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 TALE OF MODERN ROME. 
 
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 COPYRIGHT EDITION. 
 
 
 
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 BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 
 
 Di 1862, 
 
 
 

 
 “Come, make a circle round me, and mark my a wi cars, 
 
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 A tale of what Rome once hath bornaı of what Rome yet ma, bear. 
 
 
 

 
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MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 — 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Thou art in Rome! the city that so long 
 Reigned absolute, the mistress of the world. 
 ROGERS. 
 
 One Sunday evening in October, the English con- 
 gregation were pouring out of the room which served 
 them as a church, outside the Porta del Popolo. The 
 English season at Rome had just begun. A long file 
 of carriages was waiting, and they successively came up 
 to the door, and drove off, either to various residences, 
 or to the Pincian Hill. The walkers turned into the 
 gardens of Villa Borghese, the gates of which stood 
 invitingly open close at hand; or crossed the Piazza, 
 and fell into the crowd in the three streets branching 
 from it. Some ascended the Pincian Hill, which the 
 Italians, ever dreading the unhealthy hour of sunset, 
 were already leaving; so that there was a double stream 
 of vehicles and foot-passengers, one descending and the 
 other ascending the winding way. Ample as the road 
 was, it hardly contained the crowds tempted out by the 
 fine afternoon to this charming place, once the Collis 
 Hortulorum, and still a region of gardens, as much as 
 in the days of Sallust and Lucullus. 
 
 If the piazzas and streets below had not been equally 
 crowded, all Rome might have been supposed on the 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. I, 1 
 
2 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 Pincio. Languages from all parts of the world were 
 heard there; foreigners and natives were blended to- 
 gether. Here, a magnificent Armenian prelate walked, 
 with stately air and flowing beard, beside a white-robed 
 Dominican. There, a group of Americans, of English, 
 of Germans, passed by. Here, again, a Frenchman ex- 
 changed no very friendly glances with a slender, dark 
 Italian. Now, all the crowd pressed hastily together 
 into the angles of the road, as a carriage, containing 
 two Italian ladies reclining luxuriously in it, dashed 
 along. Nurses, distinguished by their crowns of bright 
 ribbon and long silver pins; priests in their various 
 habits, were conspicuous and abundant; but in the whole 
 throng there was hardly a Roman from the country; 
 all on the Pincio were inhabitants of the city, and no 
 particular fesza had called the dwellers inthe Campagna 
 into Rome. It was only such a crowd and such a scene 
 as may be witnessed on the Pincian Hill on any fine 
 Sunday in autumn. 
 
 Amongst those of the English congregation who 
 made it their way home from church were a young 
 brother and sister, followed by a spaniel, which had 
 been waiting for them at the door. As they mingled 
 with the crowd, their appearance was so foreign, and 
 their Italian so pure, that no one would have supposed 
 them to be English, though the boy’s tall, slender figure 
 and bright complexion were unlike those of a Roman. 
 They paused for a few moments in an angle of the wall, 
 looking down into the gardens below, whence the warm, 
 perfumed breath of the China roses came up in gusts, 
 and where lizards and butterflies coquetted together. 
 A carriage passed, and a lady in it remarked them, 
 and asked her companion who they were, saying, “If I 
 
Inlait 
 
 
 
 EL 
 

 
MADEMOISELLE MORL. 3 
 
 had not seen them in our church, I should have taken 
 them for Italians.” / 
 
 “So they are, in fact. I do not know much about 
 them, but I believe the father was a young English 
 artist, who married a Neapolitan girl. I suppose he 
 met with her in some expedition into z/ Regno, as they 
 call Naples. I remember seeing a portrait of her once 
 when we went to his studio, and a beautiful creature 
 she must have been—with one of those pure Greek 
 faces which you see at Sora/or Capri. She died, and 
 left him this girl and boy; and some one said the other 
 day that he was dead too.” 
 
 “How do they live?” 
 
 “I do not know; on the boy’s eamings, probably. 
 Oh, you do not know how little people can live on 
 here, or you would not look incredulous. Yet I some- 
 times think that poverty is worse here than in England; 
 there are so many families who once were better off, 
 and are going steadily downhill.e And it is so hopeless. 
 What can one do?” 
 
 “Ah, the priests dislike the English helping or 
 visiting their people?” 
 
 “Oh, some do, and some do not. Some are glad 
 to let their people get part of the alms at the Englısh 
 church; others would not hear of it.” 
 
 “Do you see anything of the poor here?” 
 
 “I did, when I first came here, with my English 
 notions; but it is so disheartening, the cases are so 
 endless and so hopeless. And it is a most unfortunate 
 thing to get the name of being charitable, one has no 
 peace—-and then one gets so shockingly imposed 
 upon. I do assure you, Mıs. Dalzell, you would not 
 believe me, if I told you the frauds that people, as 
 
 I * 
 
A MADEMOISELLE MORIL. 
 
 well off as you or I, will practise to get a few pauls. 
 I am quite in earnest; the spirit of independence, or 
 honesty either, is entirely wanting here. And then I 
 know that the people take what one gives, and hate 
 one all the time as something worse than a pagan. 
 They call converts from our Church to theirs Muovr 
 Cristiani, New Christians. Religion is, of course, a 
 forbidden subject, and I have lost all heart, and feel 
 sure I am being taken in when an Italian talks me 
 into being charitable. I have learnt to resist their 
 pathetic entreaties at last. Ah, you look dissatisfied; 
 but if ever you live here, you will find philanthropy 
 to be all very well in theory, but mightily disagreeable 
 in practice at Rome.” 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell made no reply, and bent forward to 
 look at the road, some turns of which now lay below 
 them. She distinguished the brother and sister again, 
 slowly ascending in the throng, and asked if they had 
 been brought up as Protestants. 
 
 “] suppose so. Yes, they must be Protestants, for 
 Italian Romanists are strietly prohibited from setting 
 foot within our church. The boy is a handsome fellow, 
 is he not? I should like to know if they have any 
 friends here. Well, we must drive down, or you will 
 miss the /able d’höte. I wonder why Italian women 
 will wear white bonnets! Did you see that ‘one? 
 Frightful, is it not? Have you decided on going into 
 lodgings?” 
 
 “My old friend, Madame Marriotti, recommends me 
 to do so.” | 
 
 Meanwhile, the boy and girl had reached the door 
 of the French Academy, and instead of following the 
 stream of promenaders to the gardens above, they went 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 5 
 
 in, and asked the porter for the key of the Bosco, 
 which was given, and they entered a grove of ilexes, 
 whose gloomy shade effectually shut out the radiant 
 sunshine that still illuminated the western sky. 
 
 “Now the bread, Vincenzo,” said the girl, in Italian; 
 “see, see, there he is,” and she held out her hands 
 caressingly to a white goat, which was browsing amid 
 the rank herbage, and feigning to take no notice of 
 them. “Come! vien, vien qua! Oh, see the creature!” 
 as the spaniel, which had been racing in another part 
 of the wood, came into sight, and the goat, startled out 
 of coquettish indifference, gave an extraordinary caper, 
 and rushed upon him. Vincenzo and his sister were 
 too much overcome with laughter to interfere in the duel, 
 which ended with the dog’s taking refuge between his 
 owners, while the goat pirouetted indignantly at a little 
 distance. 
 
 “Come, if we are to see the sunset, we must make ı 
 haste, Irene,” said Vincenzo; “Nanna will certainly 
 think we are lost, and eat the rzcoffa all herself. 
 What are we going to have for supper? Come, tell 
 me!” 
 
 “You greedy boy! Don’t suppose I shall tell you. 
 Nanna would never forgive me if I spoiled her treat in 
 that way.” 
 
 “How she must rack her good old head every /esta 
 to get the something to make us a surprise,” said 
 Vincenzo, as they advanced towards a long and ex- 
 ceedingly steep flight of steps, leading up a high mound 
 clothed with ilexes. “I believe it is what she thinks of 
 from one holiday to another.” 
 
 “And I think of what you are doing in the studio, 
 Ah, Vincenzino, when you are a great sculptor!” 
 
6 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 “Ah, when!” repeated her brother. “Do you re- 
 member the sculptor who sold nothing for fourteen years? 
 Fourteen years of working and waiting, and hoping and 
 despairing, Irene!” 
 
 “And we can work, and wait, and hope too, but 
 not despair,” said Irene, eagerly. “Fortune came at 
 last to him, and so it will to us—and any way, you 
 must be a sculptor.” 
 
 “Ay,” said Vincenzo, looking out on the magnificent 
 view which now lay before them as they attained the 
 miniature temple on the top of the mound and above 
 the wood, “it is not for the fame or the fortune; it is 
 for itself, Irene!” 
 
 Both stood still, side by side, gazing silently on the 
 city, where dome and bell-tower stood out against a 
 sky of gold; the desolate Monte Mario and its stone 
 pines rising dark to the right. Behind, close at hand, 
 were sombre ilex woods, amıd which rose here and 
 there the spire of a cypress, or a ruined arch, and on 
 the highest point, the white Villa Ludovisi; beyond, 
 stretched the Campagna, girdled by hills melting into 
 light under the evening sky. 
 
 “It is something to be a Roman,” said Vincenzo, 
 at last. 
 
 “And a Roman sculptor,” added his sister. 
 
 “You must come to the studio some day, Irene; I 
 want to show you my copy ofthe Zlora. I can tell 
 you, it was a great honour to be chosen to make it. 
 Alberti had no time, or else I don’t suppose Signor 
 Trajano would have chosen me. Ah! the light is 
 going.” 
 
 “Ave Maria when you hear, look you that your 
 house be near,” said Irene, quoting a familiar Roman 
 
SEAN 
 
 
 

 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 7 
 
 : proverb; “but before we go, can you get me that bit 
 of smilace? See,” she added, pointing to a graceful 
 plant wreathed round a neighbouring ilex. “There, 
 see that bough; it will look beautiful round Santa Lucia, 
 and you could copy it for a frame.” 
 
 “I see; stand out of the way,” said Vincenzo, ad- 
 vancing to the side of the flight of steps which was 
 undefended by railing or balustrade. He leant lightly 
 forward, stretching his lithe figure as far as he could, 
 and reaching after the plant, while Irene ran down the 
 steps so rapidly, that she came headlong into the arms 
 of a stranger, as he turned a corner of the mound, and 
 was about to ascend. Her exclamation made Vincenzo 
 start upright to see what had occurred. He set his foot 
 on a pebble which chanced to be on the step, slipped, 
 lost his balance, strove in vain to recover himself, and 
 fell down the whole flight of steps with frightful violence. 
 He lay as if dead for some minutes, and when Irene 
 wildly implored him to speak—to look at her—and 
 the stranger, who had innocently caused the disaster, 
 raised him, he only answered by faint moans of pain. 
 Presently he recognised his sister, uttered her name, 
 and tried to rise with the help of the stranger; but the 
 suffering caused by the movement showed that serious 
 injury had occurred. The stranger asked, first in 
 French, and then in tolerable Italian, where he felt 
 hurt. 
 
 “My back,” he answered in a faint whisper; then, 
 perceiving Irene’s terror, “Don’t be frightened, only I 
 cannot walk home yet.” 
 
 Nor could he endure to be carried when they tried 
 to lift him. | 
 
 “You are Italian! Where do you live? Let me 
 
8 MADEMOISELLE MORIL.: 
 
 get a carriage for you; I fear you must wait here 
 awhile, but I will make all possible speed. My name 
 is De Crillon, Colonel de Crillon,” said the stranger, 
 laying the poor boy’s head tenderly upon Irene’s lap. 
 She thanked him by a look. He hastened away, 
 and she sat waiting while the weary time passed on. 
 The gloom of the ilexes deepened; the sun had set, 
 and the rapid Italian night was come. The bell of the 
 neighbouring convent rang for the Ave Maria, but still 
 no one came to the help of the two poor children. 
 Vincenzo was too much exhausted by pain to continue 
 the comforting words which he had at first tried. to 
 speak; his breath came feeble and fluttering; Irene 
 was dumb with fear and grief, and sat with tears 
 rolling down her cheeks, and one arm passed closely 
 round the neck of her dog, as if even his presence 
 was a comfort, and the other hand on Vincenzo’s damp 
 forehead. A rustle gave her hope, but no one came; 
 it was but the white goat come to peer inquisitively at 
 them. It seemed as if hours had passed; all was still 
 again—surely all the world had forgotten them; yet 
 it was not so very long in reality before voices and 
 steps came near, and Colonel de Crillon hurried up. 
 “My poor friend! Have you been in much pain? 
 Every carriage was engaged; I could not find one. 
 Here is something, at last, and these good men will 
 carry you very carefully. Here, my men, lift him 
 gently, gently—that’s it,” as by his gesture rather 
 than by his foreign Italian they comprehended, and 
 laid the boy in a sheet which they had brought with 
 them. But no tenderness could save Vincenzo from 
 anguish which wrung irrepressible moans from him 
 even while he gasped out, “It’s nothing: don’t mind, 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 16) 
 
 Irene,” and the transit over the rough pavements was 
 a trial that ended in actual fainting. 
 
 Colonel de Crillon accompanied them to their 
 dwelling, and bade Irene hasten upstairs to warn her 
 friends and prepare a bed to receive Vincenzo at once. 
 There was no one to warn except the old servant who 
 had nursed them, and who, as Irene ran up to the 
 rooms they occupied on a third floor, came to the top 
 of the staircase, with indignant voice uplifted to a shrill 
 shriek— 
 
 “Oh! terrible children! Do you wish to kill me 
 with sorrow? Is this an hour? Child! what has 
 happened?” suddenly perceiving Irene’s frightened 
 aspect. 
 
 “Oh! Vincenzo has fallen down the steps of the 
 Bosco,” answered Irene, amid choking tears; “they are 
 carrying him upstairs now.” 
 
 Quite overpowered, she hid her face and gave way 
 to her sobs, while old Nanna hastened down scolding 
 and lamenting. The sight of Vincenzo carried up 
 senseless, called forth a new outburst, as she stood on 
 the stairs, with vehement gestures and tones, prevent- 
 ing any one from passing, and quite unconscious of 
 being in the way. The men who carried him did 
 not know what had caused the accident. Colonel de 
 Crillon could not muster Italian enough to explain, 
 nor could he comprehend the local Italian spoken by 
 Nanna. 
 
 “My good woman,” he exclaimed, at last, “you 
 really must let us pass by. Where is the boy’s father 
 or mother?” 
 
 “Father or mother, did the Signor say? They 
 
iO MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 have none but me; orphans are they, the blessed 
 children!” 
 
 Without further ceremony he pushed by her, and 
 ran upstairs till he reached an open door, where sounds 
 of. sobbing directed him to Irene. He was getting 
 thoroughly annoyed, and spoke sharply— 
 
 “Signorina, are you aware that we are losing a 
 great deal of time? Be so kind as to speak to your 
 servant, and request her not to stand wailing over your 
 brother as if she were a weeping willow, but to fetch 
 a doctor.” 
 
 Irene stood up, looking so scared and wretched 
 that his heart smote him as if he had been cruel to a 
 child. 
 
 “Pardon, if I speak like a savage, but indeed it is 
 most important to waste no more time. Our first 
 thought must be how to relieve him.” 
 
 “Yes,” she answered, collecting herself with effort, 
 and still shaken by repressed sobs. “I am sorry. Papa 
 used to be angry when I cried. What ought I to do?” 
 
 “Ah! she has let him pass,” muttered Colonel de 
 Crillon. “Now we must have him put to bed directly, 
 and then—here, lay him down softly. Til fetch a 
 doctor myself. The old hag! can’t she keep herself 
 quiet?” 
 
 “He opens his eyes!—he knows us!” exclaimed 
 Irene, springing towards him, but stopped by Colonel 
 de Crillon. “I will not talk; I will do just what you 
 tell me. Vincenzo—oh, dear Vincenzo! Nanna, let 
 me see his face. This good gentleman says he will go 
 for a doctor.” 
 
 M. de Crillon, höwerer, thought that the boy would 
 never be safely laid in bed without his superintendence, 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORT, 21 
 
 though Irene now showed more self-control and help- 
 fulness than he had imagined she could possess.. He 
 gave the men something and got rid of them, and re- 
 turned to help in undressing Vincenzo, growing mean- 
 while more exasperated every moment by Nanna’s in- 
 cessant chattering. Vincenzo had revived to entire 
 consciousness, and when M. de Crillon had laid him 
 tenderly in bed, the boy clasped his hand and feebly 
 murmured thanks, and Irene’s liquid eyes were even 
 more eloquent. “It is nothing; let me seek a doctor,” 
 said he, with a smile; and Nanna, looking from the 
 window, saw him the next minute hurrying down the 
 street with what she, from their rapidity, called, iIn- 
 appropriately enough, Dass! Inglesi. 
 
 He returned with the French doctor whose name 
 he had the most often heard since he had been in 
 Rome, consequently the one most fashionable and busy. 
 An Italian household of the middle class was new to 
 the foreign physician, and when, after his examination 
 of Vincenzo, Colonel de Crillon privately asked him if 
 he supposed they were badly off, he knew as little of 
 the matter as the inquirer. They looked round, and 
 judged that there was no poverty here, deceived by the 
 picturesque ‚air of everything; the frilled sheets, the 
 damask couch, the silver cups for holy water hung over 
 the bed, the paintings in carved frames, and the gay 
 painted ceiling. A native would have perceived directly 
 that the rooms bore traces of past competency and pre- 
 sent poverty; but the two foreigners understood none 
 of these indications, and did not even think that the 
 bare brick floors looked uncomfortable. M. de Crillon 
 was not rich, but he paid the doctor’s fee, told him to 
 let him know ıf the children wanted anything, and 
 
12 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 gave him his address at Naples, whither he was obliged 
 to go the next day. 
 
 “Is it possible they have no one to look after them 
 but that old witch?” said he, looking to a little outer 
 room, where the wrinkled face of old Nanna, her head 
 covered by nothing but rough and scanty grey hair, 
 was bending over a pot set on a morsel of glowing 
 charcoal, which she was exciting by means of a large 
 ventolaio, or feather fan, while she murmured to herself 
 something about having foreseen misfortune since she 
 had dreamed of water the night before. 
 
 “No one else? Impossible! Such nice-looking 
 children!” 
 
 The doctor shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 “What do you really think of the boy?” 
 
 “I shall be better able to tell t0-morrow. My im- 
 pression is that the spine is injured, and that it is a 
 surgical case.” 
 
 M. de Crillon returned to the bedside to bid Vincenzo 
 farewell. The boy was lying with closed eyes and 
 brow knit with pain; the face, so blooming and full of 
 life a few hours before, now wan as if with long illness. 
 He opened his eyes as M. de Crillon took his hand 
 and looked compassionately at him, seemed to recall 
 what had happened, and thanked him, looking round 
 for Irene as if to bid her join him. She came to his 
 side, and looked earnestly at the stranger, almost as if 
 asking for pardon. 
 
 “Farewell, my dear boy; Dr.—— will let me know 
 how you go on,” said he, with more cheerfulness than 
 he felt. “Signorina, I have alarmed you twice to-day; 
 what will your recollections of me be?” 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 73 
 
 Irene coloured with a pretty look of consciousness, 
 held out her hand, and whispered— 
 
 “ Addio, signor !” 
 
 The physician made his appearance again next 
 day, and found Vincenzo in less pain, and in a feverish 
 state of excitement about his work at the studio, though 
 unable to sit up. When assured that absolute rest was 
 imperative, he answered by an impatient gesture, and 
 beckoning Irene to approach, whispered— 
 
 “Make Nanna get the truth from him; I must know.” 
 
 Accordingly, when the doctor had written his pre- 
 scription, and was retiring, the old woman followed 
 him, and asked mysteriousiy what he thought was 
 amiss with Vincenzo. He seemed slightly reluctant to 
 answer, but at last said— 
 
 “] may as well tell you the truth; I can do very 
 little for him, and he had better be under a surgeon. 
 I shall not come again unless you send for me. His 
 back is injured.” 
 
 “Santa Vergine! and when will he be able to work 
 again?” 
 
 “I cannot say. If these children are poor, why not 
 let him go to Santo Spirito?” 
 
 “The hospital! Better die! The hospital! Let 
 him die of hunger here rather than there! The signor 
 knows nothing of these things. I am Romana; I had 
 a relation once in Santo Spirito, and I know what it 
 is. I will starve, I will beg, sooner than the boy shall 
 go to the hospital!” 
 
 The fashionable physician had little knowledge of 
 Roman charities, and was inclıned to believe the popular 
 prejudice against Santo Spirito to be unfounded. He 
 was provoked, and said, drily— 
 
I4 MADEMOISELLE MORI 
 
 “Do as you please; but I warn you, the boy is 
 very likely to be a cripple for life.” 
 
 Thereupon Nanna burst into a perfect howl of grief, 
 mingled with uproarious exclamations and adjurations, 
 which entirely drowned the doctor’s emphatic re- 
 monstrance. Every word reached Irene and Vincenzo 
 in the inner room, including her last— 
 
 “Then may Madonna take us to Paradise, for we 
 shall starve before the week’s end!” 
 
 “You hear, Irene?” said Vincenzo. 
 
 “It is not true,” was her instinctive reply. 
 
 He made no answer, but drew the bedclothes over 
 his face, lying thus for a long while, to the extreme 
 terror of Irene, whose own truly southern nature 
 always sought relief in unrestrained and visible emotion. 
 At last he put out his hand, and drew her wet cheek 
 close to his. 
 
 “Don’t cry so, my own dearest—I can’t bear that. 
 Irene, darling, do you remember our father’s last 
 words?” 
 
 “God hath never failed them that seek Him,” an- 
 swered Irene, in English. 
 
 The words came again and again to her mind as 
 she sat by her brother, while Nanna was gone to the 
 druggist’s with the prescription. She thought over her 
 past life, for the most part too happy to be easily re- 
 called, but one event stood out prominently—her 
 mother’s death. That one long past sorrow was dearer 
 than all the peaceful pleasant days before and after. 
 Then came recollections of her father’s teaching; walks 
 with him on /este, when he would describe his own 
 childhood in that England of which his children had 
 so little idea—then she recalled his pride in his hand- 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 15 
 
 some and talented boy—then a dark vision of the 
 sudden fever that had snatched him away, leaving them 
 little but his memory as a legacy. The brother and 
 sister were then eighteen and sixteen. A few months 
 had passed since they had been left orphans, and all 
 they had to depend on was Vincenzo’s earmnings, which, 
 for his age, were very considerable. Friends they had 
 none, except his master, the sculptor Trajano, who had 
 treated him with great kindness and liberality. Vincenzo 
 had acquaintances and companions of his own age and 
 position, but no one to whom he could look in time of 
 trouble.e. They had been but a short time in their 
 present abode; and the children of a Protestant were 
 necessarily singularly isolated in Rome. Their creed 
 must have been a very undefined one, for Nanna and 
 their mother were devout Roman Catholics, but their 
 father had always taken them with him to the English 
 Church, where, unlike too many of the English artists 
 in Rome, he never failed to attend once at least on a 
 Sunday. It was dear to them for his sake, and all old 
 Nanna’s horror of the Protestants could not induce 
 them to discontinue the habit of going there. They 
 felt as if they found their father again there more than 
 in the gorgeous worship of the Church of the mother, 
 who had been dead so long that their affection for her 
 was vague and dreamy, while the memory of the dear 
 father just lost was fresh as the flowers they strewed 
 on his grave in the lonely burial-ground where he was 
 laid. The English Protestant might not lie by his 
 Roman Catholic wife. Had both lived, the different 
 religions must have caused disunion or confusion: it 
 was well that their children had only peace and love 
 to remember. 
 
16 MADEMOISZLLE MORL 
 
 The girl’s meditations were interrupted. 
 
 “Irene! how are we to live?” asked Vincenzo, ab- 
 ruptly. “You know no more than I do. Well, Nanna 
 must go to tell Signor Trajano not to expect me at 
 present.” | 
 
 “Yes,” she answered, in a tone of forced cheer- 
 fulness, like her brother’s. 
 
 He lay still again for awhile, and’ she began con- 
 sidering if there were anything she could do to gain 
 money. She did not know much; had she been of a 
 far higher rank she would have known little more. A 
 little arithmetic, reading, writing—let us not forget 
 embroidery and the manufacture of paper flowers— 
 such was the sum of her accomplishments. She had, 
 too, the versatile and ready wit of her countrywomen, 
 and all an Italian’s talent for music, but it had never 
 been cultivated; it would bring in no money! Em- 
 broidery? Yes, she might sell it; but she knew already 
 several girls who tried to make a few pauls by it, and 
 how sadly few they were. Still, the idea of being able 
 to earn anything at all was cheering, and she awaited 
 Nanna’s return with impatience, that she might send 
 her to a workshop. The possibility of going out alone 
 herself never even crossed her mind; independent of 
 the difficulty of leaving Vincenzo by himself, she had 
 never ventured into the street, unaccompanied, in her 
 life; the mere idea would have shocked her. But when 
 Nanna returned, stiff and weary, she could not ask the 
 old woman to go out again. She must wait. 
 
 The next day brought Signor Trajano to see 
 Vincenzo, hopeful that his pupil would soon come 
 back; but it was too evident that this was out of the 
 question. He assured him, however, that, come when 
 

 

 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. EN 
 
 he might, he should be welcome, and offered for the 
 present to continue his wages. To this Vincenzo could 
 not agree; it was not just; he might never recover. 
 “At all events, I may pay you for what you have 
 done to the Flora,” said Trajano, laying down several 
 scudi, as he went away, to the delight' of old Nanna, 
 who bustled out to buy provisions; but Irene saw 
 Vincenzo’s hands clasped hard over his face, while he 
 murmured, “My Flora! the last statue I shall ever 
 touch!” | 
 Time passed very slowly over the sick boy, whose 
 mind was ever at work, torturing him by visions of a 
 dread future, or planning what his hand could no more 
 execute. His spirits flagged more and more as daily 
 his strength lessened, and he was aware of the straits 
 to which the little höusehold was reduced. He had 
 supported it; he who was now forced to lie helpless, 
 while‘ starvation advanced slowly, relentlessiy upon 
 them. When 'he saw Irene and Nanna whispering 
 together, he knew, with fevered anxiety, that the last 
 paul was gone, and they were consulting how to find 
 another. "The attempt to procure embroidery had failed. 
 There remained the great pawnbroking. establishment 
 of the Monte di Pieta. What could they pledge there? 
 “The acguasantiere,” suggested the old woman, 
 looking towards the cups for holy water, which hung 
 from a wreath of silver lilies above the bed of Vincenzo. 
 “Or the conca dell’acgua,’ Irene added, more ready 
 to part with the large brazen vessel used to fetch water 
 in, than with the pretty cups; “I don’t know how we 
 could spare it though, and we should get so little for 
 it. ‘The best thing we have is mamma’s vez20.”: She 
 opened a drawer, and took from it the row of gold 
 
 Mademoisellie Mori. 7], > 
 
18 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 beads and the boat-shaped earrings which had been all’ 
 the fortune of her Neapolitan mother. 
 
 “Figlia mia! thy dowry!” 
 
 “We need not think about that, Nanna!” 
 
 “Lucia was a mother before your age, child. Sell 
 the coronal” exclaimed the old woman, passing the 
 necklace through her wrinkled brown fingers. “It was 
 as dew on parched ground to see her when she wore 
 her own dress, her Sora dress; the white darno on her 
 head, and these Dendent! in her ears, and her beads 
 round her neck. You will never be as handsome as 
 she was, child—never, never; you have nothing of 
 your mother, but her voice.” 
 
 “And that is of no use, since we cannot sell it,” 
 said Irene. 
 
 Brought back to the present by this remark, Nanna 
 recollected that they owed money to the butcher, the 
 baker, and the ?:227carolo, or greengrocer, and the rent- 
 day was approaching; but as for parting with the vezzo, 
 she would not hear of it. She sought her own coral 
 ornaments, and the silver dagger, known as the spadıno, 
 worn in the hair, all inherited by her as eldest daughter 
 in her family, and which, as she had never married, 
 and had no child to whom to give them, remained in 
 her own possession. Dire indeed must have been the 
 pressure of necessity which induced her to give up the 
 treasured vezzo! She wrapped it in a pocket handker- 
 chief, and departed for the Monte. Vincenzo watched 
 the proceedings in silence, presently desiring Irene to 
 give him his tools, and a half-finished frame, which he 
 had been carving into the elegant festoons and berries 
 of the sarsaparilla, the plant that had been the partial 
 cause of his accident. The attempt to carve showed 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORT.' Io 
 
 him how much he was hurt, and the pain it caused 
 him was betrayed by his knit brow and compressed: 
 lips; but he defied it for a time, and toiled on, though 
 in his recumbent position he got on very slowly. Irene 
 sat by his bed, knitting; the sounds of singing came 
 faintly up to them from a fountain below, where women 
 were washing clothes, and half unconsciously Irene: 
 began, in a low, but exquisitely sweet voice, a verse of 
 a Neapolitan fisherman’s song. 
 
 “You sing as well as Madame St. Simon,” said Vin- 
 cenzo, naming the prima donna at one of the theatres. 
 
 “Ah! how I should like to hear her again! Now I 
 will tell you what I should like better than anything, 
 Vincenzino; to be a prima donna myself, and then we 
 should be rich. When we used to see them act at the 
 Valle, I could hardly help standing up and calling to 
 the actors—‘No, this is the way!’ For I am certain 
 that often even Madame St. Simon only thought of the 
 audience, and forgot that she was Lucia or Amina. If 
 I were only one of the chorus, I would make myself a 
 part, and not stand like a great dry reed.” 
 
 “Yes, a reed without even a withered leaf on it, 
 only fit to light a fire!” 
 
 “And,” continued Irene, glad to see him smile, 
 “when I was prima donna assoluta 1 would have a 
 beautiful name. Every prima donna must have a fine 
 name. I would be the Signorina——” 
 
 “No; Mademoiselle——” 
 
 “] am Italian! It is only the foreigners who are 
 mademoiselles.” 
 
 “You may depend upon it they would make you into 
 a foreigner. It is so much grander to have singers from 
 abroad.” 
 
 2* 
 
20 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 “Well,” said Irene, reluctantly. “I think it a ndi- 
 culous thing, however. What should I be? I suppose 
 I might keep our own name?” | 
 
 “Yes. Mademoiselle Moore—More—Mori.” 
 
 “But that is really Italian, Vincenzo.” 
 
 “Never mind; it could not sound better. Made- 
 moiselle Mori—that is it.” 
 
 Old Nanna had gone as fast as age and rheumatism 
 would let her to the Monte di Pietäa, that resource of: 
 those who are in immediate need of money. Anything 
 may be pledged there, from a valuable picture to a 
 pair of shoes; part of the value is given to the owner, 
 and a ticket, by means of which it may afterwards be 
 redeemed; but a small rate of interest must be paid for 
 it monthly, and it must be recovered at the end of a 
 certain time, or it will be sold in one of the auctions 
 that take place from time to time. 
 
 Nanna mingled with the stream of people that flowed 
 under the great archway leading into the quadrangle, 
 on each side of which are the vast magazines where all 
 the goods are arranged—a stream consisting of old and 
 young, men, maidens, and matrons, chiefly of alowrank, 
 and all brought thither reluctantly by the same need 
 of money. Nearly all the faces, of whatever age or 
 sex, were worn and anxious, except some few who 
 came not on their own account, but commissioned by 
 others too busy or of too high a rank to choose to ap- 
 pear in person. There was a list of articles to be sold 
 in a few days hung up beside the doorway, and amongst 
 them were some far too valuable to have been pledged 
 by the poor—a ruby necklace, a silver cup, a lace 
 veil. Doubtless there was a history attached to each, 
 a sad one enough, usually. Fresh faces continually- 
 
‚MADEMOISELLE MORI. 21 
 
 ‚passed ih and out, showing how greatly this institution 
 was taken advantage of by the needy; for far from this 
 being the only place in Rome where they could go, the 
 Monte had suecursali, branches, in each zone or district 
 of Rome. A small number of those who entered, parted 
 from the crowd and took a different direction, with looks 
 so elated, and steps so quick, that it was easy to see 
 that they were of the happy few whom some good for- 
 tune enabled to recover their possessions. Presently a 
 burst of passionate grief was heard, and a woman came 
 back, sobbing aloud. A murmur of compassion went 
 through the crowd—“ Poverina! her things have been 
 sold! Ah, shame! ah, the Pagans!”—-all sympathizing 
 in a calamity which might befall any one of themselves, 
 if they failed to pay the interest on what they had bor- 
 rowed. “What did they give you? how much have you 
 got back?” 
 
 “A nothing! a folly! a scandal!” she answered, 
 tossing out her hand, in which were a few pauls— 
 part of what her household gods had fetched. 
 
 “Ah,” responded the others, with indescribable, 
 though suppressed scorn and anger; “see the beautiful 
 charity!” 
 
 She went out, passing by a party of English, who 
 were asking the Swiss porter if they might visit the 
 establishment, without perhaps very well knowing what 
 they were to see, The Italians immediately detected 
 the foreign dress and accent, and not very complimen- 
 tary remarks passed between them, as they came and 
 went, on the English heretics who had come to spy 
 out their poverty. Unheeding or unhearing remarks 
 made in the local dialect, almost incomprehensible to 
 any but a native, and differing even in different parts 
 
22 MADEMOISELLE MORI. - 
 
 of Rome, the foreigners disappeared into the room, 
 where the porter told them that the pictures were kept, 
 probably imagining that they should see a Borghese or 
 Spada gallery instead of such originals and copies as 
 had been pawned. 
 
 Time is apparently an article valued by none but 
 foreigners in Rome, and so much was consumed before 
 it came to Nanna’s turn to be attended to, that she 
 found the shortening November day had nearly closed 
 when she left the Monte. A sirocco was blowing, the 
 streets were wet as if with rain, and nearly empty, and 
 of the few passengers, some had umbrellas up, others 
 held them furled, as ifthere were a diversity of opinion 
 as to whether it rained or not, but every Italian had 
 his cloak flung across his mouth, and hurried on his 
 way, anxious to escape from the chilling atmosphere. 
 The air was heavy; darkness had come on before its 
 time; there was a gloomy, disconsolate look everywhere. 
 Old Nanna muttered in disgust as the damp, cold wind 
 made her shiver, and quickened her pace, but comingto 
 the Church of Sant’ Agostino, she stopped, pushed aside 
 the heavy mat which hung at the doorway, and entered, 
 signing herself rapidly with holy water, and devoutly 
 kneeling down among the congregation—a remarkably 
 numerous one, considering that the hour was late, and 
 there was no service going on. The scene was one 
 peculiarly Roman. Darkness prevailed in the building, 
 though before each altar in the side aisles burned a 
 small lamp suspended from the roof, and two more shone 
 out with a clear, steady brilliancy, like that of stars, 
 at the further end; but all around was gloom, and the 
 bottom of the church seemed a cavern into which the 
 eye was unable to pierce or follow the figures that now 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORT. 23 
 
 and then passed into it. But at the lower end was a 
 marble statue of the Virgin holding the Infant Saviour, 
 and above, and around it, were a wreath of lamps 
 ‚whose light illumined it and flashed on the silver hearts, 
 cerucifixes, and other countless offerings which incrusted 
 the pillars and the walls—tokens of gratitude from 
 those who believed that their prayers at this shrine had 
 been granted. From some curious effect of light, the 
 form of the Infant Christ could hardly be distinguished, 
 and the illumination brought out the figure of the Virgin 
 alone, and into strong, startling relief. Two tapers, in 
 massive bronze candlesticks, rose at least fourteen feet 
 from the ground, at some distance from the altar. A 
 large congregation of men and women knelt around in 
 profound silence; sometimes a new worshipper came in, 
 or another softly rose, went up to the statue, and kissed 
 or held a child to kiss its feet, before leaving the church. 
 Nanna was one of the last to go; had her prayer been 
 audible, it would have been found to end thus:— 
 “Listen to me, Madonna mia, you will not let us starve, 
 for you are our Mother, full of grace, and goodness, 
 and mercy. What mother will let her children starve? 
 Queen of Heaven and Earth, listen to me. Queen of 
 Angels, now you know everything—I have told you 
 all. Iam going away, and you must really and truly 
 make the boy well. Addio, dear Madonna.” 
 
 Putting her rosary into her pocket, she went up the 
 low steps leading to the altar, kissed earnestly the Vir- 
 gin’s feet, and dipping a bit of cotton wool into the oil 
 of a small lamp burning close at hand, left the church, 
 happy in the belief that Vincenzo would soon be well, 
 since she had vowed to offer her earrings to the Virgin 
 ‚of Sant’ Agostino should he again go to his work, and 
 
24 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 had moreover obtained a charm, which must avail ıf 
 used with faith. Nanna was not the only one who 
 carried home that evening a similar bit of cotton or 
 tow dipped in the holy oil, nor would persons of a 
 much higher rank and education have doubted, for a 
 moment, that its application to an ailing part would 
 have miraculous results. Probably this custom dates 
 from the middle ages, when on certain days the clergy 
 and people went in procession to particular churches, 
 and mass having been sung, an acolyte dipped a piece 
 of tow in the oil of the lamp which burned before the 
 shrine of the saint whose day they had been celebrating, 
 and. bore it to the Pope, saying, “To-day the station 
 took place in such a church, and the saint salutes you.” 
 A solemn message! "The locks of tow were carefully 
 kept to form a pillow, on which the Pontiff’s head 
 might rest in his grave. 
 
 No such antiquarian speculations troubled old Nanna 
 as she went homewards, her heart much the lighter for. 
 the pauls in her pocket, and the entire and childlike 
 confidence that her prayer must be granted, and Vin- 
 cenzo’s recovery be secured. As her knock came to 
 the door which shut in their rooms, Irene was lighting 
 a small lamp, and with true Roman caution she ex- 
 claimed, “Who is it?” and came to reconnoitre before 
 she would open. The time had seemed long to her 
 during the old woman’s absence: Vincenzo had fallen 
 asleep, and, afraid to rouse him, she had been sitting 
 in the dark with the spaniel’s cold nose in her hand. 
 He showed his astonishment at his young master’s in- 
 activity as plainly as a human being could have done; 
 ‚and when he stood by the bed, wagging his tail or 
 giving a short bark, while he fixed his intelligent eyes 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 25 
 
 on the boy, tears filled Irene’s eyes, and Vincenzo had 
 some difficulty in concealing his own. 
 
 “Oh, Nanna! how long you have been! Down, 
 Tevere, be quiet!” 
 
 “Eh! eh! daughter, go yourself next time. Keep 
 tranquil, evil dog! you would see what is in my apron, 
 eh? Little enough I got for all I took, but we can live 
 for a while, and then Madonna help us! How is my 
 boy? See what I have brought home, sun of my soul! 
 Here is a fine supper for us all,” said the old woman, 
 as gay as a child, now that want was staved off for a 
 time, and producing her handkerchief, full of yellow- 
 brown shells, Zelline, as she, unlearned in conchology, 
 would have called them, but more properly donaces, a 
 favourite dish, cooked or uncooked, in Rome. “Scan- 
 sartil begone, dog! And here is something besides, 
 something to make my darling boy well; and I have 
 promised Madonna that he will never go to the English 
 church again, now that he has felt her displeasure 
 attends it.” \ 
 
 Irene looked grave, and wondered that Vincenzo 
 made no protest, unless a hasty movement might be so 
 called. A moment afterwards it came upon her, with 
 a sort of stab of pain, that he had not spirits to combat 
 Nanna’s prejudices, or to laugh at them as usual, be- 
 cause he believed that never again should he have the 
 power of walking to the English church. 
 
26 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I have been told the virtuous must be happy, 
 And have believed it true: tell me, my friend, 
 What shall disturb the virtuous? 
 Poverty! 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 One thing after another was sold; even Irene’s vez20 
 and the guitar on which she used to play with untaught 
 skill, down to their little lamp, and many other things 
 which it was hard to spare, and which fetched so little 
 at the Monte that Nanna did not scruple to say it was 
 “an infamy, an iniquity;” and in truth the institution 
 is not at the present day exactly what was contem- 
 plated by the founder, St. Bernardino of Siena. Nanna 
 urged the advisability of taking the vegzo to some one 
 who might be induced to advance a more equitable sum 
 on it, with the promise that it should speedily be re- 
 deemed; and she was disconcerted by Irene’s objecting 
 that this was dishonourable, since they had no chance 
 of recovering it. Such a pitch of morality was beyond 
 the old woman, who, though thoroughly faithful to the 
 orphans, had little notion of truth and honesty towards 
 others, and was only a degree above those of her com- 
 patriots who pick their neighbour’s pockets while re- 
 eiting their prayers devoutly in a church. 
 
 One thing went, then another; the picture of Santa 
 Lucia, their mother’s patron saint; sketches by their 
 father, ın the beautiful carved frames which Vincenzo 
 had delighted to make for them; at last even the por- 
 trait of their mother, their dearest possession; and asthey 
 could not pay the trifling interest due to the Monte for 
 the money lent on these things, they knew that all 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORT. 27 
 
 would speedily be sold in the auction room in the 
 Piazza dei Pellegrini, where so many household trea- 
 sures are examined by careless hands, and sold for 
 prices far below their real value. 
 
