"O! Nina mia—o giovinetta,
Lunica speme—delta mia vita;
Deh! perchè vivi—così soletta
In questa tetra—stanza romita?
Vieni, vieni!
Vieni, deh! vieni a me d'accanto.
Io t'amo tauto, io t'amo tanto!"
I listened, and as those words of passionate love fell upon my ears I tried to shut them out. They recalled too vividly the days when I myself had been wooed by a man whom I loved.
The writer of the mysterious note had declared our interests to be mutual. This fact aroused my interest, causing me, in my eagerness to learn the truth, to disregard my usual caution. Hailing one of the small open cabs which are characteristic of every Italian town, I gave the man the address mentioned in the letter.
Contrary to my expectations, the Via Magenta proved to be one of the principal streets down which the electric tramway passed, and Number 12 was, I found, a large, old palace of six stories, once the residence of some count or marquis, but now, as a result following the ruin of its original owners, it was evidently let out in flats. The big doors, ponderous and iron-studded, as they nearly always are in Italy—a relic of those turbulent days when every palazzo was a miniature fortress—were closed when I alighted; but finding a row of bells, I rang the one marked "terreno" (ground floor), whereupon the door was unbolted by the occupant of the apartment, and I immediately found myself just inside a huge, dark hall, where the noise made by me in stumbling over a step echoed loudly. There is always something uncanny in the way an Italian door is opened at night by an unseen hand, for one naturally expects to see a person standing behind it. As a matter of fact, the opening is effected by a mechanical contrivance which can be operated at will in any of the apartments. Thus the occupants remain undisturbed until the visitor arrives at their door.
I had turned, and was about to ask the cabman to give me some wax vestas in order that I might find my way, when a door opened at the further end of the hall, and against the light from within I saw the silhouette of a young Italian girl about fifteen years old. She came forward, looking at me inquiringly, and then, as though she recognised my features from a description that had been given her, she exclaimed:
"It is the Signorina Rosselli! Pass, signorina, pass!" and she led the way into the apartment, closing the door behind her. The place was spacious, sparely furnished, but not particularly clean. The cheap paraffin lamp upon the table of the small room at the back of the house to which I was conducted was smoking, blackening the glass, and filling the place with suffocating fumes. The stone floor of the apartment was without carpet, and all the furniture it contained was a cheap table, two or three old rush-bottomed chairs, and a tall linen-press of a bygone day. There was a damp, earthy smell, which did not help to make the place any more inviting. Indeed, I had scarcely set foot in it before I became seized with suspicion and regretted that I had come.
The girl, a tall, black-eyed Livornese, who wore a bodice of cream-coloured cotton and a stuff skirt of dark crimson, was evidently a serving-maid, for she drew forward one of the chairs, inviting me to be seated.
"I presume I am expected here?" I inquired in Italian.
"Si, signorina," was the girl's reply, "the signore will be with you in a moment. Please be seated. I will tell him."
She disappeared, closing the door after her.