan torches and the pale yellow light of 
 Christian tapers ; an odor of the tomb ; sobbing 
 music; a throng of people in deepest black, lost in the 
 shadows of the great stone walls; and in that atmos- 
 phere, that dim light, amid that noble music in the deep 
 shadows, all eyes filled again and again with tears. 
 
 Sangiorgio, sitting motionless in his place, felt his 
 heart pierced with a languorous sadness, when suddenly 
 he felt a thrill, and a strong impulse to turn around. 
 
 He saw, at only a short distance, that sweet, that ex- 
 quisite woman, Angelica Vargas, dressed in black, in a 
 style of mourning as ceremonious as such an occasion 
 demanded, in the Pantheon, which was now consecrated 
 to the glory and the death of the Hero Victor Em- 
 manuel. * 
 
 Her eyes were fixed upon a candle, and she seemed to 
 hear and see nothing, absorbed in sad thoughts, plunged 
 in mournful dreams. She sat near a column, and at first 
 she essayed to read from her prayerbook the service for 
 the dead, but the book had fallen on her knees, and 
 
 "This refers to the ceremony of transferring the remains of 
 Victor Emmanuel II to the Pantheon.. 
 
 174
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 175 
 
 her inert hands had not sufficient energy to lift it again. 
 
 To Sangiorgio that sad face appeared divine, with its 
 pearl-like pallor intensified by the dark veil, the lips 
 parted in prayer, the eyes fixed in mystic contemplation. 
 And the bluish light of the lamps, the metallic gleam 
 of the torches, the wailing chords that seemed sad 
 enough to soften those old stone walls of Rome all 
 were, to his mind, in some mysterious way connected 
 with this woman; she herself personified that mournful 
 winter day, sad and sunless; she was the moral source 
 of all the tears shed around her; she was the abyss of 
 sorrow, which no human griefs could ever fill; and in 
 his manly heart a sentiment of mingled love and pity 
 sprang into being, and then it grew and flourished and 
 waxed strong. 
 
 She, all unconscious, gave herself up to her feminine 
 fancies, in that short hour of freedom and forgetfulness. 
 At times the music rolled forth with an intense expres- 
 sion, a strain more moving; then she was thrilled for a 
 moment, returning again to her interrupted reverie, her 
 eyelids showing the pale violet tint left by recent tears. 
 
 A wonderful change of feeling took place in Sangi- 
 orgio's heart as he contemplated that sweet face, on 
 which the finger of grief had laid its mark. The sadness 
 that possessed her little by little came to dominate his 
 own feelings, to the point of utter absorption in, and 
 sharing of, her emotion. 
 
 He was unconscious of any surprise at realizing that 
 his own personality seemed to disappear and be merged 
 into that of another. And it was not pity alone that he
 
 176 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 felt: pity is a personal sentiment, an individual formula, 
 capable of analysis. He suffered from a sensation of 
 physical anguish ; tears, which he could not shed, burned 
 his eyes; he forgot his own personality in a mental sea 
 of sympathetic pain, without beginning or end. 
 
 A cloud of subtly sweet incense floated through the 
 temple, its spirals rising from the altars to the dome, 
 lighter and lighter, thinner and thinner, floating ever 
 upward, like prayers mounting to Heaven. The incense, 
 too, seemed to partake of the savor of tears, and its per- 
 fume affected the nerves with a kind of voluptuousness 
 of grief. The women bowed their heads beneath this 
 mournful aromatic kiss. Sangiorgio wished to approach 
 Angelica, but a singular feeling of shyness restrained 
 him, and meanwhile the incense went on burning in the 
 sacred censers. 
 
 A bell rang faintly. Angelica slipped from her chair 
 to the marble pavement, hid her face in her hands, and 
 seemed no more than a mass of mourning draperies 
 sunk upon the ground, forgotten, lost, desolate. 
 
 Sangiorgio did not kneel, nor pray, nor even bow his 
 head, but he was swayed by the prostrate grief of the 
 woman, and overcome by the same sounds that affected 
 her. 
 
 A line of priests, with lighted tapers, was ranged 
 around the catafalque; a silver crucifix stood before the 
 coffin itself. 
 
 Presently rose a strident, penetrating voice, a voice 
 that neither chanted nor prayed, but cried despairingly, 
 "Libera, libera, libera me, Signorel"
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 177 
 
 The Christian prayer, the mournful invocation, made 
 the sweet Angelica raise her eyes, and an ardent desire 
 expressed itself on her transfigured face. Now her con- 
 fused thoughts took exact form and dwelt on the De- 
 liverance! The hero who lay in the sepulcher, to whom 
 the highest funeral honors were being paid, had found a 
 glorious deliverance, and, freed from the weight of a 
 crown, from the burden of power, from the duties and 
 responsibilities of earthly royalty, had found rest in 
 eternal peace. 
 
 "As sleeps the King, so let me sleep, O God!" was 
 Angelica's prayer. "Deliver my soul as Thou hast de- 
 livered the soul of the King, O Father of Mercies! 
 If deliverance is to be found only through death, then 
 let me die. O God, liber a me!" And at this moment of 
 anguished appeal, the sweet Angelica raised her hands 
 to heaven, and burning tears flowed down her cheeks. 
 
 Sangiorgio divined her fervent prayer, and that earn- 
 est petition found an echo in his own breast. A kind of 
 intoxication, an ecstatic joy, pure and exalted, resulted 
 from this consciousness of a desire in common. Seeing 
 Angelica so weak and exhausted, he yielded to the pres- 
 sure of deep emotion; he bowed his proud head and 
 wept for love! 
 
 With her fair face half buried in a cluster of white 
 roses, whose rich perfume she inhaled deeply, Angelica 
 Vargas listened to a conversation between her husband 
 and Sangiorgio. 
 
 They had been talking politics for an hour, or rather, 
 12
 
 178 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Silvio Vargas had held forth alone, half reclining upon 
 a divan, puffiing at a terrible Tuscan cigar, his eyes 
 fixed on the floral decorations painted on the ceiling of 
 his drawing-room. He discoursed in his nasal voice, 
 speaking in brief phrases, sending clouds of smoke into 
 the air, while with his free hand he twirled his heavy 
 moustache, which, like his hair, had remained brown, 
 despite his years. 
 
 Age did not show in that dry and spare old man, ex- 
 cept for the fan-like spread of fine wrinkles at the corners 
 of his eyes, and two furrows at each side of his mouth 
 when he smiled. But his slender body was as strong 
 and firm as oak logs that lie for years in the water be- 
 fore being fit for use. When he fixed in his right eye a 
 monocle suspended by a black ribbon, his face took on 
 an expression of almost youthful vivacity. 
 
 When Angelica had heard Sangiorgio's name an- 
 nounced, after luncheon, she had risen to retire to her 
 own apartments. But her husband, while folding one 
 newspaper and opening another, requested her not to go 
 in a few brief words, as if he wished to be obeyed. She 
 remained standing, near a vase of cineraria, after bowing 
 to the newcomer. 
 
 Her slender, youthful figure was no longer attired in 
 mourning robes, but showed to advantage in a gray 
 gown with large folds, cut in a half-monastic style. A 
 heavy cord encircled her waist, and her delicate hands 
 were half hidden in the ample sleeves. From time to 
 time she turned toward the men to approve with a smile 
 or a glance some sharp sally from her husband or 2
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 179 
 
 remark by Sangiorgio, although she busied herself with 
 her flowers, examining each plant with fond attention, 
 wiping dust from the leaves, here and there cutting off 
 a dry twig. Her white fingers flitted over the flowers, 
 which appeared to transform the formal drawing-room 
 into a springtime bower those white fingers as graceful 
 and dimpled as a child's. 
 
 As she leaned over the plants, the nape of her white 
 neck was visible, shaded by the curved line of her dark 
 hair, which was dressed high. The traces of tears had 
 disappeared from her eyelids, and her gentle face beamed 
 placidly. Once she looked interrogatively at her hus- 
 band's hard face, but with a slight sign he ordered her 
 to remain in the room. 
 
 The care of her plants finished, she seated herself at a 
 window and inhaled the fragrance of her roses, her usu- 
 ally pale cheeks slightly flushed. 
 
 The room was strewn with newspapers, still smelling 
 of printers' ink; the carpet was littered with multi- 
 colored wrappers, which had been hastily torn from the 
 journals. But Angelica did not pick them up nor touch 
 the newspapers; she did not even look at them, though 
 she pushed away one or two wrappers with an instinct- 
 ive desire for neatness. She kept pressing the roses to 
 her lips and cheeks. 
 
 Francesco had come to this house, in the Piazza dell' 
 Apollinare, at the invitation of Silvio Vargas. The new 
 Minister of the Interior had approached him on the peri- 
 style of the Pantheon, had slipped an arm through his, 
 and said a few words to him in an undertone. Then he
 
 180 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 had asked the deputy to come to see him not at the Par- 
 liament House, no at his own residence, after luncheon. 
 The Minister wished to have a private talk with him 
 hang it ! Why did he never come to call there ? 
 
 "To-morrow, then?" said the deputy, hesitatingly. 
 
 "To-morrow! You are dreaming!" Vargas replied. 
 "No, come to-day." And he had left Sangiorgio to re- 
 join his wife. 
 
 The deputy arrived at one o'clock, fearing that he was 
 too early, though the cordiality of his host immediately 
 reassured him. But, while the Minister expatiated at 
 length on men and events, the deputy followed with his 
 eyes the supple and sinuous movements of the fair An- 
 gelica. 
 
 "Will you smoke?" said Silvio Vargas, offering cigars, 
 while he continued to chew the end of his Tuscan weed. 
 
 Sangiorgio looked toward the lady. 
 
 "It will not annoy Donna Angelica," said the Minister 
 dryly. 
 
 But the deputy refrained from smoking, in spite of a 
 gracious smile from Angelica. Seated near a table, he 
 spoke little, for the old parliamentarian approved of at- 
 tentive listeners. 
 
 Silvio Vargas adored politics with the ardor of a youth 
 of twenty; but to-day something in the great game had 
 gone wrong with him, and in his reproaches, his disgust, 
 his nervous anger, was revealed the long-standing pas- 
 sion that consumed him. Sangiorgio, in listening to him, 
 fancied he recognized his own thoughts, dreams, and 
 ambitions.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 181 
 
 From time to time, Silvio Vargas, in looking at San- 
 giorgio, suppressed the sneer which usually marked two 
 furrows on his sallow cheeks, and smiled at the young 
 man almost affectionately. He did riot forget that his 
 predecessor in office had fallen from power through a 
 speech and a motion of this same young deputy! He 
 did not forget his refusal to make one of the new combi- 
 nation. He never could express his gratitude, but at the 
 reopening of Parliament he had treated the young man 
 in a most friendly way, and often consulted him with an 
 air at once cordial and deferential. 
 
 "But, in your heart, politics and power really bore you, 
 do they not?" said Sangiorgio, after a short silence. 
 
 "No," Vargas replied frankly. "They do not bore 
 me; on the contrary, they please me. I have al- 
 ways desired power. But the Opposition disgusts 
 me so much hypocrisy, stupidity, lying, brutality, 
 and bad faith! Where is the loyal, audacious, imp- 
 placable, even cruel Opposition? Instead of frank and 
 open attack, we have back-stairs gossip; instead of an 
 honest fight, they crawl out of sight; and instead of 
 legitimate debate, they resort to low trickery." 
 
 "The men of to-day are without largeness of mind," 
 said Sangiorgio. 
 
 "No, no not altogether ! By heavens, sir ! I once be- 
 longed to the Opposition myself! Do you remember, 
 Angelica, when I was in Opposition?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember," she replied sweetly, raising her 
 head from her roses. 
 
 "I was a devil in those days! I never gave my op-
 
 182 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 ponents any rest, I assure you. No truce to anyone! 
 But now I am growing lazy. I don't feel like fighting ; I 
 prefer to look on, though all this brigandage makes my 
 blood boil. How you attacked the Government at that 
 famous session, Sangiorgio! Were you there, An- 
 gelica?" 
 
 "Yes, I was there." 
 
 "And I owe it to you that I am now Minister of the 
 Interior," said Vargas, with feeling. 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Sangiorgio, smiling. 
 
 "Yes, yes ! The Prime Minister never would have had 
 the courage to break openly with his colleague! I am 
 surprised that he spoke of it to you; no one dreamed 
 of it, not even myself." 
 
 "The Prime Minister never mentioned the matter to 
 me." 
 
 "What? You did not know what was coming?" 
 
 "I knew nothing." 
 
 "There was no understanding between you?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 "The deuce! You are a remarkable fellow!" Vargas 
 exclaimed. 
 
 He looked at Sangiorgio admiringly. The latter 
 laughed mechanically, a little embarrassed, but he ob- 
 served that Angelica's face had lost its serenity, and 
 that she looked tired. 
 
 "Come to the Chamber with me, Sangiorgio," said the 
 Minister, rising to go out. 
 
 "Shall you return early?" asked the young wife, arous- 
 ing herself from her reverie by the window.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 183 
 
 "No. First, I shall go to the Chamber, then to the 
 Senate, and after that I must go to a meeting of the 
 Cabinet to sign a prefectoral appointment." 
 
 "Shall you return by seven o'clock?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Shall I call for you at the Chamber?" 
 
 "No. Go and take a drive to the Villa Borghese, out 
 in the country wherever you please. It will be useless 
 to come to Montecitorio. I shall dine there after I have 
 finished my work. This prefectoral affair is very serious, 
 Sangiorgio; I will explain it to you as we go along. If 
 a letter or a telegram should arrive for me, send it to 
 me at the Chamber, or the Senate, or at the Cabinet 
 meeting. I expect important news. Come, my dear 
 fellow." 
 
 His orders had been given briefly, concisely, in the 
 tone of one accustomed to obedience, to his wife, the 
 servants, and his secretary, who had just entered the 
 room. At that moment Vargas had the elasticity and 
 vigor of twenty years. He went into an adjoining room 
 with his secretary, and talked with him there a moment. 
 
 Francesco and Angelica were left alone, he standing, 
 she with her head bent as it was when she was praying 
 at the Pantheon, and her fingers toying idly with the 
 silken girdle around her waist. 
 
 Neither spoke for a moment, and that interval seemed 
 like a prolonged musical vibration, full of throbbing 
 meaning. Suddenly she raised her lovely sad eyes to 
 his and clasped her hands. 
 
 "Why did you wish my husband to become Minister
 
 184 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 of the Interior?" she asked, in a voice trembling with 
 emotion. 
 
 But at that moment Vargas reentered with his topcoat 
 and hat on, still gnawing the end of his extinct cigar. 
 His secretary followed him, carrying a portfolio full of 
 papers. 
 
 "Will you have a rose?" said Angelica suddenly to 
 her husband, approaching him as if to fasten a flower 
 in his coat. 
 
 "Are you mad?" cried Vargas, pushing away the white 
 hand brusquely. "Do you wish the whole Opposition 
 to laugh at me? A Minister with a rose! My caricature 
 would be in all the newspapers !" 
 
 Angelica drew back. She looked quickly at Sangior- 
 gio, but she did not offer him a rose. 
 
 A lowering sky, covered with heavy gray clouds, hang- 
 ing black over the Tusculan hills; a yellowish-brown, 
 undulating landscape ; two black hedges, dry and prickly, 
 without a leaf or a blossom ; a little inn, with a rude sign 
 a pulcinella, or female Punch, drinking from a cup, 
 with three black mouths arranged in a triangle win- 
 dows and doors closed tight; the large building where 
 the Widow Mangani dispenses hospitality to the Roman 
 people during the delightful season of lamb and tripe; 
 a carter lying flat on his stomach in his wagon, sound 
 asleep ; and from time to time heavy drops of rain falling 
 on the earth. 
 
 Near the church of St. Agnes, a cardinal's carriage 
 came along the road, returning from the catacombs; a
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 185 
 
 few priests walked slowly along the side path; at a dis- 
 tance were two carabineers on horseback, sitting erect, 
 wrapped in their black mantles ; a penetrating odor filled 
 the air, that peculiar odor of the Roman Campagna, 
 which steals into the blood like a subtle poison. 
 
 A soft, mild breeze was blowing; a lost dog trotted 
 along the road, his tail between his legs, looking anxious- 
 ly at every passer with the sad expression of a lost ani- 
 mal such was the picture that met Sangiorgio's eyes 
 on the last day of that winter, in the Via Nomentana. 
 And over all hung the gloomy curtain of impending rain, 
 the indescribable melancholy of a stormy twilight on the 
 Roman Campagna. 
 
 "There is the Ponte Nomentana," said the coachman, 
 pointing to the bridge with his whip. 
 
 "Stop here, then; I wish to get out," said Sangiorgio. 
 "Wait here for me." 
 
 He climbed the little hill leading to the strange 
 covered bridge, the wide arch of which spans the banks 
 of the Aniene. 
 
 Sangiorgio halted in the middle of the bridge, and 
 leaned against the railing to gaze into the river. The 
 water was deep and winding at this point, and flowed 
 with great rapidity, increased at this season by the 
 heavy winter rains; the stream looked silvery white, 
 cold and dull. A number of little whirlpools were formed 
 in its course tiny circles with a central depression 
 round which spread ever-widening ripples. 
 
 Along the banks the earth was light-colored, but
 
 186 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 without a plant or any vestige of verdure ; and all around 
 extended the dreary desert of the Campagna. 
 
 The rain had not yet begun to fall, but the spray from 
 the river and evening dampness had made the old bridge 
 wet; in touching the railing and the walls, Sangiorgio 
 felt the moisture, which had soiled the elbows of his 
 coat. 
 
 He gazed around at the plain, unbroken by the out- 
 line of a man or a tree; the stream rippled on with the 
 melancholy music of running water, and hastened to 
 throw itself into the bosom of the Tiber. 
 
 On the opposite bank the Via Nomentana formed a 
 sharp angle and disappeared suddenly; in the middle of 
 a field stood a deserted, ruined cottage, without a roof; 
 at a turn of the road was a neat little white building, 
 the Huntsman's Inn, back of which a fine meadow ex- 
 tended toward the stream. 
 
 Near this point were groups of willows on the stony 
 bank. A small boat floated on the water, made fast to a 
 post by a rope. The current boiled and bubbled around 
 the boat, the roots of the willows, and the stones. 
 
 Now the lowering sky appeared almost to touch the 
 earth. While gazing intently at the horizon, Sangiorgio 
 suddenly perceived a carriage, which had stopped near 
 the Huntsman's Inn, but which was turned in such a 
 manner that he could not see either the horses or the 
 coachman. 
 
 Some one descended from the carriage, and then, far 
 in the distance, he discerned a woman's figure, slowly 
 walking along the right bank of the river. Nearer and
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 187 
 
 nearer she came, and presently he recognized the sweet 
 lady he had seen weeping in the Pantheon. Alone, 
 dressed in black, she walked slowly beside the stream, 
 gazing into the water, her little feet making slight im- 
 prints on the damp soil. 
 
 As she drew nearer to Sangiorgio, he saw, fastened 
 against the black background of her bodice, the cluster 
 of roses that she had held and caressed in her drawing- 
 room in the early afternoon. 
 
 Two or three times she stopped, and looked up at the 
 threatening sky, which appeared ready to fall upon the 
 earth and smother it; she tried to descry the Tusculan 
 hills, now enveloped in mist; then she resumed her 
 walk so slowly that she hardly appeared to move at 
 all. 
 
 She did not raise her eyes to the great bridge, at the 
 wide opening of which stood the man that had wept with 
 her and for her. 
 
 There was usually absolute solitude in this lonely 
 spot, where no sound was heard but the rushing wind 
 and the rippling water; Angelica believed herself to be 
 as much alone as if she were in an empty church, praying 
 to God. 
 
 She stopped about fifty paces from the bridge, and 
 leaned lightly against the stone stake to which the little 
 boat was fastened. She seemed overcome by lassitude; 
 perhaps it was only the fascination of the bubbling water 
 that made her pause. 
 
 A mass of black clouds rose from the horizon; the 
 light faded rapidly from the face of heaven and earth.
 
 188 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Sangiorgio saw nothing but the form of that woman, 
 motionless as a statue on the bank of the stream. 
 
 But presently a sound was heard in the direction of 
 the Via Nomentana a sound of wheels and horses' feet ; 
 something red and bright illuminated the gathering 
 darkness. Under the lowered top of a Daumont car- 
 riage, something white was visible a handsome face, a 
 royal countenance. The equipage crossed the bridge at 
 a quick trot, and the Queen acknowledged the deputy's 
 salutation. Then the dazzling vision disappeared, like a 
 flash of lightning, on the way to Rome. 
 
 Sangiorgio turned again toward the river. 
 
 The lady on the bank had heard nothing of all this. 
 Lost in thought, she was unconscious of everything in 
 the material world, even of the passing of the royal car- 
 riage, whose red lights had for an instant made a kind of 
 comet-like glare in the gray twilight. 
 
 Angelica never raised her eyes from the cold waters 
 of the Aniene. Presently she began to pluck the petals 
 from one of her roses and throw them into the stream; 
 then she pulled another to pieces; and, one by one, all 
 the roses met the same fate, the fragant snowy petals 
 being swept along the current toward Tivoli. 
 
 She threw one last glance around the lonely country, 
 and returned to her waiting carriage. Presently it 
 crossed the bridge; Angelica did not perceive Sangior- 
 gio, but he noticed that the fair and pensive lady still 
 held to her breast the rose-stalks, now stripped of their 
 petals.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 ANGELICA DISCUSSES POLITICS 
 
 EATED on his bench, of the Center, where he 
 pretended to be writing letters, but where, in 
 reality, he traced a single name twenty or 
 thirty times on a sheet of paper, Sangiorgio 
 distinctly saw Angelica Vargas sitting alone in the diplo- 
 matic gallery, resting her arm on the velvet railing. 
 
 A certain instinct had warned him of her presence, and 
 he ventured to turn toward her and bow. She responded 
 with a serious smile, and immediately turned away her 
 head. 
 
 He was seized with a desire to go up there at once and 
 sit beside her, but doubted the propriety of making her 
 so conspicuous to his colleagues. 
 
 Soon, however, the desire became so strong that he 
 rose, crossed the hall, and went out into the corridor, 
 where he wandered about a moment or two, replying 
 briefly to those who spoke to him of the University 
 Reform Law. He lacked courage to mount those stairs, 
 and, ashamed of his weakness, he was about to return 
 to his place. 
 
 As he passed the Ministerial bench, Silvio Vargas 
 called him: 
 
 "Listen, Sangiorgio'* 
 
 And he told him something about the Communal and 
 
 189
 
 190 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Provincial Law, then under discussion for the third time. 
 
