A Lady of Rome

by F. Marion Crawford

Then she smiled at her husband again and went on writing.

Maria was very far from guessing that she was already so much talked of. She had lived so long in the pleasant security of a half-retirement from the world, and in the halo of semi-martyrdom created by Teresa Crescenzi’s original story, that she fancied herself unwatched and her behaviour uncriticised. She would certainly never have thought of connecting any change in Teresa’s disposition towards her with the fact that they had met in a lonely street after sunset, both wearing veils and telling each other that they had been to confession. She had not even taken the trouble to suspect that Teresa had not told the truth; still less had she guessed that Teresa was just then at a critical moment of her existence and was playing a very dangerous game in the hope of marrying Monsieur de Maurienne. Maria did not even know where he lived; and if she had ever bestowed a thought upon that, she would have supposed that he had rooms in the Embassy at the Palazzo Farnese.

She was too happy now to think about indifferent people. She had seen Baldassare twice again before he had left, and each time it had seemed easier and more delightful to be with him. He had behaved perfectly, and had shown that he was in earnest and meant to lead the ideal life of innocent and loving intercourse which she had planned for herself and him. Between their meetings she had written him long and eloquent letters, breathing peace, and hope, and an undying love in a sphere far beyond this daily, earthly life. He had answered those letters by shorter ones that echoed them and promised all they asked. When he had come again he had stayed over an hour; when he came the last time he stayed almost all the afternoon, and Maria had boldly told Agostino that she was not at home for any one except the Marchesa di Parenzo. There was surely no harm in saying this, she thought, although she knew quite well that Giuliana and her husband were gone to Viterbo in a motor-car and would not return till late in the evening. She told herself that by some unforeseen accident they might come back sooner, and that Giuliana might appear about tea-time; and that it was therefore quite honest and truthful to tell Agostino that the Marchesa was to be admitted, if she came, well knowing that the chances were about ten thousand to one against anything so disagreeable. The improbable had happened twice lately—Maria had chanced to meet Castiglione at Saint Peter’s, and Teresa had chanced to meet him just after meeting her. Those were two coincidences, both of which had produced more important results than might have been anticipated; but it was not likely that there should be any more for a long time.

Giuliana did not come back unexpectedly, and Maria and Castiglione were alone together from half-past two till nearly six; and during all that time there was no approach to anything which might have disturbed her certainty that they were both sure to keep the promise they had made. When they parted she laid both her hands on his and looked up into his face a little expectantly. He might have given her one harmless kiss when he went away. But he did not. He shook his head and smiled, and he went away.

She was proud of him then; she was also a very little disappointed, though she would not have acknowledged it for worlds. He was right, of course.

When he had left Rome she made an examination of her conscience, for somehow she found it very hard to do so when she was expecting to see him soon. She was alone with herself now, and she felt strong and satisfied in every way, except that she longed to see him again. She smiled when she remembered the grim old Capuchin’s words. A deadly risk? A mortal sin? What risk had she run with such a man as Castiglione? What mortal sin had she committed? She thought of her life during the past years with amazement now. Why had she suffered so much and so uselessly? Why had she never told herself the truth, faced it, humbled herself to tell it to him, and found peace in all those years? There had been a few hard moments when she had done it at last, it was true; but they were forgotten now.

Yet there was one thing she must do, and she must do it at once. She would not go back to the Capuchin, but she would certainly go to some other confessor, not her own, and make sure that she had found absolution, not for what she had done lately, since she was absolutely sure that she had done right, but for that long unacknowledged moment of weakness years ago. No priest in his senses could refuse her absolution for that.

She meant to be as careful and scrupulous as she had ever been in the hardest days; but it was not easy to feel very humble and repentant just when she was so very happy, just when she felt that the new life was lifting her up, together with the man she loved so well.

It did not seem wrong either to go to a confessor whose name she knew, and who had the reputation of being a very mild man, who always took the most gentle and charitable point of view. She had once heard Giuliana say with a laugh that he must have listened to some astounding confessions in his day, stories that would make one’s hair stand on end, because he was such a mild man, and so charitable; but even Giuliana admitted that he was as good as he was kind. There was no reason why Maria should not go to him.

She made an appointment with him in a quiet and remote church; she put on the grey veil and went in a cab in the afternoon, and she got what she hoped for. She came home, and Leone was waiting for her; and when she turned up the veil and kissed him there was a bright smile in her face.