 Each day something went, till at last there was 
 nothing more to sell. Nothing! and Vincenzo grew no 
 better. He could now sit up a little and use his hands, 
 but that was all, and hunger was close at hand, and 
 an execution for rent impending. Hunger—.actual 
 hunger—not a morsel of bread in the cupboard; not 
 one handful more maize to make another dish of po- 
 lenta. Daily Irene had grown whiter and thinner as 
 food became scarcer, and what were her brother’s 
 feelings, as from his sick bed he saw it, and knew that 
 nothing stood between them and starvation. At any 
 time, a boy must have felt as a trial almost unbearable 
 this sudden change from buoyant health and constant 
 occupation, which made a leisure hour or an occasional 
 festa so delightful, to ceaseless pain and forced idleness. 
 Vincenzo had no books, and, moreover, had not been 
 brought up to care for reading; the future had been his 
 constant dream, and he had no store of recollections to 
 fall back upon; all day long he lay in his bed with 
 nothing to think of but their desperate condition. The 
 boy had a gallant spirit, and from the day that Irene 
 had been trusted to his care by their dying father, to 
 his elastic youth he had added a man’s earnestness. 
 How happy and proud he had been in the knowledge 
 that he supported the whole household! And now it 
 was all over. At least he would not complain, and as 
 long as any one saw him, he maintained some cheer- 
 fulness, and if Irene had not one night fancied that she 
 heard.a sound in his room and crept to the door to 
 
28 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 listen, without waking Nanna, she would never have 
 known how dire was the struggle to keep up that com- 
 posure by day. She stood for a little while unper- 
 ceived, watching his face, so white in the moonlight; 
 she heard broken, despairing, imploring prayers, till 
 her heart was ready to break; and if she had followed 
 her impulse she would have rushed to his bedside and 
 sobbed away her wretchedness there; but Irene was no 
 longer the mere child she had been but a few weeks 
 before; she, too, had been taking lessons in self-control. 
 Many times already she had forced out a cheerful 
 answer, and tried to forget that she was hungry, and 
 now she knew that this anguish was meant for no mortal 
 eye, and would not betray that she had seen it. In the 
 morning, she asked Vincenzo rather timidly how he 
 was. He answered, “Tll tell you how many noises I 
 counted last night:—First, at midnight, some one was 
 wanted on the sixth story of the house over the way, 
 so there were six knocks. They must sleep soundly 
 up there, for they did not wake till the third summons, 
 that made eighteen thumps. "Then came a party 
 very jolly indeed, with a mandolin, all singing; some 
 one opened a window to listen, so, of course, they 
 began to bark. I never can understand why they do 
 that.” 
 
 “Modesty! I suppose they mean to say that they 
 are not worth listening to—mere dogs. However, 
 they howled rather nicely, so I was sorry when they 
 turned the corner. Then the bells of Sta. Maria Santis- 
 sima rang for the midnight /ungione; then S. Nicolo 
 struck up just as I was going to sleep; and then came 
 daylight, and the soldiers and their drums; before that, 
 I ought to have counted the firing from S. Angelo for 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORT. 29 
 
 the /esta, and the man who cries chicory; and so I did 
 not get much sleep to be sure.” 
 
 Not a word of any other reason, and Irene asked 
 no more. 
 
 It being a esta, Nanna, of course, went to mass, 
 and returned so radiant with delight that Irene eagerly 
 asked. what had happened. Nanna mysteriously pro- 
 duced something which she had held in her hand under 
 her apron, and Irene beheld a bracelet, formed of 
 bosses of garnets, which from its workmanship, she 
 had no difficulty in recognising as Florentine. In 
 answer to her eager questions, Nanna said that she had 
 picked it up in a church— without, however, mention- 
 ing that she had seen it fall from the arm of an English 
 lady. She was going to take it to the Ghetto, and sce 
 what the Jews would give for it. 
 
 “But,” said Irene, doubtfully, “it—it is not ours; 
 it will be advertised.” 
 
 “Let them advertise, if they like, and let us live, 
 silly child!” 
 
 “What is it?” asked Vincenzo. 
 
 Irene explained, though Nanna made a sign to her 
 not to do so. 
 
 “Of course it is not ours; go to the libraries in the 
 Piazza di Spagna, and say you have found a bracelet; 
 don’t keep it here to tempt us,” said Vincenzo, more 
 sharply than they had ever known him speak before. 
 Nanna grumblingly obeyed, comforted a little by the 
 hope of a reward, and on reaching the library, she 
 found the ladies whom she had seen in the church, 
 talking to the bookseller about their loss. He advised 
 an advertisement, but gave them small hopes of re- 
 covering it. One of the party said she believed she 
 
30 MADEMOISELLE MORL ' 
 
 had heard it drop; she looked, but there was nothing‘ 
 to be seen, and, if she were right, an old woman, who 
 was kneeling near, must—Just at this point Nanna 
 appeared; the sight of her caused a sensation, but the 
 bracelet was speedily restored to its owner, who was 
 too well satisfied to ask any questions, and Nanna had 
 no cause to be dissatisfied with English liberality. 
 Signor Trajano came again and left money, which 
 made Irene and Nanna so happy for several days, that 
 they wondered at Vincenzo’s increased depression, for 
 they did not see that he felt how they were living on 
 alms; and, besides, anything that reminded him of the 
 studio was acutely painful. But, in a short time, these 
 chance supplies were exhausted, and they literally did 
 not know whither to turn for a meal. They rose up 
 hungry in the morning, and went to bed at night 
 almost without having broken their fast, to wake to the 
 same state of things. All their neighbours were very 
 poor; of the seven or eight families living in the same 
 house with them, most lived from hand to mouth, 
 sleeping on straw, and crowded into one or two rooms. 
 None had the power, if they had the will, to help 
 them. | 
 Neither of the three complained nor -spoke of what 
 was to be done. Old Nanna had tried every resource, 
 even to begging, and all in vain. They and starvation 
 kept house together. One afternoon Irene went down 
 to the fountain to fetch some water, and cry unseen; 
 returning with her noiseless step, she saw old Nanna 
 erouched in a corner, her distaff, with no flax on it, 
 lying on the ground beside her; Vincenzo 1ying idle, 
 the clay that he had begged Signor Trajano to send 
 him, left untouched beside him; it was a picture of 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORL 3u 
 
 blank hopelessness. Just then the spaniel, which had 
 followed Irene down, pattered back into the room, 
 looked into his empty food dish, went up to his master’s 
 bedside, and wagged his tail. Nothing could have 
 spoken plainer. 
 
 “Poor fellow!” said Vincenzo, in English, that 
 Nanna might not understand, “are you hungry? So 
 am I.” 
 
 The dog whined, and put his fore paws on the 
 bed, trying to lick his face. | Nanna never looked up, 
 she was sunk into apathetic despair; but Irene heard 
 only too plainly, and in a passion of anguish she drew 
 her shawl over her head, and ran down-stairs out into 
 the street, all her fears and prejudices forgotten in the 
 kind of despairing hope that she might find some help. 
 Nanna had failed at the workshop, but perhaps they 
 might have pity on a girl who said she was starving. 
 She hurried on, hardly feeling or seeing the passengers 
 whom she ran against or who pushed her off the 
 cerowded side paths, till she came to the workshop, 
 where there were more customers than the owners could 
 easily attend to. No one had a minute to spare for 
 her—her entreaties were hardly listened to; repulsed, 
 she found herself outside the shop again, her last hope 
 gone. She leaned against the wall, too faint and heart- 
 sick to move a step further, and, half unconsciously, 
 watched the passers-by, who brushed impatiently against 
 the object in their way, without stopping to regard it. 
 An old crone with the never-failing scaldino (or basket 
 of charcoal to keep the hands warm) stood near; Irene 
 heard her mutter, “Fifteen pauls; only fifteen pauls 
 to- day!” then, in.a prolonged whine, “Give me some 
 little alms, that the Madonna may give you health! 
 
32 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 Do not abandon me, signor—madama! I am so 
 hungry! Oh! hard hearts!” with a snarl, as they 
 passed on, unheeding. A gentleman gave her some 
 small coin, and Irene involuntarily held out her hand 
 too. He hurried on, saying to his companion, “These 
 beggars are the pest of the place; all the same! I 
 wonder how many scudi I should have spent if I had 
 given a bajocco to every one who has begged since I 
 came out!” 
 
 The lady on his arm laughed, and they disappeared 
 in the never-ending stream of promenaders, chiefly gay 
 sight-seers, rejoicing in the sunshine. No one had a 
 glance for the desolate girl, who stood just where she 
 had leant when first sent out ofthe shop. A child was 
 the only one to have compassion—a little fellow of 
 perhaps four years old, who came running out of the 
 confectioner’s shop next door, preceding his mother, a 
 bun in his fat hand. He was a perfect picture of a 
 rosy, well-dressed English child, in his black velvet 
 pelisse, and a little pink handkerchief round his throat. 
 He was chattering with all his might, till he looked 
 up and met the wistful black eyes of Irene. She did 
 not beg this time; she only looked at the bun as if 
 famished, and the little one suddenly put it into her 
 hand and scrambled into a carriage after his mother; 
 Irene saw his rosy laughing face pressed ‚against the 
 glass to watch her as they drove away. She had 
 clutched the bun fast—what a mouthful it was to a 
 girl who had eaten nothing that day! but she had 
 scarcely devoured it, when the thought of Nanna and 
 Vincenzo at home flashed upon her. .She had forgotten 
 them! Poor child, her hungry impulse seemed actual 
 sin; she had eaten the bun while her sick brother was 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORT. 33 
 
 starving at'home! Miserable as she felt, she had re- 
 covered a little energy—she turned homewards, but 
 had to go back with no comfort for those she should 
 find there! And yet she had. trusted—she had be- 
 lieved long, for time in some circumstances cannot be 
 counted by days and hours; she had believed so firmly 
 that help would be sent them! had that promise indeed 
 failed? and if so, where was she to turn for help? 
 Three o’clock was past and the churches were again 
 open: she entered the first she came to, and hiding her 
 face in her hands, wept so passionately that she did 
 not perceive that one of a party of English, who were 
 examining the pictures and statues, had approached 
 her, and laying a hand on her shoulder, asked gently 
 what had happened. Startled by the touch, Irene 
 hastily lifted a face so white and so thin that the lady 
 started, looked doubtful, and said, “Have I not seen 
 you in the English church?” 
 
 “I goithere.”. 
 
 “Then what right have you here, my child?” 
 
 “It is God’s house; I have the right of every one 
 who is unhappy,” Irene answered. 
 
 “And why are you unhappy? Have you been ill?” 
 
 In reply Irene told her story, ending with, “Oh, 
 signora, it was so wicked of me to eat that bun! I 
 forgot Vincenzo! I did indeed!” 
 
 “Will you take me to see Vincenzo?” 
 
 A sudden flash of delight from Irene’s black eyes 
 was the answer, and her companion returned to her 
 party and spoke a few words, which were received 
 with smiling incredulity. No one objected, however, 
 and she accompanied Irene, stopping at the first bread- 
 shop they came to that Irene might have something 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. TI, 5‘ 
 
34 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 more substantial than a bun, and convey a supply to 
 her home.. In all the ecstasy of renewed hope, she 
 hurried her new friend along, through streets quite 
 unknown to the latter, till they reached their destina- 
 tion, a square, which, to judge by the number of old 
 palaces, must once have been a.favourite quarter of 
 the nobility, but now each floor was divided into many 
 apartments and let to the poor; rags hung to dry from 
 many windows, and hides, scenting the whole air, were 
 suspended before one stately mansion; there was a 
 general look of poverty and dirt everywhere. Into 
 one of these palaces Irene introduced her companion, 
 running lightly before her up flight after flight of stairs. 
 Nanna came slowly to the door in answer to her im- 
 patient knock; she had not even perceived her absence, 
 Nanna who usually watched over her like a dragon! 
 
 “Oh, Nanna!” began Irene, breathlessly, “this lady 
 has come to see us, and she has brought us all this! 
 She carried it all down the Corso, and did not mind! 
 and I must give Vincenzo some dinner immediately 
 — see!” 
 
 “Per Bacco!” exclaimed Nanna, taking possession 
 of the visitor’s hand and kissing it, as she conducted 
 her into the next room, where Irene was explaining 
 eagerly to Vincenzo. The lady advanced and took the 
 hand, thin and fair as an invalid girl’s, which he held 
 out to her, examining her face attentively, then smiling 
 and saying, “Mrs. Dalzell.” 
 
 “How do you know my name?” she asked, much 
 surprised. 
 
 “I worked in Signor Trajano’s studio, and he had 
 just begun to model your bust before my accident.’ 
 
 “I knew I had seen you somewhere before. I 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 35 
 
 noticed you in the English church,” she answered; “I 
 have long wished to meet with you; fortune favoured 
 me to-day.” | 
 
 While Irene insisted on Vincenzo’s eating imme- 
 diately, Mrs. Dalzell looked round and asked questions, 
 and felt very sure that here at least she was safe from 
 the imposition which her friends had predicted. If 
 M. De Crillon had seen the room now, he would have 
 had no doubt as to the poverty of its owners, and when 
 Mrs. Dalzell looked at the 'faces of the brother and 
 sister, she felt that she had come but just in time. Old 
 Nanna saw her compassionate look, and exclaimed, 
 “If the signora had but seen the boy: before he fell ill! 
 he was an Adonis, an Apollo! ah!” (shaking her hand 
 at him) “and a demon too, a tempest, wicked boy! 
 He would rush upstairs shaking the whole house! 
 Santa Vergine!” as she caught a clearer view of Mrs. 
 Dalzell than she had yet done, and she summoned 
 Irene aside. The girl speedily returned, saying with 
 animation, “Nanna says you were with the lady whose 
 bracelet she found!” 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell’s sensation was far from pleasant, as 
 she recalled her conviction that the bracelet had rather 
 been stolen than found, but she was convinced that the 
 orphans were unconnected with the affair. However, 
 she was glad when Irene added, “We were so poor 
 that day that Nanna wanted to sell it, but Vincenzo 
 would not let her.” 
 
 “] am glad of it; I know that my friend values it 
 particularly. Have you really no one to take care of 
 you but this old woman? What hands for a girl to be 
 in!” she added, mentally. 
 
 “No, no one else. Tevere, do you really want 
 
 3 
 
36 | MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 some more! Oh fie!—No one else, signora, but she is- 
 so kind and true to us. She is a pearl, an oriental 
 pearl of probity,” said Irene, whose English, though 
 fluent, was apt to be a translation from the more poetical 
 Italian. The figure of speech, especially so applied, 
 made Mrs. Dalzell smile, and she thought that the 
 truth and probity probably began and ended at home. 
 
 “] never knew the value of my dinner so well 
 before, signora,” said Vincenzo, sinking comfortably 
 back on the pillows, which Irene had re-arranged for him. 
 
 “We had almost forgotten what dinner was,” she 
 added. 
 
 “Is it possible you could find no assistance?” asked 
 Mrs. Dalzell; “I thought, the Roman charities were 
 magnificent.” 
 
 “They are not for such as we; they are to keep 
 quiet the dassa genfe—the populace,” replied Irene, 
 with grave simplicity. 
 
 “And not for Protestants,” added Vincenzo. 
 
 “Ah, no. And you have no friends, though you 
 have lived here so long?” 
 
 “None who can help us. My father had few; he 
 lived for his art.” 
 
 “I should like to be considered as your friend, 
 then,” said Mrs. Dalzell, rising to take leave. “Signor 
 Trajano and I must have a little talk together. Give 
 me your doctor’s address again, and don’t forget mine. 
 I shall come to pay you another visit in a day or two.’ 
 She took Vincenzo’s hand in hers as she spoke, and 
 looked kindly at his face, so much altered from what 
 she remembered it, that it was hard to believe he was 
 the fine handsome boy she had admired on the Pincian 
 Hill, 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORL. 33 
 
 “] would thank you if I could, signora,” he an- 
 swered, in hurried, faltering tones. “Oh, signora, we 
 were starving—she was starving”—looking at Irene; 
 “that was worst; I was beginning to wish I were dead, 
 sooner than see it.” 
 
 “Oh, Vincenzo!” said Irene, with a crimson blush. 
 
 “I shall leave you to make your confessions to 
 him,” said Mrs. Dalzell: “but, meanwhile, will you 
 come here and say something for me to Nanna?” 
 
 She gave Nanna what she judged would be suf- 
 ficient for their present wants, and departed before the 
 old woman had half expressed her voluble gratitude. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 What sorrow was, thou bad’st her know, 
 And from her own, she learnt to melt at others’ woe. 
 GRAY. 
 
 MRS. DALZELL was a widow, still young, and rich. 
 She had come to Rome for the first time in her life, 
 and friends, who had known her in former days, ex- 
 pected her to be enthusiastically delighted with its 
 wonders; but, hitherto, she had gone through the 
 routine of sight-seeing with a somewhat forced interest, 
 and the first thing that really roused her was the 
 history of the orphans. Her friends were too glad to 
 see her begin to shake off the depression caused by 
 heavy trials, to wish to interfere, though they took it 
 for granted that she would be imposed on. She set 
 about her task in a very business-like manner; she saw 
 the physician who had first attended Vincenzo, and 
 sent a good surgeon to see him; and she had a great 
 deal of conversation with Signor Trajano about him; 
 
eB  - MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 but she found it so difhicult to devise any schemes for 
 the permanent benefit of the orphans, that she returned 
 to their house to see whether they had any ideas on 
 the subject themselves. Cheerfulness and comfort had 
 revisited the rooms, and Irene and Vincenzo met her 
 greeting with bright looks. She had calculated. her 
 gift on an English scale, ignorant of how far Italians 
 can make a little money go, and‘she assuredly had not 
 expected that almost the first use of her bounty would 
 be the recovery of Irene’s gold earrings. Irene ex- 
 hibited them to her with delight, relating how they 
 had been first pledged, and then sold; but how Nanna 
 had discovered who had bought them and got them 
 back. Unaware of the extreme value attached to the 
 vezgo, Mrs. Dalzell was inclined. to regard this as mere 
 foreign love of finery, and determined, for the future, 
 not to trust Nanna with more money than necessary. 
 She sat down by Vincenzo, who was cheered by having 
 been allowed to leave his bed and be carried to a sofa. 
 He was carving a bunch of cyclamen leaves and 
 flowers, with a delicacy and grace that surprised her, 
 and Irene told of the beautiful frames that he had 
 made for their father’s pietures—all sold now. She 
 stopped, seeing the flush that rose to her brother’s face 
 at the recollection of those lost treasures, so inestimable 
 to the orphans. Mrs. Dalzell described to him a room 
 which she had once seen decorated by a celebrated 
 carver with groups of birds, musical instruments, and 
 flowers, in exactly the same style as Vincenzo’s, and 
 asked him if he did not think he might gain a liveli- 
 hood in this way. 
 
 “Oh, signora! To get my own living again! not 
 to live on charity—to be even thus much of an 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 39 
 
 artist! You little know what happiness you have given 
 me!” 
 - “I think I know several people who would employ 
 you,” she replied, amused at the un-English vehemence 
 of his gratitude; the invalid’s face seemed suddenly to 
 have recovered its bloom; the dark eyes sparkled; 
 Vincenzo looked for a time transformed into his own 
 self. “Finish what you are about, and then let me 
 have it. And what can Irene do?” 
 
 “Irene wishes to be a prima donna,” answered 
 Vincenzo, smiling. 
 
 “A prima donna!” 
 
 “I could act, I think,” said hen herself; and Mrs. 
 Dalzell, watching her expressive and graceful move- 
 ments and looks, felt that she was right. 
 
 “And she can sing,” added Vincenzo. 
 
 “Ah! she must let me hear her.” 
 
 “Sing something, carına,” said Vincenzo; “what a 
 pity your chilfarra is gone!” 
 
 “What is that? I thought the mandolin was the 
 Roman instrument.” 
 
 “That is a man’s instrument. Oh, signora, at 
 Easter, you should gö to the Villa Borghese, on the 
 river side, to see the people dancing the salterello and 
 playing with castanets and the mandolin—it is 
 beautiful!” 
 
 “But now I want to hear you.” 
 
 With a glance towards Vincenzo, Irene began a 
 popular canzone, acting the expression just enough to 
 show how much dramatic power she possessed, and 
 soon so entirely forgetting all but her song, that her 
 tones, at first faltering, became steady and full, and 
 proved how fine the voice would some day be. Vin- 
 
40 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 cenzo watched the face of Mrs. Dalzell anxiously, and 
 thought he read surprise and admiration. He was much 
 disappointed when, as the song ceased, she quietly re- 
 marked, “You have a very nice voice, but I should be 
 sorry you should turn it to account on the stage. You 
 can have no idea of the temptations and trials of such 
 a life, or of its hard work either.” 
 
 Irene made no answer. Mrs. Dalzell sat thinking, 
 and Vincenzo said, “She very nearly went to Madame 
 St. Simon the other day, to beg her to teach her, only 
 her courage failed.” 
 
 “It will not do so again, Vincenzo.” 
 
 “You wish it so much?” said Mrs. Dalzell; “what 
 do you know about it?” 
 
 Irene looked at her brother, who replied for her, 
 “I do not know whether she be quite in earnest, and 
 I believe it is not acting that she cares so much for; 
 she would like to be a prima donna at the opera.” 
 
 “But I am in earnest, Vincenzo,” said Irene, em- 
 phatically. 
 
 It was not the life that Mrs. Dalzell would have 
 chosen for her profegee. She avoided a definite answer, 
 and left them, glad that Vincenzo’s plans were more 
 sober, and recommending him to finish his carving as 
 soon as he could. He, delighted to be employed again, 
 and employed, too, on a kind of sculpture where his 
 imagination had play, was happier than he had been 
 since his accident, and seemed insensible to the fatigue 
 which even this slight labour caused him. Irene, on 
 the contrary, was moody, and said, after a long silence, 
 “I believe I could be a great cantatrice; I do not see 
 what right this English lady has to interfere.” 
 
 “Interfere!” said Vincenzo, looking up in surprise. 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORL. 41 
 
 “Yes, interfere. I shall ask Madame St. Simon to 
 help me, not this Signora Dalzell; and if I succeed I 
 can repay her; many learn on that condition.” 
 
 “Child! child!” broke in Nanna, “are you crazy? 
 what are you saying? This rich English lady can make 
 us live in Asiatic luxury; her purse drops gold, and 
 you had not the sense to tell her to-day that we have 
 not got the corona back; did you not hear what I said 
 to you?” 
 
 “She has done too much already,” said Vincenzo; 
 “help of this kind I can take,” pointing to his carving; 
 “but we are not beggars.” 
 
 “No, and because I do not wish to live on her 
 money or any one else’s, I want to learn singing,” said 
 Irene, with cheeks so flushed and eyes so tearful, that 
 Vincenzo found the matter was more serious than he 
 had imagined, and asked gravely how long she had 
 had this fancy. 
 
 “You might remember that I always wished it, 
 Vincenzo, long before—before our troubles, but I 
 never thought it was possible till that day when you 
 said I sang as well as Madame St. Simon.” 
 
 “]t was an unlucky day when I said it. Think 
 how actresses are regarded.” 
 
 “If I were prima donna, my profession should be 
 esteemed for my sake; I would make it the most 
 honourable in Rome. Vincenzo, cannot you understand 
 that as you—as men, I mean—wish for fame, so 
 women may? I think, if one has the power to do 
 anything, one must and one ought to do it,” said Irene, 
 who seemed in the last few weeks to have grown 
 from a child into a woman; the ambition that had lain 
 dormant in her heart was awake, and no spell known 
 
42 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 to prudent brother or friend could lull it to sleep again. 
 The bird had found out the use of its wings; its nest 
 would soon seem only a prison. Vincenzo had had 
 visions of his own, he comprehended. 
 
 “] understand, Irene,” he said, unconsciously 
 speaking very mournfully; “I know that when one has 
 a vocation and cannot follow it, one must feel like a 
 swallow which cannot migrate; but how is it that you 
 care so suddenly and so much about this?” 
 
 “Because till lately I had—I had—I cannot tell 
 you.” 
 
 “Perhaps till lately you thought so much of fame 
 for me that you did not want it for yourself!” 
 
 Irene turned away hastily; she could not bear to 
 realize what nevertheless she knew full well, that Vin- 
 cenzo’s chance of fame was gone for ever. She came 
 back caressingly to his side, almost as if asking pardon. 
 “I could not help thinking about it; I was so glad of 
 any pleasant fancies, and I thought so often to myself 
 what Madame St. Simon would say, and what I would 
 sing to prove to her that I had a voice, that at last I 
 almost believed it had all come to pass; but the last 
 few days, when we were so hungry, Ihad not courage; 
 I did not seem to care for anything.” 
 
 “Poor little one,” said Vincenzo, affectionately. 
 And she, taking courage, nestled close to him, whis- 
 pering, 
 
 “But don’t say you will never be well again; you 
 are better already, and if, as the doctor says, you could 
 go into the country and have baths——” 
 
 “Don’t talk about it, Irene,” said Vincenzo, unaware 
 that he was speaking sharply; “I would rather think 
 about you and your singing.” 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 43 
 
 . #] care more for you than even for that,” she an- 
 swered. . re 
 Vincenzo had a Roman’s love of music and a Ro- 
 man’s delight in the theatre, and the idea ofletting Irene 
 follow her wishes grew less unwelcome as he considered 
 them. After all, he was but a boy, and the dream of 
 renown for her, if not for himself, was very pleasant. 
 He pictured to himself her success, and mentally com- 
 pared her voice with those of the few public singers 
 of note whom he had heard, and it did not suffer by 
 comparison. She had almost won him over to her side 
 before night, and Nanna was vehemently in her favour. 
 Vincenzo had heard enough of theatres to make him 
 hesitate a little, but even this anxiety was. a relief to 
 his mind, wearied with dwelling on one subject. His 
 dreams were an odd mixture of cyclamens, musical in- 
 struments, hisses and applause, and even the famous 
 Book of Visions could hardly have explained one 
 wherein he beheld Irene playing on the tool which 
 Italian sculptors call a violin, in the Teatro Regio. 
 Mrs. Dalzell was much worried by the turn affairs had 
 taken. She had intended to help the orphans in some 
 sober unobtrusive way, and had little expected to find 
 a musical genius upon her hands. She knew too well 
 how much entertained most ofher English friends would 
 be, to feel inclined to confide her perplexities to them; 
 in their stead, she sought an old acquaintance whom 
 she had known slightly years before in London, and 
 had found again living in Rome, a Madame Marriotti, 
 by birth a Spaniard, once the idol of the musical 
 world, and who still in advanced age preserved her 
 love of music, with the execution and taste, and even 
 
44 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 something of the voice, that had made her pre-eminent 
 among the professional musicians of her day. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell wanted to find her alone and dis- 
 engaged, and therefore sent a note, announcing that 
 she was coming to spend the evening with her, when- 
 ever she had no reception. She walked alone to 
 Madame Marriotti’s abode, her own being close by, and 
 her habits very independent. She had yet to learn 
 Italian ways, and was greatly surprised, on reaching 
 the archway leading into the house, to find herself in 
 total darkness, and hear a trampling as if oxen or 
 horses were close by. Remembering that the staircase 
 faced a stable, she hastily retreated into the street, 
 where at least there was such light as could be ob- 
 tained from one dim oil-lamp at the far end ofit, and 
 another burning under a picture of the Virgin, fastened 
 on the wall. When all was quiet, she ventured in 
 again, and, with some trepidation, felt her way up two 
 steep flights of stairs, happily, at last, chancing to lay 
 her hand on a string, which caused a bell somewhere 
 to ring. A voice, up aloft, exclaimed, “Chr 2?” and 
 the heavy door at the head of the stairs was opened a 
 little way. Mrs. Dalzell profited by the ray of light 
 that shone through the crack, and soon made her way 
 to Madame Marriotti’s rooms. A quick, clear voice from 
 within answered, “Passi!” to her knock, and entering, 
 she found Madame Marriotti rummaging papers in a 
 cabinet, with a fur cloak wrapped round her, and a 
 little red fazzoleito on her head. She turned round to 
 look at her visitor, exhibiting a small dark face, with 
 vivid black eyes and jet-black crisped hair, scarcely 
 streaked with grey; a face which she herself always 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 45 
 
 considered ugly, but which was capable of such varying 
 and brilliant expression, that it was worth all imaginable 
 beauty of colouring. Her figure was of fairy proportions, 
 and still as light and active as a girl’s, though little 
 could be seen of it in her manifold wraps, and neither 
 it nor her countenance owed anything to her costume, 
 which, to say the least, was singular; and altogether a 
 more original little creature than the celebrated cantatrice 
 would have been hard to find. She ceased hunting 
 through her papers for a moment, to shake hands with 
 Mrs. Dalzell, and stir the wood fire, where an earthen 
 pot was boiling, set on an iron tripod, contrasting 
 oddly with the size and handsome furniture of the 
 apartment. 
 
 “Ah, so you have come,” said she, absently, as if 
 she had not well mastered the idea that Mrs. Dalzell 
 was present. “I was thinking of you this—ah, by 
 the bye, you sent me a note. I cannot think where 
 this letter is,” she said, returning to tlie cabinet, and 
 soliloquizing in short sentences while she rustled the 
 papers. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell waited with exemplary patience till 
 the missing one was found, and Madame Marriotti 
 came voluntarily to sit beside her and talk. "Then she 
 began telling her business, growing more eager as she 
 proceeded, and looking at Madame Marriotti as she 
 ended, to see what effect she had produced. 
 
 “Ah—yes—” was the reply, in a preoccupied 
 manner; “it is a curious story. I dare say you are 
 right.” 
 
 “My dear madame, have you heard a word of what 
 I said?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, I heard it,” was the answer, in exactly 
 
46 MADEMOISELLE MORI: 
 
 the same dreamy tone; then all at once wakening up 
 to present things, she asked very er “What did 
 you say?” 
 
 In short, her mind had been absent, And Mrs. Dal- 
 zell’s story had reached her ear, but not her brain, and 
 had to be told all over again. She listened this time 
 with increasing surprise and disdain. 
 
 “A canlatrice! you are dreaming! I dare say the 
 girl has a pretty voice; every Roman can sing; they 
 are all musical; if you passed any cafe to-night where 
 there was music, you might have seen a crowd outside 
 the door listening, and every one of that crowd could 
 have joined in the airs played; that is a very different 
 thing from having a talent for the stage. Make a 
 Maestra Pia of the girl, if you don’t know what to do 
 with her; but don’t turn her head with talking of the 
 theatre.” 
 
 “I am sure I am most guiltless of wishing her to 
 be an actress,” said Mrs. Dalzell, half laughing; “and I 
 have not an idea what a Maestra Pia 15.’ 
 
 “Don’t you know? The Maesire Pie have three 
 great houses of education here for the middle class, 
 and besides some of them hold free schools in every 
 parish in the Papal States; they don’t go very deep, 
 you know, so nobody is afraid of them; but we don’t 
 love education overmuch here. They take no per- 
 petual vows, but there is some ceremony when they 
 are admitted.” 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell laughed outright this time. “I don’t 
 think that would do at all, and besides, Irene cannot 
 leave her brother. I assure you her voice it not a 
 common one, and if you had seen her graceful gestures 
 as she told me her story ——” 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORT. | 47 
 
 “All that may be very true, especially if she has 
 Neapolitan blood in her—have you been at Naples? 
 No?— well, they converse there more by looks and 
 gestures than by words—it is not proved that she 
 has.the slightest talent for the stage.” 
 
 “Fer wish is so strong, however, that she was near 
 applying to Madame St. Simon.” 
 
 “That settles it at once. That woman! I do assure 
 you, my dear—” Madame Marriotti started up in her 
 energy—“I do assure you it! makes me perfectly ill 
 to hear her. A vain, heartless coquette, without a grain 
 of sentiment—nothing but a flexible voice, with which 
 she can do wonderful things I daresay; I hear every 
 one say So except the Abate Grossi, the only man who 
 knows what music is—real old music; he keeps up 
 the traditions of the old ways, and hates this new 
 school of macaws, just as Ido. No. If this girl ad- 
 mires Madame St. Simon, that is enough.” 
 
 “I wish you would hear her, at all events.” 
 
 “Where do they live?” 
 
 “It is near. You know the church of St. Andrea 
 della Valle—the famous church which every one goes 
 torsee.? 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “Not, my dear madame? impossible!” 
 
 “No,” repeated the old lady, very incredulous of its 
 existence. 
 
 “Well,” said Mrs. Dalzell, resignedly, knowing 
 that Madame Marriotti might have seen it fifty times 
 without being conscious of its existence, unless some- 
 thing particular brought the fact home to her mind, 
 “it does not matter much; I could not ask you to go 
 there, but should you object to my bringing her here, 
 
48 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 without, of course, pledging you in any way? I really 
 should be thankful to put this fancy out of her head, 
 and from your decision there could be no appeal.” 
 
 “You may bring her here if you like, but I cannot 
 promise to admire her singing, out of politeness. I 
 know exactly the kind of thing it will be.” 
 
 “Very well, only be so kind as to hear her sing 
 once; then we can settle about it,” said Mrs. Dalzell; and 
 Madame Marriotti began to talk of some matter upper- 
 most in her mind, and entirely forgot the first part of 
 the conversation. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell found that friends had arranged plans 
 for her and themselves, which occupied the whole of 
 the next day; and pictures, churches, ruins, and views, 
 left no room in her mind for her Zro/eges. Returning 
 to her lodgings at night, weary, excited, and feeling 
 that she had seen an immense variety of things which 
 she could not clearly recall, a more living interest was 
 brought back by the sight of Vincenzo’s carving, which 
 had arrived in her absence. Minute inspection only 
 made her better pleased with it, and she placed it in 
 her drawing-room, intending to become its purchaser; 
 but a friend called the next day, and at once declared 
 it must be his—it would exactly suit a painting which 
 he had bought— where had she met with it? She told 
 its history, and gave Vincenzo’s address, with strong 
 hopes that other orders would follow, and she could 
 not resist taking him the good news at once. Irene 
 met her with such cheerful looks that she smiled, and 
 asked if she had forgiven her for opposing her wishes. 
 Irene blushed and looked at Vincenzo, who answered, 
 smiling, “She expects that you have brought her good 
 news,” | 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 49 
 
 “How, could she guess anything about it?” 
 
 “Oh, you have, signora!” cried Irene, with great 
 animation; “I knew you would, for Ihad a good dream 
 last night!” 
 
 “It may be only my frame; I think that is enough 
 good luck for to-day!” said Vincenzo. 
 
 “A dream, my dear child? What did you dream 
 about?” said Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “] dreamed of farina,” replied Irene, seriously; but, 
 perceiving that her visitor did not comprehend, she 
 added, “You know, that always means good fortune. 
 I did not know what it would be; but as soon as I saw 
 you from the window, I was sure that you were bringing 
 me good news about my singing.” 
 
 “Farina?” repeated Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “What bread is made of, signora. Do you not call 
 it thus?” 
 
 “Flour,” added Vincenzo. 
 
 “My dear, do you really mean that you believe in 
 “dreams?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, every one does. Nanna can tell what 
 nearly every dream means. Before Vincenzo’s accident 
 she dreamed of water—that means tears; and she was 
 so unhappy all that Sunday, knowing that some mis- 
 fortune would happen, and, you know, it did; and after- 
 wards, she and I both dreamed we were in the street 
 in our night-dresses, and that means poverty. You see 
 that, certainly, was true, for we were almost starving 
 when you came.” 
 
 “And do you believe in dreams too?” asked Mrs. 
 Dalzell of Vincenzo. 
 
 “No, not I; but we are obliged to believe more 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. I. 4 
 
50 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 wonderful things still in this place,” he answered, with 
 a smile of contempt. 
 
 Irene interrupted hastily— “Now, don’t laugh, 
 Vincenzo; it will bring ill luck. Do they not believe 
 in dreams in England, signora !” 
 
 “How much did papa believe in them?” inquired 
 Vincenzo. 
 
 “Oh, but papa was—was—was—-perhaps Pro- 
 testants do not believe in such things?” 
 
 ' “Well-educated people,” began Mrs. Dalzell, stopping, 
 because, as the hour of noon was announced by the 
 churches, Irene stood up, Nanna crossed herself, and 
 Vincenzo, too, assumed a serious attitude. After a few 
 moments Nanna took up her knitting again; Irene sat 
 down; and Vincenzo, seeing their visitor’s look of per- 
 plexity, said, “The Angelus; at noon every one repeats 
 it. Did you never notice men taking off their hats in 
 the street when it is noon?” 
 
 “But I thought you were Protestants.” 
 
 “We are, but mamma taught us to say the Angelus; 
 she thought one thing right, and papa another. I be- 
 lieve as he ‚did, but Nanna has taught Irene all sorts 
 of nonsense.”’ 
 
 “Oh, Vincenzo!” 
 
 “Well, really, I cannot accept the history of Sta. 
 Filomena on the same ground as I do St. Paul’s; and 
 Nanna knows much more about that Sta. Filomena than 
 she does of the Apostles. Really one is told to believe 
 so much that one is ready to believe nothing.” 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell found that from being children of a 
 Protestant, the brother and sister had never had the 
 advantage of such education as otherwise would have 
 come within their reach in Rome; they had not attended 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI SI 
 
 any of the classes or catechizings to which Roman 
 Catholic children are summoned. They had never been 
 to any kind of school, and Irene had been almost en- 
 tirely left to Nanna’s care. English both she and Vin- 
 cenzo spoke easily, but read with difficulty. Mrs. Dal- 
 zell offered books to the latter, and would not seem to 
 see that he received the proposal gratefully, but not 
 eagerly. She took Irene away with her, without fully 
 informing her how important was the impending inter- 
 view with Madame Marriotti, but telling her enough of 
 the cantatrice to inspire a respect for her judgment. 
 Irene had never heard of her. Madame Marriotti’s 
 public days were past before Irene ever saw the inside 
 of a theatre, but when she heard that the lady had been 
 a prima donna in London, her awe and respect were 
 boundless. Her own wildest dreams had never reached 
 such a height; she believed that nothing but diamonds 
 and rubies were showered on public singers in that 
 capital of golden streets! 
 
 Madame Marriotti had never thought again of the 
 affair, and was in a not infrequent mood of nervous ir- 
 ritability, which augured ill for a candid judgment. 
 Mrs. Dalzell regretted that she had brought Irene, and 
 was growing very nervous herself. To cut matters 
 short she took up a heap of popular songs and asked 
 Irene if she knew any of them. The girl withdrew her 
 earnest glance from Madame Marriotti for the first time 
 since she entered, and pointed out a favourite popu- 
 lar air. 
 
 “Well, let us hear whether you can sing it,” said 
 Madame Marriotti, reluctantly, but going to her piano 
 and striking the first notes. Irene came to her side and 
 obeyed. Mrs. Dalzell watched, with a half smile, her 
 
 4° 
 
52 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 friend’s start of surprise and the apa attention with 
 which she listened. 
 
 “Can you sing this?” she asked, without any com- 
 ment, as Irene paused. “You don't know it? Oh, yes, 
 you do; listen, La, la, la, la,”—humming the first 
 bars. Finding that her young visitor really did not 
 know it, she made an impatient gesture and sang it 
 herself, playing the accompaniment, looking from time 
 to time at Irene, who listened entranced, and exclaimed 
 in English to Mrs. Dalzell, “But it is a marvel! I never 
 heard any singing like that!” 
 
 “Not Madame St. Simon’s?” 
 
 “Oh, no, no, no, this is quite different; this is beauti- 
 ful—most beautiful!” 
 
 Now Madame Marriotti, though she professed not 
 to understand English, had lived quite long enough in 
 London to comprehend every word, and the young girl’s 
 admiration pleased her, though she had had the homages 
 of illustrious audiences laid at her feet till she was weary 
 of them. 
 
 “Well,” said Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “Well, she will do, Ithink. I must consider. Here, 
 my dear; you want to be a cantatrice, they tell me; 
 I was one myself, and I know the life: now listen 
 to me.” 
 
 Thereupon followed a very unflattered picture of 
 the trials of a celebrated singer, at the end of which 
 she waited to hear what Irene had to say. 
 
 “But, if the signora had foreseen all this, she would 
 still have been a cantatrice.” 
 
 “Not for fame or fortune, though. I found both 
 pleasant enough; but if that had been all, halfthe heart- 
 aches would have far outweighed them.” 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI 53 
 
  “] think the music would make amends for all the 
 rest,” said Irene. 
 
 “If you feel that, you are good for something. 
 There, we have talked enough about it; what are you 
 going to do with the child now, Mrs. Dalzell? I 
 want you to sit a little longer; can’t she go home 
 now?” 
 
 “If she knows her way.” 
 
 “Yes, yes, but whom has she to go with? You are 
 not going alone, my dear?” 
 
 “Oh, no,” answered Irene, shrinking. 
 
 “] had not thought of that,” began Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “But you should think about it, my dear. Italian 
 girls can’t go scampering about the streets like your 
 English ones; we don’t consider it respectable. Can’t 
 your servant escort her?” 
 
 “Yes, but you must let me go to look for some 
 books for Vincenzo.” 
 
 When she returned she found Madame Marriotti still 
 at the piano, playing a few bars now and then and 
 meditating. She looked up and said abruptly, “It would 
 be a thousand pities not to cultivate such a voice as 
 that.” j 
 
 “So I think, but the life ——” 
 
 “Oh, the life, the life; I know many public singers 
 whose names stand as high as any lady’s name in Eng- 
 land. I myself can witness that it is a life which can 
 be made an honour; if it have great temptations, it has 
 great rewards for those who are real votaries, who look 
 upon it as an art—not atrade. If this child were well 
 trained, brought up properly, if she had some good 
 quiet friends to look after her, she might do admirably; 
 and with the talent she has, she will be a cantatrice 
 
54 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 whether you like it or not. It would be a sin to let 
 the St. Simon demoralize her voice.” 
 