 Silvio Vargas's liking for the young man had grown 
 rapidly; every time that a doubt arose in his mind as to 
 political or administrative matters, he sought out the 
 deputy, took him to his house, introduced him into his 
 private office, and had a long talk with him. Now he 
 had another project to submit to his approval. San- 
 giorgio gave him his opinion, and then said: 
 
 "Signora Vargas is up in the diplomatic gallery." 
 
 "Indeed!" said the Minister, with perfect indifference. 
 "Do you believe that the discussion will be lively?" 
 
 "Yes, on the fourth article; the Extreme Left is very 
 strong on that." 
 
 "Shall you speak, Sangiorgio?" 
 
 "I do not know" 
 
 "You ought to speak. Listen: come and dine to-mor- 
 row with me, and I will explain to you all my ideas" 
 
 "Thank you ; I will come," Sangiorgio replied, after an 
 instant of hesitation. He was about to move away, but 
 the Minister recalled him. 
 
 "Since you are in the mood to sacrifice yourself for me, 
 go up in the gallery and keep my wife company. She 
 must be bored to death, and I have not time even to go 
 up and speak to her." 
 
 "Do you think she is bored?" 
 
 "Yes, she detests politics. Woman is an egoistic be- 
 ing, my young friend," Silvio replied philosophically, ad- 
 justing his monocle. 
 
 Sangiorgio hastily gathered up his papers, threw them 
 into a drawer, and quickly mounted the stairs. Angelica
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 191 
 
 Vargas did not turn her head, although she heard the 
 door of the gallery open. 
 
 "Are you very much bored, Signora?" inquired San- 
 giorgio, in a quiet tone, as he stepped to her side. 
 
 "Not more than usual, Signer," she replied, giving him 
 her hand, without any manifestation of surprise. 
 
 Sangiorgio sat down, a little behind her. The young 
 woman spoke to him without looking at him, her eyes 
 fixed on the hall below. 
 
 "You come here quite often, do you not?" 
 
 "Yes. Even boredom becomes a habit. And then 
 Silvio is a Minister, and everyone seems to think I have 
 a great deal of influence. Our house is continually be- 
 sieged with people wanting one thing or another." 
 
 "Why do you not forbid your door to them?" 
 
 "That is impossible for the wife of a politician. Sil- 
 vio is always apprehensive lest I should make him lose 
 his popularity." 
 
 Her voice was bitter. 
 
 "Are you compelled, then, to submit to contact with 
 the vulgar crowd?" he asked, with a tender accent that 
 made her change color. 
 
 "Yes. I am very indulgent by nature, but vulgarity 
 offends and hurts me." 
 
 "You must steel your heart against it." 
 
 "The heart! The heart does not matter. It is the 
 nerves that cause suffering. And so I prefer to come 
 here: between two evils, I choose the lesser." 
 
 "You hate politics, then?" 
 
 "I do not exactly hate it, but I do not like it."
 
 192 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "But politics is a grand and noble idea," he hazarded. 
 
 "They say so, but I do not understand it. I do 1 know 
 of other ideas that are noble, generous, great ; but this ! 
 I am too ignorant, I suppose," she murmured humbly. 
 
 "No, no!" Sangiorgio hastened to say. "Perhaps you 
 are right." 
 
 "I cannot like politics," she went on. "To us women, 
 certain ideas above all, when they are purely abstract 
 represent nothing to our minds. We need something 
 concrete to bring an idea clearly before us. Thus, reli- 
 gion is typified by the Church, by the images of Christ 
 and the Virgin; patriotism is represented by our native 
 land, by our childhood friends. But your politics" 
 
 "Is represented by the politicians," interrupted San- 
 giorgio with a smile. 
 
 "Oh, yes, of course," she replied, with disdainful in- 
 difference. 
 
 "And the politicians do you hate them too?" 
 
 "I pity them." 
 
 He felt a touch of resentment, and a pained expression 
 came over his face. 
 
 "I often study them," Angelica continued. "What 
 haggard faces, yellow with bile, green with envy ! What 
 pale, sickly, unwholesome faces ! All seem affected with 
 the same malady a fatal malady, which ruins and kills 
 them. I fancy that the gamblers in the gaming-hells 
 must look like them." 
 
 "Well, at least, politics is a great passion," Sangiorgio 
 ventured to say. 
 
 "Great? Perhaps, but I do not think so. When poli-
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 193 
 
 tics takes possession of a man, it weighs him down with 
 petty ambitions, unworthy pride, degrading compro- 
 mises. There are three hundred men in this hall ; all are 
 intelligent and educated, all have moral and physical 
 courage, all have clean consciences and upright charac- 
 ters. Well, these three hundred brains, these three hun- 
 dred wills, these three hundred intelligences what is 
 the ambition of each one, without exception?" 
 
 "To be a Minister." 
 
 "Yes, to be a Minister, at no matter what cost. Must 
 not the human mind become miserably atrophied through 
 incessant dwelling on that one implacable desire? Can 
 man, capable as he is of working miracles in science and 
 in art, ever produce anything good and wholesome in 
 this vitiated atmosphere?" 
 
 "You are right," he said. 
 
 "To invent something that increases the happiness of 
 mankind is not that better worth while than to be able 
 to bring about the fall of a cabinet? To carve a statue, 
 paint a picture, write a book is not that better than to 
 form a ministry?" 
 
 "Yes, that is true," he admitted again. 
 
 "And as to courage, do you believe that a man can 
 preserve it, with all its vigor and strength, in this place, 
 where everything is summed up in a wordy speech, and 
 where all noble initiative is lost in twenty-five sessions 
 and in fourteen committee-meetings? Too many words, 
 too many words, Signor!" 
 
 "But we all fought when we were needed." 
 
 "Yes," she replied, thoughtfully. "Yes once! I can 
 
 13
 
 194 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 comprehend the heroism of the battlefield and of con- 
 spiracies, but parliamentary heroism does not impress 
 me." 
 
 They were silent a moment. A little flame of color 
 had crept into Angelica's fair cheeks; her impulsive 
 words floated in Sangiorgio's brain and impressed them- 
 selves there as if sealed with wax upon paper. 
 
 "Then there is conscience," she pursued, wishing to 
 free her mind. "How can it remain pure among so many 
 lies? How can it stand firm, invulnerable, when the 
 surest path to success is to render oneself pliable?" 
 
 "True, true!" murmured her listener. 
 
 "Yes, truly, politics is a great passion ! All women in 
 my situation know something of that, alas! That pas- 
 sion, once it obtains possession of a man's heart, reigns 
 there as absolute mistress, driving out everything else. 
 If we live in the country, the man abandons us for nine 
 months out of every year, without a thought of the 
 youth, the beauty, or the loneliness of the wife he leaves 
 behind him. If we come to Rome, it is still worse ; the 
 house becomes a miniature Parliament, where conspira- 
 cies are hatched if we are not in power, and means of 
 defence are prepared if we are Ministers. No more 
 friends : nothing but allies, toadies, office-seekers, rivals ! 
 We do not ask for their friendship: what we want is 
 their votes. If a man says, 'Yes,' he is our friend ; if he 
 says 'No,' he is a traitor. All privacy is lost spoiled 
 by a throng of strangers, who turn the home into a 
 street, a square, a public thoroughfare. Confidence dis- 
 appears ; the husband is nervous, restless, irritable, but
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 195 
 
 does not talk of his worries, because he despises feminine 
 advice. At the table, he opens telegrams or reads news- 
 papers. At a ball, the wife sits by herself, because the 
 husband must represent the Government, talk with in- 
 fluential deputies, bow to the wives of party leaders. 
 We must choose between the terrible solitary life in the 
 country, where one lives for long months like an aban- 
 doned wife, and the noisy life of the city, without a 
 breath of poetry, or one smile of the ideal. A great pas- 
 sion, yes! but also a furious, absorbing, destroying pas- 
 sion, which terrifies and disgusts!" 
 
 Again silence fell between them. Down on the floor 
 Silvio Vargas was speaking in a strident voice, his hands 
 in his pockets, bending his thin body slightly forward, 
 and looking at the man he interrogated with an expres- 
 sion of biting scorn, irritating in the extreme. 
 
 "A great passion, a great passion!" murmured Angel- 
 ica. "But we women understand only one!" 
 
 "And that is" 
 
 "Love!" 
 
 "True!" Sangiorgio replied.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 THE QUIRINAL BALL 
 
 E shall dine alone this evening," said Sil- 
 vio Vargas to Sangiorgio, as they sat down 
 at the table. 
 The Minister's secretary joined them, but 
 the hostess's place was vacant. In the center of the fam- 
 ily dining-table stood a cluster of red lilies in a crystal 
 vase, and Sangiorgio's eyes wandered continually from 
 these gorgeous red flowers to the vacant chair. 
 
 The deputy and the Minister talked briskly, without 
 paying much attention to what was set before them, Sil- 
 vio cutting his food nervously while he expounded his 
 views on the Communal and Provincial Law; Sangior- 
 gio listening, replying, making objections, and forgetting 
 his dinner completely, for his thoughts were not con- 
 fined within the bright, warm little dining-room; they 
 strayed to a sacred place, behind closed doors to the 
 dressing-room of Angelica Vargas. 
 
 Only the secretary did full justice to the dinner; he 
 appreciated all the delicacies, without for a moment re- 
 laxing in respectful attention to his chief. Now and 
 then he nodded approval of the Minister's remarks, or 
 frowned slightly at some criticism from the deputy. 
 
 The repast proceeded, while at intervals a servant 
 brought in a letter, a telegram, or a fresh relay of plates. 
 
 196
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 197 
 
 Vargas read the letters, opened the telegrams, but hardly 
 looked at the dishes offered him. 
 
 Near him stood a small table, on which were an ink- 
 stand, a pen, telegraph blanks, and letter paper. He 
 said that he must answer these communications at once, 
 and proceeded to write, pushing away his plate and 
 handing a marked newspaper to his secretary, who read 
 the interesting paragraph with the wise air of an old 
 diplomatist. 
 
 Sangiorgio tried in vain to catch some sound coming 
 from Angelica's private apartments; but no maid came 
 out or went in, no bell sounded and there was no move- 
 ment of any kind to denote that a beautiful woman was 
 dressing for a royal ball! 
 
 A burning desire to know and to hear something con- 
 sumed Sangiorgio, who was growing nervous and im- 
 patient in the heat of the dining-room, where he was 
 compelled to listen to the eternal political talk; the de- 
 sire sprang from the sight of that empty chair, pushed 
 back as if its late occupant had only just left it, and 
 those deep-hued lilies, the flaming flowers of passion. 
 
 If she would only enter the room for a moment to 
 greet her husband and his guest ! If she would only let 
 him behold her in the radiance of her youth and beauty ! 
 Every time the door opened, Sangiorgio started, closed 
 his eyes for an instant, expecting to open them on a 
 vision of grace and splendor; but the door opened only 
 to bring another telegram, another letter, a special mes- 
 senger; and once Silvio drew from his pocket a secret 
 cipher, with which to translate an official despatch.
 
 198 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Where, then, was Angelica? On what perfumed breezes 
 had she disappeared? 
 
 Time passed, and nothing in the house suggested fes- 
 tive preparations; people came and went, the servants 
 appeared busy with their master's affairs, and the whole 
 place seemed like a public square, a stock exchange, a 
 political gathering-place. 
 
 Perhaps, in her private sanctuary, the girlish beauty 
 of Angelica was surrounded by the pleasing excitement 
 and disorder of preparation for a grand function: scat- 
 tered linen, silk stockings peeping out of half-open draw- 
 ers, unstoppered flasks, light flounces sweeping the 
 floor. But of all this intoxicating feminine disorder not 
 a breath escaped to the outer apartment. 
 
 Yet Sangiorgio felt his whole being penetrated with 
 a strange charm ; he was struck by the contrast between 
 the dreary, dry details of the Minister's life and the 
 poetic sweetness of that feminine toilet. A tender agita- 
 tion stirred his heart and his senses. 
 
 At last, at ten o'clock, doors outside opened and shut; 
 a voice spoke, in very low tones, and Sangiorgio, his 
 mind filled with the one great desire, believed that now 
 she must surely come. But no one appeared, and after 
 a moment there was a sound of wheels rolling over the 
 pavement under the windows. 
 
 "My wife has gone to the Quirinal," said Vargas, 
 placidly, opening a copy of La Riforma, which had just 
 been handed to him. "Shall you go, too, Sangiorgio?" 
 
 "Yes later," Sangiorgio replied, very pale. 
 
 In the white glare of the electric lights that illumin-
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 199 
 
 ated the grand staircase of the Quirinal, the women filed 
 slowly upward, placing only the tips of their little satin 
 slippers on each step, and doing their best to display in 
 the brilliant light their flowing trains, their feathered, 
 flowery, or bejeweled coiffures. They cast only a pass- 
 ing glance at the great green shrubs, and the statues of 
 the Muses surrounded by waving palms that showed 
 dark and graceful against the white stuccoed walls. 
 
 These fair ones did not smile or laugh, so that the per- 
 fect serenity of their countenances might be preserved. 
 They mounted the stairs slowly, that they might not 
 feel the heat, as they did not wish to spoil their beauty 
 with a complexion too flushed or too pale. They looked 
 like animated statues in the great tapestried apartment 
 that had been transformed into a dressing-room, as they 
 untied ribbons and took off scarfs and mantles. With 
 the utmost deliberation, they smoothed the folds of their 
 long suede gloves, and readjusted the short sleeves of 
 their bodices, while impatient husbands, fathers, and 
 brothers waited without, to offer their arms to the leis- 
 urely ladies. 
 
 The passage through the two long outer rooms was 
 also performed in silence, although those ruby lips were 
 beginning to part with the regulation society simper; 
 but on entering the great ballroom, and receiving from 
 the master of the ceremonies a dance-programme and a 
 bouquet, their faces became wreathed in sweetest smiles, 
 and the escort of husbands, fathers, and brothers was 
 abandoned with small ceremony. 
 
 There was a great sparkling of jewels. On three rows
 
 200 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 of benches covered with red cloth, sat three hundred 
 women, adorned with precious stones. A few heads, 
 more modestly arrayed than others, threw out a single 
 ray of light at each movement ; but when some of those 
 statuesque shoulders moved, there was a shower of 
 sparks, dazzling and beautiful. 
 
 The women sat close, and their rich draperies seemed 
 blended one with another; materials and colors were 
 mingled in a radiant mass; and one obtained only 
 glimpses of some brilliant bodice, a fluffy shoulder- 
 sleeve, a flower, a rosette. But the radiance that out- 
 shone everything glistening satins, delicate laces, trans- 
 parent gauzes, the richness of raven tresses, the glory of 
 golden curls, the snow-white gloves, the swelling throats, 
 rounded arms and bosoms came from magnificent jew- 
 els, a blinding, bewildering array. They set off the 
 varied feminine charms with magical beauty; here they 
 shone on shoulders almost anaemic in their whiteness; 
 there they sparkled on a pearly skin, polished, without 
 shadow or transparency; they undulated on flesh that 
 had a pinkish tinge, as if silver-white tissue lay upon rose- 
 tinted silk; and again they lent brightness to a smooth, 
 even surface, indicative of a calm and moderate temper- 
 ament; elsewhere was a gleam upon a velvety texture, 
 to which heat or emotion gave a warm flush; and here, 
 there, and everywhere they cast a superb radiance over 
 an unparalleled array of feminine beauty, rich and glow- 
 ing as ripe fruit. 
 
 All these charms blossomed forth from the low-cut, 
 short-sleeved bodices, with the appearance of the luxu-
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 201 
 
 riousness and spontaneity of tropical flowers; this un- 
 veiled beauty, three hundred times repeated, took on an 
 effect of general loveliness, like the splendor of a great 
 garden; all personalities disappeared in the richness of 
 the general e'ffect. 
 
 Behind these benches, standing against the wall below 
 the balcony for the orchestra, was a solid black-and- 
 white hedge of men, each trying to discern some particu- 
 lar face among the glittering throng, but seeing only the 
 splendor of the diamonds, only Woman, of which three 
 hundred fair ones composed the radiant whole. 
 
 There was a sudden silence; the orchestra sounded 
 the first strains of the royal march : a loud, military call, 
 producing a strange effect in that brilliant ballroom. As 
 if moved by a single impulse, the three hundred women 
 arose with a tremendous rustling of silk and satin, and 
 stood, smiling, their eyes fixed on the doors at the end 
 of the room; the suspense seemed interminable. 
 
 Then at the doors appeared a dazzling vision, and as 
 the Queen entered, all white and sparkling, bowing to 
 right and left with enchanting grace, the ranks of jew- 
 eled women bent low in profound reverence. The eter- 
 nal feminine in one received homage from the eternal 
 feminine in multiplicity. The men looked on in admira- 
 tion. 
 
 Standing on tiptoe, Francesco Sangiorgio tried to dis- 
 cover the lady of his heart. He stood among a group of 
 deputies : the Honorable Sangarzia, who waited patiently 
 for an opportunity to leave; the Honorable San Deme- 
 trio, who combined gallantry with diplomacy.
 
 202 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 The sight of so many women standing in rows, inhal- 
 ing the fragrance of their bouquets, and smiling as they 
 watched the royal quadrille, bewildered Sangiorgio; he 
 recognized no one. Never had he seen such an assem- 
 blage, such a gathering of beauty and luxury. He closed 
 his eyes, dazzled; then, reopening them, he tried once 
 more to distinguish the most beautiful woman for him, 
 the only woman. 
 
 Suddenly he espied her, while her gracious Majesty 
 was dancing with the stout German Ambassador, her 
 long purple velvet court train floating behind her like 
 the tail of a comet, and her royal diadem scattering 
 multi-colored fires. 
 
 Angelica was leaning on the arm of an elderly diplo- 
 matist, with dark complexion and reddish-brown beard; 
 she formed part of the royal quadrille, facing the fair, 
 blonde wife of the Swedish Ambassador. 
 
 Angelica danced with the harmonious movement that 
 was one of her greatest charms ; her white brocade gown, 
 striped with silver, fell in rich folds around her; her 
 girlish, graceful bust rose from a bodice modestly 
 decollete, and was covered with filmy tulle. A necklace of 
 pearls, no whiter than her skin, encircled her throat, and 
 a diamond cross sparkled on her breast. Her chestnut 
 hair was ornamented with diamond stars, placed irregu- 
 larly, as real stars shine against the dark background of 
 the night sky. 
 
 And the keen eye of the lover perceived, at one corner 
 of her bodice, nestling in a rosette of tulle, a cluster of 
 lilies-of-the-valley, a modest bouquet placed there for
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 203 
 
 the sake of their perfume and poetic suggestion, where 
 they caught the eye of the devoted Sangiorgio. 
 
 In the midst of all this beauty, simple and modest, pro- 
 voking and superb, gracious and delicate, Angelica was 
 the image of dreamy and candid beauty; she was the 
 type of chastity, in her white and silver gown, simple 
 yet rich, the folds of which looked like those of a marble 
 statue; her appropriate bodice, just concealing that fas- 
 cinating, almost provoking, place where the feminine 
 shoulder melts into the arm; her white gloves reaching 
 to the elbows without a wrinkle. She wore no brace- 
 lets, but a single diamond shone in each ear. Her eyes 
 beamed with a soft light as they rested on the scene 
 around her; her transparent skin had the freshness of a 
 child's; her cameo-like profile showed a touch of pink at 
 the nostrils; the mobile lips were of the sweetest crim- 
 son; her whole expression was one of gentle peace, like 
 that of a woman without hope and without desire a 
 kind of aureole, wholly spiritual, seemed to envelop her. 
 
 As he looked at that exquisite face, Sangiorgio felt its 
 suggestion of sweetness and purity like a refreshing 
 breath ; it fell on his spirit like a benediction, an innocent 
 caress, the kiss of a child, or a sister's embrace. It 
 calmed his nerves and his excited brain; all desire van- 
 ished in a flood of infinite tenderness; this charming 
 being was indeed for him the celestial Beatrice. 
 
 Seated in the great royal chair, the Queen leaned over 
 a little to talk to Donna Clara Tasca, who sat beside her 
 on a stool, which was her privilege as the wife of a Che- 
 valier of the Annunciation. The little Sicilian, with
 
 204 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 large, spirituelle eyes under her slightly gray hair, and 
 animated face, responded vivaciously, showing respect- 
 ful interest when she listened. 
 
 The other ladies of the great world political or diplo- 
 matic stood in groups, chatting among themselves, 
 while attentively observing the Queen's every move- 
 ment. They did not dance nor accept any invitations, 
 but waited their turn to speak to her Majesty. Every 
 one of them, in spite of rank, name, and power, was 
 ambitious to obtain that one moment of supreme favor 
 granted in the presence of two thousand spectators. 
 They forgot their hopes, their desires, their interests, 
 jealousies, hatreds, for the hope of a few unimportant 
 words uttered before an envious public. Only the young 
 girls, who could not as yet aspire to that honor, came 
 to the ball to amuse themselves, to flirt, to show off 
 their youth and beauty, and were now waltzing in the 
 great ballroom, in clouds of pink, blue, and white tulle. 
 The men came and went, stopped, chatted, and laughed 
 among themselves. 
 
 As soon as the royal quadrille was ended, Sangiorgio 
 made his way through a crush of silken skirts, and stop- 
 ped at twenty paces from Angelica, who was talking 
 with the deputy from Carimate, a noble lord not free 
 from a suspicion of socialism. She appeared absorbed, 
 but now and then her eyes rested on. the fair face of the 
 Queen. 
 
 The royal lady had risen, and a flutter stirred the 
 groups of women; all heads were turned toward her;
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 205 
 
 all hearts beat faster ; they breathed more quickly, some 
 were silent, others talked, but in an absent way. 
 
 The Queen was surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting: 
 two Americans, married to two Roman Princes, blond, 
 sympathetic, and elegant; Donna Vittoria Colonna, with 
 brilliant dark eyes; Donna Lavinia de Sora, pale and 
 pensive; the Countess de Genzano, slender and golden- 
 haired; the Princess Seraphita, with an angelic type of 
 face, and dressed in white, with a simple bunch of vio- 
 lets; the Princess Lalla, perenially youthful, with her 
 profile like a head on an old coin; and finally, the 
 Duchess Paola, first lady-in-waiting, a happy mother, 
 whose daughters were dancing in the ballroom. 
 
 Patiently the women smoothed their long gloves, 
 folded and unfolded their feather fans, toyed with their 
 bouquets, examined the dance-programmes for the hun- 
 dredth time, as if they never had seen one before. 
 
