She rang the bell and told Agostino to telephone to the Conte del Castiglione saying that she would be glad to see him the next day at half-past two, if he could come then. In a few moments the servant brought back the answer. The Conte had been at the telephone himself and would do himself the honour of calling on the Signora Contessa on the morrow at half-past two.
The formal reply was so like his messages of old days that it sent a little thrill through her. Often and often he had come at that quiet hour, when Montalto was always out of the way, and each time he had found some new way of telling her that he loved her; and she, in turn, had listened and had laughingly scolded him, telling him that she had grown from a silly girl into a grave Roman matron, and would have no more of his boyish love-making; and, moreover, that if he was always going to make love to her she would refuse to receive him the very next time he tried to see her at the hour when she was alone. And yet she listened to his voice, and he saw her lip quiver sometimes and her soft pallor grow warmer; and always, when he sent a message asking to see her at half-past two, the answer had been that she would probably be at home, and that he might try if he liked; and when he came, she was there, and alone, and ready to laugh, and scold, and listen, expecting no danger and not wittingly thinking any evil.
So his message to-day startled her senses, as a little accidental pressure on the scar of an old wound sometimes sends a wave of the forgotten pain through the injured nerve. It was like a warning.
When she was alone she sat down in the deep chair again and leaned back. It was wrong to be so glad that she was to see him the next day, but she could not help it; and besides, it was to be the last time for so long, perhaps for ever. Surely, after all that she had suffered, she might allow herself that little joy before the unending separation began!
She was already far from the bitter self-reproach of a few minutes ago, and the mere thought of his coming had wrought the change. Was it not in order to be just to him at last that she had sent for him? Might there not be a legitimate moral satisfaction in humbling herself before him, and in the thought that she was about to lift a heavy burden from his heart? Moreover, to be for ever gloomily pondering on her past fault, now that she had acknowledged it and was sorry for it, would surely be morbid.
As for the religious side of the matter, she would make her peace with heaven at once. She would put on a brown veil and go to the Capuchin church that very afternoon and confess all to Padre Bonaventura, of whom she had so often heard, but who would never know who she was. He would impose some grave and wearisome penance, no doubt; Capuchin monks are notably more severe in that respect than other confessors. He would perhaps bid her read the seven penitential psalms seven times, which would be a long affair. But he could not refuse her absolution since she was really so sorry; and the next morning she would get up early and go to the little oratory near by and receive the Communion in the spirit of truth at last; and when Castiglione came at half-past two she would have grace and strength to tell what she had to tell, and to bid him good-bye, even for ever. If she did all this she would earn the right to that one last little joy of meeting.
She was not a saint yet; she was not even heroic, and perhaps what she took for a guiding ray of light was anything but that; perhaps it was little better than a will-o’-the-wisp that would lead her into far more dangerous ground than she had traversed yet. But after her resolution was made she felt lighter and happier, and better able to face the world than she had felt during that long week since Castiglione had come back.
Then Leone came in, straight and sturdy and bright-eyed; and he marched across the room to where she sat and threw his arms around her, as he sometimes did. And though he was but a small boy, she felt how strong he was when he squeezed her to him with all his might and kissed her, first on one cheek and then on the other; and in spite of herself she closed her eyes for a second and drew one short breath as she kissed him too. He was very quick to see and notice everything.
‘Did I hurt you, mama?’ he asked almost anxiously.
‘No, dear!’ She smiled. ‘You are not strong enough to hurt me yet, darling.’
He drew back half a step and surveyed his mother critically, with his head a little on one side.
‘I wouldn’t, of course,’ he said condescendingly. ‘But if I twisted your arm and hammered it with my fist I could hurt you. I did it to Mario Campodonico, and he’s nine, and he howled.’
‘Naughty boy!’ Maria could not help laughing. ‘Why did you hurt poor Mario?’
‘Poor Mario!’ cried Leone scornfully. ‘He’s twice my size, and he’s learning to ride. Why shouldn’t I hammer him if I can? He tried to take away a roast chestnut I was eating. It was in the Villa Borghese only yesterday. He won’t do it again, though! He howled.’
Thereupon Leone faced about, marched to the window, and climbed upon his favourite chair to look for soldiers in the street. He got up with three quick movements, as if he were going through a gymnastic exercise. He set one knee and both hands on the seat, then put the second knee up and both hands on the top of the chair, then he straightened his back and was in position. Maria watched him, and her eyes settled on the back of his solid little neck that showed above the broad sailor’s collar, and on the short and thick brown hair that was so curly just at that place.
But presently she turned away and mechanically took a book from the low table beside her. Don Ippolito had said that Montalto might offer her a reconciliation she did not deserve, and might come back to take her and Leone to live in the palace again. The thought chilled her and frightened her, for she could guess at his expression when he should first see what she had seen every hour of the day for years. Yet any father might be proud of such a child—any father! Could such a ‘reconciliation’ be lasting?
That afternoon she took Leone with her and drove out by Porta Furba to the ruins which the people call Roma Vecchia. They drove across the great meadow, and when they could drive no farther they got out and walked, and climbed up till they could sit on one of the big fragments of masonry and look towards the west. Leone had been rather silent, for with the exception of an occasional couple of mounted carabineers on patrol they had hardly met any soldiers at all. And now they sat side by side in the sunshine, for there was a cool breeze blowing from the sea and the air was not warm yet.
Leone took no interest in any pastimes earlier than the age of armour and tournaments; and Maria was glad that he did not ask her questions about the ruins, for she could not have answered him. She knew nothing about the Quintilii and very little about Commodus. She only knew that the great pile was commonly called the ‘Old Rome,’ and that she loved it for its grand loneliness. But Leone looked about him, and thought it was a good place for a castle. Next to soldiers he loved castles and forts.
‘If this belonged to me, I’d build a fortress here,’ he observed gravely, after a long silence. ‘I’d build a great castle like Bracciano.’ He had been taken there on a children’s picnic during the winter. ‘But I’d have lots of guns and a regiment of artillery here if it were mine,’ he added.
‘What for?’ asked Maria, amused.
‘To defend Rome, of course,’ answered Leone.
‘But no one is coming to take Rome, child,’ objected his mother.
‘Oh, yes, they may!’ He seemed quite confident. ‘If there are no other enemies, there are always the French and the priests!’
At this astounding view of Italy’s situation Maria could not help laughing.
‘We are good friends with the French now,’ she said. ‘And