 “If she had but some better teaching than the old 
 nurse's—that woman has a covetous, cunning look 
 which quite frightens me, and I am sure she is not 
 honest; and then the confusion of religious ideas in 
 these children’s minds is so painful.” 
 
 “The girl believing everything, and the boy nothing, 
 I suppose—a common case here.” 
 
 “No; Vincenzo has more ideas on the subject than 
 I should have expected; but Irene actually professed 
 entire faith in dreams this morning.” 
 
 She was interrupted by a burst of laughter from 
 Madame Marriotti. “Dreams, my dear? There is not 
 a household which does not possess the Zzdro der Sogni. 
 What! is it possible you don’t know what this is? Not 
 know what that is!” She rang her bell, and, when the 
 maid entered, asked, changing from French into Italian, 
 “Zenaide, I want the dream book.” In two minutes, a 
 worn copy was produced, which Madame Marriotti put 
 into Mrs. Dalzell’s hands. Opening it at the first page, 
 she found an alphabetical list of words, each with num- 
 bers attached. “An index?” she said, inquiringly. 
 
 “No, not at all. These numbers relate to the lot- 
 tery. You probably don’t know the enormous im- 
 portance of the lottery here; there is hardly a house in 
 Rome, Tll answer for it, without this book. You don’t 
 understand yet? Now, for instance, I dream I walked 
 into the Via Margutta, and a dog came out ofa house 
 and bit my hand. On waking, I look for dog, house, 
 or hand, or all three, and take one or more of the 
 numbers belonging to these words, in the lottery. It 
 need not necessarily be a dream; for example, in one 
 

 

 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 55 
 
 Carnival there was a frightful accident—some children 
 killed by the mossa, the charge of the dragoons, to 
 clear the Corso. Well, there was a perfect run upon 
 the lottery after that; they took Carnival—horse— 
 child—che so !vo — yes, and misfortune and accident 
 too; for, now I come to think about it, misfortune was 
 the only one that drew a prize; No. 32, is it not?” 
 
 “But surely this is one of the books that would be 
 prohibited ?” 
 
 “My dear, if you look, you will see on the con- 
 trary it is published with the Censor’s approval; we 
 must have some amusement, and, besides, it is pro- 
 fitable to Government— 
 
 Il gioco in complesso 
 E un vizio bestiale, 
 
 Ma il lotto in se stesso 
 Ha non che dı morale! 
 
 I wonder who the clever rogue is who writes these 
 things; I had those verses on the lottery sent me in 
 manuscript, under the rose, and my friend only got 
 them in the same way: yet one hears them whispered 
 everywhere. But about this girl—I have a great mind 
 to teach her myself; I want something to do sometimes, 
 and I should rather like another pupil.” 
 
 “She could not have a better teacher!” 
 
 “But, then, she knows nothing—she has everything 
 to learn. I should never have patience, and, besides, 
 it is an immense responsibility to be any way answer- 
 able for a girl; I would not ask a.mother to trust her 
 daughter with me for an hour; she would be having 
 billets doux—falling in love!” 
 
 “My idea was,” said Mrs. Dalzell, without at- 
 tempting to persuade her, “to take them away from 
 
56 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 their present lodgings, and establish them in some that 
 my landlady had not let.” 
 
 “Who is your Padrona dı Casa? Cecchi? I had 
 forgotten—did not I recommend her to you? I forget 
 so many things now. Then you could keep your eye 
 on this girl.” 
 
 “She and her brother interest me more than I can 
 tell you, and I might do something for Irene, if I had 
 her constantly with me till June.” 
 
 “What will your friends say to your spending your 
 time in this way?” 
 
 “You know I came to Rome for mental change; it 
 does not matter how I get it, and I don’t mean to 
 neglect the sight-seeing; I am only afraid of thinking 
 of nothing else.” 
 
 “So you stay here till June?” said Madame Mar- 
 riotti, regarding with affection the face of her friend, 
 which had become saddened as she spoke of mental 
 change. 
 
 “Till June. I suppose the heat will drive me out 
 then.” 
 
 “Oh, I suppose so; as for me, as often as not I stay 
 here all the year round, instead of going to my villa at 
 Florence. I did spend one summer up in the hills, but 
 we got nothing to eat. Well, I shall consider about 
 this child— what is her name?” 
 
 “Irene Moore.” 
 
 “Mura?— what is it? Irene—Irene Mori.” 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. "5 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Whither are you bound? 
 To the palace, an it like you worship. 
 Winters Tale. 
 
 THE lodgings that Mrs. Dalzell had taken were on 
 the second floor in an old palace near the Tiber. One 
 common staircase led to corridors with open arcades, 
 looking into a great quadrangle; each story had its 
 corridor, or loggia, to use the Italian word, except the 
 highest, which was tenanted by very poor families, or 
 by artists, t0 whom abundance of light was essential. 
 About eighteen doors on each floor opened into the 
 corridor, and ascend or descend when you would, a 
 face you had never noticed before was sure to be seen. 
 The palace resembled a large hive of bees, with store- 
 houses underground or in the lowest floor, where no 
 one lived, and magazines of wine and wood were kept; 
 and, as in other hives, there were working bees and 
 drones. On the first floor dwelt rich and titled families, 
 on the mezzanın! professors and teachers; a staircase 
 higher came untitled people; and higher still the artists 
 and the poor, amongst whom might perhaps be counted 
 a poet, who semeed of a joyous temperament, and, 
 whenever he could afford it, gave a supper to his friends; 
 and rumours of a r£union of nineteen other poets, whose 
 songs and shouts were heard late into the night, more 
 than once afforded matter for speculation and amuse- 
 ment to the other inhabitants of the palace. It belonged 
 to a noble and very poor family, who, reserving two 
 floors for themselves in a smaller inner quadrangle, let 
 all the rest, and contrived to live on the small portion 
 of rent which was not swallowed up by mortgages and 
 
58 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 debts. Mrs. Dalzell had found her way into this un- 
 English quarter under the guidance of Madame Mar- 
 riotti, and she had far more enjoyment in the novelty, 
 and even the occasional discomforts, than she could 
 have derived from the luxuries of the hotels or lodgings 
 in the streets frequented by her compatriots, where 
 often more English than Italian is to be heard, and all 
 is adapted to English tastes. 
 
 The palace looked stately by day, but its aspect 
 gained indescribably by night, when the moon gleamed 
 on the white fronts of the arcades and threw the cor- 
 ridors within into profound shade, in which mysterious 
 staircases yawned blacker still, leading up and down 
 into unknown regions, and lights glimmered here and 
 there from windows grated like those of a prison. As 
 soon as the reign of night began, ghostly noises too 
 were heard—sounds, like heavy blows or distant 
 cannonading, re-echoed through the quadrangle, and 
 the fountain lifted up a voice nearly inaudible by day, 
 and murmured plaintively, doubtless telling of the Anio, 
 from whence its waters came, and of the ancient 
 aqueduct along which they had travelled many a mile. 
 By daylight all the awe and mystery disappeared, and 
 the palace, though always stately, looked cheerful, like 
 a place inhabited by modern, every-day people—a 
 place, moreover, where they might desire to live, when 
 it was seen flooded by sunshine, with white-winged 
 terns wheeling in the blue air above the quadrangle. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell had come abroad with maid and 
 courier; but before she had been a week at Rome, her 
 maid had become so disconsolate in this land, where 
 she could neither understand nor make herself under- 
 stood, that her mistress was glad to send her home 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 59 
 
 and manage without her. The landlady, Signora, or, 
 as foreigners usually called her, Madama, Cecchi, 
 spoke enough French to make it a medium of con- 
 versation; and when Mrs. Dalzell returned to her 
 lodgings she was admitted by her in person, the 
 padrona having ascertained from a little grated window 
 that it was her lodger who rang. It would not have 
 been easy to find a handsomer specimen of a Roman 
 of the middle class than was this Madama Cecchi, who 
 looked as stately as any duchess as she stood at the 
 door, her black silk dress draping her full and rounded 
 form, her hair rolled back from her brow, and partly 
 shaded by a black lace lappet fastened with gold pins; 
 little enamel and pearl ear-rings in her ears and a 
 mosaic brooch to fasten her lace collar. This was her 
 every-day dress; had she been in full costume, she 
 would probably have worn white, or pale colours, 
 and a gown of some thin material, far less becoming 
 to her, for Roman beauty requires the deep lines and 
 abundant drapery, which, happily, the common people, 
 at least, delight in. Few high-born dames in England 
 could have equalled the natural and stately grace with 
 which she received her lodger, whom she had not seen 
 before that day, and the readiness to hear the some- 
 thing, which Mrs. Dalzell. announced she had to say, 
 was expressed in courteous phrases untranslatable, be- 
 cause in any language but their own they would have 
 sounded unnatural. 
 
 She preceded Mrs. Dalzell into the anteroom, which 
 had a brick floor and a pile of firewood in one corner; 
 the apartment was by no means splendid, but when, 
 lifting the curtain that hung over the door, they entered 
 the salot/o or sitting-room, the sunshine which literally 
 
60 MADEMOISELLE MORI, 
 
 bathed the whole room and called out all the colours: 
 on the arched and painted ceiling, sufficiently indicated 
 why Madame Marriotti had recommended it. Sunshine 
 is one of the luxuries for which people come to Rome, 
 and though the winter had been a cold one, Mrs. Dal- 
 zell had never yet found: it necessary to have a fire 
 in the little open stove until evening. A nosegay of 
 camellias, fringed with the maidenhair fern that grows 
 on every fountain, stood on a round table; another 
 table with a marble top stood in a window which ad- 
 mitted the morning sunshine; a third, also bearing a. 
 heavy slab of marble, and too high to be used except 
 as a sideboard, was placed between the two other 
 windows looking towards the west; besides books, it 
 bore two vases of artificial flowers, with a stuffed 
 canary bird and several beetles among them to add to 
 their vraisemblance; a heavy clock, highly gilt, was 
 placed in the centre. It being winter, the floor was 
 covered with coarse green and black drugget, or else 
 it, like that of the anteroom, would have been seen to 
 be of brick. This was the sole sign of winter, for there 
 were only thin muslin curtains to the windows; andı 
 the green dersiani outside showed that more precautions 
 against heat than cold were necessary. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell sat down, and told the history of her 
 proieges, ending with a proposal to visit the rooms in 
 which she desired to settle them. The prospect of 
 letting them for an indefinite time was welcome to the 
 Roman landlady, who usually could only dispose of 
 them for the season, and she instantly led the way, 
 remarking, however, that she must consult her husband, 
 to the amusement of Mrs. Dalzell, who was aware that 
 the said. husband was a very ‚nominal authority: 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 61 
 
 Madama Cecchi was a perfectly despotic, though very 
 good-humoured potentate; and “Nino,” as she called 
 him, submitted unmurmuringly to her decrees. The 
 three rooms proved in every way desirable, except 
 that to reach them from her own apartments, Mrs. 
 Dalzell was obliged either to go out into the corridor, 
 or to pass through the kitchen; but as Madama Cecchi 
 thought this unimportant, Mrs. Dalzell said no more 
 about it. It so happened that she had never been in 
 the little back kitchen before, and she paused to survey 
 the vessels, scanty in number, and of unknown shapes 
 and uses, which stood on the shelves. She smiled and 
 wondered what an English servant would think of the 
 disorder and want of accommodation. All cooking was 
 done at square holes in a kind of brick counter, into 
 which a handful of charcoal was put when wanted; the 
 consequence of which was, that whenever so much as 
 an extra jug of hot water was required, the charcoal 
 had to be lit, water fetched from the fountain, and 
 much time spent before the demand could be supplied, 
 for charcoal was too dear to be freely used. Among 
 the various utensils Mrs. Dalzell spied out a little lamp, 
 and she said, “I like these so much that I bought one 
 yesterday, but it would not burn last night, and I forgot 
 to tell my courier to examine it.” 
 
 “Where is it? let us make my husband look at it 
 — he is capace di tutto,” said Madama Cecchi; “Nino! 
 Ni! come here.” 
 
 Nino, or rather Giovanbattista, appeared from an- 
 other room, bowed to his lodger, and asked what was 
 the matter. He was, like most of the Roman men, a 
 great contrast to the female part of the population, 
 being slender, middle-sized, with taper hands, and not 
 
62 MADEMOISELLE MORIL. 
 
 a trace of the muscle and strength which characterize 
 nothern nations. Black-haired and black-bearded, he 
 had dark soft eyes, which were at once sad, and arch, 
 and subtle, as only Italian eyes can be, and a pleasant 
 tenor voice, much more agreeable than his wife’s; but 
 the sound so exactly like most of those which Mrs. 
 Dalzell heard in the streets, that she was apt constantly 
 to look round, fancying that her landlord was beside 
 her. He turned the lamp upside down, examined it, 
 and inquired if the signora had blown into it when she 
 bought it. On hearing that this precaution had not oc- 
 curred to her, he shook his head, and evidently thought 
 its defects were no more than she deserved, but at once 
 gave his most serious attention to remedying them. 
 Just then a crash as of falling plates was heard some- 
 where near: Madama Cecchi hurried off with exclama- 
 tions of despair, and directly afterwards, her voice and 
 the maid’s were heard uplifted to a most amazing pitch; 
 then a sound was heard, as if the girl had received a 
 box on the ear, after which Madama Cecchi returned, 
 cheerful and smiling as before, and not in the least 
 ruffled by what had occurred. Mrs. Dalzell made some 
 remark on the cause of the clatter, and the padrona 
 replied, “Oh, dear, dear, dear, dear! it is this denedeita 
 Jigliuola, Filomena, who makes me desperate;” but the 
 despair did not seem to go very deep, nor the offending 
 Filomena to be very repentant, for immediately after 
 she came by, looking just as rosy and merry as 
 usual. 
 
 The prospect of a new habitation was very welcome 
 to the three whom it chiefly concerned, especially to 
 Vincenzo, who in spite of his carving was fast again 
 becoming a prey to melancholy and languor. He had 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORT. 63 
 
 no friends to enliven him with visits; Nanna was more 
 of a torment than anything else; and dearly as he loved 
 Irene, a girl’s society could not make up to him for 
 what he had lost. Any change was welcome to him; 
 the new project was thorough refreshment; the pre- 
 parations for departure positively delightful; he did not 
 even shrink from the notion of being conveyed over 
 the rough streets, which the others dreaded much for 
 him, and only considered possible, when fully sanctioned 
 by his surgeon. The transit proved less painful than 
 they had expected; but all were thankful when he had 
 been safely conveyed up the long staircases, carried by 
 Cecchi and Mrs. Dalzell’s courier, and laid on the sofa 
 in the sunny sitting-room, which was now to be his own. 
 Irene was almost too happy, between hearing that she 
 was to be Madame Marriotti’s pupil, and finding herself 
 mistress of a little room which seemed palatial luxury 
 to her. Her felicity was beyond expression, when she 
 found that a piano had been hired for her, and was 
 placed in the sitting-room; and she flew about, showing 
 everything to Nanna, darting back to Vincenzo. for 
 additional sympathy, springing to the side of Mrs. 
 Dalzell with a new burst of gratitude, and making ac- 
 quaintance with the padrona, whose heart was speedily 
 won by her frank delight, and all whose sympathies 
 were enlisted for the invalid boy, as he lay with 
 smiling, grateful looks, too weary to answer his sister’s 
 transports, and only wishing to lie still and watch the 
 various arrangements which kept all the others fully 
 employed. They had brought a few articles of furni- 
 ture with them to add to that already in the rooms, 
 where there was not much space to spare; and Nino, 
 his wife, Nanna, Mrs, Dalzell, and Irene, were still in 
 
64 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 full conclave when the clock announced, in that Italian 
 fashion so mysterious to foreigners, that the hour of 
 five had come. At the same time, the bell rang, Filo- 
 mena opened the door and admitted a boy, with two 
 tin chests on his head, each containing a pan of char- 
 coal and a dinner. This broke off all discussion. Mrs. 
 Dalzell left Nanna to see about one, and retired to her 
 own sitting-room to eat the other, not without a com- 
 pliment from both landlord and landlady on her look- 
 ing so well that afternoon. It was. deserved; Mrs. 
 Dalzell felt more occupied, more happy, than she had 
 done for many months. Till this time, do what she 
 would, all the beauty, all the associations of Italy, 
 had, at the most, only filled her mind; while at heart 
 there was always the aching of a grief for which she 
 found no cure. Strange! this one little good deed had 
 done what neither-Art nor Nature could effect; it'had 
 lulled the pain to rest, for a time, at all events; and 
 as she sat alone that evening, willing to let Vincenzo 
 rest, after a day very exciting and fatiguing to him; 
 although her book remained unread, and her work lay 
 idly upon her lap, it was not now because her thoughts 
 had wandered and her eyes were dim with tears. She 
 thought anxiously, yet hopefully, of Irene, and with a 
 still tenderer feeling of the invalid Vincenzo, whose 
 grateful and cheerful looks that day had keenly re- 
 minded her of another invalid, very dear to her, whom 
 she had once tended and watched over as only a 
 mother can watch over her sole treasure. More than 
 once she had found the name of Arthur rising to’ her 
 lips instead of that of Vincenzo, who, henceforward, 
 must be dear to her, for the sake of that dead son, as 
 well as for his own. It was much to have rescued this 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORL. | 65 
 
 brother and sister from destitution: it was like an an- 
 swer to the question that had often forced itself upon 
 her—What the future could have for her to do? 
 Through these orphans it might yet have an interest. 
 She thought of what it might bring them, far more 
 anxiously than they did—one dreaming on her pillow, 
 with lips parted into a smile, and a rosy flush on her 
 cheek—the other, awake, and taking courage from 
 the thought, that though his own faith had failed, the 
 promise their dying father had trusted in had stood 
 firm, bidding himself remember that on the ruin of his 
 own hopes had risen new -ones for Irene, and think- 
 ing, with deep gratitude, of her who had rescued them 
 from actual starvation. Surely, with these two near 
 her, Mrs. Dalzell could not help feeling satisfied and 
 cheered. 
 
 Thus it gradually came to pass that, while she 
 visited the sights of Rome, entered occasionally into 
 society, and was always ready to take part in any 
 scheme proposed by her friends, these two orphans 
 became Mrs. Dalzell’s chief thought. They interested 
 her not only for their own sakes, but as specimens of 
 Italians—a race unknown to her; and Italians, rather 
 than English, they certainly were, though Vincenzo 
 betrayed the English part of his parentage at times, 
 by a certain reserve and steadfastness, joined, however, 
 to much Italian enthusiasm; but Irene, with the soft 
 and brilliant dark eyes of her Sora mother, had in- 
 herited a southern grace, an instinctive courtesy, a fire 
 and impetuosity, that never came from England. 
 Pretty she was not; she had inherited none of the 
 beauty for which the women of Sora are celebrated, 
 and with which her mother had been pre-eminently 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori, T, 5 
 
66 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 endowed; yet her slight figure, and the open brow 
 whence dark shining hair was braided back, the marked 
 and expressive eyebrows, and the lovely eyes, made 
 hers a poetical face; and the instant changes at word 
 or look, from the serious and pensive expression usual 
 to it when at rest, to archness and mirth, had a charm 
 so bewitching that many beautiful women would have 
 been far less attractive than Irene. In her, there was 
 none of the abrupt English honesty, so repulsive to 
 Italians.. 'To be charmingly courteous was her nature, 
 but she was no less true than Vincenzo; as Mrs. Dalzell, 
 in time, discovered, after being a little mistrustful of 
 what she had heard her countrymen assert in other 
 cases to be insincerity—sometimes justly, sometimes 
 much otherwise; but Italian faults and virtues are al- 
 most equally perplexing to English people, and so are 
 those of the English to: Italians. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell‘ had expected to find Irene the best 
 possible guide to Rome, especially as both brother 
 and sister were proud of their birthplace, and spoke of 
 “Roma mia” and “z mie Romanı” with pride worthy 
 of an ancient senator; but to her surprise, Irene knew 
 nothing about it. Vincenzo too read a book about 
 Rome Pagan and Rome Christian, and their historical 
 associations, with the delight of a blind man when 
 enabled to see. It was the first book that awoke any 
 lively interest in him; he seemed to have found a 
 glorious new world, and Mrs. Dalzell often could not 
 resist a smile as she heard him telling Irene, with the 
 utmost enthusiasm, of some fact trite to all the rest of 
 the world. On questioning Irene, it appeared that she 
 had seen hardly any of the great sights which attract 
 travellers from every land. She had, now and then, 
 

 
RI 
 
 FrEFERE 
 
 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 67 
 
 gone to the Colosseum, with her mother or Nanna, to 
 pray at the stations; she had been sometimes at the 
 Vatican, because every one goes there on the public 
 day at Easter, and Vincenzo was fond of visiting it; 
 and that seemed to be the extent of her acquaintance 
 with the ruins and galleries. Mrs. Dalzell could hardly 
 believe that she heard aright, and asked if Roman girls 
 never went to see sights. Irene said they hardly ever 
 did; they sometimes went to shops, or on the Pincio, 
 or in the Corso, with their mothers, or paid a morning 
 visit, but not often to see sights; and she could not 
 understand the notion of walking for exercise sake, 
 when asked if she were not accustomed to do so.. 
 “Papa liked walking; but then, he was English. 
 When he was alive, he often took her and Vincenzo 
 to the Villa Pamphili Doria, or the Villa Borghese on 
 festas.” 
 
 . «Have you never seen any of the ceremonies in 
 St. Peters? Never been there at Easter?” 
 
 “Oh! no. Romans hardly ever do go; there is 
 such a crowd— people behave so ill, and push so. The 
 foreigners say, ‘We must see these things, because we 
 have come from the ends of the earth to do so, and 
 you Romans can see them when you will;’ but then 
 they come and come every year, and do not cease, 
 and thus we see nothing.” 
 
 “Besides, as for Easter day, every Romanist is 
 obliged to hear mass in his parish church, unless the 
 priest gives him express leave to go somewhere else,” 
 added Vincenzo. “The rules are very strict; you 
 receive a certificate to show that you were there, and 
 some days after the priest comes to each house for it, 
 and you would get into terrible disgrace if you could 
 
 Dr 
 
68 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 not produce it; your name publicly posted up ın the 
 church, and a great uproar made, and it would be re- 
 membered against you to a certainty if you wanted 
 anything done for you. All power here is in the 
 priests’ hands.” 
 
 “] always fancy there is a strange contempt, mixed 
 with fear, in Signor Cecchi’s manner when the priests 
 are alluded to,” said Mrs. Dalzell; “and his wife once 
 privately begged me never to name politics before 
 him, it excited him so.” 
 
 “She is imprudent enough herself, but she knows 
 she is safe with us. If half what I have heard her 
 say were repeated, she would see the inside of a prison 
 speedily.” 
 
 “Not really, Vincenzo?” 
 
 “Really, Mrs. Dalzell; a careless word is enough to 
 send a man to Spoleto for life.” 
 
 The English lady thought this must be strange 
 exaggeration; but Vincenzo did not seem at all in- 
 clined to pursue the subject, so she turned to another. 
 
 “There is one ceremony that I mean to see and 
 take Irene to this year; she ought to hear Guglielmi’s 
 Pastorale; what do you say, Vincenzo?” 
 
 “I would go if I could,” he answered, “just to see 
 St. Peter’s by night; but as for the music I don’t care 
 for that kind. I declare”—and herein he spoke the 
 feelings of many of his fellow-citizens—“when I hear 
 it I am ready to stop my ears and run out of the 
 church.” 
 
 “I hope Madame Marriotti will teach Irene better,” 
 said Mrs. Dalzell, smiling. “How did the lesson go 
 to-day?” 
 
 “Oh, pretty well,” said Irene, with a blush; “I am 
 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 69 
 
 afraid we both got out of patience; but a last she said 
 I was improving.” 
 
 Indeed, teacher and pupil had both such impatient 
 tempers, that Mrs. Dalzell had feared the alliance would 
 speedily break up; but Madame Marriotti in her heart 
 was very glad of this new interest, and fast becoming 
 extremely proud of her pupil. She required entire 
 devotion to music, with the most watchful and ex- 
 ceiting jealeusy, and Irene was ready to give it. Love 
 for her art gave her fervour which took the place of 
 perseverance, and she became so absorbed in it, that 
 Vincenzo silently felt, or more truly, fancied, that he 
 had grown a secondary object with her. Mrs. Dalzell’s 
 society, visits from such of her friends as desired to 
 purchase his carvings, and the new delight of reading, 
 kept, however, this feeling in the background; and 
 Irene, radiant with hope and energy, looked scarcely 
 happier than did Vincenzo, Iying on his couch, with a 
 table drawn up to it, with books and a handful of wild 
 flowers upon it, or a basket of fruit, destined to be 
 copied in lime or pear wood. Mrs. Dalzell sometimes 
 wondered whether he had quite realized that his destiny 
 was to be an invalid for life. Nothing could change 
 that fiat; they must never hope to see him walk again, 
 except with cerutches. 
 
 CHAPTER'!YV.; 
 Quem vidistis, pastores, dicite; annunciate nobis, in terris quis apparuit; 
 Natum vidimus; et choros angelorum collaudantes Dominum. 
 Office of the Pastorale. 
 THE idea of going to hear the Pastorale did not fall 
 to the ground; it was one of the few ceremonies which 
 Mrs. Dalzell could witness, without failing to attend 
 
70 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 the services of her own church, and she had par- 
 ticularly wished to see it. To go with a large party 
 was the last thing she desired, and she named her 
 intentions to none but Madame Marriotti, who had first 
 inspired her with the wish, and now, much to Mrs. 
 Dalzell’s surprise, immediately declared that she should 
 like, of all things, to go too. An expedition at three 
 o’clock a. m. was such a singular freak for so frail a 
 creature, that Mrs. Dalzell would hardly consent, though 
 she acknowledged that her pleasure in music was 
 always doubled when Madame Marriotti was by to 
 comment on it; and the little old lady was as wilful as 
 any spoiled child, and got her way. Accordingly, on 
 Christmas eve, instead of going to bed, Irene came to 
 Mrs. Dalzell’s sitting-room, where she found her friend 
 lying on the sofa, resting till the hour to set out should 
 arrıve. Resisting an invitation to share the couch, 
 Irene, with her dog, which, as usual, had followed her, 
 sat down on the floor before an open stove, where a 
 wood fire burned brightly. Irene occupied herself with 
 reading the music which was to be her next lesson, 
 and Mrs. Dalzell, between sleep and waking, opened 
 her eyes sometimes, and looked at the slight figure and 
 bending profile of the young girl, on which the fire- 
 light gleamed. She was absorbed in her task; one 
 hand, unconsciously, beat time on the back of her dog; 
 her brow was sometimes knit, as she looked with 
 austerity at some difficult passage, and then expanded 
 as she mastered it, and smiled and lifted her eyes, as 
 if to those of some imaginary auditor. Now and then, 
 still murmuring half inaudible notes, she added a piece 
 of wood from the tall basket which stood by the stove, 
 or moved the coffee-pot on its iron tripod into a hotter 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORT. 7ı 
 
 position; while the dog looked on with great interest, 
 or directed an intelligent glance towards the cups and 
 saucers on the table, as much as to say that if they 
 really intended to have a meal at this extraordinary 
 hour, it was advisable to lose no more time. A ring 
 at the outer door announced Madame Marriotti; Irene 
 sprang up, and went to let her in, disencumbering her 
 of a multitude of wraps; while the old lady diminishing 
 momentarily in size, as she was released first from 
 one, then another, was at last reduced to dimensions 
 fit for a fairy godmother, for which she might very 
 well have passed. She was in a fidget about this un- 
 usual expedition, and at first rejected vehemently the 
 coffee which Irene poured out for her; but ended by 
 drinking it, in an absent, unconscious way, while Mrs. 
 Dalzell sought her bonnet and cloak. Irene looked 
 very mirthful and mischievous, and moved so noise- 
 lessiy, and spoke so low, that Madame Marriotti’s 
 nerves were speedily irritated by this mysterious con- 
 duct, and she demanded, sharply, what was the matter 
 with her. 
 
 “Only I feel as if we were plotting something very 
 wonderful and secret. We are the only people awake 
 in the palace; we are going out directly without their 
 knowing it; it is a secret expedition, and we are con- 
 spirators.” 
 
 “Nonsense, child; don’t talk of conspirators, I beg; 
 we had enough of that in ’31; how can you be so 
 silly?” asked Madame Marriotti, uneasily. 
 
 “Oh, Ithink a conspiracy must be so interesting!” 
 answered Irene, gaily, too young to remember much 
 about the troubles that had hailed the election of the 
 reigning Pope, Gregory XVL 
 
MB: MADEMOISELLE MORL. 
 
 “Fieaven help the child! she may live to know 
 more about it,” muttered the old lady, who, though 
 she chose to lead a somewhat secluded life, knew most 
 things, public or secret, that went on in Rome, and 
 was well aware of the storms that were gathering 
 there. “Mrs. Dalzell, are you ready? Do let us go, 
 if we are going, and have done with it. Where are 
 you running off to now, child?” 
 
 “Only to take Tevere back, and see if Vincenzo 
 is asleep,” answered Irene, running away with a little 
 lamp in her hand, through the empty kitchen. The 
 Cecchi had gone to the funzione at San Luigi, and had 
 not yet returned; the rooms were still as death, and 
 she speedily re-appeared, a little excited and awed by 
 the silence and darkness. Madame Marriotti, still look- 
 ing ruffled, was wrapping herself slowly up again, an 
 operation suddenly delayed by the loss of a glove. 
 Irene and Mrs. Dalzell looked for it in vain; Madame 
 Marriotti fumed and fidgeted. At last, Irene emerged 
 from under a table, holding up something dark, a single 
 kid finger. “I am afraid,” said she, half stifled by 
 suppressed laughter, “that Tevere must have eaten the 
 rest!” i 
 “Tevere!” exclaimed Madame Marriotti, nearly 
 speechless; “my glove!” 
 
 “Poor dog, he will certainly be ill,” said Mrs. 
 Dalzell, anxiously. “How did he seem, Irene?” 
 
 “I don’t think it has disagreed with him, though I 
 am sadly afraid he ate the button too,” replied Irene, 
 half suffocated with amusement at the catastrophe, and 
 the indignation of her bereaved friend. 
 
 “I hope it will, I hope it will. The ill-mannered, 
 inconsiderate beast,” exclaimed Madame Marriotti, “Of 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORIL 73 
 
 course I shall catch cold, I must make up my mind to 
 that; so we had better go at once. Such nonsense as 
 it all is!” She hurried towards the door, nearly falling 
 over Mrs. Dalzell’s courier, who was coming to an- 
 nounce.the carriage. Both Irene and Mrs. Dalzell were 
 quite aware that this irritation only meant, that the 
 unwonted expedition had strung their friend’s excitable 
 nerves a little too highly; so they were not in the 
 least disturbed by it, but settled themselves speedily 
 in their corners of the carriage, which had thundered 
 into the quadrangle, and now thundered out again in 
 a way likely to discompose all the sleepers in the 
 palace, and auguring ill for the secrecy of Irene’s ex- 
 pedition. Till within an hour or two there had been 
 an incessant hum of voices and roll of carriages in the 
 streets: all Rome was abroad, hastening to and from 
 the midnight mass at various churches; but now all 
 was still; only a few men or women were seen in the 
 dark deserted streets; and the occasional ringing of 
 bells from some church was almost the only sound. 
 The Tiber glided below the bridge, swift, silent, and 
 tawny in the moonlight; not a living creature was 
 visible about St. Angelo, which rose massive and de- 
 solate, as if once more a tomb; and the Archangel on 
 its summit looked like some indistinct and threatening 
 form descended from the gloomy sky above. The 
 piazza of St. Peter stretched out in an extent of space 
 which the eye could hardly compass, and the large 
 semicircular colonnades appeared to expand themselves, 
 as though to embrace a world. Lamps were hung 
 here and there against theır columns, marking out 
 their circuit in the darkness; lights shone in the belfry, 
 wheie a deep-toned bell was ringing; the fountains 
 
74 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 lifted up their silver jets, and in front rose the basilica, 
 dark, enormous, and appearing to retreat before the 
 advancing visitor. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell and Irene united their strength to lift 
 the ponderous curtain, or rather mat, which hung before 
 the door by which they entered; Madame Marriotti 
 slipped in, they followed, and at once found them- 
 selves in a world of shadow so vast, so strange, that 
 they stood still involuntarily to gaze. Between every 
 arch stood one tall lighted taper, and under the cupola, 
 the crowd of ever-burning lamps around the tomb of 
 St. Peter shone out clear and pale, like a garland of 
 stars. Not a flame but burned up motionless in the 
 still, perfumed atmosphere, but on all sides was gloom 
 and silence, and the cupola seemed to rise up and 
 vanish, as if it contained a whole sky filled with soft 
 darkness, like that of a moonless night in summer. 
 Few were present at this hour of the night, and in the 
 area which no man has ever beheld full, even when 
 the jubilee attracts multitudes from every land, the 
 units present on this Christmas eve were scarcely per- 
 ceptible. Now and then some one crossed the nave; 
 three or four knelt amid the circle of light at the 
 Apostle’s tomb; and a woman was bowed before his 
 statue, immovable as the bronze figure above her. All 
 the colour, the splendour, the ornament, all that de- 
 lights or displeases the eye by day, was now blended 
 together; and doubtless it was this absence of striking 
 detail that gave the impression of boundless space in 
 the building, which by day seems in comparison small. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell walked slowly up the nave towards 
 the eastern end, where were seats erected for the public 
 functionaries and the ladies who would be present at 
 
MADEMOISELLE MOR!. 75 
 
 the great ceremony of the morrow. Mrs. Dalzell took 
 her place here, and sat waiting and expecting the 
 service to begin; Madame Marriotti had fallen into a 
 reverie, from which a whisper of Irene roused her 
 sudden]y. 
 
 “What did you say?” she asked quickly in Italian, 
 which she always spoke to her pupil. 
 
 “] cannot help thinking the service is beginning 
 in the chapel of the choir,” repeated Irene, looking 
 down the basilica to a spot where lights were glitter- 
 ing, reflected in the pavement like moons in a lake. 
 
 “Well, are we not there! Why, where are we? 
 Mrs. Dalzell, why did you come here?” 
 
 “Seeing these seats I really thought the service 
 was here, and I trusted to you.” 
 
 “Could any one believe such folly?” exclaimed the 
 old lady, irascibly. “A baby might have known the 
 Pastorale would be in the chapel of the choir; now we 
 shall not find a single seat, and I can tell you I can’t 
 stand all the time—in such a crowd t0oo—” While 
 ejaculating this she was hurrying down the aisle; but 
 when they reached the chapel they found, as she had 
 predicted, every bench filled, and a crowd beginning 
 to collect at the open gates. 
 
 The chapel blazed with light; a galaxy of waxen 
 tapers illuminated the altar, and filled the great can- 
 delabrum which rose high in a pyramidal form from 
 the pavement, and two immense tapers burnt on either 
 side of a high desk from which a priest would read 
 portions of the service. The monsignori, in their white 
 fur tippets, had already taken their places on the 
 highest row of seats, right and left of the altar; the 
 singers in the galleries above were turning over their 
 
76 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 music; the canons, distinguished by their grey fur 
 mantles,'came in from time to time through a side 
 door; and the schoolboys of St. Peter’s, in purple 
 dresses and white co//e or surcoats, bordered with lace, 
 occupied the lowest row of seats, level with the con- 
 gregation, who, for the most part, appeared to be of 
 the poorer class. Beside the altar sat a bishop, the 
 snow-white mitre on his head, and beside him stood a 
 purple-robed attendant; priests in gorgeous white and 
 gold dresses officiated in the complicated service, which 
 Mrs. Dalzell vainly tried to follow, though she had 
 what no one else present appeared to possess — a 
 service book. Madame Marriotti had made her way 
 through the crowd with her companions, and now stood 
 looking disconsolately at the full benches, without a 
 hope that any one would move for her; but in a few 
 minutes a young man rose, touching his neighbour, 
 and they gave up their seats to the new comers, who 
 all three contrived to find room, while the two gentle- 
 men retired into the crowd—-one, however, standing 
 so that he could still see Irene, who was too much 
 absorbed and impressed by the scene to discover that 
 he scarcely ever removed his eyes from the intent face 
 which she uplifted towards the organ gallery. Looking 
 at her, Mrs. Dalzell perceived how differently these 
 gorgeous ceremonies affect the northern and southern 
 minds. To herself it was a splendid pageant; the 
 glitter, the movements of the priests, the unfamiliar 
 tongue, the music of the Zastorale itself, which rose 
 and rolled around the chapel in waves of sound, all 
 seemed to her, ready as she was to receive a solemn 
 impression, but parts of a magnificently acted scene, 
 that could not be allied in any way to the shepherds 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORT, Br 
 
 watching on the lonely hills of Bethlehem, and the 
 angels’ song of peace in the skies; and she thought 
 with satisfaction of the simple service and the familiar 
 hymn which she should hear on the morrow morning 
 in her own church, even while she acknowledged the 
 grandeur of this night service. But Irene was a true 
 daughter of the south; all that possessed colour and 
 light, all that appealed to the senses, touched her at 
 once; and it was ‚quite involuntarily that, with all the 
 Roman Catholics present, she sank on her knees as the 
 music slowly died into a whisper, breathing the words, 
 “O graciosa Mater?’ All knelt for a few moments with 
 clasped hands and bended heads, and then rose, and 
 after one more magnificent burst of song, the service 
 was concluded. All left the chapel, Mrs. Dalzell still 
 feeling almost as if in a dream; Madame Marriotti 
 whispering with extreme indignation, “I suppose you 
 know we have not heard Guglielmi’s music after all? 
 They actually sang Basili’s; I never heard of such a 
 thing! To come here instead of being in my bed, and 
 hear Basili’s music instead of Guglielmi’s. Icall it a 
 great deal too bad!” 
 
 As they came into the portico they perceived that 
 a dense fog had come on; the Vatican loomed dimly 
 through it; the fountains tossed up plumy spray into 
 the air, grey as the mist with which it mingled— 
 dawn was beginning to break. Madame Marriotti 
 shivered, and Mrs. Dalzell looked anxiously round for 
 her servant and the carriage. Discovering both in a 
 few minutes, she came back to where her friend was 
 standing, and hurried her towards it, without noticing 
 the absence of Irene, till she was about to step in her- 
 sel. Asking in haste where she was, Madame Mar- 
 
78 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 riotti recollected that Irene had said she was going 
 into the basilica again for another look. Mrs. Dalzell 
 was just going back in search of her, when she per- 
 ceived her coming down the steps, escorted by the 
 stranger who had given up his place to them. She 
 sprang into the carriage; the young man bowed to her 
 and Mrs. Dalzell, and they drove off. Irene was 
 questioned as to what had occurred, but there was not 
 much to tell; she had wandered up the nave to the 
 tomb and back again, and when she came into the 
 portico, she could not see any carriage, nor any one 
 whom she knew, through the mist. She was looking 
 round when some one came up, and said in Italian 
 that he believed her friends were just getting into their 
 carriage; and she, recognising the gentleman who had 
 been so courteous in the chapel, was very glad to be 
 escorted down the long succession of steps. This was 
 all; Madame Marriotti had given her two or three 
 searching looks as she told her story, though the whole 
 affair seemed exceedingly simple to Mrs. Dalzell; but 
 Irene related it so frankly and simply that the fairy 
 was appeased, volunteered the remark that the singing 
 had certainly been very well done, and bade them 
 quite an affectionate good night, when they set her 
 down at her own door. There was something very 
 attractive about the little old lady after all; Irene loved 
 her heartily, and had, besides, a child’s pleasure in 
 feeling that others were pleased with her: and, when 
 they reached their own abode, she ran gaily upstairs, 
 singing cadences from the music which she had been 
 listening to, and not in the least depressed by the dim 
 dreary light of the expiring lamps, or the haunted 
 aspect of the old palace, 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 79 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 Fair Italy! 
 E’en in thy desert, what is like to thee? 
 Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
 More rich than other clime’s fertility. 
 Childe Harold. 
 
 THE Epiphany came near, and the shops became 
 filled with pretty trifles; for Epiphany is, at Rome, 
 what the New Year is in France; every one gives 
 presents to every one. Irene was occupied to a degree 
 that a few months before would have seemed intolerable 
 to her: but though engaged in the serious and constant 
 study of music, learning French, reading English with 
 Vincenzo, and Italian with Mrs. Dalzell—nominally 
 for Mrs. Dalzell’s instruction—still she found time to 
 knit, in great secrecy, a pair of stockings, which were 
 to be a Deffana, or Epiphany gift, for her friend. 
 Every Roman girl learns to knit as soon as her little 
 fingers can hold the needles, and Irene took all pos- 
 sible pains to make her present work a miracle of 
 skill. She did it chiefly in her short but constant visits 
 to the sitting-room of her landlady, who, while keeping 
 her own hands warmly round her scaldıno, admired 
 Irene’s industry, looked at the work she herself had 
 heaped on a table by her, and regretted that she was 
 so much occupied that she never had any time to knit 
 or embroider, or even mend. Sometimes she would 
 sew on two or three of the thread buttons made by the 
 nuns of Viterbo, and much favoured by Romans, or 
 would add a string when it was wanting; but, in a few 
 minutes, her large soft hands returned to their old 
 position, the work lay forgotten, and Madama Cecchi 
 
80 MADEMOISELLE MORIT. 
 
 had commenced one of the conversations which never 
 ended till she was summoned to the kitchen, or Irene 
 was obliged to go away, always accompanied to the 
 door by the padrona, and exchanging the customary 
 “A rivederla.” 
 
