Roma imagined she could see everything as it was intended to be--the
signal, the rising, the regicide. "There is a train at 2.30; I must
catch that one," she thought.
"Dearest, don't attempt to reply to this letter, for I may leave
Berlin at any moment, but whether for Geneva or Zürich I don't yet
know. I can give you no address for letter or telegram, and
perhaps it is best that at the critical moment I should cut myself
off from all connection with Rome. Before many days I shall be
with you; my absence will be over, and, God willing, I shall never
leave your side again...."
Roma was growing dizzy. Rossi was rushing on his death, and there was no
help for him. It was like the awful hand of the Almighty driving him
blindly on.
"Adieu, my darling. Keep well. A friend writes that letters from
Rome are following me from London. They must be yours, but before
they overtake me I shall be holding you in my arms. How I long for
it! I am more than ever full of love for you, and if I have filled
my letter with business I have other things to say to you the very
moment that we meet. Don't expect me until you see me in your
room. Be brave! Now is the moment for all your courage. Remember
you promised to be my soldier as well as my wife--'ready and waiting
when her captain calls.' D."
Roma was standing with Rossi's letter in her hand--her face and lips
white, and her head full of a roaring noise--when a knock came to the
bedroom door. Before answering she thrust the letter into the stove and
set a match to it.
"Donna Roma! Are you there, Signora?"
"Wait ... come in."
The old woman's head, in its coloured handkerchief, appeared through the
half-opened door.
"A Frate in the sitting-room to see you, Signora."
It was Father Pifferi. The old man's gentle face looked troubled. Roma
gave him a rapid, penetrating, and fearful glance.
"The Holy Father wishes to see you again," he said.
Roma thought for a moment; then she said, "Very well, let us go," and
she went back to her room to make ready. The last of the letter was
burning in the stove.
XVII Roma returned to the Vatican with the Capuchin. There were the same
gorgeous staircases and halls, the same soldiers, chamberlains,
Bussolanti and Monsignori, the same atmosphere of the palace of an
emperor. But in the little plain apartment which they entered, not as
before by way of the throne room, but by a secret corridor with cocoanut
matting and narrow frosted windows, the Pope stood waiting, like a
simple priest, in a white woollen cassock.