"Ah, Meesh, Meesh," he said, "what an anarchist you are, to be sure!...
Monsignor!"
"Yes, your Holiness," said the chamberlain, coming up behind.
"Take this gatto rosso back to the carriage, and keep him in
domicilio coatto until we come."
The Monsignor laughed and carried off the cat, and the Pope put his
mittened hand gently on the little speckled eggs.
"Poor things! they're warm. Listen! That's the mother bird screaming in
the tree. Hark! She's watching us, and waiting for us to go. How snugly
she thought she kept her secret."
The Capuchin drew a long breath. "Yes, nature has the same cry for fear
in all her offspring."
"True," said the Pope.
"It makes me think of that poor girl this morning."
The Pope walked back to the carriage without saying a word. As he
returned to the Vatican, the Angelus was ringing from all the church
bells of Rome, the city was bathed in crimson light, the sun was sinking
behind Monte Mario, and the stone pines on the crest of the hill,
standing out against the reddening sky, were like the roofless columns
of a ruined temple.
V
Next day Francesca came up with a letter. The porter from Trinità de'
Monti had brought it and he was waiting below for a present. In a kind
of momentary delirium Roma snatched at the envelope and emptied her
purse into the old woman's hand.
"Santo Dio!" cried Francesca, "all this for a letter?"
"Never mind, godmother," said Roma. "Give the money to the good man and
let him go."
"It's from Mr. Rossi, isn't it? Yes? I thought it was. You've only to
say three Ave Marias when you wake in the morning and you get anything
you want. I knew the Signora was dying for a letter, so...."
"Yes, yes, but the poor man is waiting, and I must get on with my work,
and...."
"Work? Ah, Signora, in paradise you won't have to waste your time
working. A lady like you will have violins and celestial bread and...."
"The man will be gone, godmother," said Roma, hustling the deaf old
woman out of the room.
But even when Roma was alone she could not at first find courage to open
the envelope. There was a certain physical thrill in handling it, in
turning it over, and in looking at the stamps and the postmark. The
stamps were French and the postmark was of Paris. That fact brought a
vague gleam of joy. Rossi had been travelling, and perhaps he had not
yet received her letter.