 Madama Cecchi was really a very prepossessing 
 person, and Mrs. Dalzell was glad to find that she took 
 a great interest in her young lodgers. She was well 
 pleased and amused when, on wet days, the padrona 
 knocked at her door, begging pardon for intruding, 
 but she wanted the signorina to cheer her with a little 
 visit; or when she appeared with her fresh, cheerful 
 face in Vincenzo’s apartment, to see how he was pros- 
 pering. As she rarely opened a book, though she had 
 had curiosity enough to read a few prohibited by the 
 Index, was more apt to order embroidery than to make 
 it, very seldom wrote a letter, and had an active 
 servant, Madama Cecchi might have been expected to 
 find time hang rather heavy, especially as her husband 
 was engaged in business and absent all day; and now 
 that political causes had made their circumstances un- 
 prosperous, she had become, as she expressed it, “moria 
 al mondo”—dead to the world—and never went 
 into society, except on a Sunday evening. Her meta- 
 phorical death did not, however, prevent constant visits, 
 with her husband, to the theatre—that necessity of a 
 Roman; but as this only occupied the hours of night, 
 those of the day still remained to be filled up. Mrs. 
 Dalzell found it a mystery to the last how the padrona 
 disposed of them; but enter her sitting-room when she 
 would in the afternoon, there sat Madama Cecchi, in 
 her arm-chair, her work beside her, occasionally so 
 far advanced as to be pinned to the heavy cushion 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 8t 
 
 invariably used at Rome; a book of prayers near it, a 
 watch in an open case on the table, and her hands 
 nestled round the brown earthenware scaldıno, full of 
 charcoal, which, when it became less glowing, she poked 
 with her scissors. Madama Cecchi was meditating, and 
 the subject was tolerably sure to be politics, dress, or 
 the delinquencies of servants. 
 
 At this time politics were becoming the prevailing 
 thought in Rome; a liberty of speech and sentiment, 
 unknown for centuries, was 'springing up, and would 
 not be crushed; the moral atmosphere was charged 
 with electricity, and the Romans became more excited 
 with every breath they drew. Madama Cecchi was a 
 thorough Republican; but though louder in speech than 
 her husband, he more than matched her in vehemence 
 of feeling. They knew what oppression and a bad 
 Government was from dire experience —that ex- 
 perience which turns an abstract horror of injustice 
 and oppression into intense personal hatred of the 
 oppressors—and the friends who came to their house 
 joined them in whispered schemes and views of re- 
 formation, which Pope Gregory would have considered 
 as high treason. He was aware of the feeling abroad, 
 as new and stringent edicts perpetually proved: but 
 there was already that thrill throughout Rome which 
 precedes great changes—as the quivering of the 
 leaves foretels that a tempest is at hand, though, as 
 yet, the sky is clear. The contagion had even reached 
 Vincenzo, who looked forward eagerly to evening visits 
 from Signor Cecchi—read Sismondi’s Z/alian Republics 
 with sudden and insatiable interest; and discoursed 
 enthusiastically with Irene on the future of Italy; rather 
 to the consternation of Mrs. Dalzell, whose English 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. 7, 6 
 
82 MADEMOISELLE MORIL 
 
 education had not prepared her to sympathize with 
 these views. Many times she was infinitely .diverted 
 by hearing a political conversation between Irene and 
 Madama Cecchi, whose Italian she was beginning to 
 understand, suddenly break off, as the latter recol- 
 lected some misdeed of Filomena’s—that most trust- 
 worthy of servants, but a “donna materiale,” with no 
 genius, no invention! and then would come a history, 
 told with expressive pantomime, of former servants; 
 one whom she had trusted entirely, and who robbed 
 her, and turned out a sce/erafa; and another whom she 
 could not endure, because, though she was honest, 
 indeed, and never had done anything infamous, she 
 was without heart and without sentiment; and then 
 would come the darling subject of dress, which she had 
 thoroughly studied, and in which, comparatively poor 
 as she was, she spent much more money than ever did 
 Mrs. Dalzell.. 
 
 Being very much gratified by her English tenant’s 
 interest in Roman manners and customs, Madama Cecchi 
 had proposed to take Mrs. Dalzell, on the eve of the 
 Epiphany, to see the market of St. Eustachio, near the 
 Pantheon, lighted up at night. It is the custom of the 
 Romans to go there at a late hour; no buying or selling 
 goes on, but there is a constant going and coming— 
 a turning of night into day—a /esta, in short. As it 
 happened, heavy rain prevented the expedition, but 
 Irene consoled herself by finishing the stockings, and 
 watching the progress of the defana which Vincenzo 
 was making—a carving of pomegranates, fir cones, 
 and other fruits, which he had copied from some brought 
 in one day, by Irene, from a fruit-stall in a neighbouring 
 piazza., 
 

 

 
MADEMOISELLE MORL. : 83° 
 
 When Mrs. Dalzell came into their sitting-room the 
 next day, Madama Cecchi followed, to offer a bouquet 
 and witness the presentation of the two other gifts, in 
 which she had taken a lively interest, greatly enjoying 
 the mystery about them. Vincenzo’s was first given, 
 and Mrs. Dalzell was much pleased; it had never oc- 
 curred to her that this carving, with which she knew he 
 had taken extra pains, was for herself. She particularly 
 admired the fruit of the stone pine. 
 
 “I often see them on the fruit-stalls,” she said; 
 “where do they come from, and what are they used for? 
 Surely there are not enough about Rome to furnish all 
 the shops?” 
 
 “No, they come from Ravenna; there are whole 
 woods of them there; we spent one summer at Ravenna, . 
 and used to sit all day long in the woods.” 
 
 “And the gnats!” said Irene. “I could not enjoy 
 it, because they bit so; but Vincenzo was bewitched 
 by those gloomy old woods, and he never minded their 
 biting. I thought the woods as dismal as the Pan- 
 theon.” 
 
 “But nobody eats the cones, do they?” asked 
 Mrs. Dalzell, half in jest, which, being repeated to 
 Madama Cecchi-in Italian, sent her into a hearty fit of 
 laughter. | 
 
 “No, no one eats them,” answered Vincenzo, also 
 laughing; “we put them before the fire, and then they 
 open and the seeds come out: you have tasted them in 
 sausages, surely?—Jlike little almonds.” 
 
 Impatient signs from the padrona to Irene now 
 caused her to produce the stockings. 
 
 “I hope you will like them,” she said, offering them 
 rather doubtfully, to Mrs. Dalzell. “I never noticed, 
 
 6* 
 
84 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 till lately, that you always wore silk, and there was 
 nothing else that I could make.” 
 
 “Yes, my dear child, I like them very much indeed. 
 Do you really mean that you knitted them? It is more 
 than ever I could learn to do, though an old friend 
 tried hard to teach me.” 
 
 “Oh yes, Imade them,” replied Irene, quite restored 
 to her usual gaiety; “and I liked making them since 
 they were for you.” 
 
 “Calze sono nojose a Iricolare, accommodare, lavare, 
 piegare, e rifare,” observed Madama Cecchi, with a 
 laugh. Mrs. Dalzell looked an inquiry, and Vincenzo 
 added, “It is a Roman proverb; we say that stockings 
 are tiresome in every way—to knit, to fit, to wash, to 
 fold, to mend.” 
 
 “Then I owe Irene all the more thanks. Now, as 
 I did not know of this custom, of course I have no 
 beffana for anybody, so you must tell me what I 
 shall give you, without compliment, as you say here, 
 Vincenzo.” 
 
 Helooked pleased, and replied, after some reflection, 
 “I should like very much to have an engraving of 
 Guido’s St. Michael—the one in the Capuchin Church, 
 you know, I think I could copy it as a carving.” 
 
 “And Irene?” 
 
 “A box of English pins, if you please,” was the 
 eager reply. 
 
 “English pins, my dear? are they curiosities? I 
 think they are very like Italian ones.” 
 
 “Oh no, indeed, they are much better. Papa once 
 gave mamma some, and she only used them on este. 
 We cannot buy them here.” She turned to Madama 
 Cecchi for confirmation. | 
 

 

 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. BE 
 
 “No, in truth; an English lady, who once lodged 
 with me, made me a present of some, and, though itis‘ 
 said to bring ill luck to take pins, I could not refuse; 
 I will make you see them,” and she hastened away, 
 and returned with a dozen white pins in a box, and 
 an Italian one to compare with them. The superiority 
 of the English article was manifest, and she whispered, 
 mysteriously, that there was a shop in Rome where 
 English pins could be bought; great ladies could ob- 
 tain them; but it must not be talked about, since pin- 
 making was a monopoly in the hands of one person, 
 and fine and imprisonment were the penalties for im- 
 porting the article. 
 
 “instead of offering madama a deffana, I am going 
 to ask her to do me a favour,” said Mrs. Dalzell, in 
 the best Italian she could muster. An attempt on her 
 part to speak Italian was regarded by the padrona as 
 a personal compliment, and, with a deep curtesy, she 
 replied, “Too much honour!” 
 
 “] want—Irene, you must translate this—I want 
 madama and her husband to go with you and me to 
 the theatre.” 
 
 Instead of translating, Irene, in the effusion of 
 her gratitude, ihrew her arms around Mrs. Dalzell’s 
 neck. 
 
 “And tell her she must choose the play and the 
 theatre.” | 
 
 Something of a sigh escaped Vincenzo: he took up 
 a book, and seemed not to hear the gratified thanks of 
 Madama Cecchi and the delight of Irene. 
 
 All classes and all ages go to the theatre at Rome. 
 There is the Teatro Regio for the upper class; for the 
 lower the Capranica, where comedies are acted in the 
 
86 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 local dialect, and laughter and applause thunder through 
 the house, till any one but a Roman would be ready 
 to stop his ears and rush frantically out, and several 
 others chiefly frequented by the mezzo celo. There is 
 little reading among Romans, especially among the 
 Roman women; and as for the girls, story books are 
 non-existent, and romances can only be read by stealth; 
 but their lively intelligent minds must have some food, 
 and mothers who would hardly let their daughters read 
 Paul and Virginia, do not hesitate to take them to the 
 theatre, where they learn at least all that romances 
 could teach them. The stage stands in the place of 
 light literature. Moreover, the theatre is a place, in 
 which to see and to be seen, better far than in the 
 drive in the Corso or on the Pincio; for in the theatre 
 people sit still, looks—possibly signals, t0oo—can be 
 exchanged, and many a marriage has been thus made. 
 A fair face strikes the eye of some one; he looks again 
 and again, and goes home determined to marry the 
 owner. If he be of an ingenuous disposition he tells 
 his parents, and entreats them to obtain the damsel for 
 him; then come inquiries concerning dowry, introduc- 
 tions, negotiations; or else, rejecting this course, he 
 takes other means of communicating with the lady of 
 his heart, and in spite of vigilance, almost Oriental, on 
 the part of relations, a romance often begins, and ends 
 —as the fates choose. Mrs. Dalzell knew nothing of 
 all this; she only supposed that she was giving Irene 
 pleasure, and gratifying her courteous landlord and his 
 wife; she would have been incredulous, indeed, had 
 any one told her that one visit to the Teatro Valle 
 might influence Irene’s whole destiny. 
 
 Madama Cecchi selected the Sonnambula as the 
 
 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 87 
 
 opera, and the Valle as the theatre, and the first even- 
 ing that she could get a box Mrs. Dalzell ordered her 
 carriage, and took the party there; Irene dressed in 
 white, Madama Cecchi magnificent in blue silk and an 
 ermine mantle. She looked discomforted by Mrs. Dalzell’s 
 plain black attire, but was too polite to make any 
 remark. Vincenzo had to be left with no better com- 
 panion than old Nanna, and Irene was half unwilling 
 to leave him; but he cut her caressing words short 
 with an abruptness that drove away her smiles for 
 some time. Mrs. Dalzell made no observation; but as 
 she bade him good night, there was something so kind 
 and compassionate in her tone that he felt that she had 
 divined his feelings, and did not attempt to conceal his 
 heavy sigh. As he heard the carriage roll away, he 
 laid down his book and sank back on his couch, with 
 pale, dispirited looks, and fell into so deep a reverie 
 that he heard nothing of Nanna’s chattering. She did 
 not find it out, and went on enjoying the sound of her 
 own voice till he raised himself, asked her cheerfully 
 to fetch his coffee, and took up a copy of manuscript 
 verses which Cecchi had brought in for him to read, 
 with an emphatic warning not to let it lie about. Vin- 
 cenzo had seen several by the same hand before, and 
 marvelled (as, indeed, all Rome were doing) who the 
 daring poet could be who lashed the corruptions of 
 Church and State with such stinging satire. His works 
 were everywhere read by stealth and in manuscript, 
 but his name remained a profound secret, even to the 
 Argus-eyed police, as was proved by fresh verses con- 
 tinually appearing. These last were in a new strain, 
 so tender and graceful that the writer must have been 
 something far more than a mere satirist. Vincenzo owed 
 
88 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 him something, for they took him out of himself, and 
 he entirely forgot the bitter despondency that had over- 
 whelmed him an hour before, as he read and re-read 
 the little poem, and speculated what and who the 
 author could be, and whether Cecchi knew, a matter 
 about which Vincenzo had never been able to satisfy 
 himself. 
 
 The boxes on the second tier at the Valle are 
 capable of holding six people, of whom two can see 
 well. Mrs. Dalzell put the padrona and Irene. in the 
 seats of honour in front, and sat further back, caring 
 much less for the opera than to witness the pleasure of 
 her companions, only regretting that “Nino” was no 
 better off. Resigned to his destiny, however, he sat 
 contentedly in the back part of the box, which his wife 
 declared was quite good enough for men. The audience 
 was almost exclusively Italian; ermine tippets, just 
 like Madama Cecchi’s, swept over the fronts of most of 
 the boxes, and their Roman owners sat within, with 
 attention divided between each other and the opera. 
 Madama Cecchi seemed to know who everybody was, 
 and nodded to her acquaintances, and made remarks 
 on the rest of the audience just as everybody else was 
 doing. 
 
 “There is Signora Monteverde! see signorina, with 
 her lover, Count Antonio. Ah, the Contessina Emilia, 
 look at her wreaths! Ah, good evening, Enrichetta! 
 Look, Nino, two boxes off. Signorina, signorina! who 
 is that looking at our box, as if he saw the Madonna 
 and all the angels here? Why, it is Count Clementi— 
 our Count Clementi—the contessa’s son! Ah, szgnorina 
 mia!” 
 
 Irene coloured, and Mrs. Dalzell leant forward 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI.' 89 
 
 enough to see with what intense interest a young 
 Italian was gazing up at them. She recognised the 
 hero of the Pastorale. Irene had to explain to Madama 
 Cecchi, who was much amused and interested, and Mrs. 
 Dalzell was fearful that her remarks might fix the 
 meeting in Irene’s mind; but she need not have dis- 
 trusted her discretion; the padrona would by no means 
 have encouraged dangerous ideas; she would have 
 been horror-stricken at the bare notion of an alliance 
 between the young heretic cantatrice and the noble 
 Count Clementi; and of her own accord she turned to 
 another subject, and asked Irene if she saw a lady, 
 who, with a pretty child and a young and very hand- 
 some man, had just entered. “Signora Olivetti and 
 her daughter, and that is young Ravelli, who, they 
 say, is to marry the little one, when she is old enough. 
 Your Madame Marriotti knows the signora. She and 
 her husband are liberal; they have been in England, 
 eh, Nino? Did not Signor Olivetti once say, if he 
 could have chosen what he pleased to bring away 
 from England, he would have had a hat full of free- 
 dom?” 
 
 Cecchi gave a kind of assenting grunt, which con- 
 veyed a warning against imprudence, and the opera 
 beginning, all remarks were suspended. It was evident 
 that the audience were truly and generally musical; 
 for, though they put up with very inferior scenery and 
 acting, the slightest fault in the music was instantly 
 noticed with disapprobation, while a successful cadence 
 from the favourite singer called forth such a rapture of 
 applause, that Mrs. Dalzell smiled, and then looked at 
 Irene, to see if she were anticipating the time when 
 such ovations would be hers, She looked eager and 
 
50 MADEMOISELLE MORE 
 
 happy, but presently turned to Mrs. Dalzell with a 
 sigh, and said, “It is not the same without Vincenzo:” 
 and she excited Madama Cecchi’s indignation and 
 Nino’s amusement, when the opera was over, by her 
 merciless criticisms on the acting and costumes. They 
 went away after the play which followed the opera, 
 without waiting for the farce; and as they rose, the 
 young man who had been observing them rose too, 
 and stood at the door as they came into the street. 
 Irene met his glance, full of dark fire; she past on 
 quickly, but the remembrance of that look haunted her 
 for a long time; all the more that she could not help 
 wondering, whenever she went in and out of the palace, 
 whether she might not meet the young owner; but she 
 never did, and at last chanced to hear that he had 
 gone to visit his uncle, Monsignore Clementi, at his 
 . estate near Ancona. The thought of him gradually 
 died away, for she was too busy to have time for 
 romantic dreams, except of fame; and thus happily 
 these two meetings, which might seriously have affected 
 a passionate southern nature like hers, had her mind 
 been unoccupied, had little or no real effect. v 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell could not accustom herself to the stay- 
 at-home habits of Italians, nor believe that as much air 
 as was sufficient for health could be imbibed by loiter- 
 ing at a window. She declared that it might do for 
 idle people, but not for busy ones, and took Irene out 
 with her whenever she could; and further persuaded 
 herself, that it would be possible to take Vincenzo for 
 a drive, laid at full length on a mattress. He wanted 
 more change than from his sitting-room to his bed. 
 room; medicine had done all it could for him, but an 
 invalid he always must be; it only remained to see 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORT. g1 
 
 how much variety could be introduced into his life. 
 The vehemence of delight with which he received the 
 proposal betrayed how thirstiliy he had pined for 
 change; it seemed to him that one glimpse of the green 
 Campagna and the sapphire hills would cure him, and 
 he listened with feverish eagerness to the discussions 
 between Cecchi and the courier as to the best means 
 of conveying him up and down the long staircases. It 
 was a difficulty! But at last “Nino” bethought him 
 that certain great ladies never attempted to mount 
 similar staircases in their own houses, but were always 
 carried up in such a chair as he would procure for 
 Vincenzo. When it came, Vincenzo was irritated to 
 find that the long confinement had so tried his nerves 
 that he actually dreaded the attempt; he could hardly 
 make up his mind to let Cecchi and the courier carry 
 him down, and could not help desiring Irene not to 
 watch him so anxiously. 
 
 A successful drive on the Pincio revived him, and 
 made the ascent less formidable, and thenceforward 
 Mrs. Dalzell never let anything interfere with his going 
 out in the carriage once or twice a-week. She had a 
 good deal of raillery to undergo from her friends in 
 consequence, but it disturbed her very little; and there 
 was no denying that she looked much stronger and 
 happier since she had had these orphans to look after. 
 
 These short expeditions answered so well that Mrs. 
 Dalzell thought she might venture on a long one, and 
 proposed driving up Monte Mario, and letting Vincenzo 
 return alone while she and Irene walked back by 
 another way. Spring had advanced so far, that she 
 'hoped to find cyclamens in blossom—cyclamens, so 
 rare in England, so common at Rome both in spring 
 
02 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 and autumn. She was something of a botanist, and: 
 tried hard to inspire Irene with the same taste. Irene 
 believed it was too early for viele pazze, but rejoiced 
 at the idea of the expedition, and Mrs. Dalzell asked 
 Nanna how far it was to Villa Manazi. 
 
 “] cannot say, signora,” was the reply, 
 
 “Can you tell me at all?” 
 
 “Eh! a good little piece, szgnora mia.” 
 
 “How much may that be?” persevered Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “Eh! della lunga—faırly long, dear signora.” 
 
 “A mile, perhaps?” 
 
 “Ay, or it may be two, or perhaps three.” 
 
 In short, Nanna had not the least idea, but never 
 thought of saying so. Armed with such accurate in- 
 formation, Mrs. Dalzell ordered her carriage, and they 
 drove towards the Porta Angelica. As they passed 
 through the streets she looked round with the interest 
 of a foreigner, and said smiling to Vincenzo, “I sup- 
 pose these things have no charm for you, but do you 
 know I see at once three sights in this very street, 
 every one of which should make a perfect picture.” 
 
 Irene followed her eye, and exclaimed triumphantly, 
 “I see what one is! That flower in the balcony. I 
 suppose you have not got it in England?” 
 
 “No, I mean a living flower,” said Mrs. Dalzell, 
 amused, the more because she saw that Vincenzo had 
 instantly discovered the real object of her admiration, 
 an exceedingly handsome woman, who, with white 
 drapery on her head, scarlet boddice, and coral neck- 
 lace, was leaning from an upper window, with one arm 
 round a water-jar on the sill, while she looked coquet- 
 tıshly upwards to a neighbour with whom she was con- 
 versing, at a window still higher, in the next house, 
 
' MADEMOISELLE MORT. 93: 
 
 “Now the group below—those burly brown friars, 
 with their hoods drawn over their heads, who are laugh- 
 ing with the women and offering them a pinch of 
 snuff—you would not see such a picturesque group 
 out of Italy.” 
 
 “And this is the third,” added Vincenzo, as they 
 passed a fountain at the corner of the street, where a 
 contadina child was leaning, her head supported pen- 
 sively by her hand, her bright dress giving a touch of 
 colour to the picture, while two great, wide-horned, 
 meek-eyed oxen—one white, the other grey—had stop- 
 ped, and, stooping side by side from their yoke, were 
 absorbing deep slow draughts of water. 
 
 “And there is another sight which I suppose you 
 would not see in England,” added Vincenzo, as they 
 came in view of the Tiber, up which twelve or fourteen 
 buffaloes, with sullen, retreating heads, were slowly 
 drawing a vessel against the stream. 
 
 “No, indeed. What a glorious day it is!” said 
 Mrs. Dalzell, looking up to the clear, soft, deep blue 
 sky, full of sunshine. “Ah! you two are lucky children, 
 to be born in Rome.” 
 
 “Yes, I could not live out of Rome,” said Vincenzo, 
 drawing a deep breath as he looked out upon the land- 
 scape that began to unfold before their eyes, as they 
 drove up the steep side of Monte Mario. 
 
 “You have no curiosity to see your father’s country ?” 
 
 “Yes, I should certainly like to see England, 
 especially Devonshire—is not that somewhere in the 
 south? My father. had one or two drawings of his own 
 home—-bits of green bowery shade and sparkling way- 
 side streams, such as I never saw.” 
 
g4 | MADEMOISELLE MORL: 
 
 “Ah! he came from Devonshire—always a school 
 of landscape painters. And do you really know nothing. 
 of his family— whether you have any English re- 
 lations?’” 
 
 “He told me that he was brought up by an aunt, 
 who had a little money of her own, and when she found 
 he had a talent for painting, she had him taught, and 
 let him go away to London. He said it often after- 
 wards grieved him to think how she must have pinched 
 herself for his sake, even giving up her independence 
 (for she became housekeeper in some great family) to 
 be able to maintain him; but at the time, he said, he 
 only thought of being a painter. He was not a land- 
 scape painter exactly, figures were what he liked best; 
 the Royal Academy in London sent him out here. I 
 don’t understand exactly all about it, but he had money 
 from the Academy while he was studying here, and he 
 sent several pictures to it, and his old aunt was so 
 happy at his success. I have several letters of hers 
 still, papa always kept them; they are kind, simple 
 letters. I must show them to you. Before the time 
 came for him to go home, she died, and then he did 
 not care to go back. He made Rome his home, and 
 we were born here.” 
 
 “Yes, you are true Romans; but Devonshire is a: 
 county to be proud of; it is one of the most historical' 
 in England; many of Queen Elizabeth’s heroes came 
 thenoe. tum 
 
 “I know so little of English history,” said Vincenzo. 
 “Irene and I ought to read some.” 
 
 Irene shook her head, and Mrs. Dalzell said, “I 
 think plays are the only things this child likes to read. 
 Have you read anything else, Irene?” 
 
 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI, 05 
 
 ' “I know the lives of the saints, and some poems 
 
 ' about brigands, and I can say a good deal of Orlando 
 
 
 
 by heart, and I have read one volume of the Zöraico 
 Lrrante” 
 
 “The what?” 
 
 “The Zöraico Errante: there is a great deal about 
 the Jesuits in it.” 
 
 “Eugene Sue’s Wandering Jew!” exclaimed Mrs. 
 Dalzell. 
 
 *Yes, some one lent papa the first volume, but I 
 never read any more; he said I had better not.” 
 
 “Indeed, I think so. And is that all?” 
 
 “No, there is the Book of Dreams,” said Irene, 
 looking mischievous. 
 
 “Don’t you think us hopelessly ignorant, signora?” 
 said Vincenzo. 
 
 “Not at all; it is a refreshing novelty to meet with 
 people who have read nothing, and besides—Is this 
 the villa, Irene?” 
 
 The carriage paused at the door, but repeated ring- 
 ing produced no other effect than making a boy look 
 over the high wall, and ask if they had permission to 
 enter. Hearing that they had not, he perched himself 
 on the wall, and regarded them with a grin at their 
 dilemma. Irene asked if a permit were really neces- 
 sary, and, probably fancying the whole party were 
 foreigners, he pretended not to understand, to her bound- 
 less indignation. Vincenzo said that as good a view 
 as that from the villa could be obtained from a field a 
 little further off; and they drove on, disregarding the 
 shouts of the young urchin, who had doubtless intended 
 to. extort a bribe. They soon came to a trellised gate, 
 leading into a farm-yard; Vincenzo bade the driver 
 
96 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 stop, and told Mrs. Dalzell to go through it and make 
 the owner of the cottage close by show them where to 
 go. His own share of the expedition ended here; he 
 returned in the carriage to Rome, and Irene and Mrs. 
 Dalzell were admitted by a peasant into the farm-yard. 
 It was a veritable farm-yard, full of poultry, clucking 
 hens, guinea fowls, and turkeys, and plenty of straw; 
 but there was a vineyard above, reached by little flights 
 of stone steps; the bank, in front of which there were 
 two water troughs, was faced with stone, and plastered 
 over: and on the plaster was a gay fresco of two women 
 at a well, one carrying a pitcher on her head, the other 
 bearing a child stooping over her shoulder towards a 
 dog. The illusion was so complete that Mrs. Dalzell 
 at first believed the well as real as the troughs; and 
 then that they likewise were painted. On one side of 
 the yard was a cottage shut off by a reed fence; an 
 orange tree, laden with golden fruit, grew beside it. 
 They followed their guide through the vineyard, 
 where the narrow path was bordered by spikenard, 
 China roses, and stocks, which he called zzole. He 
 plucked a nosegay for each lady, and Irene added 
 some of the abundant wild marigold—primo fiore, as 
 Romans call it, because it is the first flower that ven- 
 tures out in spring; and they walked on through a 
 wheat field till they reached a rough fence, where their 
 guide made a gap, and Mrs. Dalzell found that he ex- 
 pected her to scramble through it. Irene sprang down 
 to the ground below, and helped her to follow, and 
 they found themselves on the side of a hill where a 
 wood had been felled, and was replaced by oak brush- 
 wood and brambles, rendered more prickly still by the 
 sarsaparilla, which climbed and tangled everywhere, 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 67 
 
 A wide view ofthe Campagna and the city lay beneath 
 them; the sunlight glittered on the Tiber, and gave a 
 rosy tinge to the snow on the distant hills; but there 
 was none on Soracte, which rose up blue and solitary. 
 
 Irene was more interested in seeking wild flowers 
 than in looking at the landscape, but all the botanist 
 in Mrs. Dalzell awoke at the sight of the novel plants 
 around her. The dark leaves of the cyclamens, spotted 
 with white, were abundant; but either they were the 
 autumnal kind, or the season was too early for blossom. 
 A plant with large smooth grass-like leaves proved to 
 be the white asphodel; Irene did not know its name, 
 but was able to give some information as to its uses— 
 a kind of spirit is extracted from it. A second prize 
 with small, intensely purple flowers, turned out to be 
 the Italian anchusa. Mrs. Dalzell sat down, and began 
 to arrange her treasures, whilst she asked Irene if she 
 knew the names of no flowers except violets and roses. 
 
 “Oh yes. This is or della Madonna, because it 
 blossoms in what the peasants call the Madonna’s 
 month of May,” replied Irene, pulling a twist of honey- 
 suckle from around a dwarf oak; “and that leaf, which 
 the pats of butter come wrapped in, is serpent’s bread 
 or else giarra.” 
 
 “The arum?” 
 
 “That’s it; and I know the names of some garden 
 flowers; what you call mignonette is amorino, and the 
 pansy is suocera e nuora— mother and daughter-in- 
 law. Then there is a white flower—snowdrop I be- 
 lieve you call it—pan di neve is our name; it grows 
 in that valley yonder, in the cork woods— you see 
 them, do you not? You should see what flowers there 
 are at Frascati and Albano! While papa was alive 
 
 Madrmoiselle Mori. 1. 7 
 
98 MADEMOISELLE MORI, 
 
 we went somewhere every summer, in villeggiatura, you 
 know—once to Ravenna, once to Ostia; those are not 
 places Romans go to, but he wanted to draw there— 
 and a great many times to Arriccia. Ah, signora! if 
 you would but stay all the summer, and go to Frascati! 
 There are many villas there, and we can walk in the 
 gardens of all; you say we never walk, but you should 
 see us in villeggiatura! We rise with the sun, and go 
 out while the air is fresh and cool, then we return to 
 breakfast, and perhaps pay visits till ten o’clock, when 
 it grows hot, and we read, or work, or sleep till nearly 
 sunset. Sometimes we dine in a vineyard. In the 
 evening, if you wish for a sentimental and romantic 
 walk—” (Mrs. Dalzell could not help smiling at the 
 seriousness with which this was said)— “you may go 
 to the gardens; if, on the contrary, you desire to see 
 the great world, you go to the piazza. Frascati is a 
 city; it has a cathedral. You find the piazza full of 
 people, sitting in the open air, or in the cafes, and 
 often there is a band playing. Just before one at night, 
 all who know anything about it fly under cover till the 
 sun is down, and the foreigners look so puzzled by thıs 
 disappearance. After sunset we come out again.” 
 
 “Sunset, and one at night! What are you dreaming 
 of, my child?” | 
 
 “Did I say one at night? Well! Oh, I quite forgot; 
 in French hours it is seven. They are the same as 
 English ones; are they not so?” 
 
 “Yes, I understand that; but you were as incom- 
 prehensible to me as your clocks, which Vincenzo de- 
 clares talk wisdom when one understands them.” 
 
 “Then, the rides,” continued Irene, returning to 
 what were evidently her pleasantest recollections; “you 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 99 
 
 should see us going out on somdrari—asses I mean 
 — gentlemen and ladies riding in great parties; and 
 before long an ass is sure to bray, and then some 
 one cries, “Hark! he calls on Jove;’ and then the 
 laughing!” 
 
 “What does that mean?” 
 
 “I don’t know; it is what we say when asses do 
 sa 
 
 “It is only the asses who continue to worship Jove; 
 he is quite dethroned in his own capitol, though you 
 still call on Bacchus.” 
 
 “Oh, signora, see there, an anemone! Do you think 
 we can get it?” 
 
 “What, have you spied out a Campagna anemone? 
 What a purple! certainly violets and anemones are 
 more beautiful here than anywhere else,” said Mrs. 
 Dalzell, advancing to the edge of the slope, whereby 
 she started a hare that had lain crouched close by. 
 It scampered off, and while she was yet stooping to 
 reach the flower, the sharp report of a gun, as ifin 
 her very ear, so startled her that she slipped, and 
 could only save herself by clinging to the brushwood. 
 Vincenzo’s accident had made Irene nervous: she uttered 
 a cry and sprang forwards. The ground was extremely 
 steep, and as slippery as glass; Mrs. Dalzell vainly 
 tried to re-ascend, and was calling to Irene to be care- 
 ful, and to see whether the peasant were anywhere 
 near, when the owner of the gun, a young Italian, 
 appeared. He perceived her predicament directly, and 
 hastened to assist her, and she was soon again by the 
 side of Irene, who, by her desire, explained the cause 
 of her misadventure, and thanked him for his timely 
 aid. He immediately sprang lightly down to a spot 
 
 pin 
 
100 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 where anemones were plentiful, and returned with A 
 handful, which he offered to Mrs. Dalzell. She thanked 
 him, and he walked by her side, till they had reached 
 the wheat field. As they crossed the fence again, 
 she observed, “This will be quite an adventure to tell 
 Vincenzo, Irene,” words which, though spoken in 
 English, made the stranger start, and look at Irene 
 with a smile, saying, “That speech tells me whom I 
 have had the pleasure of meeting; the ladies who lodge 
 with Giovanni Cecchi, is it not? He is one of my 
 oldest friends, and I have frequently heard his wife 
 talk of the amiable brother and sister who live with 
 her, and of the great goodness of this lady.” 
 
 “Yes, we do live there,” replied Irene with a ques- 
 tioning glance, to which he replied with, “Have you 
 ever heard her name Leone Nota?” 
 
 Irene remembered that the padrona always spoke 
 of him as un dravissimo giovane. Her smile answered 
 his question, and he continued eagerly—“She has 
 often spoken of you to me, and how much you and 
 your brother love each other.” 
 
 “There are but two of us,” answered Irene, rather 
 sadly. 
 
 “Even so you are far richer than I—rich too in 
 this friend.” 
 
 “Oh yes, indeed. Have you no brother, nor sister?” 
 
 “] have two sisters,” he answered. 
 
 “But then—?” said Irene, inquiringly. 
 
 “One is but just married,” he returned. 
 
 “But the other?” 
 
 “A nun,” replied Leone, with a look of sudden 
 gloom. Irene’s face expressed so much interest, that 
 he added, “A nun in the convent of the Bailestine.” 
 

 

 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 101 
 
 “Where is that?” asked Mrs. Dalzell, who had 
 followed the conversation with tolerable ease. 
 
 “Near the Piazza Barberini,” he answered, but his 
 manner showed that the subject was unwelcome. 
 
 “Still you have one sister whom you can see con- 
 stantly,” said Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “It is true, but hitherto we have scarcely seen each 
 other. She was educated at Sta. Rufina.” 
 
 “Ah!” said Irene, comprehendingly; but, perceiving 
 that Mrs. Dalzell did not see why this fact should 
 naturally occasion an estrangement, she explained that 
 girls are frequently sent to convents when they are 
 four or five years old, leaving them only at sixteen or 
 seventeen, often to be married to some one whom they 
 have never seen. There are no holidays, so that 
 though their families may visit them once or twice a 
 month, they know very little of their homes, and 
 brothers and sisters are almost strangers. 
 
 “Every one says that Vincenzo and I are an English 
 brother and sister, not Italian,” she added. 
 
 “] have often wished to know your brother,” said 
 Leone, looking at the elder lady for encouragement, 
 aware that he must not expect any from the younger. 
 Mrs. Dalzell liked his looks and manner, and hearing 
 that he was a friend of her landlord, encouraged him 
 to pay Vincenzo a visit, thinking that a new friend 
 would be a great advantage to him. Leone’s look of 
 vivid delight surprised her; she could not understand 
 why the acquaintance was such an object to him, nor 
 was she enlightened by his saying to Irene, “Your 
 brother reads much, does he not? He can get books 
 here?” 
 
 “Oh yes, since he has been ill he has read a great 
 
MASY- MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 deal; the Signora Dalzell lends him books, and he has 
 them from the church library; I bring him one every 
 Sunday.” 
 
 “Ah! you have a library—it is only for Pro- 
 testants, of course. The German artists have one 
 also; I sometimes get books thence through a friend of 
 mine.” 
 
 “You know German!” said Mrs. Dalzell, with an 
 intonation of wonder, for she knew that it was an un- 
 usual accomplishment among Romans, to whom the 
 language presented great difficulties, and who, more- 
 over, were little given to study. “I thought you all 
 detested the Germans and their language.” 
 
 “We distinguish between the Austrians and the 
 rest of Germany, signora; I do not think the language 
 is antıpatico to us, but the difficulties are immense 
 to one who only has a dictionary and grammar to 
 help him.” 
 
 “But why do you not have a master?” asked 
 Irene. 
 
 “Because I am too poor,” he answered simply. 
 “I suppose the fact of the Germans possessing so good 
 a library here, explains why the shops are so poor in 
 German books, and why they are so very dear.” 
 
 “Have you studied English?” asked Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “Yes, in the same way. I have wished continually 
 to know some English—and now I have found them,” 
 said Leone, with a look at Irene. 
 
 “Yes, the signora is quite English,” she replied, 
 never supposing, for an instant, he could mean herself, 
 till Mrs. Dalzell said, laughingly— 
 
 “The signorina thinks herself “quite” Italian.” 
 
 “I!” cried Irene, colouring with displeasure at the 
 
 „ 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 103 
 
 idea that any one could think her otherwise—“I am 
 Roman— we were born here.” 
 
 “You speak like a true Roman, which I daresay 
 you have found out that I am not,” replied Leone, 
 entertained by the indignant manner in which she 
 spoke; “but Signora Cecchi told me your father was 
 English.” 
 
 “My mother was Italian—from z/ Regno; she came 
 from Sora.” 
 
 “Ah!” said Leone, perceiving now why Irene had 
 a cast of feature which, though entirely foreign, was 
 quite unlike the low-browed, dark-eyed, glowing Roman 
 women—“Sora—it has always been celebrated for its 
 beautiful women.” 
 
 “Ah! you should have seen mamma’s picture,” 
 said Irene. “Papa painted her before they married, 
 when she still wore the Sora dress. She left it off 
 when she came here, because people looked at her so 
 much, but sometimes she put it on again to please 
 him.” 
 
 “You have the portrait, of course?” 
 
 “No,” answered Irene, sadly. 
 
 “What has become of it?” 
 
 “It was sold when we were poor,” she answered, 
 tears filling her eyes. 
 
 “Forgive me, signorina,” said Leone, earnestly, 
 and distressed at having called up painful recol- 
 lections. 
 
 “Oh, there is nothing to forgive; if I think of it 
 now, it is only to be grateful to the dear signora, who 
 came and helped us,” said Irene, clasping and kissing 
 Mrs. Dalzell’s hand, in pretty southern gratitude; “she 
 is so good-—so good to us!” 
 
104 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 “Would it be impossible to recover that picture?” 
 said Mrs. Dalzell, smiling but embarrassed, like a true 
 Englishwoman as she was. Leone’s face repeated the 
 question. | 
 
 “Oh, I think so. I do not know who bought it; 
 it went to the Monte—it ought to have sold: for a 
 great deal of money, Vincenzo said. Papa’s name was 
 in one corner— Vincent Moore—-and the date. All 
 our pretty sketches went too, and Vincenzo’s frames! 
 We ate them all up, as Nanna says; and at last we 
 had nothing left to eat except Tevere! I really think 
 we must have eaten him too, if the signora had not 
 come.” 
 
 To prevent any more gratitude, Mrs. Dalzell asked 
 if there were not magnificent libraries in Rome; she 
 had heard of one at the Minerva. 
 
 “There are, but they are not open to ladies.” 
 
 “No; but I was thinking of you.” 
 
 “Nor to me, To read there, you must have a per- 
 mission from your confessor, and if he fancies that you 
 have liberal views—or—or—in short, ‚are not 'con- 
 vinced that all things at Rome are perfection, you will 
 wait long before you enter those libraries.”’ 
 
 “And you do not think so, signor?” 
 
 “Oh, signora! what an English. question!” said 
 Irene. 
 
 “I am not afraid to say what I think,” replied 
 Nota, smiling. “I compare our Government with those 
 of other countries, and I see that we are three centuries 
 behind the rest of the world; I see foreigners sharing 
 Italy amongst them, and a privileged class taking all 
 to itself; I see sacred names and noble offices abused 
 by hypocrites and their tools, and turned to base and 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI 105 
 
 selfish ends. No, I am not contented—I am not 
 likely to think Rome perfection,” he concluded, vehe- 
 mently. “If you knew our history; if you could ima- 
 gine how utterly oppressed every one is who is so 
 much as suspected of a spark of patriotism—how the 
 tyranny round us eats into our very souls—surrounds 
 us like one slow, ceaseless fall of burning snow, as in 
 Dante’s Vision—you would not need to ask me such 
 a question.” 
 
 “Oh, signor, what rash words!” said Irene, looking 
 round with a startled glance. 
 
 “It seems to me that you are at least not afraid 
 to speak what you think,” said Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “I am speaking to an Englishwoman, who knows 
 what freedom is; I am not afraid of my words being 
 used against me,” answered Nota; “but, if need were, 
 there is not a priest in Rome before whom I would 
 not say the same.” 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Mournfully 
 He raised his looks, and met the virgin’s eye. 
 Whoe’er thou art, look back, when on thy tame 
 Expanse of life first flashed love’s heavenly flame, 
 And own the date the holy kalend took, 
 Rose from the worship kindled in a look, 
 BULWER. 
 
 LEonE Nora kept his promise; he speedily came 
 to pay Madama Cecchi a visit, and when she learnt 
 that Mrs. Dalzell had given permission to introduce him 
 to Vincenzo, she was delighted to do so. An odd kind 
 of dread that she should be held responsible if any- 
 thing happened—if Leone and Irene fell in love, for 
 instance—or if any other disaster occurred, had made 
 
106 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 her obdurate to his former entreaties, that she would 
 present him to the brother and sister, of whom she 
 was continually talking. 
 