 Now, by a slight maneuvering, Sangiorgio managed to 
 reach Angelica's side, and murmured: 
 
 "Good evening!*' 
 
 "Good evening!" she replied softly, with the expres- 
 sive tone peculiar to her. 
 
 She turned toward him a little, asking him whether 
 her husband had arrived, while he gazed at her with 
 eyes so full of tenderness that a slight flush rose to her 
 cheeks. 
 
 The Queen was speaking in French to the wife of the 
 French Ambassador, a thin, dark little woman. The 
 King talked to Signora Luisa Catalani, arrayed in black 
 satin with a long blue feather in her blond hair.
 
 206 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Another quadrille opened, with a great spreading of 
 trains ; the ladies that found themselves near their Majes- 
 ties danced sidewise, in order not to turn their backs on 
 royalty; they moved with measured pace and downcast 
 eyes. 
 
 "Do you not dance?" asked Sangiorgio. 
 
 "No, the Government does not dance this time!" An- 
 gelica replied coolly. "Later, if you like, we will have 
 a turn." 
 
 "Later?" 
 
 "Yes, later." 
 
 At first he did not understand, so absorbed was he in 
 gazing at her he loved. He comprehended nothing of 
 the fever of feminine ambitions that possessed everyone 
 near him. He was aware, however, that there was a 
 great fluttering among the ladies; the groups grew 
 larger, each woman impatiently awaiting the enchanting 
 moment. 
 
 The Queen was now sitting in a window recess, and 
 only her train and the flashing clasp of her necklace were 
 visible, while she talked with Donna Lidia, the Prime 
 Minister's wife, a good and charming woman who left 
 the privacy of her home life only to appear at the more 
 important official functions. 
 
 "That is Donna Lidia the Queen is talking with 
 Ponna Lidia!" murmured the crowd. The conversation 
 lasted five minutes, and, by an irresistible attraction, 
 the eyes of all the guests were fixed upon the royal 
 lady, following her slightest movement. Would she 
 turn to the right or the left when she rose?
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 207 
 
 In the ballroom the couples that had danced the quad- 
 rille were promenading slowly; invitations were tendered 
 for the next polka ; the young men scribbled their names 
 on the dance-programmes; the ladies who were stran- 
 gers, or elderly, occupied the last row of benches, with 
 the self-satisfied air of persons who allow themselves to 
 be bored, stately and motionless in their rich laces and 
 jewels; those who had already had the honor of a royal 
 word, circulated about the rooms, rosy and smiling, with 
 triumphant glances, repeating to everyone that would 
 listen the gracious remarks vouchsafed to them, and pay- 
 ing no attention to the annoyance of those who were still 
 waiting and trying to conceal their impatience. The 
 King stood near the wife of Italy's great patriot a beau- 
 tiful brunette, dressed in palest azure. 
 
 "I hoped to see you at dinner," said Sangiorgio, as 
 bluntly as a young collegian. 
 
 "Indeed!" replied Angelica vaguely. 
 
 Then she abruptly turned her back on him. A path- 
 way opened in the throng in front of them, and in the 
 wide space, between two rows of admiring subjects, the 
 beautiful sovereign advanced majestically, her shimmer- 
 ing costume emitting a tremulous light like the radiance 
 of a star. She approached Angelica. Sangiorgio stepped 
 back, intimidated, admiring this perfect pair: the simple, 
 serene woman, the royal, smiling woman all that could 
 be imagined of the power of the sex. 
 
 Later, Sangiorgio and Angelica went from room to 
 room, slowly, stopped frequently by the long, sweeping 
 trains that crossed their path. In the large ballroom the
 
 208 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 young girls, and the wives of secretaries and private gen- 
 tlemen, were enjoying the pleasures of the dance; the 
 orchestra played lively music by Metra and Fahrbach. 
 The aristocracy promenaded, sat on the sofas, talked 
 among themselves, holding aloof from the larger throng. 
 The British Ambassadress and her daughter the latter 
 like a Botticelli Madonna held court in the Blue Room, 
 surrounded by diplomatists. They spoke to Angelica in 
 English. Sangiorgio did not understand wfiat she said 
 in reply, but the strange tongue sounded like sweetest 
 music to him. The Countes? di Malgra, a pretty blonde 
 with bewitching eyes, propounded social paradoxes to 
 some young deputies of the Center; Signorina Maria 
 Gaston, the daughter of the Minister of the Navy, with 
 the face of a worldly little cherub, babbled nonsense to 
 several elderly admirals; and Signora Giulia Greuze, the 
 witty Belgian, laughed under the shade of a tall shrub, 
 showing her beautiful teeth. 
 
 Angelica, leaning on the arm of her escort, walked 
 about, exchanging smiles and bows with the wives of 
 the deputies: the little Marchesa di Santa Marta, her 
 head as woolly as a sheep; the Marchesa di Corvisea, 
 always in her red toilet, with the prettiest little feet in 
 the Italian political world; the gentle Marchesa Cos- 
 tanga, with her languid air; and the two daughters of 
 the Minister of Justice, blond and dreamy. 
 
 The Signora Clara Tasca had stayed only half an hour, 
 but she had chatted with all the ministers, the influential 
 men, the deputies, and had had a private talk with the 
 Queen; she departed with her husband, whose political
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 209 
 
 fortune she would have made, had he been less nebulous, 
 less vague, less virtuous. 
 
 Angelica spoke little, but her escort was enraptured to 
 feel upon his arm that little hand, to be able to study 
 the pearls on her white neck, and be touched by the folds 
 of her gown. She was looking for her husband, without 
 embarrassment or affectation, but with some anxiety. 
 
 At last he appeared, talking with a deputy of the Op- 
 position. He approached his wife, bent down to her 
 without looking at her, or even appearing to notice who 
 accompanied her, and said in a low tone: 
 
 "And her Majesty?" 
 
 "Very amiable," she replied, looking down. 
 
 "More so than usual?" 
 
 "I do not know I believe it seems to me" 
 
 "Well, are you sure yes or no?" said Vargas severely. 
 
 "I am certain yes, I think so," she hastened to an- 
 swer. 
 
 He turned away; Angelica was pale and disturbed. 
 
 "Would you like to sit down?" murmured Sangiorgio 
 tenderly. 
 
 "No, no! Let us walk!" 
 
 They went into a refreshment-room, where there was a 
 great display of pastries, cakes, and bonbons, and a 
 crowd of women nibbling at the sweetmeats and chatting 
 with their escorts. 
 
 "I want nothing, thank you," Angelica murmured, as 
 Sangiorgio led her toward the tables. 
 
 She tried to forget her chagrin, and talked a moment 
 
 14
 
 210 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 to the wife of the Secretary-General, but she could not 
 recover her calmness. 
 
 "Would you like to go home?" Sangiorgio inquired. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" she exclaimed quickly. 
 
 They resumed their search for Silvio; again traversed 
 the Red Room, the Blue Room, the ballroom, the corri- 
 dors; at last they found Vargas holding a conference 
 with the British Ambassador. Angelica was about to 
 speak to him, but he gave her a significant glance, for- 
 bidding her to interrupt him. She blushed, bowed, and 
 withdrew quickly with her escort. 
 
 "Do you not dance?" she asked Sangiorgio, smiling. 
 "You are much too serious. Of what are you thinking? 
 Not of politics, I hope." 
 
 "Ah, no!" 
 
 "Do not think of politics, I beg," she said, leaning on 
 his arm. "Are you in love, by chance?" 
 
 "Yes," he replied immediately. 
 
 She was silent, fearing she had said too much. Then 
 she spoke of other matters of the ball, the tapestries, 
 the heat, the Queen in a soft, tired voice. It was two 
 o'clock in the morning, and the ball was at its gayest; 
 forty couples were waltzing, and throughout the apart- 
 ments was a tumultuous sea of flowing skirts, tossing 
 curls, feminine shoulders, and brilliant eyes. 
 
 Silvio's secretary approached Angelica, saying, with an 
 air of self-effacement: 
 
 "His Excellency is compelled to go at once to the 
 Cabinet room, because of an important telegram. He 
 instructed me to inform you of his sudden departure,"
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 211 
 
 He waited, humbly, but with the air of one who feels 
 himself indispensable, for her orders to accompany her 
 home. 
 
 "Very well," she replied, dismissing him with a look. 
 
 Sangiorgio silently escorted her to the dressing-room, 
 where, under the eyes of mute and almost automatic 
 footmen, he assisted her to put on her heavy, ermine- 
 lined white satin cloak. Without explanation, without 
 a word, she took his arm, and quietly descended the 
 grand staircase, preceded by a footman. 
 
 When they reached her carriage, she gracefully 
 gathered up her train and entered it. She did not hold 
 out her hand nor say "Good night," so Sangiorgio step- 
 ped into the carriage after her, in a natural way. 
 
 They drove away in silence; her silvery robe swept 
 over Sangiorgio's knees, and he caught the perfume of 
 the lilies-of-the-valley. Her hands were clasped, one 
 was gloved, the other bare, showing a diamond that 
 twinkled like a star. And, in the shadow of the carriage, 
 which descended the Quirinal hill at a slow pace and 
 went on its way through old Rome, Sangiorgio looked at 
 that pale, delicate face, and those clasped hands, which 
 seemed inert from great fatigue. Motionless, silent, in 
 a kind of ecstasy, he felt the joy of these fleeting mo- 
 ments, and reveled in the bliss of heart and soul. Life 
 seemed to him like a broad, tranquil river that flows to 
 meet the sea, through a smiling landscape, under glorious 
 sunlight, singing its song in the midst of flowers. Never 
 had he been so happy, and his happiness was without 
 alloy.
 
 212 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Now and then Angelica turned her eyes upon him. 
 Nestling in her corner, in one of her graceful poses, she 
 allowed herself to rest, with no exaggeration of either 
 formality or abandon; she did not sleep, for her eyes 
 often met those of the lover beside her; but her features 
 were softened, giving her a sweeter expression; she 
 looked like a young girl, almost a child, in her milk-white 
 mantle, without formal cut, like the virginal vestments 
 of a schoolgirl, and her sparkling jewels were like little 
 stars scattered in her hair. No secret flame lighted 
 those dark eyes, full of a maiden-like peace and purity; 
 no smile curved those chaste lips. She, too, remained 
 motionless, her face reserved, impenetrable, a clear oval 
 in the obscurity of the carriage. 
 
 What was passing beneath that inflexible mask? Did 
 it conceal ardent dreams, sad thoughts, warm desires? 
 Did that heart ever throb violently, or was it steeped in 
 perpetual repose? Perhaps she was like one of those 
 great cold lakes that no tempest can disturb. Angelica 
 remained enveloped in the mystery of her serenity. 
 
 But between those two beings she chaste, calm, and 
 religious, he plunged in the abyss of divine emotion 
 glided a third Love !
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 THE ROMAN CARNIVAL 
 
 had Sangiorgio emerged from the Via 
 Babuino into the Piazza del Popolo, when he 
 felt a handful of confetti thrown into the neck 
 of his coat, though he did not know whence it 
 came. A faded bouquet, muddy and malodorous, struck 
 his cheek; a rabble of boys shouted street slang at him. 
 A dark crowd, tumultuous, shouting, excited, pressed 
 around the great fountain, under a shower of confetti 
 thrown by all that approached on foot, and from the 
 large wooden balconies extending along the Corso as 
 far as the fountain. 
 
 The brightness of a perfect spring day exhilarated 
 everyone's spirits, and covered the square with a glitter- 
 ing mantle of sunshine and dust. 
 
 Sangiorgio was obliged to elbow his way through the 
 noisy mob, and felt somewhat irritated at the brutality 
 of their wild sport. 
 
 The people were massed before the two gates of the 
 Pincio, and climbed to the top of the iron grating; but, 
 though the gates were open, no one wished to go into 
 the shaded walks of the park. 
 
 The deputy made his way with difficulty, step by step, 
 against the current, alternately pale and red with vexa- 
 tion, restraining himself from striking the men that 
 
 213
 
 214 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 pushed and hustled him. The great difficulty was to 
 reach the gardens ; the entrances were blocked, and every 
 inch of space was co crowded that it was impossible to 
 pass. What did this man mean by trying to get into the 
 park, when everyone in the city had turned out for the 
 carnival, from the Piazza Venezia to the Piazza del 
 Popolo? The crowd could not understand such a foolish 
 desire, and refused to make way for him. 
 Finally he shouted, in exasperation: 
 "Let me pass! I wish to enter the Pincio!" 
 At last he succeeded in passing within the gates, and 
 uttered a sigh of relief. He walked at once toward the 
 green avenues, and soon found himself beneath the grace- 
 ful elm-trees dressed in the fresh verdure of early spring- 
 time. 
 
 Not a pedestrian was to be seen in those deserted ave- 
 nues, not a woman, nor a child; everyone was in the 
 Corso, in the streets, at doors and windows, on the bal- 
 conies, in carriages all intoxicated with the mad frolic 
 of the carnival. 
 
 Sangiorgio at once felt calmed and soothed in the 
 midst of this deep peace. Occasionally faint bursts of 
 merriment from the distant revelry came to his ears, but 
 as he went farther and farther into the park, all sounds 
 died away, though, as he wended his way along the 
 parapet that commands a view of the Piazza del Popolo, 
 he could still distinguish the confused movement of a 
 black mass of people, under a cloud of dust and con- 
 fetti a low-hanging cloud, like those that lie upon the 
 marshes.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 215 
 
 An old man, plainly dressed, sat on a bench in the 
 middle of the great esplanade that overlooks Rome, St. 
 Peter's, Monte Mario, and the Roman Campagna. His 
 staff had fallen to the ground, the sun shone full in his 
 face, and he sat with closed eyes, stupefied with the heat, 
 with fatigue and old age. Leaning against the parapet, 
 a priest stood gazing at the panorama a small black 
 spot in face of the immense black area of the great city, 
 now bathed in golden light. Sangiorgio approached the 
 priest, who was young, thin, and pale; his face was 
 slightly marked with the scars of smallpox; at intervals 
 he read attentively in his breviary, a thick book bound 
 in black, with yellowed leaves. 
 
 Sangiorgio went on his way, feeling quite safe. The 
 lawns frequented by nurses and children, teachers, 
 and tired housewives, were abandoned; the band-stand 
 appeared to have been deserted for years; on the play- 
 ground the skipping-ropes, the elastic balls, and the 
 hoops, hung neglected; the red and blue wooden horses 
 were motionless, and the merry-go-round stood still. No 
 kind hand threw crumbs to the beautiful white swan that 
 swam slowly around the little lake, bending its neck like 
 a woman fatigued and ill; under the plane-trees, the 
 marble statue of Mercury, its cheeks moulded by many 
 rains, seemed to have slept for centuries. 
 
 On other days, the air was filled with children's cries 
 and laughter, merry shouts and maternal warnings ; but 
 to-day all was silent, and the usual visitors of this shady 
 spot were now a part of the noisy throng in the city 
 streets.
 
 216 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Sangiorgio felt very happy in the depth of this se- 
 cluded place, where everything breathed of springtime. 
 Occasionally he cast a regretful glance at the deep woods 
 surrounding the Villa Borghese, a most propitious re- 
 treat for timid lovers; but of course she never would 
 dare to cross the Piazza del Popolo in the face of such 
 a mob as it contained that day. 
 
 He waited an hour without any impatience, ignorant 
 as yet of the torments of uncertainty, having full confi- 
 dence in feminine promises. 
 
 At last she came, passing along the avenue of the 
 Trinita dei Monti, having left her carriage in the Piazza 
 di Spagna. She wore a dark blue gown, with a little 
 lace veil over her face, and she walked with a light, 
 girlish step, without lifting her skirts, as if she were glid- 
 ing over the ground. 
 
 They saw each other from afar; Angelica lowered her 
 eyes and did not hasten her steps, nor did Sangiorgio 
 advance to meet her from the pillar against which he 
 leaned. He stood and watched her as she drew near, 
 admiring her in her dark gown and white veil. Was 
 she not a flower of springtime herself a human flower 
 blooming for him alone, his joy and delight? 
 
 When she reached him, they did not bow, nor shake 
 hands, nor even speak; they simply joined their steps, 
 walking side by side in the same direction for a moment 
 without looking at each other. 
 
 "Thank you!" said Sangiorgio at last. 
 
 "No, no!" she replied quickly. Then she glanced 
 around timidly, adding:
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 217 
 
 "Some one may observe us here," she said nervously. 
 
 "Fear nothing! No one is here." 
 
 "No one?" 
 
 "No one, because of the carnival." 
 
 "Oh, yes everyone is in the Corso. I too ought to 
 have gone there." 
 
 They approached the parapet, where they could dis- 
 cern the eddying of the human sea in the Piazza del 
 Popolo. Sangiorgio felt a sudden pang; it was as if 
 this spectacle robbed him of some portion of his happi- 
 ness; that throng represented to his mind the obstacles, 
 difficulties, and trials of the future. 
 
 Angelica laid her little hand in its suede glove on the 
 balustrade, and gazed at that distant sea of heads, from 
 which rose a deep, continuous murmur like the rum- 
 bling of a volcano. 
 
 "How happy they are down there !" she murmured. 
 
 Sangiorgio waited a moment, feeling slightly impa- 
 tient. 
 
 "Come, let us walk to the other side of the park," he 
 said. 
 
 She turned her back to the city, and went with him 
 down a path at the left, seeming to be lost in a day- 
 dream. 
 
 "No, I can see no one anywhere," she said at last, in a 
 tone of relief. "It is fortunate that this happens to be 
 the day of the carnival. Everyone is crazy over it. 
 Would you not prefer to be down there, too?" 
 
 "How can you believe that?" said Sangiorgio, feeling 
 rather hurt.
 
 218 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "There are so many things in which I can no longer 
 believe," she replied, in a half whisper. 
 
 "You are so good, so sweet I do not know what to 
 say to you. Spare me, I beg!" said Sangiorgio, with 
 the humility of a Christian before a sacred image. 
 
 "I have something sad to say to you, my friend," said 
 Angelica, after a slight pause. Her sweet voice was full 
 of sympathy. 
 
 "Not to-day, not to-day! To-morrow some other 
 day!" 
 
 "Better to-day than to-morrow," Angelica replied, fix- 
 ing her soft eyes on the woods surrounding the Villa 
 Borghese. "You must have courage." 
 
 "No, I am not courageous I am a coward" 
 
 "But a man must have courage," she insisted, "in order 
 to live at peace with his own conscience." 
 
 She gave a slight shiver as they passed near the thick 
 shade of the Villa Medici. 
 
 "Conscience, conscience!" Sangiorgio exclaimed, taken 
 aback. "But what of love?" 
 
 "We must not love," she declared, as if passing sen- 
 tence. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because they will not allow us." 
 
 "Who will not allow us?" 
 
 "They!" she replied, pointing toward Rome, seething 
 with mad merriment. 
 
 "But you do not know them." 
 
 "They are my conscience, however. Deceit is hateful 
 to me."
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 219 
 
 "You do not know what it is to love !" said Francesco. 
 
 "Perhaps!" and she gazed long and fixedly at Monte 
 Mario. 
 
 "Come! Come!" Sangiorgio repeated, wishing to 
 draw her away from the sight of the people. 
 
 And, indeed, as she once more turned her back on the 
 panorama of Rome, her face softened and her thoughts 
 seemed to take a less mournful turn. The quiet sur- 
 roundings, the solitude, the first breath of spring, the 
 bright sunshine, the warm air, and the tender, reverent 
 gaze of the man beside her, gradually made her forget the 
 outside world, and remember only the springtime, the 
 season of love. 
 
 To Sangiorgio it seemed as if their two souls were 
 blended into one, in the midst of these flowers and trees, 
 these singing fountains, this exquisite spot, a nestling- 
 place on Nature's bosom. 
 
 But this sweet sensation vanished at the sight of 
 Rome, for, at the sound of the hard and menacing 
 voices of the crowd that floated up to their ears, he was 
 aware that Angelica hardened her heart, and strove to 
 be stern and inflexible 
 
 He used all his efforts to prevent her from returning 
 to the parapet, and the little platform that overlooked 
 the city, and finally led her some distance from it. 
 
 "One should not love too late," Angelica resumed. "It 
 is useless and it is painful. Where were you five years 
 ago?" 
 
 "Over there, in the Basilicata," he replied, with a 
 vague gesture.
 
 220 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "I was among the mountains and the snow. I be- 
 lieved that there were glaciers so huge that no one could 
 ever climb them. I married Silvio. He was good, and 
 I knew nothing about sunshine. And now the sun has 
 risen too late." 
 
 "Do not say that! Do not say it!" 
 
 "We must not turn the snow into mud, my friend." 
 
 Silence fell between them. Sangiorgio was as pale as 
 death. Angelica's eyes were filled with tears; deeply 
 moved, he gazed upon that sad and tearful face, but he 
 tried to hide his pain, not knowing what to say before 
 the grief of a woman. 
 
 "Life is hard for me," Angelica went on, in a faint 
 voice, as if overcome by her emotion. "I have no chil- 
 dren to warm my heart with motherly love ; I have only 
 an old man, whose heart is frozen, who loves only one 
 thing, one idea! Oh, if you only knew, my friend, what 
 I suffer in this eternal silence and solitude!" 
 
 "But why endure it at all?" 
 
 "Because I must!" she answered vaguely. 
 
 They walked again very slowly. She, as if greatly 
 fatigued, he, close upon her footsteps, seeing nothing, 
 hearing nothing, his whole being absorbed in the thought 
 of her. 
 
 The sun was setting brilliantly behind St. Peter's. 
 
 "It is over, my friend it is all over. It seems to me my 
 life is ended. The world sees my calm face, my perfect 
 serenity, and it must never see or know of anything else 
 it must never suspect the truth. But there is nothing 
 more in here for me."
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 221 
 
 She laid her hand over her heart an instant, without 
 comprehending how much she pained her companion by 
 her avowal of indifference. She had yielded to one of 
 those selfish and melancholy outbursts peculiar to self- 
 contained minds; she forgot Sangiorgio in pouring out 
 the bitterness of her young but disillusioned soul. 
 
 "But," murmured Sangiorgio, "you can have a firm, 
 pure friendship with one whose affection will stand any 
 proof, one who will devote himself to you until death. 
 Whatever you wish, he wishes ; his desire to please you, 
 humbly, secretly, knows no bound" 
 
 He stopped, because his throbbing heart made his 
 voice tremble and checked his speech. 
 
 "I thank you, my friend; I know it," she replied, a 
 sweet smile lighting up her face. 
 
 "You cannot know it, for I never have told you of it; 
 I never can tell you what I feel for you, for I express 
 myself so badly. But I assure you it is mingled with 
 the deepest devotion. Why reject it? Why renounce it?" 
 
