“The Ambasciatore Inglese and other personnaggi of importance are to visit my studio presently; do me the favor to open the door for them,” said J.
“Volontiere, Signore mio, un momento; I will change my coat and be with you instantly!”
The nearest way from the front of the Torlonia to the back is by the Vicolo dell’ Erba, a narrow little alley which runs beside the palace. We never use it—’t is so evil smelling, badly paved, and generally poverty stricken—unless we are in a great hurry. J. being pressed for time naturally took the vicolo. He happened to be wearing a red cravat,—in Italy, especially in Rome, supposed to be the badge of the anarchists and avoided by the Romans, and, one would fancy, by the anarchists accordingly. Of course all the guardie of our quarter know the pittore Inglese by sight, but the extra ones detailed for the day did not. Hurrying through the vicolo, J. ran round the corner into the Borgo Sant’ Angelo, and into the arms of one of these extraneous guardie, ordered to be on the lookout for suspicious characters. His eye caught the red cravat.
“Scusi, Signore; where might you be going in such a hurry?”
“I am going to No. 125, Borgo Sant’ Angelo.”
“You have business of importance there, or you would not be in so much haste?”
“Yes; I am late for an appointment.”
“With whom?”
“That is a private matter and one which does not concern——”
At this hectic moment the proud young porter came hurrying along the vicolo, buttoning his gold-laced coat as he ran. He took in the situation at a glance, and with the exquisite tact of his people went bail for the pittore Inglese without seeming to do so.