 Leone stood on the highest pinnacle of her good 
 graces; one reason was that he, when fortune had 
 frowned upon “Nino,” had been one of the few who 
 stood steadily by him. He had a post in the Daferia 
 which enabled him to live, but gave him very few 
 means of indulging his natural love of study. His boy- 
 hood had been passed in a little country village, where 
 newspapers and books were nearly unknown. The only 
 new introductions in that line were his own purchases, 
 and money was as scarce with him as were books. A 
 convent library, where, by the favour of an old priest, 
 he was allowed to read, was his chief resource, and it 
 afforded just food enough to make him crave for more. 
 When circumstances had caused his family to remove 
 to Rome, he received the change as a Heaven-sent op- 
 portunity of entering the scientific and literary world 
 of which he had dreamed. He found himself mistaken: 
 the kind of society which he had expected did not 
 exist: encouragement to a literary aspirant—especially 
 to one of his turn— was small indeed; the censorship 
 was quick to see the liberal through the poet. But 
 Leone was not so easily disposed of. He saw and felt 
 such evil, such miserable oppression around him, as 
 drove weaker men into dumb despair, but only impelled 
 his own gentle and sensitive, but brave and fervid, 
 nature, into one life-long resistance — one fearless, 
 wrathful protest, already not without effect, though men 
 knew not whence came those trenchant, noble words, 
 which amazed ears accustomed to courtly phrases, or, 
 at the utmost, to sighs $mothered lest they should offend 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORTI. 107 
 
 those who caused them. Mrs. Dalzell little knew whom 
 she had got hold of in Leone Nota! Cecchi could have 
 told her, but he knew well that in all places, especially 
 at Rome, if “speech is silvern, silence is golden,” and 
 said nothing. 
 
 To Vincenzo the acquaintance was a great event; 
 it gave him a new interest, and connected him with 
 the outer world; and Leone’s views, Leone’s sentiments 
 towards the present, and hopes for the future, soon en- 
 grossed him, almost as much as they did Nota himself. 
 Vincenzo instinctively perceived that they were wider, 
 truer, nobler than those of Cecchi, and began to realize 
 that there was something possible between Slavery and 
 Red Republicanism. 
 
 Leone’s chief object in making the acquaintance had 
 been to study English; but the book was frequently 
 thrown aside for some ardent discussion, to which Irene, 
 if present, listened with corresponding animation; and 
 when Nino and his wife were present, the politics 
 talked would have made the whole Mez2o Paradiso (as 
 the Roman hierarchy are called by Roman wits) stand 
 aghast. Yet it might be observed already how much 
 less hopeful a view of the future Vincenzo took than 
 did Nota or Cecchi. The want of health had told upon 
 him, and while taking away the elastic hopefulness of 
 youth had given him something of the sad philosophy 
 of age. While Cecchi saw the bow of hope amid the 
 mists and storms of revolution, and Leone trusted 
 fearlessly to gradual reform, Vincenzo, with his calmer 
 temperament and perhaps deeper insight, saw that the 
 first step towards change would probably bring down 
 existing institutions in ruins on their heads; but Vincenzo, 
 though he might have spoken words wise and weighty, 
 
108 MADEMOISELLE MORI: 
 
 was not the man for that time. Rome wanted one who 
 could utter a song of rapture and suffering, such as 
 rang from the lips of Leone—from the soul of the 
 young improvisatore—the poet who had “learnt er 
 suffering what he taught in song!” 
 
 Vincenzo, for a long while, knew as little as did 
 Mrs. Dalzell that his friend was the author 'of those 
 stirring poems which were passed from hand to hand, 
 and read with eagerness, wonder, or indignation, ac- 
 cording to the opinions: of those who read them. It 
 was too serious a matter to be lightlyowned. He only 
 felt that with Leone came new interests, fresh thoughts, 
 sunshine enough to brighten his whole day; and he 
 assured him that he could not come too often. Nearly 
 every evening found Leone sitting by the couch, talking 
 or studying English. Irene was generally at this time 
 with Mrs. Dalzell, who thought the studies would get 
 on just as well without her, though she did not in- 
 variably keep her away. Nota, therefore, had become 
 thoroughly intimate with the brother, while he, com- 
 paratively, hardly knew the sister; but an ferne 
 event made them real friends. 
 
 It came to pass that Irene, entering her own room 
 one day, after a morning spent over her music with 
 Madame Marriotti, found a bouquet on her table, tied 
 with so handsome a ribbon that it was plain the flowers 
 were a mere pretext for sending a more valuable gift. 
 She looked at ıt in wonder and admiration, without 
 perceiving Nanna, who, chuckling, watched her from a 
 corner; then, suddenly catching up the flowers, she ran 
 into the sitting-room too fast. to hear Nanna’s hastyı 
 call. “Vincenzo,” she began, breathlessly; but he was 
 not there—a headache had prevented his rising to 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 100. 
 
 breakfast, and, doubtless, still kept him prisoner. Dis- 
 appointed, and afraid to disturb him, she slowly untied 
 the flowers, admiring the ribbon, and marvelling from 
 whence it came. She had so entirely forgotten Count 
 Clementi that she never thought of him; indeed she 
 believed him still absent; and though Nanna had given 
 several mysterious hints of late, she had heeded them 
 little. "The rose-coloured band signified love, as she 
 knew very well. Loosed from their confinement, the: 
 flowers separated, and a note fell to the ground. She 
 lifted it in haste, and looked at it, hesitating and 
 colouring. Raising her eyes, she found those of Leone 
 Nota fixed upon her in reproach. 
 
 “I know nothing about it!” she exclaimed in- 
 voluntarily. 
 
 “Pardon me, signorina,” he answered, coldly, “I 
 merely came to see your brother, and regret to find 
 him so unwell. I will not intrude on you longer.” 
 
 “Stay!” she exclaimed, forgetting the breach of 
 etiquette which she committed in remaining alone with 
 one who was no relation— “You are not to fancy what 
 you now do. I found these flowers in my room; I do 
 not know who sent them.” 
 
 “Doubtless your maid does, signorina,” replied 
 ‚ Leone; and his look and tone were so bitter and scorn- 
 ful, that Irene lifted her head proudly and said, “Be- 
 ‚ lieve or not, as you: please; I am in no way obliged to 
 ‚ explain to you; but I did not wish my brother’s friend 
 ‚ to think ill of me.” 
 
 “I believe in Vincenzo’s sister, and I believe in 
 ' Irene,” said Leone, with the rare and sweet smile 
 ' which gave a wonderful charm to his thoughtful 
 
 countenance; “it was not of you that I was thinking, 
 
IIOo MADEMOISELLE MORI 
 
 but of another. Do you recollect, at our first meeting, 
 I told you one of my sisters was a nun of the Baitestine 
 —-a most austere order? Shall I tell you her history? 
 She came home from Sta. Rufina at sixteen. My mother 
 was ill, and had entire confidence in her camertera; 
 Esmeralda, my sister, had a dreary life; I was little at 
 home. She made acquaintance, I know not how, with 
 one of the Fori family. He bribed the maid, and she 
 carried notes and messages, and let them meet in the 
 garden. It was all discovered. The Fori are rich and 
 powerful; they were furious. To save my sister’s good 
 name, my mother sent her back to the convent, and 
 told the world that she had gone by her own desire 
 for a few weeks of religious exercise. No one doubted: 
 nothing was more likely. The Fori speedily provided 
 young Ignazio with a wife, and then Esmeralda re- 
 turned home. Poor child! she had believed his love 
 was as true as her own; this was as death to her. She 
 fell il—recovered as if by miracle, and declared that 
 Heaven called her to enter the Daftestine.. My mother 
 knelt to her to dissuade her; all in vain; so we lost 
 her. Ah, signorina! if you could but imagine how sweet 
 a creature she was, and to think that this should be the 
 end!” 
 
 “And may you see her now?” asked Irene, much 
 touched by this sad story. 
 
 “Once every four months; but what is that? When 
 I have told her how I am, and how my sister Assunta 
 is, what more is there to say? I cannot talk to her 
 of the world,” said Leone, in a tone of intense bitter- 
 ness. 
 
 “But—she is happy, is she not?” asked Irene, half 
 consolingly, half inquiringly. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI, III 
 
 “How can I tell? Do you suppose that she can 
 tell me that, or that she had any real vocation? Grant 
 she is happy now—she is a child— she has a child’s 
 enthusiasm— how will it be when she ıs old, and feels 
 the want of something to fill her heart? But she will 
 not live to be old; no nun does in a rigid order such 
 as hers.” 
 
 “May she write to you?” 
 “Yes; but at present the abbess sees what she 
 writes. When she is ‘confirmed in her vocation,’ as 
 
 ‚they say, that will not be necessary,” answered Leone, 
 
 in a peculiar, low, sarcastic tone. 
 
 “The Battestine,” repeated Irene; “I wonder I have 
 never heard of them.” 
 
 “It is not wonderful; there are but two convents of 
 them. The order was founded nearly a hundred years 
 ago, by a lady who intended to have three; one here, 
 one at Genoa, one at Naples. The Neapolitans did 
 not fancy so strict a rule, or she died too soon—I 
 forget which; the convent there was never built. I 
 only wonder that Esmeralda was content with the 
 Battestine, and did not enter the Sepolte Vive.’ 
 
 “Ah!” said Irene, with a shudder. “Here, at least, 
 you may see her sometimes.” 
 
 “Yes, and also Assunta can; but if Assunta has 
 children, Esmeralda will not be permitted to see them. 
 No, nothing—nothing— nothing on earth,” he ex- 
 claimed, emphasizing each repetition, “shall make me 
 believe that such a severance of all ties can be pleas- 
 ing to Him who made them; and never will society be 
 pure where marriage is systematically disparaged.” 
 
 “I could not leave Vincenzo, I am afraid,” said 
 Irene, as if she felt that she were wrong. 
 
112 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 “Why should you? Believe no one who could 
 tempt you to desert him. Who has a right to break 
 those ties which Heaven has made? But you are a 
 Protestant,” he added, almost with satisfaction. 
 
 “You do not think ill of us for that, then?” said 
 Irene, smiling with pleasure; for she knew how dif- 
 ferently most of her fellow-countrymen regarded those 
 whom they necessarily considered as under the excom- 
 munication of the Church. 
 
 He smiled too, and asked, “May I know what you 
 are going to do with that fine present?” 
 
 Irene had fairly forgotten it, and started as his 
 words recalled it t0o her. “Nanna must have brought 
 it; I shall tie it up and make her take it back; will 
 not that be best?” 
 
 “Do not trust her, however much she may love 
 you, signorina.” 
 
 Got indeed, she is true to us; she would die 
 for us.’ 
 
 “Yet she has tried to lead you into peril to-day, 
 Signorina Irene.” 
 
 She felt the truth of this, and hesitated. uhr 
 rina,” said Leone, earnestly, “I speak too plainly per- 
 haps, but let me do so this once. Trust honour to no 
 one; guard it yourself and ask no counsel. There are 
 few cameriere who can resist gold, and he who sent 
 these flowers is doubtless rich.” 
 
 “No—-I think not,” answered Irene, the thought of 
 Count Clementi flashing on her mind. Leone looked 
 confounded. She saw it, and added, “Now, I think I 
 know who sent them; I have twice seen him, but I do 
 not know him, nor ich to know re was an evil 
 face.’ 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. AR 
 
 
 
 “Oh!” said Leone drawing a deep breath of relief. 
 “] was a fool to doubt you.” 
 
 “Did you?” said Irene, with her brilliant srrlet 
 “And you thought that I should have brought the 
 flowers into our public sitting-room, for all the world 
 to see—Signor Nota!” 
 
 “I shall never doubt again,” he answered, looking 
 earnestly at her, and thinking, for the first time, that 
 she had’a very charming face. “And now I must go 
 to my work.” 
 
 “A rivederla, signor ,” kakrd Irene, gaily; and she 
 carried back the flowers to her room, tied them up, 
 and put the note safely between them, before she 
 called Nanna, who came mysterious and eager. Her 
 eye lit at once on the nosegay. “What, darling, have 
 you not untied it yet? Don’t you want to know who 
 sent you such a beautiful present?” 
 
 “No, Nanna; don’t you remember I told you the 
 other day not to talk nonsense to me?” 
 
 “A fine, generous signor,” continued the old woman, 
 opening her hand a little way, and showing a little 
 gold coin. “See what he gave the old nurse for love 
 of her pretty mistress.” 
 
 The warning of Nota returned forcibly to Irene’s 
 mind. “Nanna,” she said, “I thought you loved me, 
 and yet you want to make me do what would lose a 
 girl her good name, and get her sent to a convent. 
 Listen t0o me. You are to take this nosegay back to 
 whoever sent it; I do not wish to know anything about 
 it, and never say a word to me of him again.” 
 
 “Am I to drive the poor signor to despair, cruel 
 child? Not one little kind word for him? He is a 
 noble, he is no common man; I can tell you, he loves 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. TI, 8 
 
114 MADEMOISELLE MORL. 
 
 the air you breathe; he is distracted with love, till he 
 knows no more what he does than a fly without a 
 head. Do you never mean to marıy? Youth fades like 
 a flower, and who will pluck it when it is withered?” 
 
 “Oh yes, I mean to marry, and you may tell him 
 whom,” answered Irene, malice lighting up eye and lip.: 
 
 “Per Bacco! who is it? Tell me, core of my 
 heart.” 
 
 “Rossini,” answered Irene, running away and hum- 
 ming the first bars of Una voce poco fa. Turning back, 
 however, she said, seriously, “Recollect, Nanna, I am 
 in earnest; and another time I must tell Signora 
 Dalzell.” | 
 
 In spite of all the English lady had done for them, 
 Nanna hated and feared her. Obsequious to her face, 
 she scowled at her the moment she could do so unseen. 
 On the heretic stranger depended Irene’s fortune; she 
 had gold, therefore she must be coaxed and flattered; 
 but she was English and a “schismatic,” and Nanna’s. 
 opinion as to her destiny in the next world was more 
 clear than charitable. Irene’s threat compelled the old 
 woman to obedience, but she felt deeply injured at the 
 chance of other scudi being cut off; she considered 
 herself deprived of a certain income due to her, and 
 therefore softened the refusal of the flowers, and gave 
 hopes for the future, in a way her young mistress had 
 little intended. 
 
 After this day Irene and young Nota were excel- 
 lent friends. Her head was full of her music, and at 
 friendship she stopped; but Leone’s feelings gradually 
 became of a more ardent nature. He had never known 
 any girl intimately before; domestic life, like that of 
 Irene and Vincenzo, was new to him, and their mutual 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 115 
 
 love had struck him as singularly beautiful, long be- 
 fore he discovered that Irene was bewitching. 
 
 The three were sitting together one evening, with 
 Madama Cecchi as chaperone, all playing at the game 
 of Driscola, which tradition says was invented by four 
 mutes. It is played entirely by signs, a lifted finger 
 signifying one card, a glance another; and as the ob- 
 ject is for each partner to communicate to the other 
 what cards are in his hand, without giving the two 
 adversaries time to perceive the gesture, the signs are 
 so momentary, and so comic, that none but Italians, 
 with their eloquent features and fingers, could play at 
 it. The laughter was at its height, and the four Italian 
 voices were making as much noise as eight English 
 ones, when the door opened, and the little dark face 
 of Madame Marriotti looked in. 
 
 “Oh,” said she, surveying the mirthful party with 
 her glittering black eyes, “Oh—-you are busy, I see— 
 I don’t wish to disturb you,” and she vanished. 
 
 “Mrs. Dalzell,” said she, returning to her friend’s 
 sitting-room, seating herself on the sofa, and deliberately 
 folding her hands, “are you in your senses?” 
 
 “I hope so,” replied the other lady, smiling. “Why?” 
 
 “Why!” repeated Madame Marriotti, growing more 
 excited. “Why, do you ask? Because—of course 7 
 am no judge of such matters; you know best, no 
 doubt, but one would think not. Why?—Why, be- 
 cause you let that young Nota come here whenever he 
 pleases, and Irene in the house!” 
 
 “My dear madame, he comes to see Vincenzo. 
 You cannot think how much good it has done the 
 poor boy to have a friend, and they study diligently. 
 Irene is generally with me.” 
 
 ’ gr 
 
116 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 The little fairy surveyed her friend with an air of 
 mingled pity and indignation, quite indescribable. “My 
 dear, you are not fit to have the care of an Italian 
 girl, and that is the truth. Do you know that, keep 
 them watched as you will, they manage to receive 
 messages, and fall in love? Do you suppose that 
 young man sees any other girl, without mother or aunt 
 present, as he does Irene? What can they do but fall 
 in love? And I hoped great things of her; I really 
 thought she would do me credit. Now her head will 
 be turned, and farewell music! Hush!” 
 
 Irene entered at the moment, the laughing look 
 still on her face. Mrs. Dalzell asked what she had 
 been doing. 
 
 “Oh, such a game at briscola! Leone and I won; 
 quite a heap of comfits. And Madama Cecchi has 
 been telling us about a wedding that there is to be in 
 the palace. The daughter of that Maestro di Canto is 
 to marry the son of Professor Negri; their windows are 
 opposite, so they used to see each other, and fell in 
 love. She is a friend of both families, and found out 
 all about the bride’s dowry from Professor Negri.” 
 
 “And probably it was his son whom I met on the 
 stairs, carrying a nosegay of magnificent flowers, no 
 doubt for his sdosa,” said Madame Marriotti, looking 
 at a camellia which Irene was wearing; “a sdoso has a 
 right to make such offerings, but no one else, unless 
 father or brother.” 
 
 Irene blushed crimson, but it was not on account 
 of her camellia. She thought of other flowers; but 
 Madame Marriotti misunderstood the blush, and looked 
 at Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “What is Vincenzo doing.now?” asked Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
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 hr 
 
 
 
 P- 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 117 
 
 “He is alone; Signor Leone is gone.” 
 
 “Then you shall go back to him for a little while, 
 my dear; I want to talk to madame.” 
 
 Irene ran away good humouredly. Madame Mar- 
 riotti rose, peeped out, returned and exclaimed— 
 “Did you want to make her listen? I cannot under- 
 
 ‚stand your ways! At all events, you saw her colour 
 
 just now?” 
 “What you said was surely enough—” 
 “Nonsense, I am never mistaken in these things. 
 
 "What imprudence! what extravagance! And she was 
 
 really improving wonderfully—wonderfully! I never 
 heard ‘Di iacer’ better sung than by her this morning. 
 Oh, why should she fall in love? OA che cosa ha 
 questa di far !’amore! che cosa ha questa di far ’amore!” 
 exclaimed Madame Marriotti, in despair. Then, folding 
 
 ‘her little hands on her knee again, she sat looking 
 
 straight before her, and spoke no more. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell did not feel comfortable. She thought 
 she had been imprudent; for though she was far from 
 being convinced that Irene felt anything but friendship 
 for Nota, an unwelcome idea suddenly presented itself, 
 that his feelings towards Irene might be less tranquil, 
 
 ‘and she did not see any way out of the difficulty. All 
 
 at once Madame Marriotti spoke again in most inflex- 
 ible tones, such as she only assumed when her art was 
 in question. 
 
 “Mrs. Dalzell, Itook this girl as my pupil to oblige 
 you, and because I saw she had talent and feeling for 
 music. If she is to be a cantatrice, she must give her 
 whole mind to it; Art is a jealous mistress, no half 
 
 ‚allegiance will do for her. Irene ought to work steadily 
 
 for at least two years, and then let her try her fortune 
 
118 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 on the stage. I say she will succeed; but mind, I will 
 not have her for my pupil for one hour, unless she de- 
 votes herself to her art. No nonsensical love-making; I 
 must have a thorough, earnest heart and soul.” 
 
 “Perhaps it might be a happier lot if she married, 
 and never knew what fame was.” 
 
 “A happier lot!” repeated Madame Marriotti, mark- 
 ing each syllable with scornful emphasis. “Is that what 
 we are sent into the world to think about? Would you 
 have a single great name in the past, if the men who 
 stand up in it as beacons to all ages had thought about 
 a happy lot? Besides, that girl could not settle down 
 quietly; tame domestic life is not for such as she; she 
 might be satisfied for a time, but soon the void would 
 be felt; she has had a glimpse of the promised land; 
 don’t suppose she will forget it.” 
 
 “Perhaps you are right,” said Mrs. Dalzell, rather 
 sadly; “but if the poor child really cares for Nota, 
 what is to be done? I can’t deprive Vincenzo of his 
 friend.” 
 
 “If there is any good in the young man, he will see 
 that he ought not to interfere with Irene’s vocation,” 
 said Madame Marriotti, emphatically. 
 
 “You must suppose him to be very fond of music 
 indeed, dear madame!” 
 
 “At all events, let him, if he dare, speak a word of 
 love to her as long as she is my pupil. Itell you, on 
 my honour, that if he should, I give her up. She may 
 choose between me and him.” 
 
 “Shall I tell him this?” 
 
 “If you like. —Much good that will do—she thinks 
 she is in England, no doubt,” said Madame Marriotti, 
 in an audible soliloquy. 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 119 
 
 The effect of this conversation was, that Mrs. Dalzell 
 had very little sleep that night, and therefore had ample 
 time to consider her measures. The first was to ask 
 Leone to tea. 
 
 Hitherto she had had no anxieties or difficulties 
 with her Zrofeges, since Irene’s career had been decided; 
 this threatened to be a serious perplexity. On one side, 
 she thought that a real attachment was a shield against 
 many perils both for man and woman, and in her heart 
 she did not like Irene’s destination; no Englishwoman 
 could thoroughly approve it. On the other, she could 
 not but feel that Irene in a certain way belonged to 
 Madame Marriotti, and that it might be a fatal mistake 
 to cage the wild bird, whom nature intended for far 
 and lofty flight; but it was by no means certain that 
 Nota would take the same view. She anticipated the 
 conversation uneasily, and plunged into the midst of it, 
 when Leone arrived on the appointed evening. It is 
 to be feared she was thoughtless on this occasion; she 
 entirely forgot that tea was a beverage of which Italians 
 know nothing. Strong black coffee would have been 
 much more familiar to Leone, who probably associated 
 .tea with a cold, for which he might have taken a cup; 
 but something more interesting than either coffee or tea 
 occupied his thoughts; he looked round the room as if 
 he expected to see some one besides his hostess, and 
 .glanced so often towards the door that she had a fair 
 excuse for saying, “You are condemned to a /ele-a-töte 
 evening with me, Signor Nota.” 
 
 “I am but too much honoured,” said Leone, bowing 
 low, and using, as she did, the convenient French; 
 “where madame is—” 
 
 “Yet I think there was some one else whom you 
 
120 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 wished to see,” interrupted Mrs. Dalzell, who never 
 could accustom herself to receive or return the compli- 
 ments which an Italian would have taken as mere 
 matters of form, just as an Englishman does “My dear,” 
 at the beginning of a letter. | 
 
 Leone looked disconcerted, though he knew that 
 no rudeness could be intended; but it was one of the 
 cases where an Italian feels the abrupt English speaker 
 to be “without education,” as he would express it. 
 
 “Will you excuse a very plain question?” continued 
 Mrs. Dalzell. “Do you come here for Vincenzo’s sake 
 Dr tor, Irene/s?? 
 
 “I came for Vincenzo’s; I do so still, but now for 
 Irene’s also,” replied Leone, candidly, but looking at 
 her with anxiety. 
 
 “Thank you; it was a disagreeable question to 
 ask, and perhaps you think I had no right to ask it; 
 but—” 
 
 “Madame has every right where Signorina Irene is 
 concerned.” 
 
 “I will tell you what induced me to do so. Ma- 
 dame Marriotti has been very kind in teaching Irene; 
 it is of inestimable value to Irene to have her instruc- 
 tions, and her name will give any pupil ‚a certain 
 prestige, as of course you know. She says that Irene 
 has great powers, and I think you will agree with me, 
 that we owe her some gratitude for the pains she has 
 taken in teaching her.” 
 
 “And therefore, madame—” 
 
 “Therefore Irene must show it in the only way she 
 can: by studying in earnest. I am afraid, if she guesses 
 what you have just told me, she will have many dis- 
 tractions from her music.” 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 121 
 
 “You cannot suppose, signora, that a word has 
 passed between us,” began Leone, impetuously. 
 
 “No, indeed; but it is of the future thatI am think- 
 ing. Could you maintain a wife?” 
 
 “] am poor, but I must rise in my business, un- 
 less—” A sudden cloud came over his face, as if some 
 unwelcome idea had occurred to him, and he Base 
 his face with his hand. 
 
 “Well, but first there is another consideration. 
 Irene is ambitious; do you suppose she would be con- 
 tented to lead a quiet life, or even be a Prima donna 
 here? This is a very small corner of the world to 
 satisfy a great cantatrice. Listen one moment longer: 
 she is too young to make any decision yet; I could 
 not let her pledge herself in any way for several years 
 to come, though I confess that, when she is a little 
 older, I would gladly see her your wife; in considera- 
 tion of which you must forgive all the unpleasant things 
 I am saying, Signor Nota. Madame Marriotti says that 
 the only condition on which she will continue to teach 
 her is, that no disturbing notions are suggested to her 
 by you; and I ask, how are we to manage if you meet 
 constantly?” 
 
 “You are right, madame; and if you knew all, you 
 would say I have no right to link any one’s fate to 
 mine. I come here no more.” 
 
 “Nay, that is the last thingI wish. What is Vincenzo 
 to do without his friend?” 
 
 “And what am I to do?” broke in Leone, with 
 sudden passion. “You think nothing of the torture to 
 which you would subject me. Am I to meet Irene 
 
 _ daily, and not so much as attempt to win a kind look 
 
 
 
122 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 from her, while others may seek her as they please? 1 
 could not trust myself. Better see her no more.” 
 
 “I do not perceive why; but you must settle it with 
 yourself, of course,” said Mrs. Dalzell, quietly. “If you 
 really cannot trust yourself, so much the worse; I was 
 mistaken in you; but I cannot believe it. Surely, for 
 her sake (I dare say you are going to tell me you would 
 die for it); well, then, cannot you make the sacrifice of 
 being only a friend to her for the next two years? Con- 
 sider, Irene might one day reproach you if you inter- 
 fered with what seems her vocation, when she is too 
 young to be really able to judge for herself. It is for 
 her good that I ask this; and I give you my full leave 
 to speak after her musical education shall have been 
 completed. You say you still come here for Vincenzo’s 
 sake; have you any right to deprive him of your friend- 
 ship? Come, Signor Nota, I trust you; don’t tell me 
 you cannot trust yourself, unless you would have me 
 think you are unworthy of Irene.” 
 
 Leone’s vehemence had vanished under the influ- 
 ence of her composure; he sank into a reverie, from 
 which the cessation of her voice roused him. 
 
 “Madame,” he said, “you are putting me to a hard 
 trial, but you honour me by much trust. It is more 
 than probable that, if you knew my history, you would 
 be still less willing to give Irene to me. At all events, 
 I promise that while she is Madame Marriotti’s pupil 
 she shall never guess, from word or look, so far as I 
 can help it, what are my feelings towards her. Two 
 years will alter many things here, for good or for 
 evil.” 
 
 “] thank you once more,” said Mrs. Dalzell, much 
 pleased, though she was not quite quixotic enough to 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 123 
 
 ‚believe that he could control looks as well as words, 
 ‚and rather perplexed by the mystery in what he had 
 said. “I am certain you will keep your word. And 
 now tell me something about yourself; Madama Cecchi 
 has told me a good deal, but I am not sure that I 
 understand what you could have meant just now.” 
 
 “Perhaps not,” answered Leone, with a slight smile, 
 feeling how impossible it would be for an English- 
 woman, unversed in Italian politics, to realise in the 
 least how precarious was the position of any man in 
 Rome who had made himself in any way obnoxious to 
 the Government. “If I told you that I live on the 
 edge of a precipice, and that an instant may cast me 
 into the gulf below, what would you think? Listen 
 with incredulity, or imagine me guilty of some enormous 
 crime?” 
 
 “Not that, at all events,” replied Mrs. Dalzell, 
 looking smilingly at his singularly attractive counten- 
 ance. 
 
 Leone paused and considered. How was he to 
 make her comprehend the necessity of entire secrecy? 
 Suddeniy making up his mind, he began his story; one 
 simple enough; his fortune so small, and his prospects, 
 as far as wealth went, so distant, that Mrs. Dalzell, 
 listening with much interest, wondered, in silence, 
 whether they would satisfy Irene, who, as she had rightly 
 judged, was ambitious; but she always felt, when spe- 
 culating upon what Irene would do or think, as if she 
 had a foreign bird in her possession, of brilliant hues, 
 unknown notes, and habits altogether different from those 
 of quiet English ones. Perhaps Irene might, after all, 
 think a home, and the affection of such a man as Nota, 
 more attractive than fame. Mrs. Dalzell thought there 
 
124 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 was no comparison between them; but then, she was 
 no longer very young, nor a musician, nor an Italian. 
 She was much surprised by Leone’s entire submission, 
 for she was not aware of the enormous authority of 
 parents and guardians in Italy, and Leone naturally 
 felt that it would be ungrateful, indeed, to deny her 
 right to dispose of Irene. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell derived one great satisfaction from this 
 conversation—the conviction that Leone was worthy of 
 Irene; she liked him thoroughly—so thoroughly that 
 she would not be discomposed by the dissatisfaction 
 of Madame Marriotti, when told of the kind of com- 
 pact that had been formed. She was quite incredulous 
 that Nota would keep his word; or, even granting that 
 such a miracle should occur, that Irene would not fall 
 in love unasked; and she listened disdainfully to Mrs. 
 Dalzell’s assertion, that girls were quite capable of 
 feeling nothing but friendship. That might be all 
 very true among the icy northern nations, Madame 
 Marriotti said; it was another matter in Italy, where 
 men choose their wives by a pretty face, or else for a 
 dowry. Two looks were enough. Did Mrs. Dalzell 
 suppose that young wretch and Irene could meet daily 
 with impunity? 
 
 “Yet I do not call Irene pretty,” said Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “She is fascinating: you will see how she will be 
 worshipped. Well, you know my mind on this matter, 
 so take your chance.” 
 
 “] trust them both,” replied Mrs. Dalzell; and 
 though Madame Marriotti did not perceive the full 
 force of the reply, she held her peace; for in her ad- 
 vancing age, and the loneliness which, in spite of many 
 friends, necessarily closed round one who had no 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. » 225 
 
 family, she could not afford to lose the scholar, of 
 whom she was secretly very proud, and whom she 
 loved, perhaps, more than she was aware. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
 There comes a token like a serpent’s sting. 
 Childe Harold. 
 
 CoMING one day unexpectedly into Vincenzo’s 
 sitting-room, Mrs. Dalzell was struck by the utter de- 
 spondency of his look and attitude. The engraving of 
 St. Michael stood on a desk near him, and the half- 
 finished carving beside it; but he had not touched it 
 for many minutes. He was lying on his sofa, one hand 
 half hidden in his thick black hair, and supporting his 
 white and wasted forehead, while his lustrous eyes 
 shone as if lighted from within. His look was more 
 than melancholy, it was bitter; and Mrs. Dalzell’s 
 countenance grew almost as sad as she watched him. 
 She sat down, and remarked that the carving was im- 
 proving. 
 
 “Yes,” he answered carelessly, as if the subject did 
 not interest him. 
 
 “Where is Irene?” 
 
 “With Madame Marriotti, of course.” 
 
 “What is the objection, Vincenzo?” 
 
 “None, that I know of.” 
 
 “Except that you think that she does not want you 
 as much as she did formerly.” 
 
 “No one wants me,” he answered, turning away his 
 head; “I am of no use to any one on earth.” 
 
 “Mrs. Dalzell made no answer. He looked up 
 hastily to see the reason of her silence; her face was 
 
 
 
126 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 full of compassion, and he resumed, as if, now that he 
 had begun, all the flood of pent-up bitterness must 
 have way. “Irene has her music, she is happy; she 
 has a future to look to, while I lie here with this room 
 for my world, and not a single object in life. Each 
 day the same story—at war with myself, and with 
 less strength every hour for the fight. What have I 
 done that I should be turned into a cripple, a burden 
 to every one? Is it for any fault of mine or of my 
 father, or can a miserable, weary existence like this be 
 pleasing to Heaven? I cannot live without hope. I 
 cannot cheat myself into cheerfulness; I am growing 
 bitter and despairing. I have grown even jealous of 
 my sister, the poor child! But you cannot understand 
 all this.” 
 . “My dear boy, I can, for I have felt it.” 
 
 Vincenzo looked up in wonder at that kind, calm 
 face. He could not believe that Mrs. Dalzell had ever 
 experienced the hard sceptical despair-that gnawed his 
 own heart. 
 
 “You shall hear something of my history, Vincenzo. 
 I was an only child, the heiress of two families; per- 
 haps there never was a girl more indulged or more 
 happy than I was; and my marriage only gave me an- 
 other home, happier still, if possible. My husband 
 was an officer in the Indian army, at home on leave; 
 when it expired, we went out to India, and there I had 
 two children. We had to send them home in a few 
 years, and I was parted from them—that was my only 
 sorrow, till my health failed, and I was ordered back 
 to England. There was my old home ready to take 
 me in; my dear mother was then alive. We all lived 
 together, she and I and the boys. It was a house on 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI, 127. 
 
 the sea-coast. One day—a bright summer’s day it 
 was—my eldest boy went on the water with three 
 more, as gay as himself. I stood on the balcony to 
 see them start; he was standing up, waving his cap 
 to me. No one ever knew how it chanced, but the 
  boat capsized—three were saved, and one was drowned 
 —that was my son. His brother was a delicate boy, 
 an invalid like you; you have many times reminded 
 me of him. He lived till two years ago, and then 
 drooped and died. I knew months before how it must 
 be, and no one can tell how the thought haunted me, 
 How am I to answer their father when he asks for his 
 boys? but I need not have dwelt on that; he never 
 came back to ask for them.” 
 
 Her voice died away, and a deadly paleness settled 
 on her face. Vincenzo murmured, “Killed in the Indian 
 wars?” 
 
 “We heard nothing for months; then came a rumour 
 that he had been seen up the country, but he did not 
 write—no, I knew he was dead; I had no hope; and 
 yet that waiting time was the hardest trial of all. We 
 had certain news at last—he had died of fever, with 
 no one near him, but his native servant. That is my 
 history, Vincenzo. And yet,” she added, after a long 
 pause, “I have found comfort and peace. At first— 
 O Vincenzo! nothing that you feel can equal what I 
 felt, undisciplined as I was. Even now I dare not 
 think of it. There was one thought—the only one 
 that really came home to me, when my troubles were 
 made quite intolerable by the miserable feeling that I 
 learnt from them only doubt and despair—it was, 
 that for a moment, our Lord found His cross too heavy 
 to bear, and I hoped that this might have been in 
 
128 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 order to bid such as I am to take comfort, and hope 
 to be helped, even though we should sink under ours. 
 Icame abroad at last, because my friends said I ought; 
 I cared little about it, but the change did me good, 
 and here I found an interest that has made life wel- 
 come to me again.” 
 
 “Thank you, signora,” said Vincenzo, with a grate- 
 ful look. 
 
 “I see you are thinking that other people having 
 heavy trıials does not lighten yours, Vincenzo; but I 
 told you my history, because I think I can see now 
 what a year ago was all mystery to me, namely, why 
 these trials came. You will know, sooner or later, why 
 it is your lot to be a cripple, instead of an active man; 
 and meanwhile comfort yourself with thinking that he 
 who bears such a fate bravely, is as great as a martyr 
 — would have dared to be a martyr, had he lived ın 
 the old days. Why pain and evil exist, we cannot 
 tell; but we can very often wrest a blessing from 
 them. One word about Irene—surely it is a sickly 
 fancy that she loves you less—is it not to you that 
 she turns for sympathy in everything? If she were to 
 come in at this moment, it would be to you, not me, 
 that she would tell the history of her morning.” 
 
 “How long shall I have her, signora? I can see 
 that it ıs Irene, not Vincenzo, whom Nota seeks.” 
 
 “Fe will not steal her yet, and I think you owe 
 him some gratitude. You must make him tell you his 
 history.” Mrs. Dalzell repeated as much of what had 
 passed between herself and Leone, as she could without 
 breach of confidence, and Vincenzo listened wıth much 
 interest, saying, when she had ended, “I. would 
 
 a u a 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 129 
 
 ‚gladiy: give her to him, but what shall I be to her 
 then?” | 
 
 “Always her brother, Vincenzo. I don’t say, do not 
 ‚set your heart upon her, for I know that the human 
 mind, to be in a healthy state, must have a future for 
 ‚itself or for some one else to look forward to; but 
 you will yet have many interests, if my experience is 
 ‚that of other people. And for yourself—you ought not 
 to think your carving nothing; it may not be as grand 
 as what you had formerly imagined; but it is very 
 beautiful, and you are a true artist.” 
 
 “Few artists have had as good fortune as I,” said 
 Vincenzo, taking up his tools again. “Even this is 
 bespoken already. Did you see the gentleman who 
 came to look at it? Leone says it is successful. What 
 shall I do when you are gone, signora?” | 
 
 “] hope to come back next winter, you know, and 
 meanwhile you must take care of Irene. You are the 
 only person who can really guard her, for I don’t trust 
 old Nanna. I told you about Leone, because you had 
 a right to know. You are Irene’s real guardian, young 
 as you are.’ 
 
 “I have grown old of late, signora.” 
 
 “Yes, perhaps that is true; and I must say it is 
 fortunate that a girl, with such dangerous gifts as 
 Irene’s, has a wise brother to take care of her.” 
 
 “Who could not get into mischief if he would,” 
 said Vincenzo, once more speaking gaily, but stealing 
 a marvelling look at Mrs. Dalzell, as it he could not 
 credit that one so uniformly cheerful, could have 
 ‚passed through such heavy trials. He thought long 
 on the subject, trying to realize from whence came the 
 ‚strength to bear them. He was interrupted by a visitor. 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. T. 9 
 
130 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 While Vincenzo and Mrs. Dalzell were talking, 
 Irene had come back from her morning’s lesson with 
 Madame Marriotti, and had found on her table once 
 more a bunch of flowers crowned by a bit of jfnocchzo, 
 or fennel, which it is the custom in Rome, at one par- 
 ticular time of the year, for friends and lovers to ex- 
 change; each gathering a new piece daily for six 
 weeks, as during all that time a fresh branch must be 
 forthcoming wherever and whenever demanded, and a 
 ring, a bracelet, or some little gift is the penalty for 
 allowing it to wither. Of course the exchange implies 
 considerable intimacy, and Irene was doubly indignant, 
 first at the presumption of the sender, and secondly at 
 Nanna’s evident treachery. Nanna was not far off, but 
 hesitated to appear. Irene called her in peremptory 
 tones. 
 
 “Nanna, what did you say when you took back 
 those other flowers?” 
 
 “Say! what you told me, my darling; but the poor 
 signor was so broken-hearted—fit to throw himself into 
 the river—he weeps like a cut vine at your cruelty. I 
 cannot stir out but he sees me, and beseeches me for 
 news of you; what could I do? There is no harm in 
 flowers—he knows you love flowers.” 
 
 “It is of no use to talk to you,” said Irene, whose 
 anger turned into amusement, as Nanna grew more 
 and more pathetic; “but, as Signora Dalzell says, girls 
 who feel they are trusted can be trusted, and I know 
 she never watches me, and some one else trusts me 
 t0o0—so there—do you see how much I care for flowers, 
 Nanna?” and leaning from the window, she tossed them 
 Into the street below. 
 
 “Child! child! are you mad? The note and your 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 131 
 
 name!” shrieked Nanna, hurrying to stop her. It was 
 too late. Irene stood aghast; the consequence of her 
 imprudence flashed upon her. 
 
 “What about my name?” she asked, faintly. 
 
 “It will be in the note! and his own name too, for 
 aught I know!” exclaimed Nanna; “any curious fellow, 
 who finds it under the window, will make out who 
 Irene is. See what you have done, wrong-headed child! 
 Any other girl in Rome would have been grateful and 
 have had a kind word for him, and for the old nurse 
 who risked so much for her!” 
 
 “Go down and try to get it. No, it is too late; 
 some one has picked it up, and there are at least six 
 people at the windows as usual,” said Irene, despair- 
 ingly, looking at the opposite houses, where at half the 
 windows, idlers were leaning. “I suppose they will 
 say I threw it to him.” 
 
 She leant upon the window-sill in extreme an- 
 noyance—nay, in alarm. She would be supposed to 
 have dropped the flowers by accident, and the note 
 would be a cause for scandal and gossip for ever. Sup- 
 pose it should come to the ears of Mrs. Dalzell! Who 
 could tell what were its contents? While she was 
 pursuing these very unpleasant reflections, some one 
 rang at the outer door, and an unfamiliar voice 
 exchanged question and answer with Filomena. Irene 
 ‚did not notice it, for the padrona’s visitors always 
 ‚entered by the same door; but there was a momentary 
 ‚look in old Nanna’s face, as if it were not quite a new 
 sound to her. 
 
 “Come, carina,” said she, “there is no up-hill with- 
 ‚out a down-hill; everything can .be mended except a 
 broken neck; don’t vex yourself; no harm will come 
 
 9* 
 
132 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 ofit. Go to Vincenzo; you have not been near him 
 since morning, and ’tis noon past!” 
 
