A Lady of Rome

by F. Marion Crawford

Maria tried to laugh, and this put her husband in a better humour. He said the simplest thing was to have a circular note from the Chief of Police sent to the Italian press, informing all the responsible editors of the dailies that an outrageous plot was on foot to attack the reputation of a lady of Rome by offering for publication certain alleged reproductions of letters already in the possession of her husband, who would bring an action, in the most public way, against any newspaper that even alluded to them. Maria answered that such a plan would succeed admirably with the respectable papers; but that, unfortunately, there were some which were just the contrary, and whose owners desired nothing better in the way of an advertisement than to be sued for libel, for collusion in forgery accessory after the fact, or for any other scandalous offence, because nothing would delight a certain class of their readers and increase their circulation so much as to see the name of the Countess of Montalto or any other Roman lady dragged through the mud.

This was unfortunately true, for Rome was much disturbed at that time by a revolutionary element of the most despicable sort, which was stirring up strife in every way, and was at the bottom of the frequent strikes, almost every one of which led to some open disturbance little short of a riot. That was the public that supported the disreputable papers, Maria said, and it would treble the circulation of any one of them that published a scandalous attack on decent people.

Maria knew far more about the condition of Rome and Italy than Montalto. He had exiled himself from his country for years, and had taken little interest in what happened there, whereas his wife had always been on intimate terms with Giuliana Parenzo, whose husband was now Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs, after having been connected with the Government ever since he had left the University of Bologna.

It did not occur to Montalto to smile at the thought of having spent some time every evening in giving Maria a summary of the news he gathered chiefly from the Vatican newspapers. On the contrary, he felt quite sure that he understood the situation much better than she did, and he suddenly forgot the matter in hand and tried to launch upon one of those arguments in favour of the restoration of the Temporal Power, in which he delighted to engage with Monsignor Saracinesca.

But Maria refused to be led so far, and only said it was a matter she did not understand. She saw it was useless to bring him back to the point just then, so she listened quietly while he talked alone, till it was much later than usual. Then he solemnly conducted her to her own door, kissed her hand with a formal bow, while pressing it affectionately, and bade her good-night.

She felt almost desperate for a little while after she had dismissed her maid, for the first of the eight days was gone, and she saw no reason why Montalto should be any nearer to a conclusion a week hence than now. When he thought that a question concerned his conscience or the welfare of his soul, even in the most distant manner, she knew that he could make up his mind in twenty-four hours as to what was right, and would certainly act on his decision at once. But in other matters eight days would seem to him as good as a year, and having generously accepted Maria’s assurance that the letters were in themselves perfectly innocent, he could hardly believe that there was any real danger. It seemed almost certain that he would reach no conclusion, and that they would be published before he could be induced to take any steps.

Again, as she lay awake in the quiet night, Maria saw Castiglione’s resolute face before her as clearly as if he had been standing in the room. She always slept in the dark, but she sat up in bed and covered her eyes with both her hands, and prayed aloud that the vision might not disturb her. She was so sure that he would have known what to do at once, and would have done it with ruthless energy.

Her prayers, or her will, or both, drove away the thought of him, and by and by she fell asleep in spite of her trouble, and did not wake till daylight.

She would not go to her husband’s study again in the morning, for he was without doubt still busy over the drafting of his will, and it would be foolish to run the risk of disturbing him. She felt very helpless. She had last seen the letters on that night in the chapel, when she had hastily glanced over them to be sure that nothing was missing; for when she had gone back to her room she had resolutely locked them up. That had been the night following the day of her meeting with Castiglione in the lift, when she had struggled so hard with herself, and had made her great resolution to put away his memory for the rest of her life.

The phrases came back to her now, some vividly, some only very vaguely; but there was the photograph of a part of one to help her. She tried to think of herself as another woman coming to her for help, in order to judge coldly of the effect such words must make on any one who should read them without knowing the truth she had called innocent; and in an instant it was dreadfully clear to her that they could only be interpreted in one way. Castiglione had never had the gift of writing; he had not been able to speak eloquently and convincingly of a spiritual love in which he could not believe. He had only found words to tell her that he loved her, that she was his queen of love, his idol, the saint on the altar of his heart, that he would do his best to be what she wished him to be, and that he honoured and respected her above and beyond all things visible and invisible.