A Lady of Rome

by F. Marion Crawford

Such a thought could have no real hold upon Maria, and she put it away angrily, as unworthy and ungenerous, even in an extremity which might have excused her for suspecting some innocent person. It was much more likely, she soon told herself, that she had been robbed by some servant in the house, who would sooner or later attempt to blackmail her by threatening to show the letters to her husband. As for knowing even approximately when the theft had taken place, that was impossible. She had opened the writing-case for the last time in May, and nearly eight months had now elapsed. It was one of the objects she had formerly always locked up in a closet in Via San Martino when she left Rome for the summer. This year she had put it into the deep drawer of her new writing-table, which had an English patent lock, and she had taken the key with her to the country; but she knew that patent locks always had two keys when they were new, and it occurred to her now that she had never seen the second. Since she had been in Rome again she had not even locked the drawer, and had felt safe in carrying only the key of the desk itself. It was impossible to say when it had been opened, and she realised at once how useless it was to waste time and thought in trying to detect the thief.

He would reveal himself when he wanted the money. She felt sure that money only had been his object in stealing the letters, for she could not imagine that any one should have done it for mere hatred of her.

The question was whether the thief would demand his price from her or from Montalto. Most probably he would write first to her, for he would know that she had some independent fortune. She would give anything he asked, even if he asked for all she had.

But, on the other hand, he might go directly to her husband. The thought appalled her; the catastrophe might happen at any moment; it had perhaps happened already, that very day, since she had seen Montalto, and she would see the change in his face when they met at dinner; afterwards, when they were alone, he would bring his accusation against her, and it would be a more bitter one than the first had been, long ago. Her shame would be greater, too, before the world when he left her the second time and for ever, and the final ruin of his life would be upon her soul.

She wished she had told him everything when she had spoken of her meeting with Castiglione; but she had judged it wiser not to say more, for she had felt innocent of all evil then, and the knowledge that many letters had been exchanged would have sorely disturbed her husband’s peace. He would have answered her that she should have written him all the truth before he came home. If she had only done that, he might never have returned to claim her. Yet this thought was evil, too, now that she had said those words to Castiglione in the lift, and she must kill the memory of her lover in her heart if she had the least respect left for herself, or for her husband’s honour, or for God’s right.

Even now it would be better to throw herself upon Montalto’s mercy and confess the truth before the thief wrote to him. She would rather tell it all, against herself, than let him learn it suddenly, brutally, from the vile letter in which the blackmailer would make his demand. It would be easier for Montalto too. At least he would be warned; at least, if he chose to cast her off again, she would have given him the weapon, the right, and the opportunity. Yes, it would be better so.

The brave thought took possession of her quickly. She believed she saw the right course before her, in the clear light of a good inspiration. Perhaps Montalto had come home already, though it was only six o’clock and he rarely came in before seven. She now recollected that Giuliana Parenzo and Monsignor Saracinesca were coming to dinner. When her husband told her that he had asked Don Ippolito to dine, she generally telephoned to Giuliana to come if she could. The two men often engaged in endless discussions about the relations of Church and State, during the evening; the layman believed in the dream of restoring the temporal power of the Pope, the churchman did not, and had a patriotic affection for his country and a belief in its future, which made Montalto tremble for his salvation. At first Maria had derived some amusement from this anomalous situation, but when she had occasionally ventured to put in a word for the new order of things, Montalto had been visibly displeased. After that she had resorted to the device of asking Giuliana, with whom she could talk quietly at one end of the drawing-room while her husband and his friend carried on their unending argument at the other. Incidentally, she often wondered how such a broad-minded man as Don Ippolito could be so sincerely attached to such a prejudiced one as Montalto.

To-night she would have to wait till the Canon and the Marchesa were gone before she could speak to her husband. It would be very unwise to tell him her story before dinner, though she felt an intense desire to unburden herself of it at once. She wondered how she should get through the evening, from eight o’clock till half-past ten or eleven, without betraying her distress; but to her own surprise she found herself growing calmer and cooler than she could have thought it possible for her to be. She was in something more than trouble; she was in danger from an unknown and dastardly hand, and she was naturally brave enough to be calmer at such a moment than under the strain of any purely mental suffering.

She was conscious of impatience more than of fear or want of strength, for she was going to do the only thing that was brave and right and truthful, and after that such consequences might come as must.