 “Past twelve already!” said Irene, going away, 
 with a slight quick gesture, as if to shake off her 
 uneasy thoughts; and she entered the sitting-room. 
 Vincenzo was not alone; Mrs. Dalzell still sat there, 
 and a stranger was also present, holding the lost flowers 
 in his hand. He looked round as Irene entered, and 
 arose. She recognised him in an instant, though the 
 eyes that had seemed to her black by night, now proved 
 to be of dark clear grey, but the face was as re- 
 markably pale as under the lights of the tapers at St. 
 Peter’s; and in the finely cut lips, shaded by a slender 
 black moustache, there was the same expression that 
 had made her previously dislike it, and call it an 
 evil face. She stood confounded at seeing him sitting 
 there with the nosegay in his hand, but she did not 
 betray the thoughts that Hashed through her mind; and 
 her countenance expressed nothing but surprise and a 
 little haughtiness, as Vincenzo said, “Count Pier- 
 francesco Clementi has done us the kindness of restor- 
 ing some flowers which you dropped, Irene.” 
 
 “I had the good fortune to pass as they fell,” said 
 Clementi, in singularly musical tones; “I perceived 
 that they had been dropped by accident, and, looking 
 up, I recognised their owner. Twice, as I was just 
 telling your brother, I have had the pleasure of seeing 
 you before; and, knowing that we were neighbours, 
 and, moreover, possess at least one mutual rl 
 I ventured to restore them myself.” 
 
 Irene took the bouquet. She could hardly believe 
 her suspicions to be just; for, though this might be a 
 mere pretext for making an acquaintance, he surely 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 153 
 
 would not have run the risk of Vincenzo’s demanding 
 whence the flowers came. Her first impulse was to 
 say that she had thrown them away on purpose; but 
 Nanna had brought her up, and such teaching had 
 not been quite without effect, though Irene was naturally 
 thoroughly frank. An instinct of fear, of distrust, kept 
 her back; she was uncertain what would be the con- 
 sequences of such a course; but her thanks were brief, 
 and she rang the bell for Nanna, and watched her 
 closely when she entered. Clementi looked up as the 
 door opened, but perfect indifference reigned on his 
 face, when he saw only an old servant; and he resumed 
 his conversation with Vincenzo. Irene held out the 
 flowers to Nanna, saying, low, “Here they are; take 
 them back—do you understand?” 
 
 “Yes, yes, my darling—who is that? did he bring 
 them?” asked the old woman, peering curiously at 
 Clementi. 
 
 “] think you might know, Nanna.”’ 
 
 “I? is he not a stranger? Tell me, figlia.’ 
 
 “Our neighbour, the contessa’s son. Take those 
 horrible flowers away, Nanna.” 
 
 “Why, Irene, you are not sending your flowers 
 away?” said Vincenzo. “Where did you get them?” 
 
 “Perhaps the scent is too strong; I think the 
 sender must have been English,” said Count Clementi; 
 “a Roman would have known better; I perceived that 
 the odour was too powerful, and, perhaps, after all, it 
 was not dropped, signorina, but thrown away?” 
 
 “Yes, it was, signor,” replied Irene, lifting her eyes 
 to his; but she could not read his face, only she felt 
 there was something hidden under the mask of polite 
 indifference. 
 
134 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 “Poor Leone!” said Vincenzo, smiling; “I suspect‘ 
 it was a Roman, after all, who sent them; but Count 
 Clementi will not betray how you treated his gift.” 
 
 “Is the signor a friend of Leone?” asked Irene, 
 with surprise. 
 
 “I can hardly claim that honour, though an honour 
 I should esteem it, but we are, at least, acquaintances, 
 though our opinions differ—” he cast a glance of an 
 instant on the books on the table; “and I have, 
 hitherto, had no opportunity of knowing which may be 
 in the right, he or L” 
 
 “That cannot be Leone’s fault; he is frank enough; 
 he has his opinions written on his face,” said Vincenzo, 
 smiling, and alluding to the beard which had become 
 at that time a sort of party sign, and was sufficient to 
 mark all who wore it as mawvais sujels in the eyes of 
 the Government. 
 
 “Fe has nothing to lose,” said Clementi, in.a tone 
 so quiet that the sneer was hardly perceptible; but it 
 stung Irene, who answered, with a blush of displeasure, 
 “Every man has his liberty to lose. I only wish Signor 
 Nota had more to peril, that every one might see how 
 exactly he would still speak and think as he now 
 does.” 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell smiled, and Vincenzo said, as if in 
 apology for Irene’s warmth, “My sister will never hear 
 a word against an absent friend.” 
 
 “I no longer think that Nota has nothing to lose, 
 since he possesses such an advocate; but, signorina, 
 you must not judge too harshly those who hold opinions 
 contrary to your own. I was brought up by my uncle, 
 whose name you doubtless know [a suppressed smile 
 flitted over Vincenzo’s face, as he thought of the tor- 
 
 
 

 
 i . I 
 ve 
 ra - 
 
 a. 
 
 IM j 
 
 } 
 iR 
 15 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORT. . 155% 
 
 rents of abuse he had heard Cecchi pour on that uncle]; 
 all my feelings ought to be, yes, ought to be engaged 
 on the ruling side. I am, by birth and education, a 
 Papista, as you would say; though I have taken no 
 part in politics, and really know little about them.” 
 
 “In fact, you, like Irene, defend the absent,” said 
 Vincenzo. 
 
 “I must; and you may understand that, though I 
 may feel that there is some justice in the popular 
 outery, I must shut my ears against it—gratitude and 
 affection both bind me.” 
 
 “And interest,” thought Vincenzo; and he could 
 not forbear adding, “Gratitude and affection have little 
 to do with public questions.” 
 
 Irene looked uneasy, and Mrs. Dalzell longed to 
 change the subject, for even she had learned how un- 
 safe was such talk; but Count Clementi eagerly pursued, 
 “You are right, our country has claims superior to all 
 others: already, unwelcome as my doubts are, I do not 
 think exactly as I did a year ago; but you must per- 
 ceive how difficult it is for me to see more than one 
 side of the question, far more so than for you— you 
 have means unattainable to me. This book, for in- 
 stance; I have often wished to read it, but I could not 
 get it here; I cannot imagine how you did.” 
 
 “An English person lent it to me,” answered 
 Vincenzo, glad to shelter himself under that shield, 
 and rejoiced that Leone was not the owner; for it was 
 one so strictly prohibited, that an Italian would hardly 
 have ventured to possess it. 
 
 “Lent—it is not yours? I must not beg for it, 
 then?” 
 
 “You know the risk you run in taking it?” 
 
= Wears 
 
 136°  - MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 “I don’t think there is much more danger for 
 Monsignore Clementi’s nephew than for you English,” 
 replied the Count; and for once Irene did not in- 
 dignantly claim to be an Italian. 
 
 He took it with an eagerness that made Vincenzo 
 smile, and say, “I suspect you are more of a Carbonaro 
 than you choose to own.” 
 
 “No, not yet,” replied Clementi, taking up the 
 volume; “perhaps you may convert me. You will 
 allow me to return this in person?” 
 
 “If you will have the charity to come and see me 
 again, said Vincenzo, cordially; and the visitor took 
 leave, with a mere formal farewell to Mrs. Dalzell and 
 Irene, at whom he had looked little, and whom he 
 had only addressed when courtesy seemed to require 
 it. She became thoughtful as he departed, and ab- 
 sently answered Vincenzo’s questions as to whether she 
 liked their new acquaintance. He had perplexed her, 
 and she did not believe that Nanna would plot against 
 her to such an extent as must have been the case, if 
 he were the sender of the flowers; and yet she re-' 
 gretted that he was to come again, and said she did 
 not like him. And how could Vincenzo talk in such 
 an English way? 
 
 “I am afraid I was not very prudent,” he answered; 
 “but the truth is, a new face is a treatto me. We will 
 ask Leone about him. I never heard Cecchi say any- 
 thing about the nephew; it is the uncle whom he ab- 
 hors, and who, he says, maintains spies all over Rome. 
 Fancy if we could make a convert of the count, Irene! 
 We shall yet see him with as black a beard as Leone 
 
 17? 
 
 “] only hope he is not a spy himself,” said She, 
 

 
 -  MADEMOISELLE MORL 137 
 
 again inclined to tell Vincenzo of her doubts, and 
 again rejecting the idea. 
 
 “Why, he told us his ‚opinions frankly enough; any 
 one must know that he is a Papista. But he seemed 
 ready to hear truth; he made no secret of his opi- 
 nions.” | 
 “No, he made no secret of anything, and that is 
 just what seems to me suspicious. Who talks in that 
 way to strangers except English people?” 
 
 “Oh, he knew we were Protestants, and half Eng- 
 lish; of course, that made a difference.” 
 
 “] am nothing but Italian when I think of Italy,” 
 said Irene, unconsciously assuming a manner so like 
 that of Nota that Vincenzo could not refrain from a 
 smiling glance at Mrs. Dalzell; but he was prudent 
 enough to suppress the remark, that she was prejudiced 
 by Clementi’s observation on Leone. 
 
 Irene was subjected to a close examination from 
 Nanna, when next she saw her, as to whether it really 
 were the Signor Conte; what she thought of him, and 
 if he were coming again; but the thought evidently un- 
 derlying these questions did not increase her suspicions, 
 since, from her babyhood, Nanna had constantly looked 
 forward to her marriage. Mrs. Dalzell had, indeed, 
 done a good deed in taking her out of Nanna’s hands. 
 Unscrupulous, garrulous, unprincipled, the old woman 
 was enough to ruin any girl, and the wonder was that 
 Irene had escaped so well; but her nurse’s teaching had 
 been greatly counteracted by her father’s, who had 
 given her the same kind of training as he had himself 
 received in childhood from his simple, unworldly old 
 aunt—to please him had always been a great object 
 with her—and before she could speak plain she had 
 
138 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 learnt that, though Nanna saw no harm in a lie, it was 
 the one thing that “papa” would not forgive. She had 
 been taken almost entirely out of Nanna’s reach since 
 Mrs. Dalzell had had anything to do with her, and had, 
 unconsciously, imbibed the refinement and English prin- 
 ciples of her kind friend, while Nanna’s influence pro- 
 portionably diminished. 
 
 Irene did not feel quite satisfied with herself; = 
 wished she had told all she knew about the flowers; 
 and when she went to Mrs. Dalzell’s sitting-room to bid 
 her good night, there was something unusual in her 
 friend’s manner which startled her, and she hastily con- 
 
 cluded that Mrs. Dalzell was displeased with her. She 
 
 began at once, “I don’t think Leone sent me the flowers, 
 signora—1 do not know whence they came.” 
 
 “It is of no great importance, I dare say,” said 
 Mrs. Dalzell, rather absently; “good night, my dear.” 
 
 Irene was perplexed, and retired in silence, and 
 Mrs. Dalzell pressed her hand again on her eyes with 
 a deep sigh. Though she had spoken bravely and 
 cheerfully to Vincenzo, his words had awakened an 
 echo in her own heart—had recalled the anguish 
 which she hoped was stilled or gone. She discovered, 
 with a sort of dismay, that there it was still—the old 
 pain—would nothing, nothing, neither change nor time, 
 banısh ıt? She had felt all that he described, and 
 more—much that she shrank from recollecting. She 
 called up all the thoughts that, could calm and 
 strengthen her, bade herself remember how similar 
 paroxysms of mental pain had overcome her before, 
 and had been slowly vanquished, as this would be— 
 she would not give way now. But it was long before 
 she could command herself sufficiently to resume any 
 
 Ber > a 
 

 
 | | MADEMOISELLE MORL. 139; 
 occupation. More than an hour had passed, and still 
 she was sitting in the same attitude, lost in sorrowful 
 thought. A quick tap at the door startled her. 
 
 “Come in!” she said, hastily brushing away the 
 traces of tears and taking up her work, and the door 
 opened, and Madama Cecchi appeared in full costume 
 of Louis Quatorze, looking exceedingly handsome, with 
 ‚her hair turned back over a cushion, and powdered; 
 strings of pearls round her neck and arms, a scarlet 
 silk shirt, and white petticoat, and a flowing sacque of 
 blue, trimmed with white fur. 
 
 . Mrs. Dalzell looked at her wonderstruck, quite for- 
 getting that the padrona had announced to her that she 
 was going that night to a masked ball. 
 
 “Here I am, come to present myself to my dear 
 signora!”” said she, joyously, holding up her black silk 
 mask. “What does she think? Am I as I should be? 
 Does my dress please her?” 
 
 “Very handsome, indeed, and very becoming,” said 
 Mrs. Dalzell; and it was a fact that the strong contrast. 
 of hues did admirably set off the fresh and lively 
 countenance of the Roman matron, who chanced to be 
 fair and blue eyed, but had all the stateliness and 
 portliness of her fellow-townswomen. | 
 
 “But, signora, I thought you were morta al mondo!” 
 
 “Bah!” said Madama Cecchi, laughing. “So I am 
 —I never go anywhere; I lead the life of a snail, an 
 oyster, a coral-worm, signora! What would you have! 
 It is to please my sister that I go to-night. Nino is 
 going, t00; I went down on my knees to persuade him; 
 I said, ‘Where will be my character, if I go without 
 you?’ and he goes. Nino! Ni! come, and let the: 
 signora see you.” 
 
140 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 Nino appeared, masked in a domino, looking so 
 comical that Mrs. Dalzell could not help laughing. 
 
 “] wish you a pleasant evening, signor.” 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and pointed to his wife. 
 “]t is her doing—not mine.” | 
 
 “Well, suppose it is! Would you live like St. Ales- 
 sio, or St. Onofrio, or St. Antonio l’Abbate? Oh, these 
 men, signora, these men! I had to break my heart be- 
 fore he would promise to go; he was as a flint—a 
 rock of granite—to my entreaties. And you go no- 
 where, szgnora mia! You spend all your time in in- 
 dustry; it is a marvel to see. Come, Nino. Good night, 
 dear signora; a most happy night to you!” 
 
 “Arivederla—felicissima notte,” said Cecchi, bowing, 
 and closing the door, leaving Mrs. Dalzell smiling. 
 
 The apparition had, at all events, dispersed her: 
 sad thoughts; she was not at all inclined now to sit 
 down and be melancholy; besides, it was full time for 
 people who were :not going to masked balls to go to 
 rest. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Fidare & un buon uomo; Nontifidare & meglio. 
 Proverb. 
 
 WHEN Leone next appeared, ‚Vincenzo asked for 
 information respecting Count Clementi. Leone, who 
 considered Vincenzo and Irene as his own peculiar and 
 especial friends, was far from being pleased to hear of 
 their new acquaintance; and thought with dismay of the 
 possibility of a rival appearing on the scene. He had 
 little information to give, except that Clementi had of 
 late sought his acquaintance; Cecchi, who was present, 
 added that the count had likewise made advances to-. 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 141 
 
 ‚wards himself; and both joined in marvelling what 
 ‚could be the motive, since every one knew he must be 
 a Papista, as the nephew of one who was known as 
 'the greatest opponent of progress and champion of old 
 abuses in the whole Roman hierarchy, the suggester of 
 ‚allthe new oppressive measures, and the persecutor of 
 every one who held liberal opinions. 
 
 Many a tale of tyranny was current respecting 
 Monsignore Clementi, who was very high in the Pope’s 
 ‚good graces, and on the fair way to be speedily a car- 
 dinal. How the Romans hated him! Even Cecchi 
 hardly surpassed Leone in detestation of this man, 
 whose conduct had gone far to open the eyes of the 
 people to the vices of existing institutions, and to de- 
 stroy the hereditary reverence for age. It had oozed 
 out that he had been the originator of an order (acted 
 on but too thoroughly), that whenever a liberal was 
 ‚convicted of any offence, the utmost punishment con- 
 templated by the law should invariably be inflicted. 
 He was the very soul of the Sanfedists, that sect more 
 dreaded than a band of brigands by peaceable men; 
 that sect which, originally founded to aid the Roman 
 Government, speedily became its master, and ruled the 
 whole Papal States by spy, sword, and exile, a very 
 ‚reign of terror. 
 
 It was hard to credit that the nephew of this man, 
 entirely dependent on him for all his prospects, could 
 have any leaning to the liberal side, yet Cecchi and 
 Nota were eager to believe so. It would be a triumph 
 indeed! Cecchi thought it was possible that Clementi 
 might be a liberal at heart, but that he hesitated to 
 avow it, lest he should lose the good graces of his 
 ‚uncle; and he exhorted Vincenzo to lose no oppor- 
 
142 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 tunity of discovering if it were so. Nota saw there 
 must be an acquaintance, and could find no objection, 
 except the one which he did not choose to avow. He 
 had nothing to say against it, but he would have liked 
 to throw Count Clementi into the Tiber. 
 
 The count appeared again in Vincenzo’s sitting- 
 room, after a sufficient time had elapsed for studying 
 the book which he had borrowed; he carried off an- 
 other, and had much talk with Vincenzo, which in- 
 creased the latter’s hopes not a little. One visit led to 
 another, and sometimes Leone, sometimes Cecchi were 
 present, till a considerable intimacy sprang up between 
 them all. Vincenzo entirely believed in his new friend, 
 who only very gradually yielded to his arguments, and 
 Nota and Cecchi had both so much confidence in Vin- 
 cenzo’s judgment, so much calmer and cooler than 
 their own, that they were inclined to believe whatever 
 he asserted; but habitual caution made them slow to 
 trust, and there were many meetings before any free 
 expression of opinion was elicited. 
 
 Something of confidence sprang up at last, apropos 
 of an article in the Zzmes on the prospects of Italy. It 
 had been copied by Galignani, but the police had taken 
 care to cut it out of every copy at the libraries. Mrs. 
 Dalzell, who happened to have the Zirmes itself sent to 
 her from England, gave the article to Irene to read, 
 and she translated it into Italian for the benefit of 
 Cecchi and his wife. Count Clementi and Leone came 
 in, in the midst, and she was entreated to begin again. 
 There were ardent glances exchanged as she read, and 
 almost before she had concluded, Cecchi burst forth 
 into comments and approval, and an animated discus- 
 sion instantly sprang up, which soon became merged in 
 
 nn nn 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 143 
 
 dreams of Italy’s future, so wild, so enthusiastic, so im- 
 possible, that it seemed as if none of them had any 
 recollection of Italy’s past. Any one who had seen the 
 party, their ardent looks, words, and gestures, Vin- 
 cenzo’s pale face lighted up with excitement, Irene’s 
 inspired eyes, and Madame Cecchi’s impetuosity adding 
 fuel to the flame—any who had seen how men, women, 
 even frail invalids, joined with one heart and soul 
 in the national cause—and these were but types of 
 hundreds of others—must have believed that a glorious 
 work would be done, that some new era was about to 
 dawn. 
 
 Nota and Clementi took leave at the same time, 
 but the count, instead of going to his own part of the 
 palace, said he was expected at a friend’s house, and 
 accompanied Leone for a little way. They walked for 
 some time in silence through the grass-grown piazza, 
 where the palace cast a shadow as huge as a mountain, 
 and into the street of the Ripetta. The moon shone 
 in a broad track on the river, creating that lovely 
 tremolar dell’onde which Dante celebrated; the plash of 
 the fountain came refreshingly on the ear; in the warm 
 spring night, the streets were almost as full as by day; 
 groups continually went by, singing and conversing, 
 and the voices seemed to rise up between the tall 
 houses which cast their thick dark shadows on each 
 side, as if in a mountain gorge. The count and Leone 
 turned again into a narrow side street where was 
 entire silence and desertion, a strange contrast to the 
 one they had just left; and as they passed a dark 
 archway a herd of wild dogs rushed out, without, how- 
 ever, attempting to attack them, and coursed full speed 
 down the street. 
 
‚144 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 Clementi was the first to speak. “We have had a 
 strange evening,” he said; “I feel as if Ihad been a 
 traitor, and yet I cannot but own that young Mori had 
 the best of the argument. What a cool, clear head he 
 has—a thorough Englishman, I fancy.’ 
 
 “You mean to give him another opportunity of 
 converting you soon,” said Leone, referring to an 
 appointment which he had heard Vincenzo and the 
 count make as they parted. 
 
 Clementi did not reply for a moment. Then look- 
 ing at Leone with a slight smile—“I am more dis- 
 interested than you; for I gain nothing, and lose much, 
 if I take the liberal side.” 
 
 “What do I gain?” asked Leone, quickly. 
 
 “What you think a high reward, my friend, such 
 a look from Signorina Irene’s dark eyes as met you 
 this evening. Forewarned, forearmed; I waste no time 
 in seeking love where there is none to give.’ 
 
 Leone was silent; for though he knew well that 
 Irene only regarded him as a friend, it was not wonder- 
 ful that he should be slow to say so, and Count Cle- 
 menti’s words were welcome in every way. 
 
 “Come,” said Clementi, who had been reading his 
 face with his own penetrating, inscrutable eyes, “let us 
 meet as friends; I do not ask to know your Secrets, 
 but there is no occasion for you to s/ıleflo me as your 
 rival, which I am not, and should find it vain to seek 
 to be, even if I could marry as I please. My prospects 
 would be singularly diminished if I should present a 
 heretic to my uncle! Addio, we part here; addio, mio 
 caro.’ 
 
 They parted cordially.. Leone was of an un- 
 suspicious nature, and Clementi’s words removed a 
 
Eu : 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 145 
 
 
 
 weight from his mind. He had not proceeded many 
 paces when he was joined by a friend, who came 
 rapidly up to him, uttering his name. 
 
 “Ha! Luigi—well met!” said Nota. 
 
 “You are just in time to go with me to Casa 
 Olivetti,” said the other, passing his arm through 
 Leone’s, with a warning pressure which prevented Nota 
 from pleading as an objection his want of acquaintance 
 with the family. “I am on my way there.” Then, in 
 very low tones, “Have you heard that Donati has been 
 arrested ?” 
 
 “Arrested!” replied Leone, with a start of conster- 
 nation, as the colour left his dark cheek. 
 
 “This morning. Beware—we are watched; don’t 
 look round. Did you see that you were followed?” 
 
 “] suspected as much. On what charge was 
 Donati— ?” 
 
 “Cerigo sent me word privately: I know little, ex- 
 cept that political papers and copies of certain poems 
 were found on him; and the police are all on the guz 
 vive to discover the author. He denied all knowledge 
 of them.” 
 
 “Is it on those grounds?” asked Leone, with agita- 
 tion. 
 
 “No, no, on my honour. They had nothing to do 
 with the business; it was an imprudent speech on 
 Austrian affairs, made in the Cafe Greco.” 
 
 “Is it certain, Ravelli? Are you positiver” 
 
 “] give you my word it was. You cannot help 
 him; don’t be a madman. Itell you it was his own 
 rashness; don’t go and put your own head in the 
 noose. Where are your copies?” 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. I. Io 
 
146 MADEMOISELLE MORIL 
 
 Leone touched his forehead. 
 
 “That’s well; you will find that they have been 
 searching your room. I have been watching for you. 
 
 ever since I had a hint of what was going on. Where 
 
 have you been? Who was the man I saw with you 
 
 just now?” 
 
 “Count Clementi,” said Leone, unable to help 
 
 smiling at the irrepressible astonishment depicted on 
 the features of his friend—features too gay and hand- 
 some for one engaged in a conspiracy. 
 
 “Count Clementi—ah!” repeated Ravelli, aloud;. 
 
 then resuming his former hushed tone, “let all the 
 police in Rome hear it, by all means. Are you certain 
 
 there is nothing in your desk that can betray you? 
 They seem to have got on the right scent, somehow.” 
 
 Leone’s brow was knitted. He felt that the instant 
 of which he had spoken to Mrs. Dalzell might be near; 
 the gulf had swallowed up one of his friends; his own 
 turn might come next. 
 
 “Nothing—but suspicion is enough. I know their 
 eyes have been on me this long while. Well, there are 
 
 few to miss me. Poor Donati!” 
 
 “Ay—Cerigo will let me know the sentence soon— 
 
 exile, I suppose; or possibly our paternal Government 
 
 may be satisfied with perpetual imprisonment—not a 
 
 heavy price to pay for speaking a little truth once in 
 a way. Here we are; come in.” | 
 
 As they mounted the stairs of Casa Olivetti, Ravelli 
 
 suddenly stopped and turned to his companion with a 
 burst of laughter. “Corpo di Bacco, my friend, you 
 
 chose your companion well! You could not have done 
 
 better, unless you had had the uncle instead of the 
 nephew! I hope that rascally spy who was following 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 147 
 
 you saw him! You must tell me by-and-bye how it 
 chanced.” 
 
 “Weathercock that you are, Luigi!” said Leone, 
 smiling, but unable to shake off the impression of what 
 he had just heard as readily as his light-hearted friend 
 had done. “Now, how are you going to explain my 
 presence here?” 
 
 “Easily enough,” answered Ravelli, opening the 
 door of a room wherein sat an elderly man, busy in 
 extracting such scanty information as is afforded by the 
 Roman Gazelle; a lady at work, and a pretty, dark- 
 eyed child, seated on a stool at her feet, and resting 
 against her, while she wound a skein ofsilk. All three 
 looked up with a smile of welcome, as Ravelli appeared, 
 and Leone was received with ready cordiality when 
 introduced as his friend. It was his first introduction 
 to the Olivetti family; his first near view of the pretty 
 Imelda, his friend Luigi’s destined bride; but he was 
 too much disturbed by what he had just learnt, to 
 wish to linger at Casa Olivetti, and, staying no longer 
 than ceremony required, he soon took his leave. 
 
 “Rather death than exile!” he muttered to himself, 
 as he was returning to his solitary home. “Exile!” he 
 looked round with a long gaze. “Never to see my 
 Rome, nor to hear my own Italian! I should not, how- 
 ever, be alone—truly, I need not fear that; I should 
 find fellow-exiles wherever I went; our Government 
 has taken care of that! There is a chance of imprison- 
 ment, too. No, I should not make a Silvio Pellico— 
 well, we shall see how it turns out.” 
 
 He mounted to his own room, nearly at the top of 
 the house. It was scantily furnished, and its only 
 ornaments were a small bust of Dante, and an engrav- 
 
 ı0” 
 
148 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 ing from Ary Scheffer’s “Christus Consolator.’ Perhaps, 
 among those seeking consolation, in that figure holding 
 up chained hands, Leone saw his country! 
 
 There was a view from the window worthy of a 
 poet; a dark group of cypresses and pines stood doubly 
 dark in the moonlight, which lit up Santa Maria 
 Maggiore, and shone on the distant Coliseum, and cast 
 long gleams over the Campagna. Leone was apt to 
 spend many a night hour at that open window; but 
 he had other more pressing thoughts just then. He 
 looked keenly round; there was no trace of a search. 
 Yes—a moment’s inspection showed him that. his 
 bureau had been examined, his books moved; and, 
 behold! several German works on geology, acquired 
 with infinite difficulty, had vanished,—gone, no doubt, 
 to bear witness against him as a student of that 
 heretical science! A smile, at once sad, scornful, and 
 triumphant, came to Leone’s lips. He knew that after 
 all he was stronger than any ruler; he had spoken 
 true words, which were written on the hearts of the 
 people; he had uttered what was stirring inarticulately 
 in the breast of hundreds. Though his voice ‚might 
 be silenced in the grave, or a prison silent as the 
 grave, those words would be remembered—he had 
 not lived in vain. He paced rapidly up and down the 
 room, and then stopped and looked out on the land- 
 scape, “Why there!” he soliloquized, “there stretches 
 the Campagna, as peacefully as if no enemy had ever 
 trampled it, no blood ever watered its turf. It looks 
 solid enough; one would not guess that it was under- 
 mined by the Catacombs. The city too—quiet as 
 any Monsignore Clementi would wish it! Who would 
 suppose there were death and tears, and plots and 
 
 
 
on = oz 
 EEE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Ka en = ur BE, 
 
 PEN 
 
 
 

 
 - 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 149 
 
 counterplots, under those roofs? Why, under that very 
 one, where the moon shines brightest on the windows, 
 are Donati’s wife and mother! Any man but a ruler 
 would hear how the cry of the oppressed is rising up 
 to heaven—ay, it will be heard there, and all the 
 world shall know that it has been heard!” he exclaimed 
 aloud, turning as if in appeal to the picture on the 
 wall. The mild, steadfast look of the chief figure 
 seemed to meet his own; he regarded it long and 
 earnestly, then, suddenly turning away, took down a 
 book from a shelf, lighted a lamp, and sat reading far 
 into the night. 
 
 Succeeding days brought no new misfortune. Ra- 
 velli contrived to learn that the sentence of Donati was 
 imprisonment, though, like all other trials for political 
 offences, it had been secret, and his fate was only sur- 
 
 mised by his friends. His advocate, Cerigo, moreover, 
 
 paid the penalty of having defended him too warmly, 
 by being suspended from practising his business for two 
 months—a warning to the next lawyer who might be 
 chosen to advocate the cause of a liberal. Leone went 
 out and in, and continued his daily occupations with a 
 sensation as if a sword were hanging over his head; 
 but once more he escaped, though he received an offi- 
 cial admonition that the police had their eye on him 
 —-a state of things which caused him no additional 
 anxiety, as he had for some time known it to be the 
 case. 
 
 He reflected long before he could decide where, 
 with any prudence, he could for the future keep writ- 
 ings. His own room was manifestly unsafe; he would 
 not let any friend run the risk. Yes, there was one— 
 one who, though Italian by birth, was, in fact, English, 
 
150  MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 and as such was strongly protected— Vincenzo Moore. 
 There was little fear of the police examining his pos- 
 sessions, and none that he might be secretly arrested. 
 He was the man! if he should be willing, after full 
 explanation, to be mixed up in the matter. 
 
 Leone speedily had an opportunity of telling him. 
 Madama Cecchi had long been dying to reveal to Irene 
 and Vincenzo his powers as an improvisatore, and one 
 evening entreated him to let them hear him. He 
 laughed, and bade her give him a subject, and she 
 named the “Challenge of Barletta,” one calculated to 
 inspire even the least patriotic of Italians. It called 
 out all Leone’s power, and both Vincenzo and Irene 
 exclaimed, wonderstruck, “Leone! Leone! it must be 
 you who write the poems about which everybody is 
 speculating! It is! it must be! how blind never to have 
 guessed it before!” Madama Cecchi looked triumphant, 
 though a little alarmed; but the disclosure led to full 
 confidence between the two young men. 
 
 This new interest compensated, in some measure, 
 for the departure of Mrs. Dalzell, which, long talked 
 of and often delayed, came at last. She was reluctant 
 to go; she owed much to Rome, and England was full 
 of painful associations, but there was no choice for her. 
 She lingered till June was come, and nearly every 
 English person had left Rome; but the day fixed for 
 her departure came at last. There were promises on 
 all sides of a constant correspondence, which were kept, 
 as far as she and Vincenzo were concerned. Irene 
 wrote occasionally; when she did, her letters were a 
 rapture of music and politics; she seemed thoroughly 
 happy, and Leone must have kept his promise, for she 
 always spoke of him with the same frank liking as of 
 

 
—3 
 — \} 
 ze 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 151 
 
 Count Clementi, whom she reported to have become 
 gradually absorbed into the popular side, and con- 
 sequently to be out of favour with his uncle. 
 
 Madame Marriotti, the most uncertain of correspon- 
 dents, sometimes sent a voluminous epistle, was some- 
 times mute for months; whenever she did write, she. 
 spoke of Irene with exceeding pride. Mrs. Dalzell 
 began to fear that she made her work too hard, and 
 frequently reminded her how many singers had failed 
 from having overtasked their strength: a warning which 
 Madame Marriotti treated with sovereign contempt, and 
 which Mrs. Dalzell herself would have considered un- 
 necessary, could she have seen how full of life, health, 
 and spirits the once delicate girl had become, thriving 
 on hard work and excitement, and daily looking more 
 joyous. 
 
 When Mrs. Dalzell left Rome, she had purposed 
 returning for the next winter, and answered Irene’s 
 tearful “Addio” with “A rivederci;” but it so happened 
 that family affairs detained her in England; and nearly 
 three years elapsed before the last view of Irene, bend- 
 ing forward and waving an adıeu, was to be effaced 
 by her cheerful welcome. 
 
 GCHAPIER X, 
 
 To-day the doors and windows 
 Are hung with garlands all, 
 From Castor in the Forum 
 To Mars without the wall. —MaAcauray. 
 
 THE three years which elapsed before Mrs. Dalzell 
 returned to Rome were brim full of those events which 
 
 promised to realize even the most Utopian dreams of 
 the Italians, beginning from the day when the unquiet 
 
152 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 reign of Gregory XVI. ended, and that of the Cardinal 
 Bishop, Mastai Ferretti, began. 
 
 The Romans knew little of him; his hr life, 
 though one of self-denial and peril, had not been more 
 remarkable than that of many missionaries. As a young 
 man he had sought to enter the G@uardia Mobile, but 
 was rejected on account of ill-health, which soon ended 
 in a dangerous illness; recovering from which “by the 
 intercession of the Holy Virgin,” to use the words of 
 one of his biographers, “he proved his gratitude by 
 consecrating himself to her service,” became an eccle- 
 siastic, and was sent to Peru and Mexico. Trials 
 awaited him and his companions on first setting out; 
 they were thrown into prison by the Spaniards at 
 Majorca, attacked by corsairs, in danger in violent 
 storms by sea; hunger, thirst, and weariness awaited 
 them in the prairies of South America, where once 
 they found no other shelter than a deserted hut built 
 of bones, round which an odour of decay still lingered; 
 and finally their mission being rendered vain through 
 the jealousies of those in power, they returned to Rome. 
 
 Pio VII, who had protected Mastai, was dead; but 
 Leo XH. extended to him the same favour, and gave 
 him the Archbishopric of Spoleto, whence he was 
 translated to Imola. In 1841 he was made a cardinal, 
 but remained at Imola; and so the Romans had hardly 
 heard of him till, in 1846, he was elected Pope. He 
 chose the name of Pio in grateful memory of his first 
 patron, and he inherited all the difficulties which former 
 Popes had postponed and complicated. Amongst the 
 eager speculations as to who the new Pope would 'be, 
 no one had dreamed of Cardinal Mastai, and at first 
 there was a little coldness and disappointment shown; 
 

 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 153 
 
 but his first measure, namely, the amnesty to those 
 languishing in exile and prison for political offences, 
 at once aroused that frenzy of enthusiasm which for a 
 time intoxicated both Pontiff and people. 
 
 The events passing at Rome had been trumpeted 
 by every journal in Europe, but Mrs. Dalzell had a 
 special correspondent in Vincenzo, who gave her still 
 . earlier and more accurate information, and it was with 
 a feeling of interest and expectation quite unallied to 
 those she had experienced on her first arrival, that she 
 re-entered Rome on the night of the 7th of September, 
 1847. There was just moonlight enough to give a 
 glimpse of the Tiber as she crossed the bridge, and to 
 show where rose St. Angelo; and her fancy seemed 
 already to discern among the distant buildings the 
 palace roof under which slept Irene and Vincenzo. 
 They little guessed who was in the carriage that rattled 
 under their window. It was too late to visit them that 
 night, and they did not expect her; she had left 
 England at very short notice for the sake of travelling 
 with friends, and had arrived by sea. A weary journey 
 the land route from Civita Vecchia had been, along 
 the sandy plains, where reeds, asphodel, and tamarisk 
 shared the ground between them; and the flat country 
 had a desolate look, like some of the ugliest parts of 
 England, and a cheerful thing she found it to alight 
 at the comfortable hotel in the familiar Piazza di Spagna, 
 and be at once installed in her apartment. 
 
 By a little past ten o’clock the next morning she 
 was on her way to the old palace, which had been her 
 home for so many months, and where she hoped again 
 to find a lodging; but scarcely was she in the street 
 before she perceived that more was going on than was 
 
154 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 accounted for by the /es/a, of which her courier had 
 warned her. At such an hour Roman streets are sel- 
 dom very full; it is chiefly the higher classes who are 
 abroad, while later in the day comes the holiday time 
 of the zmpregatı, the many who are employed in shops, 
 in warehouses, and professions; but on this morning, 
 high and low were in the streets; the shops were all 
 shut, bouquets might be bought at every corner, the 
 country people were flocking in, in their brilliant 
 costumes, and all faces were turned towards the Corso. 
 Mrs. Dalzell happened to be going in that direction, 
 but when she reached the Corso, she found it was im- 
 possible to cross; in the palmiest days of the carnival 
 never had it been so much thronged. A dense crowd 
 lined it from end to end with eager, expectant faces, 
 and there was a ceaseless hum of animated voices; on 
 every story of every house, all the windows were wide 
 open and full of heads. From one and all waved dra- 
 peries of scarlet, white, or yellow, mixed with wreaths 
 of box and myrtle; the whole people were gathered 
 together waiting for a great event. 
 
 Every one was far too much excited and absorbed 
 to spare a moment’s thought to Mrs. Dalzell, and her 
 servant found it perfectly impossible to make way for 
 her. His strong hand and voice at last extorted an 
 answer to his question of what was going on. The 
 woman, whom he addressed, opened her large eyes, 
 and exclaimed, “Are you a Pagan, then, that you 
 don’t know it is the feast of Maria Santissima, and 
 that the Pope goes to the Popolo?” At the same 
 instant, like a rising tide, swelled out the acclamation, 
 rolling like thunder down the Corso where the triumphal 
 ‚arch rose in the distant piazza—one universal voice— 
 

 

 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 155 
 
 “The Pope eomes—the Pope comes—Viva our Pope! 
 viva Pio Nono!” and the mighty throng fell with one 
 accord on their knees to welcome him who had said, 
 “Blessed be Italy!” while passionate tears, shed not 
 by women: only, but by men old and young, testihied 
 to the adoration with which the Ninth Pius was re- 
 garded by his Romans. The long procession came 
 slowly down the Corso, between the double line of 
 people, a single mounted soldier preceded it. Such a 
 sight had never been seen before; for, on ordinary oc- 
 casions, the cardinals meet the Pope at Santa Maria 
 del Popolo; but to do honour to the new Pontiff, and 
 to please the people, they had on this day with one 
 accord sought the Quirinal, and escorted him thence, 
 each cardinal in his state coach, followed by one con- 
 taining his attendants. Round that wherein sat Pio 
 Nono, placid and smiling as he blessed the throng, 
 were his gallant and handsome guard. Down came 
 wreaths of flowers from every window as they passed, 
 till they were piled high on the Pope’s carriage—the 
 cardinals followed in long succession, and ever more 
 enthusiastically rose the shout “Viva, viva il Papa! 
 viva Pio Nono!” 
 
 But there was a suppressed undertone of angry dis- 
 satisfaction, as the coaches of the cardinals passed be- 
 fore the eyes of the people, and the dark scowling 
 faces within were seen. Some of these dignitaries leant 
 back, and seemed to hear and see nothing; others 
 frowned grimly, and all, with but two exceptions, 
 looked rather like wrathful captives dragged after a 
 triumphal car, than like men who were sympathizing 
 in the general gladness. They heard the murmurs with 
 darkening looks; two only had a cheerful and well- 
 
156 MADEMOISELLE MORI, 
 
 pleased aspect, and looked round as if the scene were 
 delightful to them. These were men well known for 
 their liberal opinions, and believed to be the Pope’s 
 chief advisers; and certain it is, that after the death of 
 one, and in the absence of the other, a striking change 
 took place in the policy of the Pontiff. As the last 
 coach went by, the crowd closed in, and followed up 
 to the Piazza del Popolo, and all who could possibly 
 enter thronged into the church, where high mass was 
 performed, but a great number, hopeless of entering, 
 returned home. Mrs. Dalzell thought she should be 
 sure of at least finding Vincenzo, and went on to the 
 palace; but her repeated ringing only brought to the 
 door a servant girl, unknown to her—short, stout, with 
 rough hair, curling all over her head; and her look of 
 surprise at the English visitor showed that foreigners 
 did not often visit the brother and sister. No one 
 was at home.. The padrona? At Santa‘ Maria del 
 Popolo. The signor and the signorina? Gone to see 
 the procession. Even Vincenzo! Mrs. Dalzell learnt 
 that her old rooms were unoccupied, and promised 
 to call again next day. She next sought Madame 
 Marriotti; who would surely be at home, for she hated 
 crowd and ceremonies, and kept away from whatever 
 other people went to see. Yet she was not to be found 
 —-gone to the Corso! Mrs. Dalzell perceived that she 
 should get the same answer wherever she went, and 
 leaving a few hastily scribbled lines for her friend, re- 
 turned to her hotel. 
 
 In the afternoon Madame Marriotti appeared, having 
 just reached home, found the note, and hurried off 
 again without any luncheon; consequently she was 
 nearly exhausted, and had to be fed and revived 
 
 ö 
 \ 
 ; 
 | 
 k 
 ‚ 
 ' 
 
 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI.. 157 
 
 before she could lucidly explain where she had 
 been. 
 
 “No—no more—not any more—” said she, in the 
 short, disconnected sentences, which sounded so odd 
 and so familiar to Mrs. Dalzell—“not any more, I 
 thank you. Oh, I am half dead. I do not know how 
 I got here, but I found your note. Zenaide said an 
 English lady—‘alia cosi,' marking the stature in the 
 air—had left it. I could hardly believe my senses. 
 What has brought you so suddenly?” 
 
 . Mrs. Dalzell explained, and Madame Marriotti un- 
 fastened her beloved old fur cloak which she still wore 
 as if it had been December, though she had prevailed 
 on herself to put on a lace bonnet, fanned heıself, 
 fidgeted, and grew composed. 
 
 “Ah, yes, I understand. Then you did not come 
 on purpose for our grand esta?” said she, with a 
 peculiar silent laugh, which glittered in her black eyes 
 and on her lips with indescribable malice; “are we not 
 all a parcel of fools,, eh?” 
 
 “] don’t know, dear madame, but I assure you I 
 ‚ found myself upon my knees, with tears in my eyes, 
 ‚ this morning. It was wonderfully grand and solemn.” 
 | “Yes, yes, yes, so. it-was, I dare say; I know at 
 the time I was as foolish as anybody, but to think that 
 ‚ we should be all bewitched into believing all this— 
  imagining that the Government and the people are 
 ‚ strong enough for it! yet I declare to you we do.” 
 