 "Because it is too much like love, my friend !" 
 
 "I have not spoken to you of love." 
 
 "No, but I divined it." 
 
 "You must not divine it; you must not try to under- 
 stand it. I ask nothing but that you will allow me to 
 dedicate myself to you." 
 
 "Yes to-day; but to-morrow love will demand love." 
 
 "Who tells you so?" 
 
 "Alas! Experience, my friend." 
 
 "Experience lies, then!" exclaimed Sangiorgio. "My 
 love is like that of no other man."
 
 222 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Angelica bent her head, as if conquered, and Sangior- 
 gio repented his violence. 
 
 "Pardon me, Signora!" he said humbly; "the idea of 
 losing you is insupportable to me." 
 
 "But it must be. We must part; better now than 
 later, for then you would suffer more ; I should be more 
 to blame, and you would believe you had a right to be 
 angry with me. Now, there is still time to avoid all 
 that. We are nothing to each other. We have met 
 only four or five times" 
 
 "I have always known you." 
 
 "In the world of society" 
 
 "I wept with you when you wept that day in the 
 Pantheon !" 
 
 "In the midst of a frivolous crowd" 
 
 "One day I watched you a long time, while you were 
 at the Ponte Nomentana, and threw your rose-leaves into 
 the river. You were alone we were alone !" 
 
 "And among the conventional formalities of political 
 life" 
 
 "Ah, how beautiful you were that night of the Quirinal 
 ball! I went away when you left. I did not speak to 
 you, you said nothing to me, but how beautiful you 
 were!" 
 
 "It is a dream only a dream !" said Angelica, agitated 
 by his passionate phrases. "We must awake; we must 
 part!" 
 
 "That means death, then." 
 
 "Who speaks of death?" 
 
 He did not reply, but she understood his sad look.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 223 
 
 The sun had set, and long violet rays shot up from the 
 horizon against the clouds; a fresh breeze had sprung 
 up, driving away from the terrace the priest and the old 
 man. Shadows fell in the park; from the city streets 
 came an increased sound of cries and shouts. 
 
 Angelica took the path leading to the Trinita dei 
 Monti, and Sangiorgio kept pace beside her, bewildered, 
 abashed, without daring to speak, but longing to go with 
 her to the end of the world. At the great gates, she 
 turned to him, extending her hand. 
 
 "Good-by, my friend!" 
 
 "No, not that not good-by!" 
 
 "It is too late !" said the adored but glacial voice. 
 
 And Angelica was lost in the mists of twilight. 
 
 The moment had come to light the innumerable can- 
 dles, from the Piazza del Popolo to the Piazza di Vene- 
 zia. 
 
 There was a myriad of these bright points, these wan-< 
 dering flames and dancing sparks, in the streets, on the 
 balconies, at the windows. 
 
 Pandemonium reigned, amid the tossing of muddy 
 bouquets, a waving of handkerchiefs and rags, a flutter- 
 ing of fans, all kinds of jokes and pranks indulged in to 
 extinguish one another's candles; and when any one 
 cried out in resistance or attack, there was a new roar 
 of "Candles! Candles! Candles!" 
 
 Through this sea of lights, this bedlam of noise and 
 merriment, a sad being, racked with grief, made his 
 way, unconscious of being pushed and elbowed and 
 jostled.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 A FLOWER ON THE CURRENT 
 
 HREE times they had met on the great road, bor- 
 dered with elms and plane-trees, that runs be- 
 side the Tiber. Angelica would leave her 
 carriage before arriving at the Ponto Milvio, 
 sending her coachman away with orders to wait for her 
 at Saint Peter's ; then she would cross the bridge on foot 
 and walk a hundred paces or so, glancing hurriedly here 
 and there. 
 
 Sangiorgio was always waiting for her; he had been 
 waiting two hours, wild with impatience and longing to 
 see her, striding to and fro near the Albergo Morteo, 
 walking a few steps down the Via di Tor di Quinto, 
 turning back to go a short distance along the Flaminian 
 Way, then coming back again, casting vague glances in 
 all directions: at the willows drooping over the stream, 
 at the flowering almonds springing up behind the hedges 
 of the Farnesina; then from afar he would see her ap- 
 proaching, and the blood would rush to his pale cheeks. 
 He did not go to meet her, but waited to hear her 
 light footfall, affecting abstraction and unconcern. 
 
 She usually arrived after breaking three or four ap- 
 pointments with him, and was nearly always an hour 
 and a half late, but she never attempted to excuse her- 
 self, or to offer any apology for these vagaries; and 
 
 224
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 225 
 
 Sangiorgio met her without reproach or criticism, calmed 
 by her mere presence, rewarded by that instant of su- 
 preme joy for all his past anxiety. 
 
 They always felt a slight, strange embarrassment at the 
 moment of meeting; they knew not what to say, but 
 turned and strolled slowly beneath the branches of the 
 trees, she with her eyes cast down, a serious and preoc- 
 cupied air, and hands hidden in her muff ; he, stifled with 
 his emotion, twirling his extinguished cigar between his 
 fingers, abashed, happy, but speechless. 
 
 The beautiful Roman spring verdure was daily spread- 
 ing, from the cypress of the Monte Mario to the plane- 
 trees of the Monti Parioli, and the white hawthorn 
 bloomed everywhere. 
 
 Angelica's first words were usually sad and full of re- 
 gret; brief, significant words, which fell like lead on the 
 young man's heart. He remained humble and silent, not 
 knowing how to console this virtuous and pious woman, 
 whose conscience was so troubled with remorse. Then, 
 yielding to a natural compassion, she would moderate 
 her words of complaint, her repentance seemed more 
 vague, her anger softened. 
 
 "She suffers for me! Then she must love me!" said 
 Sangiorgio to himself in the madness of his passion. 
 
 But never had she spoken to him one word of love, 
 and never had he had sufficient boldness to ask for it. 
 A certain timidity and shamefacedness always restrained 
 him. Perhaps he feared the answer the calm and cruel 
 answer of a frank woman who did not love him. . 
 
 And so, in their singular intimacy, it came to be tacitly 
 
 16
 
 226 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 understood that his princess should dwell, aloof and in- 
 different, in her ivory tower, allowing him to love and 
 worship her without expecting any return. She was the 
 sacred image sometimes deigning to cast her gracious 
 glance upon the faithful one kneeling at her feet, receiv- 
 ing his blessings for her infinite kindness. 
 
 The silvery river wound its way under the trees on 
 its banks, and the air was filled with the sweet scent 
 of springtime. Sangiorgio finally dared to speak to An- 
 gelica of the feeling in his heart, beginning with short, 
 broken phrases of passion, telling her all that he had 
 thought and felt since their last meeting ; and the fire of 
 his glance made her tremble. 
 
 Gradually the sound of his own voice calmed him; 
 he recovered his self-possession and spoke in more nat- 
 ural tones; his ideas flowed more freely, and he went on 
 with so much simple eloquence and sincerity that An- 
 gelica, touched, regained her own serenity, and her 
 cheeks flushed like those of a young girl. 
 
 Sometimes she gathered green branches, great dark 
 poppies, clusters of white currants, transparent as lace, 
 or those red, poisonous berries, so brilliant, that grow by 
 the wayside; and Sangiorgio spoke to her of love while 
 she gathered all these, and suddenly appeared glad to 
 listen to him, sometimes offering him a flower from her 
 bouquet. He would hold it fast, seized with a strange 
 desire to bite it; one day he said he wished to eat the 
 scarlet berries, so bright and tempting to look at. 
 
 "Do you wish to die, then, my friend?" said Angelica, 
 half in jest and half in fear.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 227 
 
 This betrayal of concern for him was one of the sweet 
 thoughts that helped to cheer Sangiorgio's yearning 
 heart. 
 
 One day she stood on tiptoe to reach a branch of flow- 
 ering almond, in the blossoms of which she buried her 
 face with a deep breath. In Sangiorgio's eyes she her- 
 self seemed the very spirit of springtime. She gave 
 him the branch, and he laid it away with some withered 
 lilies-of-the-valley, a bit of cloth of one of her gowns, 
 begged for and granted as a great favor, and precious, 
 inestimable treasure! a little handkerchief, bordered 
 with fine old lace, which she had given to him one eve- 
 ning when he was in despair, after waiting three days 
 for her in vain. 
 
 These evidences of adoration did not displease her. 
 She would walk beside him, her eyes fixed afar off, on the 
 Castel Sant' Angelo, or on old Rome, where evening 
 lights began to appear ; and she listened quietly while her 
 lover poured his tender words into her ear, sometimes 
 nodding like a pleased child. 
 
 By the time they reached the end of their walk, each 
 felt calm and at peace with all the world; and they 
 went their separate ways, after a long leave-taking full 
 of tenderness. 
 
 One day she arrived at the rendezvous all trembling, 
 having just encountered the Honorable Giustini, the 
 sneering Tuscan, half-hunchbacked, half-lame, who 
 flaunted everywhere his dreary cynicism and his shat- 
 tered frame. 
 
 Her carriage had passed him rapidly, but Giustini had
 
 228 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 had time to recognize her and to salute her, with a look 
 of surprise. Her terror was so great that she kept look- 
 ing behind her, thinking that every peasant she saw was 
 Giustini, and looking at Sangiorgio with frightened eyes. 
 He tried in vain to reassure her, arguing that a pedes- 
 trian could not follow a swift-moving carriage, and that 
 the Flaminian Way was a public thoroughfare, where 
 her presence in her own carriage could not be regarded 
 as remarkable. 
 
 But he too felt that vague terror that sometimes seizes 
 upon lovers in their happiest moments, poisoning all the 
 sweetness of their joy. That day their minds could not 
 unite in their usual peaceful bliss, and Angelica summa- 
 rized her apprehensions by saying: 
 
 "Now Giustini is in the Chamber, and is telling every- 
 one, even my husband, that he met me on the Flaminian 
 Way." 
 
 In that painful hour Sangiorgio ventured to suggest 
 that the public highway was not a suitable or a safe 
 place for their meetings; they should seek the seclusion 
 of some house, between four walls, far removed from the 
 indiscreet and curious gaze of passers-by. He made this 
 suggestion with so much respectful feeling and such true 
 concern for her safety, that she could not force herself to 
 be angry at him. She answered with a simple No! 
 spoken slowly but firmly, without anger or faltering. 
 When he ventured to plead still further, she said quickly: 
 "Hush! Hush!" 
 
 He was silenced, and for the time he said no more. 
 But the fatal encounter with Giustini made him realize
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 229 
 
 fully the danger of these public meetings, under the pos- 
 sible gaze of the grinning waiters of the Morteo Caffe, 
 or the tax-gatherers at the Porta Angelica. 
 
 Two further meetings were fully as unpleasant; An- 
 gelica trembled at the sight of a cart or a soldier; the 
 small boats on the Tiber alarmed her; she fancied the 
 oarsmen recognized her and raised their oars to salute 
 her. 
 
 They could not talk quietly any more. When San- 
 giorgio attempted to speak of love, she would interrupt 
 him, look narrowly at the passers-by, lowering her head, 
 alternately blushing and paling, when an occasional car- 
 riage rolled along, and breathing rapidly after it had 
 passed. 
 
 One day a severe storm came up, about an hour before 
 the time appointed for their meeting. Sangiorgio took 
 refuge under the wide doorway of the Morteo Caffe, but, 
 unable to control his impatience, he ventured out in the 
 rain, trying to see whether Angelica was coming in the 
 distance. 
 
 He saw no one, and of course he knew she would not 
 come out in such abominable weather; nevertheless h? 
 waited, cherishing a secret hope in his heart. She did 
 not appear, and he returned to Rome at seven o'clock, 
 in an open tramcar, his feet on the damp floor, wet to 
 the skin, his heart aching with sadness and disappoint- 
 ment, and a touch of fever in his blood. 
 
 At the next meeting, he repeated his suggestion. She 
 still said No! but with less emphasis, less decision of 
 manner.
 
 230 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 It was late and the air was very cold. It was one of 
 those freezing days of January transported into April, 
 with a biting wind, a gray sky, a wet and soaking soil. 
 Angelica's only wrap was a little velvet cape which 
 barely covered her neck and shoulders, so that she was 
 soon chilled through. She held her handkerchief up to 
 her face. Sangiorgio, too, felt very cold in his thin 
 topcoat, but he did not speak of that, only saying; 
 
 "You are very cold, are you not?" 
 
 "Yes, yes!" she murmured. 
 
 "Oh, heavens!" he said helplessly, trying to think of 
 some means to bring her warmth and comfort. 
 
 They hastened their steps, but Angelica's thin shoes 
 and the edge of her skirt became damp and muddy. In- 
 stinctively he spoke again of the pleasure it would be 
 to have a warm room, a place as warm as her own bou- 
 doir in the Piazza dell' Apollinare, where they might sit 
 comfortably and talk before a good fire. For a moment 
 Angelica made no reply. 
 
 "Where?" she finally asked, after a significant silence. 
 
 "Somewhere over there," he replied, with a vague ges- 
 ture toward Rome. 
 
 They said no more. Night fell, dark and melancholy, 
 over x the deserted Campagna. Angelica felt so sad and 
 sojtimid that, for the first time, she slipped her hand 
 through the arm of her friend, who felt his heart throb 
 
 with gratitude at this favor. 
 
 
 Then three long days passed without a meeting. Sil- 
 vio Vargas told Sangiorgio at the Chamber that Angel- 
 ica was ill,
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 231 
 
 On the fourth evening he found her alone in her box 
 at the Apollo; she was pale and appeared ill. She 
 opened wide her large feather fan, and whispered to 
 him behind it that on her return from their last rendez- 
 vous, she had met the Honorable Oldofredi in the Piazza 
 San Pietro, and that he had stared her in the face with 
 a malicious grin. Oldofredi was well known to be vin- 
 dictive. 
 
 At last, blushing for shame, she confessed to a doubt 
 as to the good faith of her coachman and her maid; she 
 felt sure they were watching her. Then, seeing that her 
 friend looked hopelessly saddened and bewildered, she 
 added quickly: , 
 
 "I will go! I will go wherever you please!"
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 LOVE'S SANCTUARY 
 
 -HEN Sangiorgio returned to his lodgings in the 
 Via Angelo Custode, he felt a touch of fever 
 in his blood. The promise Angelica Vargas 
 had given him had turned his head and put 
 fire in his heart. 
 
 His sitting-room seemed cold and disagreeable, with 
 its damp, close odor, and he felt a shudder of disgust on 
 entering it. He extinguished the light, that he might 
 not see the sordid surroundings, and threw himself, still 
 dressed, on his bed, thinking of the place in which he 
 should receive the adored being. 
 
 His excited imagination could fix upon no exact idea; 
 his half-open eyes seemed to see a succession of warm, 
 fragrant rooms, with heavy curtains, and thick carpets 
 that deadened all footfalls; but he had no idea where 
 he was to find these rooms. Sometimes he decided that 
 they must be in the neighborhood of the Janiculum, or 
 in the Piazza di Spagna; again, he decided upon the Via 
 Sistina or the Piazza Navone. This indecision irritated 
 him. Where were the doors to these rooms the stair- 
 way, the windows? 
 
 He fancied he could see their walls covered with pale 
 pink silk, the rich hue of a velvet armchair, the metallic 
 scintillation of a Damascus blade, the delicate tracery of 
 
 232
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 233 
 
 a length of old yellow lace, but all was confused in his 
 mind, everything was seen as in a mental fog. 
 
 Where would Angelica sit when she arrived at this 
 mysterious house? Where would she rest her tired 
 feet? Where would she lean her arm? At times the 
 rooms seemed empty, without chairs, table, or divans 
 vast and empty as a desert. 
 
 His visions made him sigh deeply, as if in pain; a 
 nightmare-like constriction of the chest oppressed him, 
 and his head burned with fever. Lying thus on his bed, 
 in a sort of waking dream, his heart aching with love's 
 sweet pain, he feared to move, lest his blissful visions 
 should escape him, and Angelica's promise also. 
 
 Presently his dream changed and assumed various 
 phases, sometimes tragic and sometimes comic. He 
 imagined he had been waiting for Angelica a long, long 
 time, and that she never, never came. The white cur- 
 tains became yellow, then gray, with age; moths had 
 eaten the coverings, which hung in strips; the furni- 
 ture had become so old it no longer stood erect; in the 
 bottom of the flowerpot was a mass of ashes that once 
 had been flowers ; the walls reeked with dampness. And 
 he, the faithful lover, had become an old man, a cen- 
 tenarian, bent, half blind, and with a long white beard. 
 But she never, never came, and he continued to wait, 
 always patient, always lovelorn. At last a resonant 
 voice seemed to thunder thrice: Angelica is dead! 
 Angelica is dead! Angelica is dead! At the first cry, the 
 furniture crumbled into bits ; at the second, the old man 
 himself dropped dead, with arms outstretched and face
 
 234 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 upon the ground; at the third, the walls fell in, mak- 
 ing a tomb of the house that Angelica never had 
 deigned to visit. 
 
 Again, he would be possessed with a distracted fancy 
 that it was the day appointed for the first rendezvous in 
 the new apartment, and that he had totally forgotten 
 the hour agreed upon. Was it for two o'clock, three 
 o'clock, or four o'clock? He thought he rushed to Mon- 
 tecitorio at noon, so that he would be sure to finish in 
 time, -but the old Prime Minister stopped him in the cor- 
 ridor, and, stroking his white moustache, insisted upon 
 talking to him about the Basilicata, of the tax on salt, 
 the condition of the peasants, and a dozen things which 
 he hardly heard, in his absence of mind. 
 
 No sooner had he shaken off the Prime Minister than 
 he ran across Giustini, whose slight hump had enor- 
 mously increased, and who held him fast while he talked 
 about Rome that mysterious Rome which seemed to be 
 sleeping. 
 
 Time passed swiftly. Finally he escaped from the 
 Tuscan deputy and ran to the Piazza. Colonna, where he 
 heard a feminine voice calling to him from the window 
 of a closed carriage. He turned, and saw two large, 
 lustrous dark eyes, crimson lips, delicate hands the 
 glowing face of Elena Fiammanti, who had loved him. 
 She called: 
 
 "Come! Come with me! Dost thou remember our 
 first meeting at the Janiculum, on Christmas Day? Dost 
 thou remember the night of the masked ball, and the 
 moonlight in the Piazza di Spagna? Dost thou remem-
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 235 
 
 her the roses I left in thy room the kiss I gave thee 
 at the theater after the duel? Dost thou remember all 
 my kisses and all my love ? Then come with me ! I am 
 joy and happiness! Never will I cause thee tears or 
 suffering. Come! tell me all thy griefs, and I will com- 
 fort thee, but will not tell my own sorrows, lest I should 
 sadden thy heart." 
 
 But he bent his head, covered his ears, closed his eyes, 
 that he might not hear the voice of this temptress or 
 see her alluring face. He murmured "Angelica!" and 
 Elena vanished, with a reproachful glance. 
 
 Then he ran and ran, yet seemed to make no progress ; 
 carriages got in his way, friends stopped him, crowds 
 surrounded him, dogs ran past him and nearly tripped 
 his feet. He ran and ran, panting, leaping across 
 streams, crossing streets, losing his way. 
 
 Finally, flushed and breathless, he arrived at the right 
 house; but on the sidewalk in front of it he beheld the 
 Honorable Oldofredi pacing to and fro, as if on guard; 
 he gazed at Sangiorgio with a sardonic smile, ugly, hate- 
 ful, implacable. 
 
 The house was Number 62, Piazza di Spagna. In 
 front of it a flower-seller had established herself, with 
 her flat basket filled with pale violets, double roses, and 
 fragrant jonquils. 
 
 The stairway was dark ; three doors opened on the first 
 landing, which was also dim and mysterious; on the 
 middle door Sangiorgio's card was fastened by two pins. 
 
 Within was a small anteroom, in which Noci, the fa-
 
 236 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 mous upholsterer and decorator, had placed an old oaken 
 marriage-chest, delicately carved, on which was laid a 
 long cushion of red and yellow silk. Three or four chairs 
 and a table were disposed about the room. A bronze 
 lamp was suspended from the ceiling, which, as well as 
 the walls, was covered with painted canvas. 
 
 The drawing-room had a large window, giving a fine 
 view of the square; this room was large and light, and 
 full of sunshine; draperies of old rose and pale green 
 damask fell over creamy lace inside curtains, agreeably 
 softening the glare of light. 
 
 The walls were covered with light brown satin, and 
 were still further ornamented by Persian shawls and old 
 embroideries, artistically draped, and held in place by a 
 glittering brass shield, a silver scimitar, or fan-shaped 
 clusters of peacocks' feathers. 
 
 A fragrant sandal-wood rosary, such as Turkish 
 women love to run through their idle fingers, hung in 
 one corner; in another, a great white veil, studded with 
 silver spangles, was gracefully arranged. 
 
 But the most original decoration was a large square 
 piece of yellow damask, of the period of the Renaissance, 
 a kind of oriflamme, on which was appliqued a Latin 
 cross of black velvet. This strange ornament was in 
 striking contrast to its brown background. 
 
 There was no furniture of wood, not a table, even, 
 with sharp angles; everything was padded and draped 
 with velvet, silk, or satin. In slender opalescent vases 
 were clusters of purple, white, and blue hyacinth; a rare 
 orchid in a Japanese vase languidly shed its leaves. On
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 237 
 
 an immense divan was a huge pile of down cushions, 
 covered with silk in all shades of red, scarlet, amaranth, 
 deep pink every tint from that of the heart of a white 
 rose to the richest wine-color. 
 
 The two windows of the bedroom looked out on the 
 Piazza di Spagna. This apartment was a sort of second 
 drawing-room, furnished with deep-blue velvet hangings, 
 bordered with broad bands of silver. 
 
 There was no bed only a very wide, low couch, over 
 which was thrown a blue velvet cover, in the center of 
 which was the letter A, in elongated and fanciful design. 
 Overhead, at one end of the couch, a blue velvet canopy, 
 of a shade like the midnight sky and covered with sil- 
 very stars, was arranged in a peculiar triangular shape, 
 throwing a discreet, mysterious shadow on the couch be- 
 low. Several pretty little pieces of furniture, in the style 
 of the Pompadour, brightened the general effect of the 
 room. 
 
 The dressing-room was hung with cream-colored 
 cashmere, and on a toilet-table draped with snowy mus- 
 lin lay a set of toilet articles in oxidized silver, between 
 two large white azaleas, in full bloom. 
 
 The decorator had furnished the rooms in four days, 
 in obedience to the impatience of Sangiorgio, who could 
 hardly contain himself to act reasonably, but wandered 
 restlessly about, like an unquiet spirit. 
 
