She was Maria’s enemy now, as she had once been her defender, when it had suited her to take the side of frailty, which may bend without being quite broken, against that columnar social virtue which may possibly break but never bends at all. Teresa’s enmity was not likely to be very dangerous, however, for she was, on the whole, a good-natured gossip, and might at any time be in need of a good word for herself in the dangerous game she was playing.
She reflected with rather unnecessary bitterness on her position as a defenceless widow, and felt quite sure that if she were Madame de Maurienne, Montalto would not have the courage to insult her husband by refusing to receive her.
CHAPTER XV
Castiglione had a sort of rule for avoiding Maria which worked very well for a long time. There is a great sameness in the lives of Roman ladies even now, and in a society which is numerically small it is rarely hard to guess where the more important members of it are. So long as Maria had lived in Via San Martino, not by any means cut off from the world, but quite independent of it, she had been in the habit of coming and going as she pleased. She could slip out to the little oratory in Via Somma Campagna at seven o’clock in the morning, she could put on her hat unknown to her maid and go over to the station to post a letter, she could call a cab and drive to Saint Peter’s, or she could take Leone with her at a moment’s notice, on a fine day, for a walk in the outlying quarters of the city, towards Santa Maria Maggiore. All these things look very simple, unimportant, and easy, and it might be supposed that she could have enjoyed the same small liberty after she had moved back to the Palazzo Montalto.
But she could not. Whenever she went out, there was a footman on duty in the hall, where the wide swinging door to the landing of the grand staircase was never fastened except at night. If she was allowed to go downstairs alone, the footman touched a bell that rang in the porter’s lodge, and the porter was waiting for her under the arched entrance, respectful but imposing, and by no means allowing her to take a cab for herself at the stand, fifty paces from the door. The cab must be called for her, and two of those on the stand were privileged by turns, because the cabmen paid the porter a percentage of what he allowed them to earn. Then, too, the address to which she wished to be taken had to be given to him, and he transmitted it to the cabman in a stern manner, as if he thought the man certainly meant to take her somewhere else and must be dealt with severely.
As for going out in her own carriage, that was quite an affair of state, too, though old Telemaco still sat on the box. She could not go to the telephone whenever she pleased and order him to come when she wanted him. There was red tape in such matters. Maria had to tell a footman, who had to tell another, who went downstairs when he was ready and who was in no hurry to find the coachman; and difficulties arose about horses which had never been heard of when she had hired a pair by the month.
Moreover, Leone now had a tutor at home, and was taken to the clerical Istituto Massimo every morning, because Montalto objected to the public schools, and Maria was not able to argue the question.
‘Either you believe in our religion, or you do not, my dear,’ the Count had said.