 “I do, for one.” 
 
 | “My dear, did you see the faces of the cardinals 
 ‚ to-day? The Pope, I do believe, means it all; intends 
 to go on as he has begun; but all who know anything 
 about it see that he must come to a collision with the 
 
 
 
158 MADEMOISELLE MÖRI. 
 
 priests or with the people; he can’t content both. At 
 first the priests thought it was a matter not worth inter- 
 fering in; their eyes were opened when he carried the 
 amnesty with a high hand; but now they are afraid, 
 for they know a straw would light up a revolution— 
 it's in the air, like influenza. A revolution has been 
 a word of ill omen from all ages, and that was why 
 they imprisoned Galileo; he said the world moved, they 
 wanted it to stand still; so they stopped his voice— 
 ma pur sı muove! So you went to look for Irene.” 
 
 “I did think Vincenzo would have been at home, 
 I confess.” 
 
 “No, Cecchi and that young Nota contrived to 
 convey him, before it all began, to the balcony of the 
 Cafe Nuovo—he and I and Irene were all there.” 
 
 “And I was standing just below!” 
 
 “Ah, we had something else to do besides looking 
 for acquaintances. Did you leave a message for her? 
 Oh, it is to be a surprise, is it? Well, you will see 
 her to-morrow—no, I can’t let you go there this even- 
 ing; you must come to my house, I want you. I wrote 
 to you of the child’s aeduf last spring; it was quite 
 successful—quite, and I must say it has not turned 
 her head. I don’t mean that she created a /urore, 
 but she showed what was in her; people expect her to 
 be celebrated some day; they go expressly to hear her 
 now, and she improves steadily. She is the best pupil 
 I ever had; her style is only too pure and good for the 
 degenerate ears here, who only want to be tickled, and 
 prefer Verdi to Scarlatti.” 
 
 “If I could, I would have come for that dedwt.” 
 
 “I took a box, of course; I really felt so. nervous 
 that it quite knocked me up for a week. 'The opera’ 
 
 
 
/ 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 159 
 
 was Ze Sorelle—a silly little thing, but that air— 
 
 ' La, la, la, la, you recollect, I dare say—showed off 
 
 
 
 the extent of her voice, and she quite created Elena’s 
 character; I had no notion how much she would make 
 of it. Oddly enough, you know Madame St. Simon is 
 here again, frima donna assoluta at Irene’s theatre; I 
 fancy she hates the child to that extent that she could 
 poison her.” 
 
 More details followed; Mis. Dalzell said, smilingly, 
 “T,eone has told his secret” 
 
 “Yes, the very day after her first appearance,” said 
 Madame Marriotti, indignantly. 
 
 “Then at least he kept his word, since it was not 
 the day before. You see I was right. e 
 
 “] suppose he did keep his promise; yes, I cer- 
 tainly must say he did. Though I think she began to 
 suspect at last; and if her mind had not been full of 
 her music, she would have guessed long before. He 
 is quite the head of the liberal party here, as of course 
 you know. To think of his having written all those 
 capital poems—I could hardly believe it when Irene 
 told me; we hold up our heads, and are proud of them 
 under this new rögrme. You will come to my house 
 to-night? There will be a few people, just my old 
 friends, for I don’t make new acquaintances now. No, 
 he certainly kept his promise,” said she, with one of 
 her abrupt returns to a former subject, “except that he 
 gave her a canary bird; but to be sure it was to amuse 
 Vincenzo, and a great pet he makes of it. You heard 
 the gun fire this morning, I suppose?” 
 
 “Yes, what does that signify?” 
 
 “Why, people say the Pope has it done, because 
 he can’t understand Italian time, Heaven knows why; 
 
160 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 —I never heard he was a Turk or a New Zealander, 
 
 but he got up at twelve o’clock at night instead of 
 morning, or something of that sort, and after that all 
 the clocks had to reform, like the rest of us, and go 
 by French time. The people stop one in the streets 
 and ask what hour it is, for they can’t understand the 
 new way. Ah, well, there are changes everywhere, 
 and now we all look at our watches when the gun fıres, 
 and take quite an interest in it. Oh dear, how tired I 
 am! and this new bonnet makes me feel quite ill; I 
 hate wearing new things, but Zenaide said I really 
 must, to-day.” 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell did not dislike the idea of an 
 evening at Madame Marriotti’s, especially as: the old 
 lady stayed so long, that it was too late to return to 
 the palace. In her former visit to Italy she had made 
 acquaintance with several of the little worlds of so- 
 ciety that revolve in perfectly separate orbits in Rome; 
 and on the whole there was none she liked so well as 
 that which had Madame Marriotti for a centre. It had 
 the peculiarity that those who appeared in it were for 
 the most part rather friends than mere acquaintances; 
 they had sought one another out from having some- 
 thing in common, and Madame Marriotti’s name was 
 so celebrated, that it was esteemed an honour to be 
 admitted to her rdunions, and she was considerably ex- 
 clusive, and admitted none who had not something to 
 recommend them. All who came to her house were 
 people worth meeting: every one with musical talent 
 was sure sooner or later to find his way there; but the 
 staple of her visitors were artists and musicians resident 
 at Rome. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell found the staircase better lighted than 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 161 
 
 on a former memorable visit, and that the “few friends” 
 were in fact a very large party, amongst whom she 
 recognised several who, in her former visit, had often 
 ‚caused her to smile, and silently wonder whether the 
 artist gentlemen cultivated bushy beards to counter- 
 balance the general absence of cap among the artist 
 ladies; but some of the oddest-looking people were pre- 
 cisely those who in England would have been sought 
 after as the tawniest of lions, and their peculiarities set 
 down as marks of genius! Here they were at home, 
 and looked as they pleased among other lions. 
 
 As Mrs. Dalzell entered the first of the two rooms 
 which were lighted up and filled with guests, Madame 
 Marriotti came hastily towards her and made her sit 
 down near the door of the second, beginning a rather 
 absent, preoccupied conversation, appearing afraid that 
 every one who came up to them should betray some 
 secret, and looking restlessly round as she talked at 
 random. Presently the first notes of the piano were 
 heard from the inner room; she half rose, looking very 
 eager; there was a general expectant hush, and then a 
 voice, sweet, pure, and steady, came floating through 
 the rooms, while the words— 
 
 Il buon prenze, il buon pastore, 
 Ch’ alla terra Iddio mandd, 
 
 Come un angelo del Cielo 
 Improviso a noi raggid, 
 
 told it was a hymn in honour of the popular idol, Pio 
 Nono. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell involuntarily rose and made her way 
 through the throng round the door of the second room, 
 till she could see the animated face of the singer, whose 
 charming voice she had instantly recognised. It was 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. 7. II 
 
162 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 indeed Irene, who stood by the piano, dressed in white, 
 with a gold ribbon—the Papal colours—her looks 
 inspired like those of a sybil, as she sang, from her 
 soul, the hymn written by Leone in honour of the 
 Pope, in whom they saw the messenger of Heaven 
 sent to give freedom to Italy. It was the first time it 
 had been heard; the last words of the first verse were 
 lost in a frenzy of applause, which only ceased to allow 
 her to sing the next, and burst out again and again 
 with new vehemence. As she paused amid a fresh 
 whirlwind of acclamations, Mrs. Dalzell looked at 
 Madame Marriotti and took her hand. There were 
 tears in the old lady’s eyes, and her voice was unsteady 
 as she said “Ah, there is no fame so fleeting as a great 
 singer’s; but I shall be remembered a little longer as 
 the teacher of Irene Mori. I was celebrated in my 
 time too, but I never sang so well as she, did I?” 
 
 At that moment Mrs. Dalzell perceived Leone; he 
 had glided round the piano, and was close behind 
 Irene, unseen by her. Her enthusiasm had changed 
 into a smiling indifference as the crowd surrounded her 
 with innumerable compliments. Leone bent slightly 
 and whispered a word or two in herear, and she lifted 
 her eyes to his with a look that replied so fully, so 
 eloquently, that Mrs. Dalzell involuntarily exclaimed, 
 “Ah! she will be content with love, instead of fame, 
 after all!” 
 
 An ejaculation from Madame Marriotti reminded 
 her how disagreeable to her friend she was making 
 herself; but she forgot to apologize; for, just then, 
 Irene passed through the crowd, which opened to make 
 way for her, and paused to speak to two young girls, 
 seated close to an elderly lady. One had before 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 1 6 3 
 
 attracted Mrs. Dalzell’s attention by her true Roman 
 face, with its low brow, unabashed, brilliant eyes, and 
 black wavy hair. While Irene sang, her countenance 
 had grown dark as night; it seemed as if the triumphant 
 hymn gave her actual pain; her expression was posi- 
 tively startling. The other girl seemed nearly of the 
 same age, but she was darker, shyer, more childlike, 
 with eyes like those of a fawn; and as Irene sang, they 
 were lifted up, and seemed to laugh with delight. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell asked who the two were. “That one 
 with black hair, rolled back, is the Contessina Gemma, 
 Count Clementi’s sister—you have heard of him?—a 
 noble, turned radical; the little one is Imelda Olivetti, 
 the sfosa of young Ravelli, Nota’s chief ally. Ah! 
 there the child is,” as Irene approached, perceived Mrs. 
 Dalzell, and, the words she had been about to address 
 to Madame Marriotti dying on her lips, she threw her 
 arms about her friend’s neck, with exclamations of 
 delight, regardless of the crowd. | 
 
 “Ah! I have given you both a surprise,” said Ma- 
 dame Marriotti; “now, say all you have to say as fast 
 as you can, for I shall want you to sing again pre- 
 sently; meanwhile, I suppose, Gemma Clementi can 
 manage something. Contessina, let us have that air of 
 Stradella’s, or get your brother to sing ‘Deh til conforta? 
 with you; and be sure you put sentiment into it.” 
 
 She made the girl obey, after a resistance rather 
 sullen than timid. That Madame Marriotti invited her 
 to sing in her house was sufficient proof of her capacity; 
 but Mrs. Dalzell and Irene behaved so ill as to talk 
 with Leone, in a low voice, all through the song. Irene 
 was overflowing with the doings of the morning; her 
 own affairs were quite secondary, and she had to be 
 
 ie 
 
164 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 ‚allowed to exhaust the first subject before she would 
 tell anything about her döduf, or that she had sung at 
 several private parties, chaperoned by Madame Marriotti, 
 and that she got sixteen scud« a night— quite a fortune, 
 and it would be more another season. 
 
 “You were satisfied to-night, signora?” she asked, 
 in playful certainty of the answer. 
 
 “You vain child! suppose I say no?” 
 
 “Oh, you will not say that, signora; I could not 
 help being inspired to-night,” she said, with a glance 
 at Leone. 
 
 “Ah, Signor Nola!” said Mrs. Dalzell, with a smile, 
 “] have been hearing of your misdeeds from Madame 
 Marriotti.” 
 
 “She has been my worst enemy, but I can afford 
 to forgive her now,” said Leone. 
 
 “She tells me many sad things,” said Irene; “she 
 says I am spoiled for an artist, and that I encourage 
 Leone to set up Italy as my rival; but I shall always 
 ehoose for Italy to come first; I am not afraid.” 
 
 “Italy is always to be first,” said Leone, smiling 
 proudly; “we are ready to make sacrifices when Italy 
 asks for them.” 
 
 “And Vincenzo, what does he say to your setting 
 up a rival to him, Irene?” 
 
 “Oh, signora!” exclaimed Irene, with a wounded 
 look, and she shrank away from Leone, so that Mrs. 
 Dalzell repented her words; but he took Irene’s hand, 
 saying, “There is no rivalry where there is one family; 
 Vincenzo has taken me into his, and made me rich.” 
 
 “Rich, indeed!” said Irene, recovering her bright 
 look; “he is so proud, signora! he will have nothing to 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORIL. 165. 
 
 say till he has made a fortune, though he knows long 
 betrothments are unheard of here.” 
 Mrs. Dalzell thought how this frank speaking, per- 
 fectly ladylıke and refined though Irene was, differed 
 from the bashfulness of an English girl in a like case; 
 but she could not like it less; it suited the southern. 
 maiden, who had already several times that evening 
 reminded her of Juliet. 
 
 As they. were continuing to talk of Vincenzo, 
 Gemma Clementi left the piano and presently came to. 
 Irene, whispering something to her. Irene rose, looked 
 vexed, said to Mrs. Dalzell, “I will soon return,” and 
 followed her to a little room, where cloaks and hoods 
 had been taken off. “Well, Gemma, what ıs it? I 
 want to go back.” | 
 
 “Oh, you are to sing again, of course; at all events, 
 it cannot be that hymn; it would drive me mad to hear 
 it again. Every word made me feel as if you had 
 stabbed me, and if Luigi had been there I would have 
 stabbed you,” said Gemma, clenching her hand and 
 knitting her brow. “And to see that silly child, Imelda, 
 full of delight! The world is not wide enough for us 
 two; but, at least, Ravelli loves me, and only me, 
 though they have chosen her to be his wife.” 
 
 “Did you only bring me here to say all this?” 
 
 “] hate the name of Italy—my only real rival! 
 Oh, you asked me something? No, I brought you here 
 to see Pietrucchio. I am kinder to you than you are 
 to me and Ravelli.” 
 
 She ran back into the other room, and in her place 
 stood Clementi. He was an old friend now, and Irene 
 said, without hesitation, “I am so glad to see you be- 
 fore you go.” 
 
166 MADEMOISELLE MORIL 
 
 “Before I go on a mission whose danger you well 
 know. Irene, this may be a long adieu; once before 
 you closed my lips when something escaped me of 
 another love mingling with that for our country; will 
 you do the same now? Ah! I understand; no need to 
 speak.” 
 
 “Oh, Count Clementi! you gave up your prospects 
 for a nobler love than mine!” 
 
 He looked at her fixedly and said, “When we last 
 spoke of this, you said that, though you did not love 
 me, you loved no one else?” 
 
 The words were a question, and her face replied 
 plainly. 
 
 A thousand things were in the look that flashed 
 across his face as he spoke the one word “Leone”? 
 
 “Yes,” she answered. Both stood still; that moment 
 had overthrown the schemes of three years; little stood, 
 at that moment, between Nota and a stiletto, but, even 
 in the few instants which passed while Irene stood mute 
 beside him, Clementi’s subtle brain had devised new 
 schemes. When he spoke again, it was to say “Farewell!” 
 
 “No, au revoir! You will return, you will bring 
 success; these are days for nobler things than mere 
 ‚private hopes!” said Irene, earnestly. 
 
 “When I return, if return I do, it will be to find 
 you Nota’s bride?” 
 
 “No,” she answered, “that cannot be yet, but— 
 Count Clementi—I love him.” 
 
 She meant to crush all hope, and at least she stung 
 him, so that he could barely disguise thelook of hatred 
 that crossed his face; but his voice did not betray him 
 as he said, “It is enough; the subject shall never be 
 named again, and the future still belongs to me.” 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORL 167 
 
 “Oh yes, the future, our country’s future! We have 
 that best interest in common; we have shared all the 
 past hopes and fears, a we shall have more good 
 news when you return.” 
 
 “Yes, when I return. Till chen farewell, Irene!” 
 
 He held her hand for a moment and regarded her 
 steadfastly; kissed it once, and disappeared, while she 
 returned to Mrs. Dalzell with troubled thoughts. The 
 first question was innocent and yet embarrassing enough. 
 “Was the handsome girl who called you away Count 
 Clementi’s sister?” 
 
 . “Gemma Clementi— yes.” 
 
 “A great friend?” 
 
 “We are such near neighbours that I see her con- 
 stantly now that she has come home from the convent, 
 but we are hardly friends.” 
 
 “But her brother is Vincenzo’s special ally, after 
 Signor Nota, of course.’ 
 
 “Yes, he and Luigi Ravelli.” 
 
 “And who did I hear that that pretty child is, and 
 the lady in black velvet, just what one would iancy 
 Lady Capulet to have been? She ought to wear a 
 flowing train and a hood.” 
 
 “That is Imelda Olivetti, a dear, dear child, and 
 the lady is her mother.” 
 
 “Child! she is sixteen, and Ravelli’s Zromessa 
 sposa,” said Leone. 
 
 “] love her dearly,” said Irene; “do let me intro- 
 duce her to you.” 
 
 “Thank you; but my Italian has grown rather 
 rusty: it strikes me that both it and your English 
 would be the better for a little practice, signorina.” 
 
168 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 “She is teaching me English,” said Leone, with 
 pretended alarm; “I hope she is capable of it?” 
 
 Irene shook her head saucily at the implied doubt, 
 and in fact she spoke English very well, and her 
 foreign accent was but piquant and pleasing. 
 
 Madame Marriotti came up again, and made them 
 listen to a German pianist; afterwards she sent Irene 
 to sing again, and sitting down by Mrs. Dalzell, told 
 her who different people were, while from time to time 
 old acquaintances came up to welcome the stranger 
 and remained a few minutes to talk on the inexhaustible 
 subject of the new Pope and his measures. Late in 
 the evening an ecclesiastic entered, distinguished of 
 course by his particular dress, but still more by his 
 remarkable countenance, which forcibly recalled to 
 Mrs. Dalzell’s mind a picture she had somewhere seen 
 of a Spanish saint— where, she could not remember, 
 but this man might have been the original. A thin, 
 ascetic face, the features so delicate that they would 
 have been feminine had they been a whit less austere; 
 ‚deepset eyes gleaming under a broad, pale forehead; 
 with an indescribable look as if he were accustomed 
 not only to read men, but to govern them. Such a 
 face might have belonged to the founder or reformer 
 of some rigid order; but, stern and watchful as it was 
 when at rest, it became singularly fascinating and per- 
 suasive, even seductive, when he spoke; and as he 
 entered, there was a movement and murmur among 
 those present, which showed he was a person of emi- 
 nence, and several immediately surrounded him, as if 
 proud to claim his acquaintance. His spare figure 
 seemed from its straightness to rise above those around 
 him, and he remained for some minutes the centre of a 
 
 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 169 
 
 group, answering, with calm, soft tones, the buzz of 
 eager appeal. Mrs. Dalzell noticed that Irene kissed 
 his hand as he paused near her, and that Leone was 
 one of those standing round him; and turned to express 
 her surprise to her hostess, but Madame Marriotti had 
 hurried to welcome the new comer, and remained 
 standing in deep conversation with him for some mi- 
 nutes. When she left him, he sat down near the piano, 
 speaking occasionally to his neighbours, but generally 
 listening to what went on around him, yet without 
 seeming to do so; the words appeared to float to his 
 ear, and an occasional remark showed that he heard 
 and appreciated what was said on all sides in spite of 
 the buzz of voices, in which the words “The Pope,” 
 “Amnesty,” “Cicceruacchio,” “Gizzi,” “Austrian po- 
 licy,” seemed to cross and recross each other in all 
 directions, with a freedom most significant that a new 
 regime had begun. Madame Marriotti returned to Mrs. 
 Dalzell, and whispered, “Padre Rinaldi. I don’t love 
 priests in general, but I do believe that man is a saint, 
 if there be such things now-a-days, and he has enor- 
 mous influence here; the people absolutely worship him. 
 His eloquence! you should hear him preach. I went 
 once to St. Andrea della Valle, but the crowd nearly 
 killed me—-there was not room for a reed in the 
 church. He has travelled everywhere and knows all 
 languages, and I have heard wonderful things (’m sure 
 I do not know whether they are true or not; one. can’t 
 believe half one hears, especially at Rome); but they 
 do say, that the power he had amongst some tribe of 
 savages whom he lived amongst for years, and con- 
 verted, is something too extraordinary to be believed.” 
 
 “I could believe anything of that man,” said Mrs. 
 
 
 
170 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 Dalzell, looking at him with great interest. He raised 
 his eyes and met hers at the moment, and she with- 
 drew her glance hastily, lowering her voice, as she 
 said, “There certainly is mesmerism in him; I feel 
 sure he could obtain any power he pleased over me.” 
 
 “Mesmerism! it is strictly forbidden here; perhaps 
 that means nobody but the priests are to possess it,” 
 said Madame Marriotti, who certainly had no love for 
 the Roman clergy. “You must ask young Nota about 
 him; he will have plenty to tell you; Padre Rinaldi is 
 his oracle, and certainly a reforming priest is worth 
 noting.” 
 
 There was a constant movement in the rooms, as 
 well as incessant talking, and a little crowd soon inter- 
 posed between Mrs. Dalzell and Padre Rinaldi; but 
 she still seemed to feel his eye upon her, and even 
 while laughing at herself, still declared that he pos- 
 sessed mesmeric power. 
 
 Count Clementi had disappeared an hour or two 
 before, and when she asked where he was, no one 
 seemed to know. Irene and Leone could both have 
 explained, but the matter was a secret. He had asked 
 for no pledge of silence from Irene respecting the de- 
 claration he had made, earnestly as he wished that 
 Leone should not hear of it. He rightly judged that 
 
 from her no one would ever know that he had sought 
 
 to be more than a friend. 
 
 
 
 h 
 ; 
 i 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORIL 171 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Well done, thou watcher on the lonely tower! 
 Is the day breaking? Dawns the happy hour? 
 We pine to see it:—tell us yet again, 
 
 Ifthe broad daylight breaks upon the plain. 
 
 It breaks, it comes—the misty shadows fly, 
 
 A rosy radiance gleams upon the sky; 
 
 The mountain tops reflect it calm and clear, 
 
 The plain is yet in shade, but day is near. 
 Mackay. 
 
 "MRS. DALZELL was more successful in her second 
 visit to Palazzo Clementi than she had been in her 
 first. The servant girl again opened the door, but re- 
 ceived her less wonderingly, and volunteered the infor- 
 mation, “La padrona sta a peitinarsi.’ 
 
 How many times before the same odd phrase had 
 amused the English lodger until she learnt at last to 
 comprehend that this “pectinating” process meant that 
 Madama Cecchi was laying aside her moming deshadille, 
 and preparing herself for the afternoon. She knew it 
 would be vain to expect to see her for an hour at least, 
 and went to the sitting-room of Irene and Vincenzo. 
 Both were at home, and both started up joyfully to 
 receive her, and her old favourite Tevere overwhelmed 
 her with demonstrations of delight. 
 
 The sitting-room had become thoroughly Italian in 
 her absence; the walls roughly, but very effectively 
 painted with views of Tivoli, Albano, and the Cam- 
 pagna; no carpet on the uneven brick floor, except a 
 narrow strip beside the sofa, and the furniture had a 
 stiff, formal look; the centre of the room was occupied 
 by a piano; a plaster bust of Pio Nono stood on a 
 bracket with an embroidery frame below it, and the 
 red sofa was adorned with a cushion, on which Madama 
 
272 MADEMOISELLE MORI 
 
 Cecchi, in some extraordinary fit of industry, had 
 worked a bird of Paradise with a brilliant tail. Less 
 Italian looked a small bookcase. 
 
 Vincenzo was writing in a thick manuscript book 
 as she entered; he was in his indoors costume of 
 dressing-gown and velvet cap, and he looked even 
 thinner and more of an invalid than of old; his com- 
 plexion had become that of one in confirmed ill health, 
 and the crutches near his sofa showed that he found 
 moving as difficult as ever, but his countenance was 
 bright with joy at the arrival of Mrs. Dalzell. Irene’s 
 music and his carving for some time formed the topic 
 of conversation: he had been very fortunate in obtain- 
 ing employment; Signor Trajano had been very kind 
 in recommending his works, and he was always busy. 
 Mrs. Dalzell described again to him, what she had 
 already told by letter, how good an effect some of his 
 garlands of fruit and flowers had in an English man- 
 sion, where they had been placed, and described the 
 paintings which they surrounded. When all this had 
 been told, Irene called her attention to a carnation on 
 a table. 
 
 “Yes, I have been admiring it; but how come you 
 to admit scented flowers?” 
 
 Irene and Vincenzo smiled, and the former placed 
 it before Mrs. Dalzell, who then discovered that though 
 it was a donä fide carnation plant, the flowers were 
 paper. The imitation was so good that she repeatedly 
 touched them before she could believe they were arti- 
 ficial. 
 
 “They are feigned,” said Irene, unconsciously trans- 
 lating from the Italian in which she thought. 
 
 “Imelda Olivetti made them and sent them to me.” 
 
 
 
 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 173 
 
 “But these are not finti; these are my garden,” 
 said Vincenzo, moving with difficulty to the window, 
 which he opened; “see, I have a stock, a camellia, and 
 a rose-tree, and here is the canary which Leone was 
 pleased to say he brought as a gift to me. See! 
 Tevere cannöt bear it—he is so jealous of it, that 
 when I let it out, we are obliged to put him in the 
 anteroom. Is he not a pretty fellow? white and yellow, 
 the Papal colours! And do you see the plants—the 
 goldfinch, in the window of the top story opposite?” 
 
 “Your neighbour quite beats you in colours, Vin- 
 cenzo; a red and blue cage!” 
 
 “My neighbour is an artisan, and we are great 
 friends; we water our plants and feed our birds at the 
 same hour every day; as the clock strikes, I always 
 see his black beard and purple cap appear among 
 them. I thought he must be a good fellow, he is so 
 fond of them, and he has quite tamed a little yellow 
 water-wag-tail, that is always running over the roof 
 here; I suppose he passed the same judgment on me, 
 for we always exchange nods, and look for each other. 
 Irene and I made up our minds that we would give 
 him a pleasure, and bought a rose-tree for him; he 
 only possessed stocks and wall-flowers till then, and 
 we sent it without saying whence it came; but some- 
 how he found out, and came to thank us.” 
 
 “Such a scene of gratitude!” said Irene; “and he 
 has vowed to do service whenever and wherever he 
 
 “Tust the same number of people looking out of 
 window as ever!” said Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “It is our way of taking the air,” said Vincenzo; 
 “] find it very refreshing.” 
 
 
 
L7A MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 They sat down again, and Irene continued, “I 
 showed you the carnation, signora, because I want to 
 talk to you about Imelda. It is a secret; but you stand 
 so apart from it all that it is like telling a confessor; 
 and I want advice, for Vincenzo and I are both 
 puzzled. You heard that she was Luigi Ravelli’s Zro0- 
 messa sposa,; he is an engineer now, but he was Kronght 
 up in Signor Olivetti’s studio.” 
 
 “His studio—he is a painter or a sculptor, then?” 
 
 “Oh no,” said Irene, perplexed. 
 
 Vincenzo saw the difficulty, and added, “Perhaps 
 in English the word is used differently; it only . 
 means here a place to study in. Signor Olivetti is a 
 lawyer.” 
 
 “] understand, and Signor Ravelli was his kei it 
 
 “So,” pursued Irene, “Imelda has known him all 
 her hie; the two families settled, almost as soon as she 
 was born, that their son and daughter should marry. 
 Luigi never liked the law, and he has persuaded his 
 father to let him be an engineer (you know we are to 
 have railroads now), and not marry just yet. I am 
 afraid the real reason is, that he and Gemma Clementi 
 love each other. She came home from Sta. Caterina 
 di Siena last summer, and was to have married some 
 old marchese, but he died. I wish she had! I don’t 
 know how it began, but they meet and write con- 
 tinually, and no one knows but ourselves.” 
 
 “Not here!” exclaimed Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “No, no; we could not allow that, I Ravelli 
 is a great friend of ours.” 
 
 “And Irene positively refused to give him Gemma’s 
 letters,” added Vincenzo; “consequently they have re- 
 spected her ever since.” 
 
 
 

 
 a 
 4 
 I 
 
 =% 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 175 
 
 “How can all this be if Italian girls are so a y 
 watched?” 
 
 “Perhaps it sharpens their wits for deceit, signora; 
 and besides, Contessa Clementi is an invalid, and trusts 
 to her maid and the sister-in-Jaw who lives with her, 
 and who takes very indifferent care of Gemma, I 
 suspect; indeed, Leone privately begged me not to 
 let Irene go out anywhere with her, long before the 
 signorina knew he had any right to interfere.” 
 
 “Gemma has insisted on being friends with us, but 
 I do not like her—I could not like any one who 
 
 perilled dear Imelda’s happiness,” said Irene. 
 
 “Is this family compact a very serious thing?” 
 asked Mrs. Dalzell. “Surely, the simple thing to do 
 is for Signor Luigi to tell his father the truth.” 
 
 “It would be in vain,” said Vincenzo; “Signor 
 Ravelli is quite despotic—a hot-headed, kind, tyran- 
 nical old man, never opposed by any one in his own - 
 family; he would only think Luigi a foolish boy, and 
 not listen. He cannot understand that his son can be 
 grown up. DBesides, the Clementi would never consent, 
 though they are decadente; Ravelli is not even a count 
 in the provinces.” 
 
 “Do the Olivetti family know how they are risking 
 their daughter’s happiness?” 
 
 “They would not believe it. They would think 
 this a silly affair which the marriage would end, and 
 Imelda has been taught from childhood to consider 
 Luigi as her future husband. She is such a child that 
 she does not see that he only likes her as a sister.” 
 
 “OQ, signora, don’t you think Luigi must find out 
 how much better a wife she would make him than 
 Gemma, who is so intensely selfish?” 
 
176 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 “Who cannot endure to see him pat Tevere here; 
 she would poison anything he loved, she is so jealous 
 and violent; and he is as blind as a bat to it, or taking 
 it all for love!” said Vincenzo. 
 
 “She even dislikes to hear Italy spoken of, because 
 she thinks he cares too much about it,” said Irene; 
 “but she knows better than to let him see that.” 
 
 “And Imelda cares for Italy just because he does 
 —-neither of them have a spark of real patriotism, but 
 I can forgive her. The thing that puzzles me is, why 
 Clementi, who sees everything, lets this go on. Per- 
 haps he might, after all, let her marry a commoner. 
 He has come with her several times when Luigi was 
 here, and yet seemed to notice nothing, I cannot make 
 it out.” 
 
 “Yet you like him?” 
 
 “Indeed I do, he has made noble sacrifices—he 
 goes too far, I own, but of course he must be spurred 
 by the fear that men may suspect him of a leaning to 
 his old party.” 
 
 “AndtCecchip 
 
 Vincenzo shook his head. “Cecchi is becoming a 
 fanatic, quiet as he seems; once set him off, and you 
 have a regular Jacobin. I don’t like his principles; 
 he is mad about equality, and republics, and socialism, 
 and such stuff. Our best men see that what we really 
 want is a constitutional government, such as we shall 
 have if people will but wait; Rome was not built in a 
 day, nor will it be reformed in one; but Cecchi and 
 his party call us moderates, Pope’s men; they are ab- 
 sorbed at present in one great body of liberals, but I 
 am afraid they will split with it soon. Such as Cecchi 
 would stick at nothing to compass their ends, and yet 
 
 
 
2 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI: rg, 
 
 you know how mild and amiable the man is in private 
 life. I only hope the Government will hold them well 
 in, for they would make small account of men’s lives 
 if they stood in their way. There have been many 
 assassinations of late years.” 
 
 “Not in Rome?” 
 
 “No, in the provinces; but if a man stabs another, 
 to this day they say in the Trastevere, “Poor fellow! 
 he has murdered such a one,’ and all agree to hide 
 km? 
 
 “Because they think he must be brave,” said 
 Irene. | 
 
 “There! you see she understands the feeling. As 
 if there could be bravery in a cowardly sudden blow 
 with the stiletto! Fair fight, face to face, Ican admire; 
 but you see, those who justify assassination say it is 
 the only means to get justice where fear and bribery 
 rule everything.” 
 
 “Their reign is over now! These three last have 
 been wonderful years,” said Irene, triumphantly. 
 
 “Yes, so Vincenzo’s letters showed me.” 
 
 “My letters! If I had told you half what I might! 
 You little guessed how much more there was to tell— 
 what risks we were all running! You must know that 
 Leone was the very soul of what Government would 
 have called a plot, what I call a propaganda; though 
 perhaps the reverend fathers here, Loyola’s disciples, 
 might object to that use of the word,” said Vincenzo, 
 maliciously. “The object was to spread liberal opinions, 
 and give men some definite idea what to aim at, reform 
 and freedom for Italy, but no driving away of kings 
 and attempts at impossible republics. The thing was 
 to get this into people’s heads, but the very mention of 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. T. i2 
 
 
 
178 MADEMOISELLE MORI 
 
 such ideas was as much as one’s life was worth. We 
 
 all knew we risked life and liberty. There were Nota, 
 Cecchi, Ravelli, and Donati at first, who planned and 
 organized the measures to be taken, then myself. We 
 
 wrote, and got our papers printed in England, or eir- 
 
 culated them in MS. Irene can tell you who copied 
 many of them; it was in fact a kind of secret society, 
 
 and in these three years our progress has been worth 
 
 all the danger— we are counted by hundreds all over 
 the Papal States; but it was perilous work. You can’t 
 be sure among numbers that some won’t boast or 
 betray; we were standing on a mine with a lighted 
 match in it.” 
 
 “Leone might well say that, if I realized his posi- 
 
 tion, I should not promise him Irene,” said Mrs. Dalzell; 
 “was this your care of her, Vincenzo?” 
 
 “Signora,” he answered seriously, “there are things 
 more precious than even life or liberty; we are Italians, 
 and she is Nota’s promised wife. This was no play; 
 it was life and death in thorough earnest. We had to 
 distrust the very air we breathed. The danger from 
 the over-zealous, like Cecchi, was as great as it was 
 from traitors. Over and over again Leone’s room was 
 searched; more than once, I am convinced, a spy came 
 here under pretext of buying my carvings. I assure 
 you there were days when every ring at the bell was 
 as startling as if the police must be outside. 
 
 Irene lent her head on her hand and sighed. She 
 knew more about a conspiracy now than in the ei 
 of the Paslorale. 
 
 “I can hardly fancy such boys organizing a serious 
 plot!” said Mrs. Dalzell; “Nota himself not seven-and- 
 twenty—there was Cecchi, to be sure.” 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 179 
 
 “It ıs only the young who have hope or courage: 
 enough to shape the future,” said Vincenzo; “besides, 
 Leone has a wonderful power of inspiring other people 
 with his own brave, ardent spirit. Twice it seemed all 
 over with us—the first time just before I knew any- 
 thing about it, when poor Donati was arrested, and 
 copies of papers and some of Leone’s poems were 
 found on him; but he kept the secret well. Poor 
 fellow! we thought the amnesty would have given him 
 back to us, but he has never been heard of. Again, 
 in ’46, the police had certainly got information, but 
 Pope Gregory died, and all proceedings were stopped; 
 for the city was like a seething cauldron, and Govern- 
 ment was afraid of exciting the people. And since that 
 we have been able to stand forth in daylight, thank 
 Heaven; no one is persecuted for being a liberal now, 
 and Rome is proud of her poet and zmprovisatore.’ 
 
 “Yes,” said Irene; “but still you tell the signora all 
 this in confidence, Vincenzo.” 
 
 “] do—there is no need to say much about it. 
 Still, now that I look back, it seems marvellous all 
 went well—such hair-breadth ’scapes! We never could 
 have got our papers from England, if one of our as- 
 sociates had not belonged to the Custom-house, and 
 another traded from Marseilles to Ostia. Our chief 
 opponent was Madama Cecchi—we were obliged to 
 let her into the secret, and she and Cecchi had suffered 
 so much from his meddling with conspiracy before, 
 that no wonder she dreaded it; but she came into it 
 at last.” 
 
 “It appears to me, that the women are the chief 
 sufferers, after all, Vincenzo.” 
 
 “They are proud to accept that part, since they 
 
 12” 
 
180 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 cannot take a more active one, signora,” said Irene, 
 raising her head and smiling. 
 
 “Did Clementi know of all this?” 
 
 “Not till quite the end of Pope Gregory’s days. 
 Naturally our friends had not the same confidence in 
 him as we have; his being Monsignore Clementi’s 
 nephew was of course very much against him, but all 
 know what he really is now.” 
 
 There was a pause, Mrs. Dalzell confounded by 
 what she heard, and Vincenzo mentally reviewing those 
 days of danger, anxiety, hope, and triumph. Irene 
 broke it by saying, “We have gone a long way from 
 Imelda. What do you say about that, signora?” 
 
 “Well, my dear child, I don’t know what to say. 
 I don’t see that you can do anything, but it is a dis- 
 agreeable position for you to be in. Do you see much 
 of these girls?” 
  “Gemma is always slipping in, and she has made 
 friends with Imelda; I cannot think why, for I know 
 she hates her.” 
 
 “Cannot you guess? I can, though Leone says I 
 am a thorough Englishman, slow and sure. "These 
 Italians are so conceited, signora,” said Vincenzo, look- 
 ing playfully at his sister; “they think no one knows 
 anything but themselves. Why, don’t you see, she 
 meets Ravelli at Casa Olivetti?” 
 
 “Oh, Vincenzino! that would be too treacherous!” 
 
 “Much she thinks of that! Ravelli angers me most; 
 he is the most honourable fellow in everything else, 
 but the fact is he laughs at the family compact.” 
 
 “Zitto! there ıs Gemma herself,” said Irene, as a 
 rapid knock came at the door, and Gemma entered. 
 She certainly looked very handsome, even in the un- 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 181 
 
 tidy morning costume which displeased Mrs. Dalzell’s 
 English eye. She looked startled at finding a visitor, 
 but replied readily in French when Mrs. Dalzell ad- 
 dressed her, and explained that she had come to 
 practise some music with Irene, wich was to be sung 
 next day at the Amateur Philharmonic Society; and 
 she showed that she knew how to make herself agree- 
 able, by her polite remarks to Mrs. Dalzell on Irene’s 
 singing and acting. Her own was quite as good—at 
 least the latter, Vincenzo muttered in English. She 
 looked at him with a rapid penetrating glance, like her 
 brother’s, as if she divined what he said; and then, 
 standing by the piano while Irene opened her music, 
 whispered, “Pietrucchio is gone; he bade me tell you 
 to give this to Ravelli yourself.” Irene saw the direc- 
 tion was in the count’s handwriting, and she had no 
 choice but to accept the commission. They had scarcely 
 begun to sing, when a knock came at the door again, 
 and a lady’s maid signed to Gemma to come out, and 
 they heard the words, “The signora contessa wants 
 you; I heard your aunt say you were with your em- 
 broidery mistress in her room, but you had better 
 come in directly.” 
 
 Gemma returned, and said she was obliged to go, 
 and she disappeared with the cameriera. 
 
 “There!” said Vincenzo, emphatically. “What has 
 she given you, Irene? I dare say she has slipped in 
 a note! What do you think of her, signora? a hand- 
 some, false face, is it not?” 
 
 They were again interrupted; this time by the ap- 
 pearance of Madama Cecchi, enthusiastically delighted 
 to see Mrs. Dalzell, who further delighted her by pro- 
 ducing an English gift for her—a case of Sheffield 
 
182 MADEMOISELLE MORIT, 
 
 scissors. "The padrona made a sweeping and stately 
 reverence, and received them as though they were made 
 of diamonds. On hearing that Mrs. Dalzell was coming 
 to lodge with her again, she said she had fully hoped 
 and expected it; she believed no tenant had ever left 
 her without its being a day of mourning on both sides; 
 she had suffered so much in parting from them, that 
 she had resolved never to let herself feel affection for 
 them again. 
 
 “You forget the Russian general,” said the malici- 
 ous Vincenzo. 
 
 “Ah, Heaven! the Russian general! what a man! 
 what a man! Impossible to please him — what I 
 suffered at that time none know, but I and Heaven! 
 Only an educated person can suffer so,” said she, clasping 
 her hands on her heart. “Always dissatisfied, always 
 calling for his man, or Nino, or me—.never quiet one 
 moment; a voice like thunder, a step like Atlas! 
 Enough! He returned last winter — he never knew 
 what he made me undergo; I was robust, I had a fine 
 figure before he came, but I grew lean, a sight to 
 horrify! My friends used to say, ‘But what is it? 
 what is the matter with you?’ and I], “Nothing, nothing 
 at all;’ for I have a certain spirit, I never complain. 
 As I said, he returned last year, and, like all my 
 lodgers, remembered me, and brought me a beautiful 
 present, which I will show you, and he asked if I had 
 lodgings to let again. I had an apartment vacant, but 
 I told him it was let for the season — he enters my 
 house no more. Imagine, dear signora, on the coldest 
 nights he would spend hours in pacing the corridors, 
 and saying he was too hot; while he admitted the night 
 air through the whole house by leaving the door wide 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORL.. 183 
 
 open — a draught as dangerous as a stroke from a 
 dagger! Ah, what a man!” 
 
 “And then he quarrelled with a Polish family who 
 happened to live at a corner of this floor,” said Vin- 
 cenzo, “and sent them word that they must leave the 
 palace or he must.” 
 
 “How did it end?” 
 
 “Oh, both stayed, but they were natural enemies, 
 always at war.” 
 
 “What has become of Filomena and Agata, signora? 
 I see you have new servants.” 
 
 The laughing glance exchanged between brother 
 and sister showed that this, too, was a sore subject 
 with the padrona. 
 
 “Agata is married,” said she, “well married to a 
 baker in the Babuino, whence I get all my bread; but 
 as for that other — ah, signora! what misery servants 
 are! in every house in Rome is tribulation on account 
 of them. You recollect how good that girl was? We 
 used to call her Saint Filomena, on account of the 
 purity of her manners.. Honest,” continued the padrona, 
 counting on her fingers, “that is one. Agile, two. Of 
 a good heart, three. Enough. ‚She met with a lover, 
 a birbante, an ıdle fellow, who turned her head. I 
 preached to her in vain. I said, “This cannot con- 
 tinue; marry at once, or give him up.” 
 