 When all was finished, he felt a mingling of joy and 
 uneasiness. What would she think of this mysterious 
 and luxurious rendezvous? Would her chaste and pure 
 imagination be offended at such a display of Oriental
 
 238 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 voluptuousness? That profusion of cushions, from deep- 
 est crimson to faintest pink were they not too direct an 
 invitation to repose the perfidious repose that leads to 
 the surrender of the soul? 
 
 The bedroom was handsome in its severity of style, 
 but would his beloved ever enter it? Sangiorgio was 
 happy, yet his mind was troubled; he had wished for a 
 lovers' retreat, and he had gained it; but now these 
 quiet rooms, perfumed, with an air of sacredness, upset 
 his former ideals, or rather, they evoked another ideal 
 more vivid, more human. 
 
 Francesco Sangiorgio, seated before a bright fire, 
 awaited Angelica Vargas. To go to the rendezvous in 
 the new apartment had been for several days his only 
 thought, his sole occupation. But Angelica, regretting 
 her concession by this time, and deterred by va- 
 rious scruples, refused to come, suspicious of him 
 and distrustful of love, and fearing to meet in that 
 street some one she knew. But, without revealing her 
 fears and suspicions in words, she took refuge in the 
 apathy of a virtuous woman, indifferent, tranquil, 
 cured of all impulsive flights of fancy. Sangiorgio felt 
 irritated and indignant at her suspicions, and her sweet, 
 gentle obstinacy only added fuel to the ardor of his 
 desires. 
 
 Finally a deep bitterness against feminine injustice 
 entered his soul. One evening, distracted with grief and 
 anger, he said to her in a trembling voice: 
 
 "Come ! tell me what you fear ! Are you not invincible
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 239 
 
 in yourself? Have I not always obeyed your least wish? 
 Do you not understand, Angelica, that you run no risk 
 with me? You yourself are your own defence. You 
 are without weakness, without sin." 
 
 She raised her face, flushed with pride and courage. 
 
 "I will go !" she said, like a heroine sure of her victory. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "I don't know one of these days you know which 
 are my free hours." 
 
 She would not be more precise, finding it very natural 
 to make him wait and expect; like all women, she 
 thought only of her own sacrifice, quite ignoring that of 
 another. 
 
 Every day, in the beautiful April weather, Sangiorgio 
 passed several hours in the little drawing-room of the 
 Piazza di Spagna. He rose rather late in his horrible 
 lodgings in the Via Angela Custode, and dressed leisure- 
 ly, sipping at a cup of very bad coffee brought to him 
 by the servant. He did not touch a book or a pen, but 
 made haste to leave that disgusting abode as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 Through the instinct of curiosity, he went first to 
 Montecitorio for his letters, but he went no more to the 
 reading-room, nor did he stop to chat in the corridors. 
 
 Some of his colleagues said to him, when by chance 
 he met them : 
 
 "What has become of you of late? We never see you 
 any more. Why do you not attend the sessions?" 
 
 "I am very much engaged with work," he would say, 
 pensively, passing his hand over his forehead.
 
 240 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Or some one would say: 
 
 "I suppose you have been away on a trip to the 
 Basilicata, Sangiorgio. How about your agricultural re- 
 port is it finished?" 
 
 "Yes, yes! I have been in the Basilicata," he would 
 reply, his face flushing. "The report oh, yes, it will 
 soon be finished; it is a tremendous piece of work, 
 though," he would add. 
 
 He tried to elude such questions, as he did not know 
 how to lie, and they troubled him. He would leave 
 Montecitorio as quickly as he could, reading his letters 
 without really comprehending their meaning, indifferent 
 to the demands of his constituents or to the recommenda- 
 tions of the officials in his province. 
 
 Until then, he had been a model deputy, performing 
 his duties with perfect regularity, rendering services to 
 influential persons or to those who might be useful to 
 himself, rewarding this man with a promise, that one 
 with a good word, always able and adroit. But now all 
 this sort of thing bored him. He thought only of the 
 sweet nest of love where his adored lady had promised 
 to come, and with a nervous movement, he would shrug 
 his shoulders and thrust his letters into his pocket. 
 
 He went to breakfast at the Caffe Colonna, alone, ab- 
 sorbed in his dream, barely tasting the food set before 
 him; and if ever his conscience reproached him for not 
 replying to the urgent letters he received, he would or- 
 der writing materials, and, at a corner of the table, while 
 his beefsteak grew cold, he would dash off a few hasty 
 lines on a scrap of paper. He soon grew weary of this,
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 241 
 
 however, and then he would pay his bill and go away. 
 Often his letters would lie in his desk several days, until 
 it was too late to answer them. 
 
 At one o'clock he was always in the Piazza di Spagna, 
 buying flowers of all the flower-girls, loading himself 
 with roses, hyacinths, and violets, and hastening to the 
 house to meet Angelica, who might perhaps have just 
 arrived at the door. 
 
 He always enjoyed a delicious sense of contentment 
 when he entered that calm, rich, luxurious retreat. Cer- 
 tainly she would come had she not promised? And he 
 would bustle about like an amorous youth of twenty, 
 to light the fire, delighted when the wood caught and 
 blazed up brightly. 
 
 Then he moved about the apartment, arranging bou- 
 quets, changing the water in the vases, throwing away 
 the faded flowers, tying up clusters of roses with violets 
 or hyacinths, and then untying and rearranging them, 
 never satisfied, and occupying himself over these details 
 with amazing activity. 
 
 He wandered from one room to the other; the sight of 
 the low divan in the bedroom made his heart throb ; he 
 returned to the armchair before the fire in the drawing- 
 room and waited. 
 
 He waited there throughout the long spring after- 
 noons, alone, motionless, gazing at the flying sparks, the 
 bright flames, the capricious flight of the smoke, and 
 then the dying embers. His eyes followed mechanic- 
 ally the life and death of each brand ; and while his whole 
 being glowed with love for the adored one, the fire, too, 
 
 16
 
 242 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 consumed itself with its own ardor and fury. The blaze 
 was always at its best at the hours when Angelica might 
 come, and at that time, in the heart of the lover, as well 
 as in the fire, was a temperature that was ready to meet 
 anything, courage or metal. 
 
 She might come at any moment; perhaps even now 
 she was tremblingly mounting the stairs. Sangiorgio 
 would close his eyes at the thought, overcome with emo- 
 tion. Every day, from four o'clock to six, his nerves 
 underwent the same strain of excitement and suspense, 
 while the fire kindled, blazed, and died in the hearth. 
 
 Then twilight fell; hope failed in the lover's heart; 
 the light grew dim, the coals became black, and the 
 dark pall of night descended on the earth, on the fire, 
 on love! 
 
 He would leave the house at, half-past seven, and walk 
 slowly along, a chill at his heart, his face pale and down- 
 cast, but cherishing always in his soul the divine hope 
 of victory, the blessed hope of being loved. 
 
 He could meet Angelica in the morning only among 
 gatherings of people, and never had an opportunity to 
 talk quietly with her now; but he renewed his courage 
 by reading the expression in her eyes, which seemed to 
 say. 
 
 "Wait for me! Wait for me a little longer! I shall 
 come!" 
 
 The next day, notwithstanding his former disappoint- 
 ments, he would hasten at noontime to the little apart- 
 ment in the Piazza di Spagna, and would remain there 
 until after eight o'clock. Sometimes, while he sat be->
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 243 
 
 fore the dying fire, a drowsiness seized him, and for a 
 time he would be lost in a feverish, agitated sleep, from 
 which he would wake with a start, thinking he had heard 
 the outside bell ring. But it was only a dream Angel- 
 ica never came. 
 
 A still greater trial was reserved for him. Formerly 
 he was at liberty to seek her anywhere at the Chamber, 
 at a lecture, out walking, and he could occasionally even 
 find a pretext for visiting her at her home, or to stop 
 her husband, Silvio Vargas, and at least ask about her. 
 
 But now all that was over. He was compelled to wait 
 for her, shut within four walls, reduced to absolute inac- 
 tion, to utter powerlessness, while others, who were not 
 in love with her, in whom she felt no interest, any stupid 
 fellow, the first comer, might meet her, salute her, talk 
 to her. Not long before, he had gone about everywhere, 
 chatted with his fellow members; interested himself in 
 public matters, listened to the discussions of his col- 
 leagues in short, had lived. But now he was immured, 
 cut off from existence; he appeared for a moment at 
 Montecitorio to get his mail ; then he flew to his nest of 
 love, which swallowed him up, smothering his thoughts 
 and his will, his activity and his energy. 
 
 In the evenings, when he roamed from place to place, 
 from ball to concert, from concert to the theater, in the 
 hope of meeting Angelica, the world of society seemed 
 almost an unknown region to him, since for so long a 
 time he had seen nothing, heard nothing, and had not 
 even read a newspaper. His acquaintances were begin- 
 ning to say:
 
 244 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "That Sangiorgio he seemed to be such a strong 
 fellow surprising change in him." 
 
 "Like all Southerners; a blaze of straw, and a great 
 deal of smoke." 
 
 "Sangiorgio's day is over." 
 
 He was aware of this feeling toward him, this senti- 
 ment half pitying, half triumphant over his apparent 
 failure in public life. 
 
 He felt a wall of ice slowly rising around him, and 
 comprehended that his new passion was drawing him 
 farther and farther away from his great passion of the 
 past his adored politics. 
 
 He was conscious of all this, yet was willing to make 
 the sacrifice. He was neither a victim nor a rebel, but 
 a joyous martyr, happy to feel the fire of youth in his 
 veins, delighting in his sufferings. 
 
 A kind of wild and melancholy voluptuousness pos- 
 sessed him every morning when he left the busy and 
 burning streets to shut himself up in those cool rooms 
 and wait. Like a fanatical worshiper of Buddha, he 
 ascended and descended all degrees of self-annihilation, 
 until at last he reached a complete and bitter abstraction 
 of suffering, a Nirvana that was full of divine pain. 
 
 It was the first morning in May a fair, sunny, fra- 
 grant morning and the chimes of the Trinita dei Monti 
 rang joyously. 
 
 Sangiorgio had just entered his temple of love, laden 
 with roses, his face pale and sad, his appearance as mel- 
 ancholy as an autumn evening on the Roman Campagna.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 245 
 
 He was arranging his flowers in the vases when a light 
 ring at the bell made him flush and tremble, and brought 
 to his eyes hot tears that fell on the carpet. 
 
 "It is I yes, it is I!" whispered Angelica, as she 
 glided into the room. 
 
 She entered swiftly and threw herself into an armchair, 
 still murmuring: 
 
 "It is indeed I!" 
 
 Sangiorgio stood before her, gazing at her without 
 daring to speak, without even finding courage enough 
 to thank her. 
 
 The lovely woman had kept her promise, and had come 
 to him with the advent of the month of flowers and of 
 prayers to the Virgin; and, without saying a word, San- 
 giorgio gathered all the roses in the apartment, and, 
 with a gesture of adoration, he showered her with them, 
 until her light gown was covered with the fragrant 
 blossoms. 
 
 "I have delayed a long time in coming," she mur- 
 mured, bending her charming head beneath this torrent 
 of perfume, "but I could not help it." 
 
 And she made a movement of fatigue. With a look, 
 he entreated her not to offer any excuse; his happiness 
 was too perfect, too complete, to allow him to trouble 
 her with a single reproach or one bitter word. 
 
 Angelica wore a gown of the most delicate shade of 
 gray, with a drooping white plume on her hat and a 
 white lace veil over her dark eyes. She had sunk into 
 one of the large armchairs, and sat in an attitude of care- 
 less grace, her lap full of roses, with one hand resting
 
 246 MATtLDE SERAO 
 
 caressingly on the flowers, and the other hanging idle at 
 her side. 
 
 Sangiorgio drew a chair near to her, lifted the 
 inert little hand, and carried it to his lips. She did not 
 appear to notice his action. 
 
 "It is very pretty here," she said calmly, as if she were 
 making a call in any ordinary drawing-room. "Yes, it is 
 very pretty, indeed." 
 
 "I remembered that you said you liked the Piazza di 
 Spagna," he replied. 
 
 "I prefer it to any other street. You did well to come 
 here. I never have been able to find an apartment here. 
 Old Rome, where I live, is so dismal, so ugly! That 
 is the reason why I go out so much I have a sort of 
 horror of my own house." 
 
 "Come and live here!" he said, smiling. 
 
 "I should like to if I could," she replied, with per- 
 fect simplicity, "but that is impossible. I must go on 
 living over there, in the gloomy old place. How bright 
 it is here so sunny and beautiful! Are you not happy 
 here, my friend?" 
 
 "Happy yes!" he replied, with deep significance. 
 
 "May God bless you!" she said in a half whisper, as 
 if she breathed a prayer. Then she inhaled a deep breath 
 of the fragrance of a glowing rose. 
 
 "Besides," she resumed after a moment, "there is the 
 charm of contrast here, with the white palaces, the beau- 
 tiful fine-art shops, and that great, severe, gray building 
 so near, with its awe-inspiring inscription: Propaganda 
 of the Faith. Propaganda of the Faith ! There is something
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 247 
 
 grand and mysterious in those words like a pardon or 
 a divine call. I hope that you are a believer, my friend." 
 
 "If you believe, Angelica, I, too, believe." 
 
 "It is so vulgar to be an atheist! Religion is beauti- 
 ful and good ; it is more precious than most of the things 
 that the world admires. Have you ever visited the 
 churches in Rome?" 
 
 "I have visited some of the basilicas as a matter of 
 artistic curiosity." 
 
 "Oh, yes but those are great, empty churches that do 
 no real good. You should see the little Roman chapels, 
 where people really go to pray. There is one up there, 
 the Trinita, where men sing every Sunday behind a 
 grille. Ah, what divine music! They are invisible, but 
 when one listens to them it seems as if their very souls 
 exhaled in melody all their sorrows and joys. Shall we 
 go to hear them together some day?" 
 
 "I will go wherever you wish." 
 
 "I should like to have you think and feel as I do to 
 like whatever I like." 
 
 "I love you!" he exclaimed, with the stifled voice he 
 always used in speaking of his passion. 
 
 "Hush ! You promised not to say anything like that,*' 
 she murmured, blushing. 
 
 "Ah, sometimes my feeling is stronger than my will! 
 Let me say it, Angelica! Be kind you who are sweet- 
 ness itself! I love you I love you so much that it is 
 killing me. I am all alone I have no one else in the 
 world and I love you, Angelica!" 
 
 She did not reply, but lightly, like the sweep of a bird's
 
 248 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 wing, like a leaf blown by the wind, she passed her hand 
 over his flushed face. He was silent, a little abashed, a 
 trifle piqued, but his face felt cooled and refreshed by 
 that light caress. She smiled with a touch of playful 
 malice before asking him this question : 
 
 "Is it true that you once loved Elena Fiammanti?" 
 
 "No, never!" 
 
 "Well, then, she was in love with you." 
 
 "I do not think so." 
 
 "You never lie, do you?" 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 "I believe that Elena did love you. She has a light 
 and changeable nature, but a good, tender and affection- 
 ate heart. I rarely see her. She prefers men's society 
 to women's. Tell me truly, now were you never in 
 love with her?" 
 
 "I never have loved anyone but you, Angelica." 
 
 "Let us not speak any more of love, my friend; or if 
 I do speak of it, do not answer me let me talk without 
 interruption. I long to think aloud, so to speak, in the 
 presence of some one who understands me, who pities 
 me, who has some tenderness for me. But sympathy 
 that is what I long for you will be indulgent toward 
 me, will you not, dear friend?" 
 
 "Angelica! Angelica! do not talk like that!" 
 
 "Why not? Sometimes I feel like a child again; I 
 forget my role of a serious woman, a really grown-up 
 person. I become timid, fearful, superstitious, full of 
 childish extravagances and inexplicable caprices. In so- 
 ciety I appear always calm, because that is my duty;
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 249 
 
 but in my hours of privacy hours filled sometimes with 
 vague sadness or causeless joy those feelings that no 
 one can give a reason for I need some one to sympa- 
 thize with me. Will you be my friend, Sangiorgio?" 
 
 She clasped her little hands with a supplicating air. 
 Sangiorgio leaned over and touched her pure white fore- 
 head with a kiss so light, so sweet and tender, so full of 
 sympathy, that she felt tears come to her eyes, and for 
 a moment she wept silently, deeply moved. 
 
 "Do not weep, Angelica," said Sangiorgio, in a changed 
 voice ; "do not weep, I beg !" 
 
 "Yes, let me let me! It will relieve my heart; I 
 never dare to weep at home. I will stop soon and then 
 I will weep no more, but will be cheerful again." 
 
 He was silent, agitated by her tears, vanquished by her 
 grief, which overcame him with a strangely penetrating 
 seductiveness, an almost irresistible abandonment to his 
 impulses. When Angelica had first entered his rooms, 
 calm, smiling, as much at ease as if she were in her own 
 house or that of a friend, he had been able to assume 
 the same manner and not to speak a word of love; but 
 in the presence of her weakness, hearing her sob over her 
 incurably wounded heart, her lost dreams, her buried 
 youth, and seeing the tears she rained upon that tomb, 
 he felt an overmastering longing to clasp her in his arms, 
 and to hold her to his breast forever. 
 
 He bent his head, that he might not see the sad face, 
 the tender breast that panted like that of a bird. Wear- 
 ied at last, she gradually grew calmer, though the sad-
 
 250 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 ness did not leave her face. He saw that her handker- 
 chief was wet with her tears. 
 
 "Pardon me !" she said, after a time, as if just remem- 
 bering his presence. 
 
 "Do not speak of that; am I not your friend?" 
 
 "Alas! I am only a very melancholy kind of friend," 
 Angelica replied, with a mournful smile. "I fear I shall 
 not bring much happiness into your life." 
 
 "But I love you thus; I love you just as you are; I 
 love you because of your sadness!" he declared ve- 
 hemently. 
 
 Angelica remained silent a moment, her eyes fixed on 
 a ray of sunlight that shot through the creamy lace cur- 
 tain, played over the carpet, and struck a note of vivid 
 color on one of the scarlet cushions. She seemed struck 
 with a sudden thought, and rose abruptly. 
 
 "I must go now." 
 
 "No, no!" protested Sangiorgio, in despair, as if he 
 had thought such an event must never happen. 
 
 "But I must," she repeated, seriously. 
 
 "Why?" he asked, like a child. 
 
 "Oh because!" said she, smiling at the simplicity of 
 the question. 
 
 "But stay a little longer you have only just come." 
 
 "I have been here a whole hour, and it is growing 
 late." 
 
 "Only a little longer !" he pleaded. 
 
 "I must not; I assure you that I have stayed too long 
 already." 
 
 "Just five minutes! What difference can that make?"
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 251 
 
 "Nothing important, perhaps, but of what use would 
 that be? A minute more or less is nothing." 
 
 "Oh, do not torture me, Angelica! Be kind! give me 
 five minutes more !" 
 
 "Very well, but you are altogether too exacting," she 
 said, yielding to him, with a shake of the head like a 
 mother bestowing a bonbon upon a child. 
 
 They remained standing opposite each other near the 
 door of the drawing-room, she slightly annoyed and im- 
 patient to go, and he confused and repentant at having 
 detained her. A sudden apprehension cast a shadow over 
 Sangiorgio's face. 
 
 "Shall you never come here again?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, I will come again," she replied. 
 
 "Ah, you say that, but you will not do it," he ex- 
 claimed, in agitation, unable to overcome this idea. 
 "Why deceive me? You are going away, and I never 
 shall see you here again ! I have a presentiment of it 
 I feel it!" 
 
 "I shall come again, I tell you I surely shall come 
 here again," Angelica repeated, in the sweet, calm voice 
 that always had power to soothe him. And, in order to 
 set his mind at rest, she looked into his eyes with one 
 of her sweetest, kindest smiles, which wholly reassured 
 him. 
 
 "Promise it, then! Will you promise me to come 
 again?" 
 
 "Yes, I promise." 
 
 "By all that you hold most sacred in the world?" 
 
 "By all that I hold most sacred in the world!"
 
 252 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 "And when will you come again?" asked Sangiorgio. 
 
 "That I cannot say; you know I am not free." 
 
 "Return soon, Angelica! Oh, can you not mention 
 some day, some hour?" 
 
 "To what purpose? Does it bore you so much to wait 
 for me? Are you not at home here?" 
 
 "Yes, but at least name some possible day " 
 
 "Oh, then, you do not wish to wait for me ! You have 
 more amusing things to do!'* 
 
 "No, Angelica, nothing." 
 
 "Well, then?" 
 
 "Well if you but knew, my sweet friend, the bitter- 
 ness I feel at not knowing when I shall see you again. This 
 vague expectancy is a torment, a nightmare, an agony 
 that you would pity could you but realize it. Even if 
 you mean to deceive me, Angelica, at least name the 
 day!" 
 
 "Let me see! To-day is Sunday," she said, reflecting. 
 "It cannot be to-morrow, nor the day after, nor Wednes- 
 day no, all my time is engaged. Thursday, perhaps 
 yes, you may count on Thursday." 
 
 "Not before?" 
 
 "Who can tell? Perhaps for a minute, in passing, I 
 may run in. But Thursday, without fail. Now good-by, 
 my friend!" 
 
 "Oh, stay !" he still entreated, holding fast to her hand. 
 
 "Come, come! You are really childish good-by!" 
 And she glided swiftly down the stairs, free at last. 
 
 Sangiorgio felt as if part of his life had gone with her, 
 as if his heart's blood were flowing from an open wound.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 253 
 
 Without a further glance at the rooms, he seized his hat 
 and left the house hastily, in the wild hope of overtaking 
 Angelica. 
 
 The Piazza di Spagna, full of sunlight and of people, 
 dazzled him, and instinctively he turned into the Via 
 Condotti, but could not descry the gray gown and the 
 white veil. 
 
 He turned back toward the Palace of the Propaganda 
 of the Faith, as the name still lingered in his mind, but 
 she was not there. 
 
 He wandered through all the streets of the neighbor- 
 hood, perturbed and breathless, spurred on by the in- 
 vincible desire to obtain one more glimpse of the being 
 who had appeared to vanish in the sunlight. 
 
 During a whole hour he sought her in the Via Babu- 
 ino, the Via di Due Macelli, the Via Sistina, near the 
 Villa Medici and the Pincio; everywhere, in short, de- 
 voured by a feverish energy that prevented him from 
 feeling weary. 
 
 Finally he arrived in the Piazza del Popolo, alone, 
 feeling a little calmer, but with tired feet and weary 
 brain. It must be late, very late, he thought; he felt all 
 the physical and moral lassitude that follows agitating 
 experiences. 
 
