“The Palazzo Rusticucci to be sold over our heads, the studio threatening to fall down upon them—our Roman world is crumbling about us!” I cried.
To which Pietro’s “What are you going to do about it?” was cold comfort.
XV
THE KING IS DEAD. LONG LIVE THE KING!
Palazzo Rusticucci, Rome, July 29, 1900.
I was awakened at six o’clock this morning by a loud knocking and the shrill voices of my maids calling to me. Hurrying out to the hall I found the three pale, shivering women huddled together near our door.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
Old Nena could only lift her withered hands to heaven and cry aloud to the Madonna. Filomena stood staring dully, saying over and over again,——
“Murdered, murdered, murdered!”
Pompilia the Tuscan seemed less distraught than the others.
“Tell me quickly what has happened?” I said to her.