"You scoundrel!" he said. "You've succeeded, you've separated us, but I
understand you perfectly. You have used this unhappy lady's shame to
compel her to carry out your infamous designs, and now that she is done
with, she must lose the man who played with her as well as the man she
has played with."
Roma saw that the Baron was feeling for something in the side pocket of
his overcoat, and she called to Rossi to warn him.
"One doesn't quarrel with an escaped criminal," said the Baron. "It is
sufficient to call the police ... Police!" he cried, lifting his voice
and taking a step forward.
Rossi stood between the Baron and the door.
"Don't stir," he said. "Don't utter a word, I warn you. I'm a hunted dog
to-night, and a hunted dog is dangerous."
"Let me pass," said the Baron.
"Not yet, sir," said Rossi. "You have something to do before you go. You
have to go down on your knees and beg the pardon of your victim...."
Roma saw the Baron draw the revolver. She saw Rossi spring upon him, and
seize him by the collar of the Annunziata which hung over his shirt
front. She saw the men go struggling through the door of the
sitting-room into the dining-room. She covered her ears with her hands
to shut out the sounds from the outer chamber, but she heard Rossi's
hoarse voice that was like the growl of a wild beast. Then came the
deafening report of a pistol-shot, then the vibration of a heavy fall,
and then dead silence.
Roma was still standing with her hands over her ears, shaking with
terror and scarcely able to breathe, when footsteps resounded on the
floor behind her. Giddy and dazed, with one agonising thought she
turned, saw Rossi, and uttered a cry of relief. But he was coming down
on her with great staring eyes, and the look of a desperate maniac. For
one moment he stood over her in his ungovernable rage, and scalding and
blistering words poured out of him in a torrent.
"He's dead. D'you hear me? He's dead. But it's as much your work as
mine, and you will never think of yourself henceforward without remorse
and horror. I curse you by the love you've wronged and the heart you've
broken. I curse you by the hopes you wasted and the truth you've
outraged. I curse you by the memory of your father, the memory of a
saint and martyr."
Before his last words were spoken Roma had ceased to hear. With a feeble
moan, interrupted by a faint cry, she had slowly retreated before him,
and then fallen face downwards. Everything about her, Rossi, herself,
the room, the lamp on the table and the shadows cast by it, had mingled
and blended, and gone out in a complete obscurity.