 He drew out his watch; it was barely half -past one; 
 there was still half a day to pass away somehow. Slow- 
 ly, mechanically, in obedience to his former habit, he 
 turned his steps toward the Chamber, following the 
 Corso, with a bored expression, without a glance at the 
 handsome Roman bourgeoise women returning home from
 
 254 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 mass, and not recognizing anyone in the cloud of golden 
 dust of that bright Sunday in May. 
 
 Sangiorgio felt that he must seek refuge in the Parlia- 
 ment House, not knowing where else to go in his dis- 
 tress of mind and body. He wished to find a quiet, cool 
 corner, where he could think, dream, and remember. 
 It was an hour when many deputies were going and com- 
 ing near Montecitorio, returning from luncheon at the 
 Colonna, the Parliamente, the Fagiano, or the Sorelle 
 Venete. Sangiorgio absentedmindedly acknowledged 
 several salutations, and caught in passing several scraps 
 of conversation which he did not understand. For- 
 tunately, there was a session that day. 
 
 He went to his accustomed seat, mechanically ar- 
 ranged his papers before him, and listened to the so- 
 norous voice of the secretary, Sangarzia, reading the or- 
 der of proceedings. What was he talking about? The 
 words escaped his confused brain, yet somehow it seemed 
 as if he had heard all that before. 
 
 He made a tremendous effort to collect his mental 
 faculties, but his former power of nervous exaltation 
 had gone, carrying with it his force and his energy. 
 How tired he was! He rested his head on his hands, 
 trying to realize the meaning of what was being said, 
 but he was conscious that a strange torpor was steal- 
 ing over him, an unconquerable desire to sleep. 
 
 He rose, and went out into the corridor to smoke a 
 cigar. The Honorable Carimate, the distinguished gen- 
 tleman from Lombardy, chairman of an agricultural com- 
 mittee, met him there.
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 255 
 
 "Ah, Sangiorgio ! When am I to have the report from 
 you?" 
 
 "The report? Oh, yes! True! When should I have 
 given it to you?" 
 
 "Why, a week ago! You are very slow with it. I 
 have been looking for you everywhere. Haven't you 
 received my two letters?" 
 
 "No, neither of them," Sangiorgio replied, lying. 
 
 "Well, they have attacked us, and I, as chairman, 
 was obliged to reply. Have you been ill?" 
 
 "Very ill." 
 
 "You look as if you had. Be careful of yourself. Are 
 you not a little feverish still?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "Be careful! When shall you be ready, then?" 
 
 "I do not know; in a week, perhaps. I will let you 
 know." 
 
 Sangiorgio returned to the hall, having already for- 
 gotten the painful feeling it cost him to lie. The Hon- 
 orable Bonova, a very tiresome young deputy, was bor- 
 ing the sleepy members with a long speech. The Speak- 
 er, from his chair, made a friendly little sign to Sangior- 
 gio, who went up to shake hands with him. 
 
 "111?" asked the Romagnan of the frank brown eyes. 
 
 "A little." 
 
 "Why do you not take a short vacation?" 
 
 "I intend to do so; I need it." 
 
 He returned to his seat, exhausted. A strong feeling 
 of irritation possessed him. Five o'clock struck ; the sit- 
 ting seemed interminable. San Demetrio and Scalia
 
 256 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 came to him to ask his opinion regarding a duel between 
 a deputy and an editor; he allowed them to see his indif- 
 ference to the matter, and barely answered them. 
 
 Everyone tired him, bored him; he felt oppressed by 
 the heat, and could hardly breathe. 
 
 He left the Chamber hastily, jumped into a carriage 
 and drove to the apartment in the Piazza di Spagna. 
 Once there, he flung himself into the armchair where 
 Angelica had sat, and, leaning his face against the spot 
 that her dear head had pressed, he wept bitterly.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 THE PANGS OF DESPISED LOVE 1 
 
 ANGELICA nearly always broke her appoint- 
 ments with Sangiorgio. Sometimes, in the eve- 
 ning, while handing him a cup of tea, she would 
 whisper : 
 
 "To-morrow, at two o'clock!" 
 
 "Without fail?" 
 
 "Without fail do not fear." 
 
 And, relying on her promise, he lived upon it until the 
 following day. But at two o'clock she had not yet ar- 
 rived ; he told himself she had been delayed, called up all 
 his patience, watched for her at the window. 
 
 Then he would be seized with doubt; and finally, 
 as night fell, he would lose all hope and yield to a pro- 
 found despondency. When he met her again, beautiful, 
 serene, in all her freshness, apparently without a regret, 
 and gracious to everyone, his soul was filled with a 
 painful mingling of tenderness and bitterness. 
 
 Never, never would she understand the depth of his 
 love and his sufferings! She would excuse herself with 
 a vague word, thrown carelessly into the midst of a re- 
 cital of the tiresome routine of the preceding day: there 
 was always a concert, lecture, a charity fair, some visi- 
 tor, or other useless and tiresome thing, that had de- 
 tained her. But all the evening she would lavish upon 
 
 17 257
 
 258 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 him the sweetness of her veiled glances, the light of her 
 smile, the grace of her movements, asking him for a 
 book, her fan or her handkerchief, in her melodious 
 voice, enveloping him, as it were, in tenderest caresses, 
 and holding him, fascinated, under her all-powerful 
 charm, until he was again vanquished, and accused him- 
 self mentally of ingratitude. 
 
 But occasionally she remembered the poor solitary 
 lover, who awaited her behind closed doors, while the 
 glorious springtime was flinging its fragrance over the 
 city, the Campagna, and the flowery hills. 
 
 She would arrive unexpectedly, in the Piazza di 
 Spagna, at ten o'clock in the morning or at seven in the 
 evening, just as he was about to depart, discouraged. 
 Once she came in the midst of one of those violent 
 storms that come in May, attended by heavy rain, thun- 
 der and lightning. 
 
 These unexpected visits always moved Sangiorgio 
 deeply; he could not accustom himself to this supreme 
 joy; for him, each appearance of Angelica Vargas was 
 a new rapture, a special grace on her part ; and her radi- 
 ant presence cured the terrible bitterness of the long 
 hours of waiting. Sangiorgio, saddened, suffering, ill, 
 would suddenly feel himself restored to life and vigor, 
 like Lazarus arising from the tomb. 
 
 In the presence of his loved one, he forgot everything 
 except that he adored her ; he knelt at her feet, kissed her 
 hands, and thanked her humbly for not forgetting him, 
 like a Christian that, after the bitterest experiences,
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 259 
 
 strikes the church pavement with his forehead in render- 
 ing thanks for the slightest favor from Heaven. 
 
 Angelica remained in the superior sphere where her 
 adorer had placed her, in a solitary niche, sacred, inac- 
 cessible, a tabernacle of virtue and purity, whence she 
 deigned to incline her eyes upon him, smiling, with 
 outstretched hands a merciful divinity, without weak- 
 ness or indulgence, whom pity had not feminized or 
 rendered humanly weak. All that she did was a royal 
 favor; roses showered from her hands, happiness lay in 
 every fold of her gown. She had only to appear, smile, 
 and disappear, and very well she acquitted herself of 
 this task. 
 
 With all this, Sangiorgio's own individuality was rap- 
 idly becoming effaced. Never did the divinity trouble 
 herself to ask what he thought, felt, or suffered 
 during her absence; never did she inquire about his 
 work, his desires, his ambitions; she had no curiosity 
 to know the man as he really was. She called him sim- 
 ply Sangiorgio, because his Christian name, Francesco, 
 seemed too common and ordinary; and he himself felt 
 that such was the case, and was conscious of a certain 
 degree of humiliated pride. 
 
 Sitting beside him, her eyes resting on a large black 
 velvet cross appliqued upon the yellow brocaded drape- 
 ry, she would talk to him by the hour, obeying a natural 
 craving for a sympathetic listener. 
 
 She had many things to say to him she, who was 
 condemned to perpetual silence regarding her husband's 
 political absorption, his hardness of character, and his
 
 260 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 ironical speeches. Yes, she had much to say she, whose 
 husband's exalted station forbade to her all friendship, 
 love, or intimacy with anyone. Now she had found a con- 
 fidant, the best of confidants, always happy to listen to 
 her, always approving all that she said and did; always 
 ready to pity or admire her, divining the meaning of her 
 lightest word, her every thought. 
 
 He was that rare type of friend for whom all women 
 yearn the ideal man, whose tender curiosity is insa- 
 tiable, who understands them, is indulgent toward all 
 their little weaknesses, who magnifies and glorifies their 
 smallest virtues, turning a word into a poem, a simple 
 phrase into an expression of lofty sentiment, a trifling 
 kindness into a deed of heroism in short, the ideal 
 lover ! 
 
 And so, sitting beside him in the silence of the flower- 
 scented room, surrounded by rich and luxurious furniture 
 and draperies, fixing her eyes on some glittering spot 
 in the gold embroideries, she would talk to him of her- 
 self, of her heart, of the ineffable sadness which he alone 
 could understand, of the trifling joys, the brief pleasures 
 that entered into her life. 
 
 The disillusion she had undergone after her marriage 
 had not been sudden, but gradual, steady, leading her, 
 step by step, into indulgence in bitter reverie, until the 
 culmination was complete indifference and a longing for 
 solitude. Her sweet ideals of true conjugal happiness, 
 her pure and peaceful dreams, the trust of a loyal soul, 
 came into contact with the great, burning, selfish pas- 
 sion of Don Silvio politics ! The slow but persistent
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 261 
 
 drop of water had done its work of destruction in that 
 mind full of dreams and chimerical visions. 
 
 The story of her moral widowhood was long, and the 
 recital of her griefs was made in all the varying tones 
 of melancholy. 
 
 She made no harsh accusations; no word of violence 
 or of hatred ever passed her lips; but there was always 
 a tone of sad and innocent recrimination, the cry of a 
 wounded heart, uttered with exquisite delicacy but with 
 profound grief. 
 
 Sangiorgio listened, without venturing to interrupt 
 her, without daring to tell her how he would have adored 
 her had fate granted him the supreme joy of giving her 
 to him as his wife. 
 
 He listened with avidity to the smallest details of her 
 daily trials, sighing over them, feeling all that she felt, 
 saturating his mind with her life, which had become his 
 own, and in which he had sunk all his own individuality. 
 When she turned pale, flushed, or wept in her recital, 
 Sangiorgio's color changed, and his tears flowed in sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 Angelica did not hate her husband, for her gentle 
 heart knew not how to hate; but she did not love him, 
 since he never had loved her. Neither did she respect 
 him, since she had been made aware of the degrading 
 compromises and chicaneries forced upon him by polit- 
 ical exigencies. He had simply become indifferent to 
 her, that was all ! She said these things in brief, detached 
 sentences, with a terrible, icy simplicity, and Sangiorgio
 
 262 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 trembled at the thought that the day might come when 
 she would say the same things about himself. 
 
 He hated Silvio Vargas; he hated him uncompromis- 
 ingly as an enemy and as a wicked man; he hated him 
 so far as to wish him to be defeated, to wish for his 
 dishonor, even his death. Had he not stolen Angelica, 
 had he not withered her young heart and destroyed her 
 illusions? Had he not rendered her distrustful of hap- 
 piness, made her incapable of loving? Was he not her 
 legitimate possessor? And Sangiorgio abhorred this hus- 
 band with the anger, the jealousy, and the injustice of 
 a true lover. 
 
 His fair visitor talked to him of other things than her 
 own sorrows, of which she spoke with the ingenuousness 
 of a sinless soul, and an innocence that resembled the 
 most refined coquetry. She dilated upon her tastes, her 
 habits, her daily occupations, the little doings of each 
 hour. 
 
 She went to bed late every night, she said, but always 
 rose early, as it had been her habit from childhood. No 
 one was permitted to enter her room while she was there, 
 not even the chambermaid. Her sacred retreat, the sanc- 
 tuary where she slept, dreamed, and thought, must not 
 be profaned by any idle glances. Did not Sangiorgio 
 approve of that? Certainly, she was quite right, San- 
 giorgio would reply, with a throbbing heart, and fire in 
 his veins. 
 
 She liked to dress herself and to arrange her hair with 
 her own hands, as she had a strong distaste for the 
 servile contact, the vulgar babble, the annoying presence
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 263 
 
 of a lady's maid. For a long time, while she was a young 
 girl, she had kept her hair cut short and simply parted 
 in the middle, that she might not be obliged to have one 
 of these tiresome women handling her long tresses. 
 
 One day Sangiorgio begged her tenderly to let down 
 her hair, that he might see it in all its length and beau- 
 ty; but she objected, saying that it would take her at 
 least an hour to rearrange it. He supplicated in vain, but 
 she promised to grant his request some other day, when 
 time was not so pressing. 
 
 Every morning, when her toilet was finished, she went 
 into her boudoir, where she read, played upon her piano, 
 or attended to her correspondence always alone. She 
 wrote letters to her friends, or replied to persons who 
 sent her begging letters or asked for recommendations; 
 she wrote very rapidly, on white paper, without seal, 
 crest, or monogram. 
 
 Once Sangiorgio asked her for a line of her handwriting, 
 of which he never had seen a single word. Only one 
 line! She consented, but he searched the apartment in 
 vain for a pen, an inkstand, or a scrap of paper. In 
 this temple of love, the implements necessary to work 
 were wholly lacking. Angelica smiled, finding this very 
 amusing. 
 
 The charming confidences continued. At half-past 
 eleven o'clock she and her husband usually met at break- 
 fast. In the morning she always felt very hungry, being 
 young and healthy. It would have pleased her to laugh 
 and chat and jest at this agreeable hour, but Vargas was 
 always sallow, irritated, and bored early in the day. He
 
 264 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 hardly touched anything, since his appetite was destroyed 
 by the fever of politics. He read the newspapers, his 
 letters and telegrams, just as he did at the Chamber, or 
 at Cabinet meetings. 
 
 Ah, how greatly she preferred solitude to the society 
 of this wizened, frowning old man, who let his cutlet 
 grow cold on his plate, who forgot his dessert always 
 silent, always preoccupied! And, seized with one of the 
 startling caprices of a virtuous woman, she proposed to 
 her astonished adorer that they should go, early some 
 sunny morning, to a little rustic village, where they 
 would find one of those wayside inns covered with vines, 
 and have breakfast there like two schoolchildren on a 
 holiday. 
 
 "Why do you torment me thus? Why do you suggest 
 such things to me?" said Sangiorgio, with mournful re- 
 proach. 
 
 "I torment you I?" 
 
 "We never could carry out such an escapade as that." 
 
 "Oh, yes, we could!" she declared, smiling with glee 
 at her child-like dream. 
 
 Then, after breakfast Angelica Vargas began her pub- 
 lic life, her worldly existence ; she made the round of the 
 shops, and visited her tailor and dressmaker. She liked 
 gowns of rich simplicity, preferring black costumes, as 
 Sangiorgio had seen her attired when he had observed 
 her for the first time, on the day he arrived in Rome. 
 
 Later in the day, there were visits to make and to re- 
 ceive, charity bazaars to attend, benefit concerts, diplo- 
 matic receptions, inaugurations, lectures, art exhibitions
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 265 
 
 the public business of life, empty and wearisome. Ah, 
 how much happier she would be were she only the wife 
 of a quiet and intellectual man, modest, calm, disdaining 
 power, and the struggle to attain it! 
 
 "Your wife, Sangiorgio!" she added. 
 
 "Angelica!" he cried, in anguish. 
 
 She did not understand. Sangiorgio knew her whole 
 life, her soul, her thoughts, but she did not know San- 
 giorgio. 
 
 By-and-by a change came into their secret life. 
 
 Angelica became accustomed to these visits, little by 
 little, and after a time she came often, with a matter-of- 
 course air, free and unrestrained, without a shadow of 
 emotion or embarrassment. Her face was serene, her 
 glance clear and frank, her expression innocent. 
 
 She would enter the apartment in exactly the same 
 way that she entered a friend's drawing-room, speaking 
 in well-modulated tones, with graceful gestures, and 
 pleasant smile. It seemed to her a very simple thing to 
 drop in at Sangiorgio's rooms, after he had left the Cham- 
 ber, and before it was time for her to call upon the Rus- 
 sian ambassador's wife, or some one else. She would 
 stay a short time, asking his advice, perhaps, about a 
 new frock, or some trinket, a Renaissance inkstand or a 
 vase by Capodimonte. One day, unthinkingly, she said, 
 "I was just passing, and thought you might be in, so I 
 rang." 
 
 Another time, while he was peeping out of the win- 
 dow behind the curtains, not daring to raise the window, 
 although the heat was stifling, for fear of being recog-
 
 266 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 nized, he saw her walking slowly along in front of the 
 shops, with her rhythmic step. He started, and was 
 tempted to call out to her, to make some signal; but his 
 voice and his courage failed, and she went her way with- 
 out even turning her head toward the house. 
 
 But at the corner of the Via Babuina she seemed sud- 
 denly to recall something; she stopped, and threw a 
 glance at the windows of the first floor, A smile lighted 
 her face when she discerned that pale and eager face be- 
 hind the pane; she turned her steps toward the house, 
 and came upstairs to chat with him a few minutes. 
 
 These meetings with a man who loved her, in that 
 mysterious house, in an apartment to which no one else 
 could penetrate, somehow did not impress her as being 
 wrong or traitorous. 
 
 In fact, they became a fixed habit. She shook hands 
 with him within those doors as if she were meeting him 
 in the street; she asked him to button her glove, as if 
 they were at a ball; she bore herself toward him pre- 
 cisely as she would have done in her own drawing-room, 
 surrounded by guests; talked on subjects grave or gay, 
 as it happened; allowed him to read her letters, and, in 
 short, was always familiar, simple, gay and friendly, 
 without ever speaking of love, or thinking of it. 
 
 But it was different with Sangiorgio. This intimacy, 
 these confidences, these long talks in that warm, quiet 
 room, filled with flowers, that hand which she allowed 
 him to kiss, that round arm which sometimes leaned 
 gently on his own, those waving tresses which seemed to 
 call for caresses all these charms and feminine graces
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 267 
 
 penetrated his whole being, overwhelming nerves and 
 senses. 
 
 He was only a man, after all, and when that divine 
 face leaned close to his, when he inhaled the fragrance 
 of that dark hair, when that graceful form half reclined 
 in an armchair, shaken by a sob or by a burst of laughter, 
 when that white brow was drawn in thought, he had to 
 struggle with an irresistible desire to clasp her in a ten- 
 der and passionate embrace. 
 
 He tried in vain to drive away this thought and to 
 force his mind to dwell in the pure region of their earlier 
 days ; but, in spite of his firm will, he fell more and more 
 under the charm of her witchery. His robust tempera- 
 ment, serious and simple, became possessed with one 
 overmastering desire. It was a daily struggle to hide 
 the truth in his eyes, to dissimulate the trembling of 
 his lips, to prevent his longing arms from pressing her 
 to his breast. He was only a man, after all ! 
 
 His adored one smiled upon him, came close to his 
 side, whispered in his ear, unconscious, innocent, cruel 
 and he forced himself to smother his emotion and shut 
 his eyes to temptation. He had promised yes, he had 
 promised not to speak of love, but why did she not 
 understand? What sort of woman was she? And how 
 long could he play this cruel, atrocious game? But 
 he had promised! 
 
 This struggle could not last, however. How much 
 longer must he endure this martyrdom? It had grown 
 beyond his strength to have her there, near him, beau- 
 tiful, young, adored, in silence and solitude it was too
 
 268 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 much! He would not break his promise, but he would 
 beg her to take away the temptation of her lips, to leave 
 him, never to return. 
 
 One morning in June, when telling him about a new 
 style of coiffure that she had adopted, she wished to let 
 down her hair, so that he might see its length. 
 
 "No, no!" he murmured. 
 
 "Why?" she asked innocently. 
 
 "It would be too much for me I could not endure it." 
 
 "Not endure it?" 
 
 He said no more. She took off her hat, laughing, 
 pulled out three long hairpins and a shell comb, and 
 shook the dark mass of hair over her shoulders, laugh- 
 ing all the time like a playful child. 
 
 "How beautiful it is how beautiful !" said Sangiorgio 
 in a stifled voice, as he lifted one curl and kissed it. 
 
 "May I go into your bedroom to arrange it?" Angelica 
 asked, all pink and blooming under that silky mantle. 
 
 She never had shown any curiosity to see that room, 
 but, without waiting for Sangiorgio's word of permis- 
 sion, she entered it immediately, her manner perfectly 
 frank, confident, a little amused. 
 
 She stopped short at the sight of the blue velvet cur- 
 tains bordered with silver, so rich and luxurious in sug- 
 gestion. She felt a little timid, and passed the shell 
 comb through her hair mechanically, without looking at 
 herself in the Pompadour mirror, her mind filled with 
 strange thoughts. 
 
 Suddenly she noticed the blue quilt, with her own 
 initial embroidered in a long Gothic letter. She uttered
 
 i . vuV 
 
 ?>Wc V ; Td
 
 268 
 
 mu. ct he wouJd 
 
 
 . 
 
 "Ti be toon r me- 
 
 endure it? >v 
 
 He said no more. She took off her hat, laughing, 
 pulled out three long hairpins and a shell comb, and 
 shook the dark mass of hair over her shoulders, laugh- 
 
 D DEEP IVTO SANGIORGIO'S 
 SHE READ THE 77?6'r# i S ior g 10 
 
 in a Stiflq^jftf <#%k hl Drawing by Arthur Crisp**** h ' 
 
 "May I go into your bedroor nge it?'* Angelica 
 
 asked, all pink and blooming wad*? *y mantle. 
 
 She never had shown any ! room, 
 
 but, without waiting for S: permis- 
 
 sion, she entered it temtdi 
 fmnk, confid* -wufld 
 
 She stoppc vet cur- 
 
 ? in iug- 
 
 She f sed the shell 
 
 -Qugh her hstr i<;ng at 
 
 elf ia the Pompad- with 
 
 itrangc thoughts, 
 
 ily she noticed the blue quilt, witii her own 
 '*d in a long Gothic letter. She uttered
 
 wtvf;
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 269 
 
 a cry of pain and surprise; then she turned and looked 
 deep into Sangiorgio's eyes, wherein she read the truth. 
 Silently, hurriedly, she fastened up her hair, left the 
 bedroom, put on her hat and gloves, and went away 
 without a word or a glance.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 ROME, THE CONQUEROR 
 
 ANGIORGIO stood idly under the great porch of 
 Montecitorio, while the ushers were extin- 
 guishing the gas throughout the palace. He 
 gazed at the starry heavens, and still lingered, 
 reluctant to make up his mind to go home. 
 
