Maddalena did not hesitate. She dressed herself in an old black frock she found among her things, put on a thick veil, went out alone, and drove to Pietro's lodgings. Such rash things may be done with impunity in Paris or London, but they rarely remain long concealed in a small city like Rome. He was still unconscious from weakness and loss of blood. His eyes were half closed and his face was transparently white. Maddalena stood still at the foot of the bed and looked at him, while the doctor and the nurse gazed at her in surprise. During what seemed an endless time to them she did not move. Then she beckoned to the surgeon, and led him away to the window.
"Will he live?" she asked, hardly able to pronounce the words.
"He may. There is some hope, for he is very strong. I cannot say more than that for the present."
For a few moments Maddalena was silent. She had never seen the doctor, and he evidently did not know her.
"My place should be here," she said at last. "Would an emotion be bad for him—if he were angry, perhaps?"
"Probably fatal," answered the surgeon with decision. "If he is likely to experience any emotion on seeing you, I beg you not to stay long. He may soon be fully conscious."
"He cannot know me now?" she asked anxiously.
"No. Not yet."
"Not if I went quite near to him—if I touched him?"
The doctor glanced back at the white face on the pillow.