A Lady of Rome

by F. Marion Crawford

Maria asked if the maid had heard any noises in the street or the square, or anything like rioting. The maid smiled. At that hour in the morning! How could her mistress think of such a thing?

As if, because Rome is an old-fashioned city, street-fights could only take place decently, and at regular hours! But Maria felt reassured by the woman’s tone, and remembered how confidently her friend had spoken in the evening. One of her reasons for liking Giuliana so much was that she was so solidly sensible, and so sensibly good. Teresa Crescenzi had once said before a gay party in the old days that it was of no use to have Giuliana’s face and figure if you were going to be a monster of virtue, and when Maria had made a half-laughing retort Teresa had said that Maria did not look upon Giuliana as a necessity, nor as a luxury, but as a comfort; which was to some extent true; and Teresa had gone on to say it was a pure waste of good material that anybody who was so impeccably virtuous as the Marchesa should know how to dress so well; and every one had laughed.

Maria had her tiny breakfast in her boudoir, tea and a slice of toast with an infinitesimal layer of butter, after the way of most southern people, and she felt better able to face the day than had seemed possible when she had fallen asleep after three o’clock. She had brought with her from Via San Martino the little service she had used during so many years, and the sight of it in the morning always revived the momentary illusion of freedom. Memory loves to play with toys—perhaps because it knows how to use the knife so well.

The small meal occupied her longer than usual; she filled her cup a second time and took another little bit of toast. The hour had come when she usually went to say good morning to her husband in his study, but she had risen late, according to her own ideas, and the time had come too soon. But if she did not go to him, he would presently come to her to ask in a petulantly affectionate way whether she had forgotten him. To-day he would perhaps think that she had not quite forgiven him for yesterday’s scene, and there would be another. The thought chilled her, and she touched the button of the bell—a pretty button Giuliana had given her, made of a cat’s-eye set in a small block of Chinese jade that lay on the corner of the table. The maid came to take away the things.

‘Is the Count in his study?’ inquired Maria. ‘Please ask.’

But the maid knew that he had not rung for his man, and was probably still asleep; for a person who had applied for the vacant place of steward was waiting in the ante-chamber, though he had come at ten o’clock, by appointment, to be interviewed by the Count. In fact, the valet had suggested to the maid that she might ask her mistress whether it would not be better to wake his Excellency, as it was so late, and he did not like to oversleep himself.

‘Not yet,’ answered the Countess. ‘Let him sleep half an hour longer.’

But she was surprised to learn how late it was, and glanced at her old travelling clock; Montalto now and then stayed in bed till nearly eleven, however, and she was glad to be alone some time longer. As he had given an appointment to a man of business, whom he would certainly see as soon as he was ready, it was quite possible that she might be left to herself till luncheon time. There were a number of little things she wished to do, and she began to occupy herself with them. Though it was the fourteenth of January she had not yet changed the calendar cards for the year in the shabby little silver stand she had used so long. The new ones needed clipping, in order to fit the old-fashioned frame that had been made for a sort no longer to be had. The note-paper in the upright case on the writing-table was almost finished too, and she replenished it from a closet in her dressing-room. She was used to doing all such things for herself, and kept her own stock of writing materials in neat order.

These and other small matters occupied her for some time. She was fitting a new piece of pencil into her sliding pencil-case when loud shouts from the square made her turn her head towards the window. Then two pistol shots followed, and there was a moment’s silence. She dropped the pencil and ran to the window, and as she reached it the savage shouting rang again through the square. She saw fifty or sixty men fighting each other, their sticks flourishing, their hats flying in all directions, their arms and legs struggling confusedly. Instantly she thought of Leone. Giuliana had said there were never any disturbances till late in the afternoon, and her maid had smiled at the mere idea that anything of the kind could happen before noon; yet there was fighting going on already, under her window. She strained her eyes to find her boy and his tall tutor in the crowd, and opened the window to see more clearly. They were not in sight—of course not! Leone was at school, and the tutor was at the public library, where he spent his mornings in study. But they must come home for luncheon, all the way from the Istituto Massimo, near the station, down to the heart of Rome; and they might be caught in a fight anywhere. She was certain that the tutor was a coward.

Something must be done at once to get the boy home in safety. She would telephone to the school that he was to wait there, and she would go for him herself. She was quite sure she could protect him much better than any man could. Who would attack a lady in her carriage? Leone should sit at her feet in the bottom of the brougham, in case a stone should break one of the windows. She could trust old Telemaco, her own coachman, for she had seen him in trouble with vicious horses, and he was cool and resolute; a man who is not afraid of a horse is generally fairly courageous in other ways.