 A tall, thin figure, with bent shoulders, approached 
 him. The man was smoking a cigar; he stopped beside 
 the deputy, and spoke. 
 
 "Good evening, Sangiorgio. Are you at liberty?" 
 
 "Good evening, Vargas. Yes, I am at liberty, and 
 very much at your service." 
 
 "I wish to speak to you." 
 
 "Shall we go to your private office, in here?" 
 
 "No, not to my office." 
 
 "To your house, then?" 
 
 "No, not there, either. I prefer to go to your apart- 
 ment, Sangiorgio," replied the Minister dryly, raising his 
 eyes to meet Sangiorgio's. 
 
 "As you will," the deputy replied coolly, understand- 
 ing instantly that a crisis was coming. "Let us go." 
 
 They crossed the Piazza Colonna silently, smoking 
 their cigars and apparently interested only in their long 
 shadows, cast upon the ground in the bright moonlight. 
 
 270
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 271 
 
 At the corner of the Corso, Sangiorgio was about to turn 
 toward his lodgings. 
 
 "That way?" said Silvio Vargas suspiciously. 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Do you not live at Number Sixty-two, Piazza di 
 Spagna?" 
 
 "You are right," was the frigid reply. 
 
 Again they relapsed into silence, and continued their 
 way along the Corso, passing people coming out of the 
 summer theaters, who, recognizing the tall form of the 
 Minister, murmured his name to one another as he went 
 by. The Via Condotti and the Piazza di Spagna were 
 deserted. 
 
 Sangiorgio had a key to the door of Number 62, al- 
 though he never went there at night. 
 
 When they began the ascent of the dark stairway, he 
 struck a match and preceded Silvio Vargas. 
 
 The antique lamp was burning in the anteroom, throw- 
 ing a subdued, mysterious light on the old marriage- 
 chest and the tall, carved, high-backed chairs. 
 
 In the sitting-room, the deputy felt a sudden embar- 
 rassment as to how to find a light, since he never had 
 had occasion to use one there. Finally he found a slen- 
 der candlestick of Pompeian bronze, and lighted its three 
 pink candles. 
 
 Silvio Vargas seated himself; he had thrown away his 
 cigar and left his hat in the anteroom. He bent his 
 head, allowed his monocle to fall from his eye, and ap- 
 peared lost in thought. 
 
 "I am waiting, Silvio Vargas," said Sangiorgio, with
 
 272 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 great difficulty repressing any hint of impatience in his 
 voice. 
 
 "I was thinking, Sangiorgio," said the Minister calmly, 
 "of what a very strong desire you must have to kill me." 
 
 "Very strong." 
 
 "It must now be almost irresistible." 
 
 "Yes almost irresistible." 
 
 "You are wrong, Sangiorgio," Vargas continued, with 
 perfect mildness. "Why do you wish to kill me? I am 
 old very old; Death will soon accomplish his work." 
 
 "Silvio!" cried Sangiorgio, suddenly touched with re- 
 morse. 
 
 "It is true. I am seventy years old, but I have lived 
 ten lives. I am worn out, finished, exhausted. Some 
 day I shall collapse, as at a single violent blow. You 
 might be my son, Sangiorgio. You would not kill your 
 father in order to gain his wealth, would you?" 
 
 "Do not speak to me like that, I beg!" 
 
 "Yes, let me go on. We will not fight each other, al- 
 though I have a right to challenge you, because we 
 should only seem ridiculous I, so near the tomb, you, 
 so young, yet not having the patience to wait. Yes, we 
 should be ridiculous. I can understand the dramatic 
 element in such cases, when it is a question of youth and 
 love, but I could not endure making myself a subject for 
 laughter. Anything is better than ridicule." 
 
 "True very true !" 
 
 "And then there is Angelica she must not suffer. 
 To-day, when she threw herself into my arms, trembling 
 with fear, begging me to save her do not be jealous,
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 273 
 
 Sangiorgio, she is only a daughter to me! although I 
 knew her secret, I did not strive to soothe her, for those 
 tears, those sobs, that despair were the revolt of a pure 
 conscience." 
 
 "You knew her whole secret?" 
 
 "From the very first day. She could not recall the 
 date of her first visit here, but I knew that it was on 
 Sunday, the first day of May. She confessed that she 
 had come here fifteen times, but I knew that she came 
 eighteen times in all I am the Minister of the Interior! 
 I did not reproach her, any more than I reproach you at 
 this moment. You are right to love each other." 
 
 Sangiorgio raised his humbled head, and looked at the 
 sad old husband with inexpressible remorse. 
 
 "Naturally," the Minister went on, "as Angelica is 
 young, beautiful, and clever, she needed a congenial 
 young companion, who would know how to appreciate 
 all her attractions, and would make her life happy and 
 gay. Instead, she is tied to a withered, cynical, cold ofd 
 man, possessed by a single exacting, overwhelming pas- 
 sion ambition ! It is the passion of most men who have 
 passed their fortieth year. 
 
 "Angelica preferred you to me ; you knew how to love 
 you, who are not ambitious, you, who are ignorant of 
 this ceaseless fever of the mind, you, whose heart is full 
 of faith and enthusiasm, you, who prize above all things 
 the joys of love. Who could blame you? You are wise; 
 it is I that am the madman, to struggle forever to attain 
 a mere vulgar illusion, while you possess the divine real- 
 ity. I have no words of reproach for you." 
 
 18
 
 274 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 Sangiorgio listened, with his face hidden in his hands. 
 
 "Besides," pursued the Minister, as if speaking to him- 
 self, "that great thing called Man that wonderful force, 
 that power is ruled by a supreme law which says to 
 Kim : Do one thing and nothing else, if you do not wish 
 to sink into mediocrity and uselessness. Have but a 
 single passion, one sole ideal, from which nothing can 
 turn you. Love, science, politics, art these highest 
 forms of human passion are overmastering; each is so 
 vast, so absorbing that the weak human mind cannot em- 
 brace them all at once. A man cannot be a lover and a 
 scientist, an artist and a politician, without falling far 
 short of greatness in each path he follows. He must 
 choose: great passions are selfish, and demand great 
 sacrifices." 
 
 "What is the wish of Signora Vargas?" Sangiorgio 
 demanded abruptly, rousing himself from the spell of 
 bitter reflection under which he had fallen. 
 
 "That you leave Rome!" 
 
 "I will go. For how long?" 
 
 "For as long a time as possible." 
 
 "I will tender my resignation. May I see her once 
 more? I swear to you that I meditate no wrong toward 
 you in making this request." 
 
 "She prefers not to see you again." 
 
 "Very well! But may I write to her?" 
 
 "She begs that you will spare her. Pray try to under- 
 stand her reserve." 
 
 "I understand. Silvio Vargas, tell me, in the name of 
 God, in this, the bitterest hour of my life, is it you that
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 275 
 
 compel her to all this or she is free to do whatever she 
 chooses?" 
 
 "I swear to you that she is free, my son," said the 
 Minister gently. "No one constrains her. You may see 
 her if you wish I shall make no opposition. But it 
 would be better for you to avoid seeing her," he added, 
 in a hollow voice. 
 
 "Does she suffer?" 
 
 "She has suffered." 
 
 "What does she say of me?" 
 
 "She counts upon your love." 
 
 "Very well ! Say to her that I will go away, and never 
 return. Farewell, Silvio Vargas!" 
 
 "Farewell, Sangiorgio !" 
 
 And, reaching the great portico, they parted in the 
 silence of the night. 
 
 "One word more, Silvio," said Sangiorgio, pausing and 
 turning toward the Minister. "You knew that I loved 
 Angelica, and that she came here. How was it that you 
 feared nothing?" 
 
 "Because I know my wife!" Vargas replied signifi- 
 cantly, as he turned and went on his way. 
 
 Francesco Sangiorgio understood. Like Silvio Var- 
 gas, he now knew Angelica the woman that knew not 
 how to love! 
 
 While the House was still in session, Sangiorgio stole 
 unobserved to the Speaker's private suite of rooms, and 
 there wrote a letter tendering his resignation, giving as 
 a reason his failing health a brief note, with no other 
 details.
 
 276 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 After handing it to the usher, he sank upon a large 
 armchair covered with yellow satin; he felt old and 
 weak, as if just recovering from a long illness. 
 
 He waited and waited, without daring to return to that 
 Chamber whence he was exiling himself by his own act. 
 He dared not show himself; he feared that his heart 
 would fail him, and that he might fling himself on the 
 floor and weep over the death of all his hopes. 
 
 The usher returned with a reply from the Speaker: 
 the Chamber, according to custom, granted him a three- 
 months' leave of absence, at the request of the Honor- 
 able Melillo. 
 
 Did they not understand, then, that he wished to take 
 a final departure? 
 
 He sent another message to the Speaker, to the effect 
 that his malady would prevent his fulfilling the duties of 
 a deputy; then he paced to and fro in the Speaker's sit- 
 ting-room like a caged lion. 
 
 The usher returned once more. 
 
 The Chamber accepted his resignation, and the Speaker 
 added a few words of regret, wishing him a speedy re- 
 turn to health. That was all; everything was over. 
 
 Mechanically, Sangiorgio felt for his medal his joy, 
 his pride, his fetich and it appeared to him smaller, 
 thinner than before. He left the place immediately, re- 
 sisting the desire to look once more at the halls, the cor- 
 ridors, the buffet, the library, the room of the Lost Foot- 
 steps. He departed without giving a single glance to 
 all this, fearing to meet too many deputies, to be pressed 
 for too many explanations, to be obliged to shake too
 
 THE CONQUEST OF ROME 277 
 
 many hands. He knew that at the first spoken farewell 
 he should burst into tears, like a youth whose father has 
 closed his doors against him. 
 
 When he reached the Piazza di Montecitorio, he felt as 
 if all were void and empty within him and around him. 
 He had nothing more to do, he knew not where to go, 
 and he must not seek anyone. He had no desire to eat, 
 to walk, or to talk; everything seemed useless every- 
 thing! Instinctively he sought refuge in his old lodg- 
 ings in the Via Angela Custode, which was now reeking 
 with the unpleasant odors of summer in the city, and 
 gray with dust. 
 
 He threw himself on his bed, with his face buried in 
 the pillow, his arms inert, his brain whirling. He had 
 not tried to see Angelica of what use would it be? 
 Why not submit quietly to the inflexibility of fate? 
 
 All was futile, utterly useless. He owed a large sum 
 of money to an upholsterer, another at a bank but what 
 mattered it? He would pay them later, at some uncer- 
 tain date, or he might be absolutely ruined. All the 
 worse, but nothing had power to move him now, all was 
 futile, useless. 
 
 He had no desire to pay a last visit to the apartment 
 in the Piazza di Spagna, still warm and fragrant with 
 the beloved presence; he did not wish to kiss the chair 
 where she had sat. His thoughts were drowned in con- 
 templation of the past but the past must be forgotten. 
 He did not even wish to take one last walk in Rome the 
 beloved city, the city of his dreams, which he was about 
 to leave forever.
 
 278 MATILDE SERAO 
 
 No, all was futile, useless ! Better to lie there, on that 
 miserable little bed in his furnished lodgings, surrounded 
 by dirt and evil smells, than to go out to see and hear, to 
 feel and to regret, since all was ended forever. 
 
 This is surely a somnambulist, this man with fixed and 
 absent gaze, who paces to and fro in the waiting-room at 
 the railway-station, having purchased a second-class 
 ticket for a remote village of the Basilicata, since he had 
 not money enough to travel first-class. 
 
 He must indeed be a somnambulist this man that 
 stumbles as he walks, jostling against other persons, and 
 paying no attention to his luggage, nor to the summer 
 breezes sweeping through the room, nor to anything. 
 Like a somnambulist, he wanders mechanically toward 
 his place in the train, guided by the voice of the guard. 
 
 Ah, what a long dream ! The shrill whistle of the en- 
 gine arouses the pale traveler; he springs to the door of 
 his coach and gazes wistfully upon Rome dark, im- 
 mense, overwhelming, enthroned upon her seven hills, 
 studded with dazzling lights. 
 
 He sinks back upon the seat, like one smitten with 
 death, for, in very truth, Rome has conquered him!
 
 AN 
 
 INNOCENT BARABBAS 
 
 BY 
 GRAZIA DELEDDA 
 
 TRANSLATED BY JAMES C. BROGAN 
 
 279
 
 GRAZIA DELEDDA 
 
 The author of "An Innocent Barabbas" is a native 
 and resident of Sardinia, and has made for herself a 
 high reputation by the production of novels and sketches 
 depicting the peculiarities of life and character in that 
 island a new field for the romancer. Her first novel, 
 Anvme Oneste ("Honest Souls") is supposed to be largely 
 autobiographic. Elias Portoln, while it has an old plot, 
 derives its strength from its vivid portraiture of a family 
 of typical Sardinians rough, narrow-minded, but honest 
 in their simplicity. Her // Vecchio delta Montagna ("The 
 Old Man of the Mountain") is her most ambitious novel 
 and is considered her masterpiece. 
 
 281
 
 AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 
 
 ^r HE poorest man in one of the poorest villages in 
 / 1 Sardinia was Chircu Oroveru, better known as 
 
 \^^ Barabbas, because he had once represented that 
 famous Biblical character in a miracle play. 
 
 Zio (Uncle) Chircu Barabbas was poor, indeed poorer 
 even than the beggars. His possessions were limited 
 to a single shirt, a single pair of linen drawers, a single 
 pair of breeches, made of the coarse cloth that the Sar- 
 dinian peasant women weave in such quantities, and a 
 cap, which he had fashioned himself out of the skin of 
 a hare. He had no buttons to his shirt, no waistcoat, no 
 cloak, no socks; and he had no shoes, either a terrible 
 deprivation in that rocky island. 
 
 Yet he was healthy and robust, handsome, too, remind- 
 ing one of the typical Celt : a figure tall and well-propor- 
 tioned, reddish hair, and eyes that had always a smile 
 in them. Was it his fault that he had been reared as 
 he had that he had never learned anything except to 
 cut wood in the forest, bring it into the town, and sell 
 it? It was the sole trade he knew. And, besides, he was 
 so harmless harmless as a lizard or a seven-year-old 
 child. All his patrimony, in addition to the aforesaid 
 wardrobe, consisted of a silver medal he had worn round 
 his neck since he was a baby, an ax, a horsehair rope 
 he had woven himself, and a pocket-knife. 
 
 283
 
 284 GRAZIA DELEDDA 
 
 In spite of all this, he was often in the best of spirits, 
 and on the whole was more at his ease than Signer 
 Saturnine Solitta, the rich capitalist, whose vast new 
 mansion looked as if it had been built of slabs of solid 
 snow. Zio Chircu passed most of his days in the forest, 
 so beautiful at all times and all seasons beautiful when 
 the evergreens were covered with their pale, golden flow- 
 ers, or when the azure noontides of summer lay heavy 
 on its languid foliage, or when it was silent, all green 
 and humid, against the pearly background of an autum- 
 nal sky, or when its branches bent under the rime crys- 
 tallized by the winter's cold and nothing to break the 
 silence but the wood-cutter's ax, and the continuous 
 tac, tac, tac of the wood smitten by it, and the cheep, 
 cheep of a woodcock near the grass-bordered fountain 
 two hundred yards away. Nothing more. Zio Chircu 
 repeated a prayer, or meditated on the wisdom of taking 
 his wood to the houses that paid best, or thought of the 
 time when he should be able to buy a pair of shoes. 
 
 He had reached the age of forty-five, when one fine 
 day he was accosted by two men in dark-blue uniforms 
 with yellow buttons on their tunics. 
 
 "'What are you doing in the forest?" he was asked. 
 
 "Can't you see for yourselves?" he answered, stopping, 
 bent almost double under his load, but with his frank 
 eyes raised to meet theirs. 
 
 "You own land in the forest then eh?" 
 
 He burst out laughing, then stretched out his neck and 
 looked at one of his naked feet: 
 
 "Why, you see that I haven't even a pair of shoes!"
 
 AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 285 
 
 "Then you are acting in contravention of the laws 
 unless you have been authorized to cut wood." 
 
 "No, I have asked nobody's leave. I have my own 
 leave. If I hadn't, I should die of hunger." 
 
 "Then you are acting in contravention of" 
 
 "Contra contra Say it again." 
 
 "Contravention of the laws." 
 
 "But what does it mean?" 
 
 "It means that you will have to pay a fine or go to 
 prison." 
 
 Zio Chircu no longer felt any inclination to laugh; on 
 the contrary, his face became very gloomy. 
 
 "Why, I have been cutting wood for thirty years, and 
 no one ever told me that I should stop it, and die of 
 hunger." 
 
 The two forest-keepers were apparently moved. 
 
 "But what can we do, old fellow! That is as the law 
 goes at present, and it has to be obeyed. We'll let you 
 alone for this time. But take care that we don't catch 
 you at it again." 
 
 They did, however, catch him at it again, several 
 times. At last they had to act. He was arrested while 
 carrying his bundle, and was summoned before the 
 magistrate. The guards were not ill-natured, they even 
 pitied him. But what could they do? Their duty was 
 to see that the law was respected. 
 
 Zio Chircu had to appear before the justice of the 
 peace for the district, and was mulcted in a heavy fine; 
 for all the witnesses were owners of the forest lands, and
 
 286 GRAZIA DELEDDA 
 
 declared that he was one of the most desperate ravagers 
 of the woodland in the whole neighborhood. 
 
 The magistrate gave him time to pay the fine. But 
 he knew he had no means of paying it, and that he would 
 have to go to jail. This seemed to him like a horrible 
 dream, and he suffered as he never had suffered in his 
 life. In a few days he grew ten years older; he became 
 dirtier and more ragged than ever, and there was a 
 dull look in his eyes that never had been there before. 
 Ah, no! he did not wish to go to prison, at least as 
 long as the pleasantest season of the year lasted. And 
 he did not wish to go during the bad season, either: it 
 was in winter that he got the best price for his wood, 
 and sold most of it. 
 
 Then he made a bargain with another native of the 
 village, and took to the woods; he was accustomed to 
 them, and it did not concern him should he never see 
 the place of his birth again. He cut the wood, and the 
 other man carried it away and sold it. This man robbed 
 him of half what was due him. Zio Chircu knew it, 
 but was forced to keep silence. 
 
 He had a deep sense of the misfortune that had 
 crushed him. He was obliged to go farther and farther 
 into the forest, and most of the time he had to do the 
 cutting at night, when the moon was descending on the 
 lonely woods, and when the tac, tac, tac of the ax, echo- 
 ing in the mysterious silence of the moonlight, answered 
 the tu-whit, tu-whoo of the owl, which seemed to come 
 now from the somber depths of the forest, and now to 
 be falling from the pale, translucent sky.
 
 AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 287 
 
 Thus passed the autumn, thus the winter; and then 
 came the spring. Zio Chircu was extremely miserable, 
 almost naked, with hair and beard wildly tangled; and 
 sometimes he suffered from hunger, but still he refused 
 to surrender. No, no; he had not surrendered during 
 the keen cold of winter. Should he do so now, when 
 the sun shed a delicious warmth in the thinned copses 
 perfumed with cyclamens and violets? No, no. Time 
 enough to surrender next winter there was plenty of 
 time! 
 
 One day when he was crossing the moor from one 
 wood to another, fortune seemed to have smiled upon 
 him at last. He found a big red portfolio under a bush, 
 two pocket-books and several documents, somewhat in- 
 jured by the dew. 
 
 He examined his windfall : no money ; but perhaps the 
 papers had some value; perhaps he womld receive a re- 
 ward when he returned them he picked up everything 
 and went on his way; and then, when he met the friend 
 who sold his wood for him that friend knew how to 
 read he told him everything. 
 
 "May the devil fly away with both of us!" cried the 
 friend, staring at Zio Chircu with a suspicious look in 
 his eyes, "if all this did not belong to Signer Saturnino 
 Solitta!" 
 
 Zio Chircu shivered with fear and horror. Signor 
 Saturnino Solitta had been robbed and murdered a short 
 time ago, on his way back from Cagliari, where he had 
 sold an immense drove of hogs. Evidently the assassin, 
 after taking the money, had got rid of the portfolio,
 
 288 GRAZIA DELEDDA 
 
 pocket-books and papers by flinging them under the 
 bush. "Look, drafts, cheques, papers worth coined 
 money, I tell you !" said the friend, who had once been a 
 servant in the house of a wealthy family. "See, they 
 call this sort of thing a cheque. If you take it to a shop 
 in Nuoro you'll get money for it." 
 
 "But I don't wish to. They might think I was the 
 assassin." 
 
 "Well, if you don't you are an infernal idiot. It was 
 two or three months ago. Do you fancy that anyone in 
 Nuoro still remembers that old story? You do as I tell 
 you, go in as if you were a servant, buying something 
 or other, take the change they'll give you back, and 
 there you are! You can return here without anyone 
 troubling you." 
 
 "But wouldn't it be like stealing?" 
 
 "Devil take you for a fool! How could it be stealing 
 when there's no owner for it? The stealing was done 
 by the fellow that sent a bullet through the other fel- 
 low's neck. Perhaps, after all, it was yourself?" 
 
 "You'd crack a joke about anything, you rascal !" cried 
 Zio Chircu, laughing so naturally that the other man's 
 strange suspicions were completely routed. 
 
 "Well, then, why not change this cheque? And if 
 there was any unpleasantness, you could say you found 
 it. You can bring me in as a witness, and I'll prove it. 
 But such a blockhead I never met in my life. Don't 
 you see that the rags you wear scarcely cover you?" 
 
 "Yes, that is true. But isn't that just the trouble? 
 Won't they have their suspicions when they see me so
 
 AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 289 
 
 ragged? Except for that, it might be done. After all 
 you have said to me, I don't think I ought to feel any 
 scruples." 
 
 "I'll lend you my cloak, shoes and stockings." 
 "You'll have to lend me also your waistcoat and cap." 
 "You want all my clothes, then?" 
 "Yes, if you're willing to lend them to me." 
 "But then I ought to have something in return" 
 "Of course. What should you like? I'll buy you 
 anything you wish for." 
 
 "Anything you like to get for me yourself." 
 For a time Zio Chircu Barabbas felt almost happy, or, 
 at least, not so wretched as usual. He thought of the 
 fine things he was going to purchase the shoes, the 
 waistcoat, the new ax. And he would also buy things 
 to eat bread, wine, bacon. Not but that, in the inmost 
 recesses of his soul, he had many doubts, many misgiv- 
 ings. On the whole, however, didn't he find what he 
 had found? And if the worst came to the worst, he 
 was simple enough to believe that he had only to tell 
 the truth, and he would be relieved from further trouble. 
 And then, his partner and he met him now oftener 
 than usual in the forest kept up his spirits and encour- 
 aged him; and one day he even said that if Zio Chircu 
 was afraid he would go himself and change the cheque. 
 But Zio Chircu remembered how this man had swindled 
 him in the sale of the wood, and he prudently thought 
 that if anybody had to go and change the cheque, he 
 had better do so himself. So he set out for Nuoro. 
 
 After entering the city, he made straight for a shoe 
 10
 
 290 GRAZIA DELEDDA 
 
 shop. He would first buy a pair of stout shoes of yellow 
 leather with big nails that shone like silver and long 
 shoe-strings of black leather. He tried them on, laced 
 them, unlaced them, then put on the shoes of his friend, 
 which pinched his enormous brown feet painfully. His 
 heart beat when he drew out the dead man's cheque. 
 The shopkeeper took the cheque and examined it; not a 
 muscle of his face stirred ; and yet, at that very moment, 
 he was deciding the fate of poor Barabbas. 
 
 "I have no change at hand," he said. "But, if you 
 wait a minute, I'll send this to a neighbor, who will 
 change it." 
 
 Zio Chircu felt a little uneasy, but he made no ob- 
 jection. 
 
 Meanwhile, he thought he would take off his friend's 
 shoes again and put on the new ones, which were more 
 comfortable, although a little too heavy. 
 
 "They are as hard as the hide of the devil," he said 
 to himself as he felt them, bending his head almost to 
 the floor; "but when I grease them well, they'll become 
 easy enough. And aren't they fine! I never saw any- 
 thing so beautiful!" 
 
 The clerk whom the shopkeeper had sent to change 
 the cheque did not return, and the shopkeeper, growing 
 anxious and nervous, was going to the door every min- 
 ute and looking out. At last, the clerk made his appear- 
 ance ; and behind him entered immediately a well-dressed 
 gentleman, with thick red lips; and behind the gentle- 
 man entered two policemen. Zio Chircu felt as if his 
 heart stood still; he guessed what was about to happen,
 
 AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 291 
 
 and, for a second or two, he was frightened. But he 
 thought: "I will tell the truth and it will be all right." 
 
 "Who gave you this paper?" asked the gentleman with 
 the thick lips. 
 
 "I found it," answered the wood-cutter, respectfully. 
 He had risen to his feet, and still held his friend's shoes 
 in his hand. 
 
 "Where did you find it?" 
 
 He related everything as it had occurred. 
 
 "My good man," said the gentleman, in a somewhat 
 mild tone of voice perhaps he was afraid that this vig- 
 orous-looking savage might be dangerous, if driven to 
 extremity "you will be kind enough to come with us 
 and explain the matter to the Signer Ispettore." 
 
 And Zio Chircu followed him willingly, hoping that 
 he had only to tell the truth to be believed. But still 
 he was conscious of a mysterious dread, a secret pre- 
 sentiment of something frightful about to happen. 
 
 When they entered the office, the gentleman and the 
 policemen changed their tone. Zio Chircu was inter- 
 rogated anew, and this time very sternly, by another 
 gentleman, who was pale and bald. Then he was un- 
 dressed and searched. The objects that had belonged to 
 the dead man were found on him, and he was at once 
 looked upon as the assassin of Saturnine Solitta. 
 
 He was thrown into prison and subjected to long and 
 cruel examinations. Every day there were gentlemen 
 coming to torture him with their questions spectacled 
 graybeards and young men with blond moustaches; and 
 all these made the strangest inquiries of him, and in-
 
 292 GRAZIA DELEDDA 
 
 sisted on his telling them when, and how, he had killed 
 Signer Saturnine Solitta. 
 
 "But I have killed nobody," he answered. "I found 
 those things you took from me, and I didn't even know 
 what they were. A friend advised me to use the cheque, 
 and, as I was longing for a pair of shoes, I took his 
 advice. If you don't believe me, ask him!" 
 
 The friend was sent for and questioned. He acknowl- 
 edged he had lent the prisoner his clothes which he 
 asked to have back. He had also lent him his socks; 
 but he swore he knew nothing and had never given 
 Chircu any advice. 
 
 "The dirty scoundrel!" thought Zio Chircu to himself. 
 "Ah, I might have suspected it after the way he cheated 
 me in selling the wood!" 
 
 And, to be revenged, he said to the judge: 
 
 "If he didn't give me advice, neither did he give me 
 his duds." 
 
 He reasoned : "Now they won't be given back to him." 
 And then he repented, and recanted what he had said. 
 No, he would never again offend his Lord and Saviour, 
 for he was sure that this misfortune had befallen him 
 as a punishment for laying his hands on what did not 
 belong to him. 
 
 During the long hours in his cell he was plagued by 
 a sort of instinctive homesickness for the great lonely 
 woods and the free sky, and he felt unhappy, terribly un- 
 happy. He recalled the period when he hid in the thick- 
 ets, and all the sufferings he had endured, and it seemed 
 to him now that He had sinned grievously by complain-
 
 AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 293 
 
 ing of them. His life then was full of happiness com- 
 pared with what it was now. And yet he did not form 
 any correct idea of the tribulation that was on the watch 
 for him. He was always hopeful of being set at liberty 
 some time or other, and that soon; and every night, dur- 
 ing the drowsiness that preceded sleep, he believed he 
 heard the tac, tac, tac of the ax resounding through the 
 silence of the forest, accompanied by the owl's slow and 
 melancholy cry. 
 
 A long time passed in this fashion. Nobody apparently 
 had a thought for Zio Barabbas; nobody came to see 
 him, or sent him a cigar or a measure of wine or a loaf 
 or a clean shirt; while the most wretched among the 
 other prisoners were sure to receive something some 
 time or other. And even the old gentleman with the 
 shining spectacles, which gave one a shiver even to 
 look at; and the young men with the blond moustaches, 
 and the others with the bald heads and pale faces, had all 
 seemingly forgotten poor Chircu. 
 
 But one day he received a sheet of paper, partly 
 printed and partly written ; his heart was trembling while 
 it was being read to him. It was the decree that sent 
 him to stand his trial before the Court of Assizes. Next, 
 he had a visit from his counsel, a bilious young man, 
 not very keenly interested in his client. He, too, wanted 
 to force Zio Chircu to relate how and when he had as- 
 sassinated Signer Saturnine Solitta. 
 
 "Tell me the truth," he repeated. "You must tell the 
 whole truth to your lawyer. Then we may be able to 
 arrange things."
 
 294 GRAZIA DELEDDA 
 
 At certain moments Zio Chircu was tempted to de- 
 clare that he had killed Solitta, for it seemed to him at 
 times that he would have a better chance of extricating 
 himself by confessing a crime he had had nothing to do 
 with than by asserting the truth. But when the green- 
 ish, bilious face of his lawyer was no longer before him 
 he began again to hope for the triumph of truth and 
 justice. Moreover, his prison-mates assured him that 
 juries were made up of honest people who had human 
 hearts, and not hearts of stone like the magistrates. 
 
 And then came the morning of his trial. Zio Chircu 
 awoke almost gay; he had dreamed that he was in the 
 forest, cutting wood near a river, and a marsh-bird, quite 
 black, except for its claws, which were long and as 
 green as the rushes, was hopping among the branches 
 of a willow and singing the strangest song! 
 
 The friend who used to sell his wood for him was one 
 of the witnesses; he deposed that the prisoner had al- 
 ways been a cunning, savage, unsociable fellow. 
 
 The counsel for the prosecution depicted the prisoner 
 as "a wild beast of the forest who had long and care- 
 fully planned his crime in advance, and had watched 
 for the passing of his victim; then, like some ferocious 
 animal crouching in the jungle, he had leaped from his 
 lair on his prey." We give the words verbatim, for this 
 is a true story. 
 
 Zio Barabbas, who was fairly paralyzed with terror, 
 could not for some time take his eyes from this spec- 
 tacled gentleman to whom he had never done any harm. 
 To give himself a little courage, he made an effort, and
 
 AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 295 
 
 at length succeeded in fixing them on the jury, which 
 consisted of smug, peaceful-looking tradesmen with com- 
 fortably protuberant stomachs; some of them had an 
 air of jollity that was encouraging; the sight of them 
 gave him a little hope. 
 
 Then his counsel began his address in behalf of the 
 prisoner. He was greener and more bilious looking than 
 ever, and a habit he had of grinding his teeth during 
 the more oratorical parts of his speech produced a very 
 unpleasant effect. 
 
 To bring the matter to a conclusion, the poor man was 
 condemned to hard labor for life. He wept bitter tears. 
 He looked once more appealingly at the members of the 
 jury, these men that were so fat and peaceful and com- 
 fortable; he recalled his dream, his blind confidence in 
 the triumph of truth, and he told himself that every- 
 thing that appears to be good is a lie. 
 
 His lawyer thought to cheer him a little by drawing 
 up an appeal to the Supreme Court and getting him to 
 sign it, or rather to make his mark. But Zio Chircu 
 no longer had any confidence, no longer believed in jus- 
 tice, no longer had any hope. His heart shriveled up, 
 became as dry and bitter as a wild plum. He stopped 
 praying, stopped weeping. 
 
 And now he was carried far away, and taken to the 
 salt-pits ; his hair and beard and moustache were shaved ; 
 he was dressed in red, and a chain was riveted to his 
 ankles. For a long time he was in a state of despair. 
 The sight of an immense sea sharpened the intense 
 homesickness of the wretched man, accustomed as he
 
 296 GRAZIA DELEDDA 
 
 was to dwell in places that were covered and had no 
 horizon. 
 
 But in the course of years he grew accustomed, and 
 even resigned, to his new life. Sometimes, when he 
 thought his old age would have been passed in the dark- 
 est wretchedness, he experienced a sort of satisfaction 
 in dwelling on the fact that now he need no longer be 
 anxious about his future. 
 
 He had become vicious also : he had lost the innocence 
 that he had preserved up to the very day of his con- 
 demnation. He no longer thought of God, or if he did 
 think of Him, it was with anger, as of a monstrous being 
 who had permitted the most infamous injustice to be 
 wreaked on one of His creatures. 
 
 Zio Barabbas formed a sort of friendship with one of 
 his companions in misfortune, a Sardinian also, a little 
 old man who hardly reached to his elbow, with a red, 
 chubby face and two keen, little, blue eyes, sunk far 
 back under his bulging forehead. This old man came 
 from the village next to that in which Zio Chircu was 
 born, and his name was Zio Pretu. 
 
 He was a jovial little manikin, was utterly without 
 scruples, and a great braggart; but, after succeeding in 
 persuading his fellow convicts that he had performed 
 the most marvelous feats, he would burst out laughing, 
 and acknowledge that his stories were all fibs, and he 
 was only humbugging them. So when Zio Chircu was 
 brought to the convict prison, there was no one there 
 who gave any credit to the narratives of Zio Pretu. Yet, 
 when Zio Pretu did tell the truth, he spoke so convinc-
 
 AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 297 
 
 ingly, that it was hard not to believe him; but he did 
 not tell the truth often, or to many persons. 
 
 When Zio Pretu had won the entire confidence of Zio 
 Chircu he related his history in a few words, and with 
 a persuasive accent that carried conviction with it. 
 
 "Listen. I am from the village, you know. I was 
 living very comfortably with cows and hives and fields 
 of corn and beans. But I wished to be still better off than 
 I was. I knew a priest that was rich, so ricH even that 
 he possessed gold plate, and I and some of my comrades 
 set out to rob him. As he made an outcry, we had to 
 choke him, and he fell dead. And just when we had 
 everything nicely fixed, the carbineers appeared. Pop! 
 whiz! shots here, and shots there. We managed to es- 
 cape, though, and with the booty, too, all except one, 
 who unluckily remained in the hands of the soldiers; 
 and he revealed our names, the coward! I was then 
 forced to take to the woods; I managed to sell all that 
 belonged to me, however, so that the authorities didn't 
 get hold of it ; I put the money into a pitcher, and buried 
 the pitcher. 'I was just in time; a little later, I was 
 arrested." 
 
 "And the booty?" asked Zio Chircu. "What did you 
 do with it?" 
 
 "Oh, I bought food with it when I was in hiding. But, 
 to be frank with you, every mouthful I ate had a bitter 
 taste. And what might your story be?" 
 
 "Oh, mine is somewhat like yours," the other returned, 
 bitterly. "I also am here for robbing and murdering a
 
 298 GRAZIA DELEDDA 
 
 man. Still, there is a difference. I have been accused 
 of these crimes, but I never committed them." 
 
 "Ah, that is unjust. I assassinated my man beyond a 
 doubt, and I don't wish to gainsay it. And I have sin- 
 cerely repented it, I can tell you, for it was the cause 
 of my losing everything I owned." 
 
 "You have no family?" inquired Zio Chircu, tenta- 
 tively, thinking of the pitcher. 
 
 "To hell with my family ! My relatives abandoned me 
 like a dog; and they may die like dogs themselves, for 
 all I care." 
 
 Then Zio Chircu and Zio Pretu formed a friendship 
 that lasted for many years and afforded some little con- 
 solation to these two unfortunates. They both wore the 
 fetters of ignominy, they were fellow-countrymen, spoke 
 often of the far-away land they came from, and what 
 served to bind them closer, was that both were sure they 
 would both die in the horrible spot would die, not as 
 men, but as mere numbers, lost in the blank desolation 
 of these salt-pits lashed by the sea and by the sun. 
 
 The character of Zio Chircu had completely changed. 
 He had become surly and quarrelsome. At certain mo- 
 ments, when he was in one of his darkest moods, he 
 would insult his old comrade and come very near stinking 
 him. Then the little old man would laugh and say: 
 
 "Number Three-fifty-one, don't act the bully, or I 
 won't tell you where I have hidden my pitcher." 
 
 "May the devil roast you ! Who in hell cares for your- 
 self or your pitcher? Even if you told me, what good 
 would it do me?"
 
 AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 299 
 
 "You'd at least have the satisfaction of knowing what 
 I know." 
 
 "Go to blazes! I wish the devil would plug you into 
 one of the salting-tubs! You'd better not provoke me 
 further, Number Two-thirty-six." 
 
 When they called each other by their numbers, instead 
 of by their names, it was the deadliest insult they could 
 exchange. 
 
 One day when Zio Chircu was in good humor he 
 said to Zio Pretu: 
 
 "Why don't you write to someone? He would dig up 
 the pitcher and send you some money. You would be 
 able to live better, buy this and buy that for yourself." 
 
 "Not such a softy! He would keep the whole of it. 
 I know the world better than you do." 
 
 "But, then" 
 
 "But, then? I guess what you mean. Well, when I 
 am at my last hour I will reveal the hiding-place to a beg- 
 gar he must be a beggar, for then there'll be a chance 
 that he'll pray for my soul." 
 
 And weeks and months and years slipped by ; the hair 
 of Zio Chircu turned gray, his chest became hollow, and 
 even his stature seemed to diminish. As for Zio Pretu, 
 he was almost decrepit, but he did not look older than 
 his comrade, and he kept on relating his mendacious 
 stories and then laughing at them. If he continued to 
 pour out these extravagant fibs with a fluency that never 
 failed him, he did so to amuse himself rather than to 
 amuse others. 
 
 On a certain day an extraordinary incident occurred.
 
 300 GRAZIA DELEDDA 
 
 Zio Chircu was summoned to the office of the director 
 of the penitentiary. He was a little excited on his way, 
 because nothing like this had ever happened to him be- 
 fore. The director said to him: 
 
 "Now that so many years have elapsed ; now that you 
 are an old man, you should at last confess the truth. Did 
 you commit this crime yes or no? Tell the truth, the 
 whole truth. You will find it to your advantage. We 
 will solicit your pardon, and you may be fortunate to 
 be allowed to spend your last days in your country." 
 
 Zio Chircu again uttered a fierce and energetic denial. 
 
 "No ! though I should live as many years as there are 
 grains of sand on the seashore, and spend the very last 
 of them here, No! I have assassinated nobody. No, 
 no, no!" 
 
 He was then dismissed. He at once returned to Zio 
 Pretu, who was awaiting his coming with some anxiety, 
 and gave an angry account of his interview with the 
 director. 
 
 "It's a wrong, a damnable wrong!" said the old man. 
 "I assassinated the priest beyond a doubt, and I don't 
 wish to gainsay it. If I am summoned I will confess 
 everything, and if they choose to pardon me, why, they 
 will pardon me. But to torture a poor devil like you 
 ah, that isn't just!" 
 
 The next day Zio Chircu was again summoned to the 
 director's office and questioned for the second time. The 
 blood surged to his head, and he was almost on the 
 point of flinging himself on the director. 
 
 "Well, since it is so," said the director, changing his
 
 AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 301 
 
 tone, "I may as well tell you the real murderer has been 
 discovered although I should not say 'discovered.' The 
 truth is that he was overwhelmed with remorse and con- 
 fessed his crime; but it comes to the same in the end. 
 You have every reason to rejoice, then. You will make 
 your preparations for leaving, for you will soon be free." 
 
 When he met Zio Pretu he broke into such a wild fit 
 of weeping that the old man was astonished; these were 
 the first tears he had ever seen him shed. 
 
 "What is the matter?" 
 
 "The real murderer has been discovered," answered 
 Zio Chircu, sobbing and repeating the words of the di- 
 rector; "although he was not discovered exactly, he was 
 overwhelmed with remorse and confessed his crime; but 
 it comes to the same in the end. I am to make my 
 preparations for leaving." 
 
 Then Zio Pretu began crying also, and they wept to- 
 gether tears of mingled joy and sorrow. 
 
 "But what will become of me?" asked Zio Pretu. 
 
 "And what about me? What can I do?" asked Zio 
 Chircu. "Liberty is fine, and it's a good thing to have 
 a good character, and I have got back mine. But I am 
 old, I can no longer work, I can no longer earn my liv- 
 ing; and I have no one belonging to me." 
 
 "Your neighbors will come to your help." 
 
 "But I should hate to live on alms." 
 
 And with a sad smile, in which there was a little 
 irony: "Why," he retorted, "why shouldn't you tell me 
 where you have hid the pitcher?" 
 
 Zio Pretu's countenance suddenly brightened.
 
 302 GRAZIA DELEDDA 
 
 "And why not, really? You are not a beggar, but you 
 are a poor man. Well, then, I'll tell you. And, in fact, 
 I have been long thinking about it. But you will re- 
 member me in your prayers?" 
 
 "Ah, my prayers! my prayers! I don't remember a 
 single one of them!" exclaimed Zio Chircu, aghast. "I 
 have forgotten God, and yet God has not forgotten me. 
 He wished to try my faith, and I have lived like a 
 heathen !" 
 
 During his last day in the penitentiary Zio Pretu told 
 his comrade where he had hidden the pitcher. The sep- 
 aration was a great sorrow for Zio Pretu; but the old 
 man found some comfort in thinking that, before dying, 
 he had been able to do a service to a poor man on whom 
 God had laid a very heavy hand. As for Zio Chircu, he 
 went away feeling quite happy, for he had recovered 
 his character, and his future was assured. 
 
 When he returned home he found the villagers at first 
 very generous, and he was able to live for a time on the 
 alms they lavished on him. He was always thinking 
 of the convict's pitcher, but he could not as yet go in 
 search of it, for he felt very feeble and incapable of 
 making a long journey. Before he could hope to reach 
 the spot indicated it was. absolutely necessary for him 
 to recover his strength. 
 
 Gradually his neighbors became accustomed to the 
 sight of him, and the alms grew less abundant. After 
 a time he was entirely neglected, and nobody paid 7 any 
 
 attention to him. 
 a 
 
 Then he saw it was time to make a quest for the con-
 
 AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 303 
 
 vict's treasure. His heart beat fast as he recognized on 
 his journey the places where he had lived before his 
 misfortune. Many of the woods were thinned, and some 
 of them cleaned away entirely; but among the alders on 
 the bank of the stream still vibrated the clieep, cheep 
 of the marsh-birds; the slow, even note of the cuckoo 
 still rang out from the mastic bushes; and those voices 
 brought back to Barabbas endless memories of far-away 
 ancient things. 
 
 A strange melancholy oppressed him. He had a ter- 
 rible mental picture of his wickedness. Ah, how vile he 
 had become since that distant day of his affliction, and 
 how sinful had been his despair of God's mercy! Then 
 he thought of his old comrade in the convict prison, and 
 he asked himself whether Zio Pretu was not better than 
 himself, this man who had committed a crime and was 
 expiating it with resignation and by doing good to others. 
 Ah, no, no, no, no, no! he would not find the pitcher! 
 He did not deserve such luck, for he had sinned too 
 deeply, had blasphemed and despaired. Then he re- 
 pented of despairing still, prayed, and went on with more 
 courage. 
 
 Toward evening, he reached the place described by the 
 convict. It was a copse of poplars, utterly lonely and 
 far from any human habitation. Night was falling, crys- 
 talline and unclouded, scintillant with its pure stars; 
 the poplars rose to the heavens on their slender glossy 
 trunks, like enormous silver flowers; the earth, softly 
 carpeted with leaves, exhaled a humid, indefinite odor. 
 
 Zio Barabbas had brought with him the iron of a small
 
 304 GRAZIA DELEDDA 
 
 mattock; he drew it from under his blouse, and then 
 groped along the ground in the darkness in search of 
 something that might serve as a handle. At length, he 
 found a branch which he was able to fit to the iron of 
 the mattock. Then he waited for the rising of the moon. 
 
 His heart beat as if it would burst through his breast ; 
 the whole remainder of his life was at stake now; he 
 would be compelled to spend it in the most abject mis- 
 ery, if God's help failed him. He sat down on the grass 
 and hid his face in his hands. 
 
 Ah, how deeply he had sinned, how deeply he had 
 sinned ! But he repented bitterly. Surely God would be 
 good to him ! And at the same time he felt that, even if 
 he did not find the pitcher, he should not complain. 
 
 The moon rose ; the damp leaves of the poplars gleamed 
 like silver, the odor of the ground became more distinct. 
 
 Zio Barabbas knelt down and began digging. In the 
 profound silence of the solitude around him, he grew 
 afraid of the sound the only sound to be heard he 
 was making himself. 
 
 At last the mattock struck a hard substance and gave 
 forth a metallic sound. Zio Barabbas plunged into the 
 hole, and felt the handle of the pitcher, then he con- 
 tinued his work with furious ardor, and the pitcher was 
 soon unearthed. He seized it, shook it. The coins in- 
 side rattled and jingled. 
 
 He made the sign of the cross, and, with his face 
 turned up to the sky, thanked the Divine mercy. 
 
 He resembled an old savage in an attitude of adora- 
 tion before the moon.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 MAY 8 1957 
 -1958 
 
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