 “I shall report this advice to Leone,” said Vincenzo, 
 thereby winning the padrona’s hearty laugh, but, never- 
 theless, she continued to detail her troubles. “In vain, 
 absolutely in vain. Did she go to the door — there 
 he was. Did I send her on an errand; he was leaning 
 on the chains in the piazza, and she took three hours 
 to perform what should have taken as many minutes. 
 
184 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 At last I said she was the scandal of the palace, and: 
 must leave me in a month. She went that day, and 
 sent her sister to say she should come back no more. 
 But what a girl!” 
 
 “The end of it was that she displeased the drrbante 
 by ciwveiteria,” said Vincenzo. 
 
 “How?” 
 
 “Coquetry; did you never see two little czvezte 
 coquetting together?” said Irene, putting her head on 
 one side, and looking exactly like a czveifa owl, while 
 Madama Cecchi completed the portrait by mimicking 
 its petulant cry. 
 
 “And he declared that he would poniard her, and 
 then himself, and end his days on a scaffold,” con- 
 tinued Vincenzo; “I don’t know how he meant to do 
 all three, but he contented himself with giving her a 
 good beating.” ' 
 
 “You have not as pretty a maid now, signora,” 
 said Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “No, ugly, very ugly, but swift — she runs like 
 the wind; she ıs a little demon. The other is pretty, 
 Menica. You have not seen her yet. She is discreet, 
 too, a nun in her conduct.” 
 
 “I shall beg to have the pretty one to wait on me. 
 Now, signora, can we settle about my rooms, or must 
 we wait for Signor Cecchi?” 
 
 “Cecchi!” began the padrona, in a tone of profound 
 contempt at the idea of his interfering with her domestic 
 arrangements; but instantly subsiding into politeness, 
 “it will be a happiness for him to have the signora as 
 his tenant again. How often have we spoken of you, 
 and I have said, ‘Do not fear, Nino; she will return, 
 she will honour us again with her presence’ That is 
 
 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 185 
 
 his way. The signora will see when he hears she is 
 in Rome, what joy — Nino! Ni!” 
 
 “Che 2? What is it?” asked the pleasant voice 
 of her husband, as he advanced into the room. “Ah, 
 what is this! the English signora! I am too happy 
 to see her returned to us. How is ıt I did not hear 
 of it?” 
 
 “I came in too late to tell you last night, and you 
 were gone out before I was up this morning,” said 
 Irene. 
 
 “The signora has come to ask if we have an apart- 
 ment for her, Ni!” 
 
 “Per Bacco!” exclaimed Cecchi in utter consterna- 
 tion, “I have just met with a Prussian baron and pro- 
 mised it to him! How could I guess you would have 
 let it in my absence?” 
 
 “See, signora,” said the padrona, without even a 
 reproachful look at her husband, “I should have been 
 charmed to have you here again: you would have been 
 welcome as rain in August; it pierces my heart to lose 
 you, but you hear! Husbands are ever the masters— 
 what can I do?” 
 
 “But I say, I should have been grateful — too 
 happy to have the signora here!” exclaimed Nino, 
 driven to despair by this speech; “what can I say — 
 what can I do? I will go to the baron; I will tell 
 him how it is;.he is a man of honour, a gentleman, he 
 will understand — excuse, signora,” and he rushed 
 out breathless. 
 
 “Let us go to your apartment, signora,” said the 
 padrona, composedly, as if nothing had occurred; “there 
 may be some improvement we could have the pleasure 
 of making for you.’ 
 
 
 
186 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 She led the way, Mrs. Dalzell followed, struggling 
 not to smile, and Irene and Vincenzo fairly gave way 
 to the laughter they had hardly suppressed for the last 
 five minutes. 
 
 CHAPTER IE 
 With a gentle leap 
 
 The rill runs o’er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep 
 
 Fantastically tangled; the green hills 
 
 Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
 
 The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
 
 Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass; 
 
 Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, 
 
 Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
 
 Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; 
 
 The sweetness of the violet’s deep blue eyes, 
 
 Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its skies. 
 
 Childe Harold. 
 THE theatres had just re-opened, and Irene, besides 
 still continuing to study regularly with Madame Mar- 
 riotti, was much occupied by rehearsals and per- 
 formances. She was a very conscientious cantatrice, 
 studying all her parts, great and small, with equal care, 
 and giving in consequence to each a peculiar cast of 
 her own, so that the public sometimes hardly knew 
 whether to approve of her deviations from established 
 traditions; but she was beginning to be well known as 
 a cantatrice of great promise and of an excellent school, 
 and was already becoming the favourite singer at the 
 theatre where she was engaged, though she had Ma- 
 dame St. Simon, a beauty and a celebrity, to eclipse her. 
 Irene was entirely devoted to her profession; she 
 
 had set an ideal standard of perfection before her, and 
 did not need to be told that she had not yet reached 
 it. Indeed, she was sometimes amusingly indignant 
 that the public were so easily satisfied, and was out of 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 187 
 
 all patience when she discovered how far most of her 
 companions made a very little pains go. Her theatrical 
 life had two sides — one noble and animating, the 
 other so bitter and depressing that at times she was 
 almost disgusted with her art itself. The Zracasseries 
 of the theatre, the character of many of her associates, 
 the spite, envy, and malice which seemed to influence 
 everything, great or small, these were absolutely revolt- 
 ing to the young cantatrice, whose own life had been 
 so singularly guarded. Some of those, amongst whom 
 she was thrown had characters as unblemished as her 
 own, and amongst these she counted not a few friends; 
 but there were others who heartily disliked her, and 
 threw every imaginable obstacle in her way. Madame 
 St. Simon pretended to look loftily down on her young 
 rival, (declared their styles did not correspond, and 
 never appeared on nights when Irene did; and infinite 
 were the scenes of rebellion and confusion caused by 
 her among the corps dramatigue, which the manager 
 had to soothe, threaten, and force into tranquillity, 
 favouring the rivals alternately, both being too impor- 
 tant to be sacrificed, and the one being as high-spirited 
 as the other was unreasonable, ‘and all the other per- 
 formers siding vehemently with one or the other. Irene 
 now knew why Mrs. Dalzell had shrunk from such a 
 life for her, but usually she considered her profession 
 as apart from all these vexations, loved it thoroughly, 
 and, dauntless and hopeful, rose lightly above vexa- 
 tions and difficulties; or at worst was only dispirited 
 till she had talked them over with Vincenzo. 
 
 Illness brings .out the feminine side of a man’s 
 character, and this was probably the explanation of 
 Vincenzo’s peculiar feelings towards his sister. Irene’s 
 
188 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 hopes, Irene’s future, were his own. Whatever con- 
 cerned her touched him; on her was centred a devoted, 
 unselfish love, which was beyond price. Another might 
 love her more passionately, but none could do so better 
 than Vincenzo. Their parts had been reversed in life 
 — the sıster took the active share; the brother re- 
 garded her with a woman’s devotion. He had felt only 
 happiness in her engagement to Leone; which would. 
 give her a protector and secure her happiness. Vin- 
 cenzo’s feeling on this subject never varied. Irene was 
 ever his chief thought; he knew all about her compa- 
 nions, her difficulties at the theatre, as well as she did 
 herself. Every one of her parts was studied with him; 
 he was the most patient of critics, and as there were 
 sometimes between them the differing opinions and 
 free discussion that elicit truth, she owed not a little 
 to his observations. 
 
 Irene had been a good sister. Her temper might 
 be high and impatient with others, but with him never. 
 In the early days of his illness his despondent moods 
 were always met by her with the gentlest patience; she 
 was never too busy or too anxious to idle away as 
 much time beside his sofa as he liked; she never let 
 her own affairs engross her or trouble him when he 
 was unfit for them. Those who only saw her outside 
 Vincenzo’s room, could never have guessed how tender 
 and patient the mirthful high-spirited girl could be; in 
 truth, her buoyant temperament was a great blessing 
 both to her and to Vincenzo, who needed a gayer 
 spirit to make sunshine for him — he enjoyed it as a 
 chilly invalid does a summer’s day. None, however, 
 could now call him despondent or irritable. Mrs. 
 Dalzell saw that he had found out the solution of the 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 189 
 
 problem that had harassed him; he was in truth con- 
 tented with his lot, but neither she nor Irene guessed 
 how sharp had been the contests he had fought and 
 won between those four walls where his life seerned 
 destined to be passed. He need hardly have wished 
 Irene to have any protector but himself; though their 
 natural position in life had been exchanged, she 
 thoroughly trusted his judgment and put entire con- 
 fidence in him, and her affection for him was so great 
 that it was wonderful how Leone contrived to steal any 
 of it away. Perhaps, however, the best proof of how 
 much he had obtained, was her fear lest Vincenzo 
 should fancy he was less to her in any way than be- 
 fore. But hers was a generous young heart, quite 
 capable of containing brother and lover and her art be- 
 sides: it knew nothing of that kind of selfish absorption 
 into one person, which sometimes seems to make the 
 family of a bride nothing to her in comparison with 
 the new love. Leone could not have been Leone had 
 he grudged to share her with Vincenzo, his tried friend, 
 with whom had been divided all the perils of the past 
 eventful years. They had risked their lives, hand in 
 hand, as it were, for the same great object, the object 
 which had been Leone’s boyish dream and the aim of 
 his manhood, the independence of Italy. With years 
 his course of thought had advanced, deepened, widened, 
 but never varied. The dream of a strong. mind be- 
 comes a purpose, an action—and life had not smiled 
 so softly on him as to lull him into forgetfulness. He 
 lived with the knowledge that, sooner or later, for this 
 cherished hope he must sufter, and he had not breathed 
 a word that could link Irene’s fate to his own till the 
 
190 MADEMOISELLE MORL, 
 
 dangerous time had passed and the new reign changed 
 all things. et | 
 Leone might be looked on as the leader of a large 
 party, who demanded first the freedom of Italy, then 
 gradual reform, and stood between the Republicans and 
 the Gregoriani, as those were called who had maäde 
 fortunes under the old reign, detested each change as if 
 it had been a new heresy, and were under Austrian 
 influence. These and the ultra-liberals unconsciously 
 worked together, and spread discontent even among 
 the perpetual feasts and processions which now had 
 become almost a necessity to the Romans, whose 
 southern nature, and the training of nearly two thou- 
 sand years, made triumphs and demonstrations and ex- 
 citement meat and drink to them. The same nature 
 disposed them to plots, lotteries, and games of chance; 
 they had grown accustomed to conspiracy under pre- 
 ceding Popes, and all the horrible executions, fines, 
 and imprisonments only smothered the flame in one 
 place to make it break out more widely in another, 
 and induced a cowardly ferocity, instead of the brave, 
 firm spirit which alone ennobles a people. Already, 
 there were evil symptoms; the temporizing, cautious 
 reforms aroused suspicion, the bad harvests excited dis- 
 content, though Pio Nono’s charity at the time of dis- 
 tress spread his personal popularity, if possible, wider 
 than ever. The Gregoriani fanned the discontent for 
 one end, the ultra-liberals for another; pamphlets and 
 papers, advocating violent measures, began to be widely 
 circulated, printed either secretly or under the kind of 
 demi-freedom granted to the press; and there were 
 tumults in the provinces, and the general hatred for 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 191 
 
 the priests, especially for the Jesuits, began to show 
 itself. Already the cry had been heard in the streets, 
 “Death to the Neri! Long live the Bianchi!” old 
 names which began. to be applied to the Priests and 
 the Liberals; there was an electric thrill abroad, but 
 Pio Nono was still in the height of his popularity; still 
 the crowds flocked to the Quirinal to receive his bless- 
 ing from the balcony; still when he visited the pro- 
 vinces, he was received with indescribable enthusiasm; 
 the families to whom the amnesty had given back be- 
 loved relations blessed him, and a new and sincere 
 spirit of devotion prevailed at Rome. The people had 
 been so much oppressed under preceding reigns that 
 every improvement, however small, was received as if 
 it came straight from heaven; how much more such an 
 unexpected and extensive reformation as that which 
 began with the rule of Pio Nono? 
 
 Public events touched Irene and Vincenzo only as 
 they did every Roman of every class. All took a 
 lively interest in them, and parties ran high; but as 
 yet. no hearth or home was troubled by the course they 
 took. Leone had an active share in them, and daily 
 brought reports of all that was passing, but both he 
 and Irene had a livelihood to win, and were fully oc- 
 cupied. There was a prospect of their marriage. If 
 Leone could rise to a higher post in the Dateria, his 
 salary would justify him ın taking a wife; he had 
 not hitherto been able to afford such a luxury, and all 
 the money he and his friends could muster had been 
 spent in printing and circulating their writings. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell, who thought that Irene gave herself 
 too little relaxation, made her come out with her when- 
 ever a vigil closed the theatres, and gave at once 4 
 
192 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 holiday to the actors and time for serious thought t 
 
 the public. One afternoon she proposed to visit the 
 Corsiniı Gardens, where, as it chanced, she had never 
 been. She had been interested by what she heard of 
 Imelda Olivetti, and proposed to Irene to take her with 
 them. Irene was uncertain, she doubted whether Signora 
 Olivetti would consent. She did not believe any one 
 but an Englishwoman would have proposed such a 
 thing; a Roman would have been afraid of the respon- 
 sibility. 
 
 “My dear, what responsibility?” 
 
 “Oh, a girl might make some acquaintance, or get 
 into mischief. I know the padrona would say, ‘If 
 such a one asked me to take her daughter a far due 
 passt, 1 would; but for proposing it myself—gzusto!’” 
 
 “] wonder if all Italians are as good mimics as you 
 and the padrona?” said Mrs. Dalzell, laughing; “you 
 all act by nature, I believe.” 
 
 “Yes, when I see the English, I perceive that they 
 keep their hands still, they do not raise their voices. 
 I could not say two words in that wooden way; and 
 even Vincenzo, though he is so English, has fingers 
 that speak like ours, instead of being silent like yours. 
 As for acting, you know girls are taught to recite, just 
 as they are to work.” 
 
 “To work, my dear! Menica has just told me she 
 cannot mend this hole in my skirt.” 
 
 “Oh, she is poor. Mistresses do not like a girl to 
 work; they say, if she works well, she sits idle like a 
 lady, and does nothing else. But girls in the upper 
 classes have a mistress to teach them—Imelda has 
 one, and Gemma too; you know she brought in her 
 frame yesterday.” | 
 
 
 
 
 
 DS GE rn a a Te 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 193 
 
 “That is another peculiarity of yours. You do 
 plain work with a cushion, and what you call Zroderie 
 Anglaise in a frame, but in England embroidery has 
 long been out of fashion—I dare say we shall have it 
 back some day.” 
 
 “Do you know that we express Er good plain 
 work by saying ‘It is sewn like an Englishwoman’s 
 work.’ Imelda made teaching me to embroider an ex- 
 euse for our meetings, and I taught her English, and 
 Signora Olivetti liked that, or I hardly suppose she 
 would have let us be intimate, for Iam a Protestant, 
 and—though that is not so bad—an actress,” said 
 Irene, raising her graceful head with smiling pride. 
 “But the Olivetti have rather taken the liberal side; 
 they pique themselves on enlightened opinions. They 
 were once in England, and the signora talks about 
 English education, and has kept Imelda at home, and 
 given her a very good one; she has learnt French, and 
 work, and geography, and history, and music.” 
 
 “] thought you all learnt music?” 
 
 “Oh, not thoroughly; that is an English mistake. 
 But there are very good voices and correct ears among 
 the Romans. You ought to go to the Philharmonic. 
 Signora Olivetti has never let Imelda be out of her 
 sight; they go very little into society, but she is rather 
 a friend of Madame Marriotti’s, and that is how they 
 came to be there. "The other night, Gemma went with 
 them; she has such a good voice that Madame Marriotti 
 is glad to have her; though, if you asked her,” said 
 Irene, putting on precisely the little fairy’s expression, 
 “she would say, ‘Oh; I can’t bear the girl, and I know 
 she hates me; but then, in a way I like any one who 
 sings as she does’ So now we will see if Signora 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. 1. 13 
 
194 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 Olivetti’s liberality extends to letting us have Imelda, 
 but I shall wonder very much if she says yes.” 
 
 Signora Olivetti, however, graciously consented, 
 perhaps prepossessed by Mrs. Dalzell’s appearance; and 
 the pretty Imelda joined them, blushing and trembling 
 with shyness and delight at so unusual an expedition. 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell found her Italian more available than 
 Imelda’s English, as she did not mind making mistakes, 
 and Imelda did, and after every phrase looked at Irene, 
 to see if it were correct. 
 
 They took their way towards Ponte Sisto, Mrs. 
 Dalzell observing, “I said the carriage should come for 
 us, but it will be pleasanter to walk there.” 
 
 Imelda said, “,Sz, signora,” and no more, till pre- 
 sentliy she whispered, “Are we not walking very 
 fast?” 
 
 “Not for English people,” said Irene. “Are you 
 afraid that some one should see you? The other day, 
 Madama Cecchi spoke to me seriously about the pace 
 at which I walk, and said it was really shocking, and 
 yet here is Mrs. Dalzell hardly able to go slow enough 
 for us.” 
 
 “Ah!” said Imelda, with a sudden flush of bright 
 pleasure, as, raising her little hand in the air, she 
 fluttered her fingers in greeting to some one in a car- 
 riage full of gentlemen. One of them lifted his hat 
 as they drove by, and Irene said, “Ah, Luigi Ravelli.” 
 
 It sent a pang to Mrs. Dalzell’s kind heart to see 
 how that momentary meeting had lighted up the young 
 girl’s sweet, childlike face; fate had surely dealt hardly 
 with her in linking one so affectionate and inexperienced 
 to a man who deemed marriage with her almost n 
 worst evil that could befall him. 
 

 
 3% Me 
 
 
 
un ’ 
 
 a 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 105 
 
 “You have known Signor Ravelli all your life?” 
 she asked. 
 “Always. He was the same age as a brother of 
 mine who died. Carlo was very fond of him, and 
 while they were both in education, they, and others, 
 used constantly to go with their Pedante to play in a 
 large garden, which we have, some way from our house, - 
 and then they were together in papa’s studio.” 
 
 “I am afraid I don’t know what a Pedante means.” 
 Imelda looked as much abashed as if the want of 
 comprehension had been hers, and Irene came to her 
 aid. 
 
 “You know people don’t like their sons to go to 
 and from school alone, or to walk by themselves; so 
 they have some one, who is called a Pedante, who takes 
 charge of several boys, and walks out with them on 
 Sundays and feszas.’ 
 
 “How long are boys kept under this surveillance?” 
 
 “Till thirteen or fourteen.”’ 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell thought of English schoolboys. 
 
 “And you used to meet in the garden, signorina?” 
 she continued. 
 
 “Oh no,” said Imelda, scandalized. “I used to go 
 there with mamma at other times—never when the 
 boys were there. Oh, Irene, do you hear?” 
 
 A door was open, and a mother was lulling her 
 child to rest with Leone’s hymn. They had reached 
 the bridge, and stopped to look at the view, perhaps 
 the most beautiful of all those seen from the Roman 
 bridges. Looking towards the hills, the Tiber was 
 spanned by Ponte Rotto, under which the old black 
 mills were turning ceaselessly, almost level with the 
 tawny water; the sunshine fell full on the ruins of the 
 
 13* 
 
196 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 Palatine, about the base of which had gathered a crowd 
 of modern buildings; a brick Campanile, of the middle 
 ages, rose high above them against the blue sky, which 
 was seen through its open arches; beyond, were the 
 Latin Hills; on the other hand, St. Peter’s stood pre- 
 eminent in the distance; nearer, a stack of picturesque 
 old houses were half hidden by orange trees, where 
 golden fruit clustered thickly; women leant from the 
 windows, long lines of flapping clothes hung out to 
 dıy; below, the ferry boat was crossing the river, im- 
 pelled by the current—modern and ancient Rome all 
 mingled together—everywhere were thrilling names 
 connected with all that was most glorious in the past. 
 The moderns are richer than their ancestors, the past 
 is theirs as well as the present! 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell thought of the past; Irene, as she 
 listened to the young mother’s singing, thought of the 
 future. "They were aroused at last by perceiving that 
 a respectable middle-aged man was regarding them with 
 extreme perplexity; he looked up the river towards the 
 Palatine, down to Monte Mario—still he could see 
 nothing that explained the pause and interest of the 
 ladies, and after another steadfast look at them and at 
 the river, he gave an audible grunt of dissatisfied 
 marvel, and walked on. They moved too, Mrs. Dalzell 
 saying, “A worthy man, not given to poetry. What 
 part do such as he take in politics?” 
 
 Irene looked back at him. “An artısan, tolerably 
 well off, discontented with things as they are, but not 
 ready to sacrifice anything for the sake of improving 
 them. There is little patriotism in such as he.” 
 
 “Do you know him?” asked Imelda, wondering. 
 
 “Not in the least, but I know how his class feel.” 
 

 
 
 
 
 

 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORL, 197 
 
 “I wish I were as old and as clever as you. Signor 
 Nota tells you about these things,” said Imelda, with 
 a sigh, in which there was no envy, but a conscious- 
 ness that Ravelli did not think her worthy of discussing 
 politics with him. “I remember I have heard papa 
 and Signor Ravelli talk of—What can that be?” 
 
 They stopped in great alarm at the frightful shrieks 
 which burst from a house in the bye street where they 
 now were. A few people were gathered about the 
 door, where a hired carriage was waiting; there was 
 compassion on their faces, and Irene learned that a 
 child had been killed by an accident, and that now it 
 was to be carried away to the church, but the mother 
 would not believe it was dead, nor allow it to be 
 touched. The hysterical screams were appalling. Imelda 
 shrank close to Mrs. Dalzell, but Irene exclaimed, “I 
 will be back directly,” and went into the house. 
 
 No effect ensued, the crowd thickened, then a 
 murmur was heard among those on the outside, and 
 all turned eagerly to a priest, who walked straight 
 through them, and disappeared into the house. Mıs. 
 Dalzell had instantly recognised him, and the manner 
 in which the people repeated his name told how well it 
 was known. Gradual silence followed his presence in 
 the house of mourning; next, several men came out 
 bearing a bier covered with a pall on which was a 
 silver cross, and a few women followed, holding lighted 
 candles; the little corpse was placed in the carriage, 
 allthe men present took offtheir hats in solemn homage 
 to the presence of death, probably the first token of 
 respect the pauper child had ever received. It was a 
 touching. sight, though there was no ceremony, no 
 brown-robed friars with waxen tapers and chanted) 
 
198 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 psalms; the carriage drove away, the crowd dispersed, 
 except a few who lingered to catch another glimpse of 
 Padre Rinaldi. The silence that had succeeded the 
 passionate grief struck cold on the heart. Mrs. Dalzell 
 breathed more freely when Irene re-appeared, pale, in- 
 deed, but composed. Evidently no new misfortune had. 
 occurred. 
 
 “Irene! how could you go in?” exclaimed Imelda, 
 hurrying her on. 
 
 “] could not help it. One could not pass by with- 
 out trying to do something, but it was useless, there 
 was a frightful scene till Padre Rinaldi came—the 
 poor mother tore her hair, and shrieked like one pos- 
 sessed, and when she saw him she threw herself at his 
 feet, entreating that her boy might not be taken away 
 and thrown into a pit like a dog. But he quieted her 
 instantly, I cannot tell how; and very soon she let 
 them take the body. He is there still, but she was 
 quite meek and patient even before I came away, 
 though she was really like a wild beast before he 
 entered.” 
 
 “How could you go in? I should have been so 
 much afraid,” repeated Imelda. 
 
 “One must try to do something when people want 
 help,” said Irene; “don’t talk of it any more, I want 
 to think of something else.” 
 
 “Here is the Corsini Palace,” said Imelda, obedient 
 as a child; “are we to go into the Cortile?” 
 
 “Is this as new to you as to me?” asked Mrs. 
 Dalzell; “are you as ignorant of Rome as Irene used 
 to be?” 
 
 “I know the churches, signora. We often go into 
 one when we go out.” 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORL. 199 
 
 “She knows nothing about Rome, Mrs. Dalzell,” 
 said Irene. “You must learn to understand there are 
 two Romes, I don’t mean Pagan and Christian, but 
 one for foreigners and one for natives, and they don’t 
 mix.” 
 
 “Mamma has been in England,” said Imelda, for 
 the first time venturing directly to address Mrs. Dalzell; 
 “she liked it much. She has told me about it. You 
 have seen the tunnel under the Thames?” 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell was obliged to confess that she had 
 not, and Imelda thought this quite as extraordinary as 
 did the English lady the little Italian’s ignorance of 
 Rome. 
 
 “There is one thing besides that I should very 
 much like to see,” she added, “a Quaker. Mamma 
 has a picture of a male and a female Quaker; they 
 have brown dresses and a curious hat and cap. Do 
 they belong to some confraternity ?” 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell found the Society of Friends so diffi- 
 cult a subject that she wished William Penn would 
 arise and speak for himself; but her attempts at ex- 
 planation were cut short by the appearance of a magni- 
 ficent porter in cocked hat and grand livery, who 
 conducted them across the quadrangle, unlocked the 
 ponderous iron gates of the gardens, and let the visitors 
 through, leaving them to their own devices, and closing 
 and locking the gates with a clash. They now stood 
 in a wide avenue of ilex, whose gloomy boughs, in- 
 terlacing overhead, effectually excluded the sunlight; 
 nearly a quarter of a mile further on, the ilexes were 
 replaced by box and bay trees, beneath which sun and 
 shade divided the path between them, trembling and 
 flickering on the ground and invading each other’s 
 
200 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 dominions with every breath of wind. The ladies heard 
 the plash of fountains as they walked onwards by banks 
 precipitous as a hill-side, and covered with wild rank 
 herbage and tall trees. Mrs. Dalzell stooped to gather 
 a flower, and almost started, as looking up, she saw, 
 rising against a sky fabulously blue, the unfamiliar 
 grey ilex and dark cypress spire. She said it was so 
 delightful to be in Rome again, that she marvelled 
 afresh whenever she thus realized that she was actually 
 there.. Irene told her that in spring tide, the grassplats 
 were perfectly clouded with violets, and asked Imelda 
 if she recollected gathering some in a particularly 
 pleasant expedition to the Villa Borghese. 
 
 “Do you make an exception in favour.of violet 
 scent, signorina?” inquired Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “They are not so disagreeable,” replied the little 
 Roman. 
 
 Some discussion followed, concerning the love and 
 language of flowers at Venice, perhaps brought there 
 from the East, and Irene expressed her great wish to 
 visit the Queen of the Adriatic. Imelda had never 
 travelled further from home than Albano, and wondered 
 
 if she ever should; Mrs. Dalzell suggested a wedding 
 
 tour. 
 
 “Oh, but,” said Imelda, “I am sure Signor Ravelli 
 would not let Luigi go far away. Perhaps he might 
 allow him to go as far as L’Arriccia, and then we 
 should come back and live with Signor and Signora 
 Ravelli. Luigi has always wanted to travel; he would 
 like to have gone far away, as Count Clementi has 
 done, but they say he is too young.” 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell knew him to be at least three-and- 
 
 twenty, and as high spirited and manly a youth as any. 
 
 
 
 : 
 \ 
 | 
 i 
 | 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI,, 201 
 
 in Rome. She smiled, and asked if he were not busy 
 in his profession, and whether the count had none. 
 
 “Oh no, he is noble,” said Imelda. 
 
 “Yes, that really is a reason,” said Irene, rather to 
 Mrs. Dalzell than to Imelda; “you cannot expect our 
 nobles to put their sons into professions, when the 
 highest offices are closed against all but ecclesiastics.’ 
 
 “Oh, a noble cannot have an zmpiego,” said Imelda. 
 “Has the signora seen Gemma Clementi? She always 
 says that, when she marries, she must see Paris and 
 London, and that she will not live with a mother-in- 
 law. She is so strange! Mamma says she must have 
 been brought up badly, for she would not marry the 
 husband whom her uncle chose for her! She saw him 
 at Sta. Caterina, where he came one day with her 
 mother, and guessed immediately that he was to be 
 her s2oso; but she did not object then, because she 
 was so. desirous to leave the convent.” 
 
 “Do girls generally dislike the convent?” 
 
 “No,” said Irene, “many are very fond of the 
 nuns, and when they first come out they all say they 
 shall return and take the veil; but Gemma was always 
 in trouble. Do you know what the usual punishment 
 is for a naughty girl? While the others are dining, 
 she has to kneel all the time in the middle of the 
 room, and there dines alone; and Gemma was too 
 proud to bear this. Once she fainted outright, and 
 they were afraid to punish her after that.” 
 
 “I wonder if that girl would have been different 
 under different management,” said Mrs. Dalzell, mus- 
 ingly. 
 
 “So she came home,” continued Imelda, “but the 
 first time the marchese came she hid behind a curtain; 
 
202 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 and the next, when the contessa sent for her, she had 
 gone to bed; then her uncle was very angry, and said 
 she should go back to Sta. Caterina; yet, when next 
 the marchese spent the evening with them, and he 
 wished her good evening, Gemma said, ‘You need not 
 come again, for I detest you, and will never marry 
 you—a happy evening;’ and he went away, and soon 
 after he died.” 
 
 “Of grief?” 
 
 “No, it was influenza; he was very old: but is it 
 not strange of Gemma? Mamma has not let me see 
 much of her; I never heard of such a thing before, 
 except in an English book.” 
 
 Irene looked mischievous, and Mrs. Dalzell per- 
 ceived that such things did sometimes happen, even in 
 Rome. She asked what the English book was. 
 
 “One that Irene had; we began it when she gave 
 me English lessons; it was about a youth who married 
 without his mother’s consent; but mamma said we had 
 better not read it, because it was wrong even to think 
 of such things; it might happen in England, but Ca- 
 tholics would never do so.” 
 
 “] hope it is as uncommon in England as among 
 Roman Catholics,” said Mrs. Dalzell, with some 
 emphasis; but, perceiving by Irene’s startled look 
 that she was on dangerous ground, she added, “Now, 
 suppose we go on; I should lıke to go up to that 
 fountain.” 
 
 A wide flight of steps lay before them, ending in a 
 stone platform; another similar flight succeeded, with a 
 fountain above it, on either side of which were about 
 six narrow and steep steps; the water came tumbling 
 down over a succession of miniature terraces into a 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORL- 203. 
 
 basin, whence it disappeared under ground. Low walls. 
 closed in the steps and platforms, crowned by vases 
 full of aloes, whose stiff yet graceful leaves rose lıke a 
 crown above them. Mrs. Dalzell and the two girls sat 
 down on the lowest of the little steps by the fountain; 
 Irene bared her arm and reached through the dashing 
 water for maidenhair fern to fringe the bouquet which 
 Mrs. Dalzell had collected, and they sat in pleasant 
 idleness and silence, lulled by the sound of the waters, 
 whose reflection waved on the ground amid the shadows 
 flung by two gigantic plane trees, which leant forward 
 into the blue air all suffused with sunshine; their huge 
 roots had almost shattered the walls beside which they 
 grew. Behind, cypresses, ilexes, and other trees, formed 
 a background; below lay the far-reaching gardens, di- 
 vided by dark hedges into a main avenue, and a suc- 
 cession of formal squares, each containing a grassplat 
 and a fountain, throwing up silver plumes with a mur- 
 mur lost in distance. The white arcades of the palace 
 rose beyond the high iron trellises, but not a living 
 creature was visible about it—all was so still, so de- 
 serted, so untrimmed, and yet so lovely, that it might 
 have been the domain of the Sleeping Beauty. Mrs. 
 Dalzell said so, and found that Imelda did not under- 
 stand, whereupon she gave an outline of the fairy tale 
 to Irene, and bade her tell it to the signorina in Italian, 
 which she did, filling it up with such poetical embel- 
 lishments as made Mrs. Dalzell listen with as much in- 
 terest as if it had been a new story, and wonder if the 
 power of improvisation were inherent in all the children 
 of the south, or if it were only part of Irene’s artist 
 temperament. 
 
 .“Do you know who the Sleeping Beauty is, Imelda?” 
 
204. MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 asked Irene, after a pause. “She is Italy! She has been’ 
 laid in a magic trance; and by an evil, not a good 
 fairy, and now is about to wake.” 
 
 Imelda had listened, with the utmost attention, and 
 now asked if English girls read such tales? Mrs. Dal- 
 zell. found that she could not explain what English 
 story-books were, and asked what were Imelda’s 
 favourites; expecting, from Irene’s assertion, that her 
 friend had been well educated, that “Dante,” or 
 “D’Azeglio,” might be the answer. After some con- 
 sıderation came a reply. 
 
 “I have read the Zistory of Rome.’ 
 
 “But you don’t read that for amusement?” 
 
 “No,” Imelda replied, evidently uncertain what 
 she did read for amusement. “Mamma says that when 
 I am married I may read romances. Gemma reads 
 them now—in French. I want to read some that 
 mamma has, translated from the English; they are: 
 written by the Signor Gualtiero Scott, a. cavalıere, I 
 think he was. Luigi likes them.” 
 
 “Ah! you heard us discussing them!” said Irene. 
 
 “Yes, I know he liked them; and Signor Nota said 
 Grossi’s books owed a great deal to them; ‘but I could 
 not understand, as I never read them nor those of 
 Grossi; I cannot talk as you do,” said Imelda, re- 
 membering how Ravelli had turned to Irene when he 
 found that she understood what he was talking. of. 
 “But some day I shall read a great deal if Luigi will 
 let me.” 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell was so much attracted by the innocent 
 look and manner, that she took the young girl’s hand 
 and said, “I am quite sure that he will wish it, and 
 you will find a great many English. books that you 
 

 
 ' MADEMOISELLE MORT. 205- 
 
 will think very pleasant reading. Three years ago 
 Irene read as little as you; when you’ are as old, I 
 dare say you will know as much.” 
 
 “It would please me,” said Imelda, looking up at 
 Irene with a shy smile; and Mrs. Dalzell wondered 
 whether Ravelli really could be indifferent to this en- 
 gaging child; perhaps it might be that he was too 
 young himself to feel the charm of her affection and 
 simplieity; and one older, whose love was more vehe- 
 ment and less attainable, might easily bewitch him 
 more. She was occüpied by grave musings as to how 
 the entanglement would end, and whether Signora 
 Olivetti were blind to the true state of the case; and 
 she said little more till roused by the voices of a party 
 of men, going past on the road, behind and below the 
 gardens, towards the gate of San Pancrazio. They 
 were singing in parts, with great spirit, and once more 
 it was Leone’s hymn. Irene heard with a thrill of 
 proud delight; as the voices died away in the distance, 
 she rose and pointed to the hills, whence the last sun- 
 set tints were vanishing. The city was fast melting 
 into blue twilight, if indeed twilight can be said to 
 exist in Italy; a fire-fly darted past and vanished in 
 the ilexes. It was indeed time to go; and as they 
 slowly walked back to the gates, darkness came on so 
 fast that only voices close at hand revealed that others 
 were in the garden though unseen. “Leone!” mur- 
 mured Irene, and they distinguished, the next moment, 
 what he was saying. “Out with the barbarians! let 
 reforms wait; though, if ever they were needed, we 
 need them; but, before all things, let us be free; let 
 us devote ourselves to driving out the Austrians—our 
 soil has been trampled by them far too long.” 
 
206 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 “Right!” answered a voice, whose deep music came 
 thrilling on the ear; “freedom we seek for; without 
 freedom religion is oppressed, but without religion, 
 ‚liberty becomes anarchy.” 
 
 He paused, perceiving he had other auditors besides 
 Leone; Mrs. Dalzell stood once more face to face with 
 Padre Rinaldi. Imelda kissed his hand, and he told 
 Irene that he had left the poor mother calm and re- 
 signed. Leone had not heard of the incident, which 
 Irene briefly explained as they walked back through 
 the quadrangle, where Padre Rinaldi took leave of 
 them, and they paused an instant to watch his tall 
 figure disappear in the thickening shades of the Lung’ 
 Ara, before they got into the carriage which stood 
 waiting for them. 
 
 “I should hardly have expected to find many of 
 your acquaintances among the priests, Leone,” said 
 Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “] have more enemies than friends among them.” 
 
 “Oh, Signor Nota!” said Imelda. 
 
 “She is thinking of our Roman saying,” said Irene, 
 “The vengeance of a priest endures to the seventh 
 generation!” 
 
 “That is a terrible proverb, Irene,” said Mrs. Dal- 
 zell, startled. 
 
 “You will often hear it quoted, signora; but Padre 
 Rinaldi is an exception even among the good men of 
 his profession; and there are many excellent, devoted 
 priests, but very few who have broken the bonds of 
 circumstance sufficiently to be reformers. I am proud 
 to be called his friend; there is not a man on earth 
 more truly Italian in heart than he. When I meet with 
 one of that stamp, I could fall on my knees before 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 207 
 
 ‘him; for none can conceive the enormous yoke of past 
 precedent and authority which a priest has to shake 
 off before he can think for himself and dare to be a 
 patriot.” 
 
 “] am afraid of him,” half whispered Imelda; “he 
 always seems to know what I am thinking of.” 
 
 “What would Signor Ravelli say to that, signorina?” 
 
 Imelda smiled and whispered to Irene, “I am sure 
 Padre Rinaldi would say I am too silly to be Luigi’s 
 ‚wife; I always feel so when I hear Luigi or the padre 
 talking of politics, but I like to listen.” 
 
 “Yes, I know you do,” answered Irene, laughing 
 and sighing; “you are very patriotic when Ravelli talks 
 of Italy.” 
 
 They left Imelda at her own dwelling, and returned 
 to Palazzo Clementi. Irene had scarcely entered the 
 sitting-room, and began to detail their adventures to 
 Vincenzo, before Leone, who had lingered to speak to 
 Mrs. Dalzell, came in with a joyous, bounding step, 
 and exclaimed, “I have news for you; I kept it till 
 you were both together.” 
 
 He stood where he could see the faces of both 
 brother and sister, Vincenzo lying on a sofa, Irene 
 seated in a low chair beside him. Both looked up 
 smiling and inquiring, as if catching a vision of good 
 news from his own glad face. 
 
 “Farini is to be promoted,” he said; then pausing 
 to see what effect the announcement would have. 
 Farini was the man who held a post in the Daferia 
 just above him. An exclamation escaped Irene, she 
 coloured brightly, and looked up with eager anxiety. 
 Vincenzo held closer the hand she had just put into his, 
 
208 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 as he answered, “That is news worth hearing, Leone! 
 Now you are sure of a step!” 
 
 “It will certainly be hard if I do not get it, after 
 keeping my post by miracle all this time! Assunta’s 
 husband must almost have worn out his interest in 
 protecting me; I know he thinks it was for his sins 
 that he ever was cursed with a liberal brother-in-law! 
 Yes, I must have Farini’s post unless some one is 
 raised over my head, and I don’t think fortune will 
 play me such a trick. It has not been officially an- 
 nounced yet; but we all know that Farini is to have a 
 rise, and I, for one, am quite ready to congratulate him. 
 And then, Irene?” he added, playfully, but his dark 
 eyes spoke eloquently as he looked at her. 
 
 She had laid her head on Vincenzo’s shoulder, and 
 it was he who answered, putting the hand he had been 
 holding into Leone’s, “If she has nothing to say, I 
 have, Leone; I make her over to you,” and Irene did 
 not object. 
 
 It was important news. Leone, when raised a step 
 in his business, would be able to afford to marry. 
 They had repeatedly calculated the chances of such 
 good fortune, and yet it was startling when it did come. 
 Irene sat almost silent, with a sweet, serious look, as 
 Leone spoke of the future; Vincenzo answered more 
 warmly than she did, but Irene never said much when 
 most happy. Leone knew her of old, and he looked 
 anything but dissatisfied. Vincenzo did not feel him- 
 self in their way; both looked to him for sympathy, 
 almost as much as to each other, and he was deeply 
 sensible of the delicacy that had prompted Leone to 
 withhold this news, till he could share it with him as 
 well as with Irene. 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 209 
 
 ' After awhile Irene rose to seek Nanna, who had 
 grown very infirm of late, so much so, that she was 
 quite unable to escort Irene to and from the theatre or 
 to Madame Marriotti’s house, near as it was; and she 
 had been superseded in this office by an elderly person, 
 whom Madama Cecchi knew and could trust; to the 
 great displeasure of the old nurse, though she had 
 grumbled whenever obliged to go. She had taken 
 Irene’s betrothal greatliy to heart, Leone was no 
 favourite of hers, he had never given her a paul in 
 his life; he was poor and not noble; Nanna considered 
 that Irene was throwing herself away, and would have 
 felt that she was doing her young mistress a kindness 
 by preventing such a marriage. It was such a straight- 
 forward thing too! Nanna would so have enjoyed a 
 little mystery; it was hard that Irene would never give 
 her a chance of carrying notes or messages, and mak- 
 ing a scudo or two by them! 
 
 Irene had really suffered not a little during the past 
 year from Nanna’s increasing ill-humour; but she bore 
 with her for the sake of her past services, and even 
 turned as deaf an ear as she could when Nanna gave 
 a slap at Leone. 
 
 Influenza had been prevalent at Rome that autumn, 
 the fatal Roman grippa; Madama Cecchi had had it, 
 the servants had been laid up with it; there was a mor- 
 tality in the city, though no one in Palazzo Clementi 
 had yet died of it. Nanna had been complaining all 
 the last week, and had become strangely altered. She 
 was more bent and haggard, her coffee-coloured skin 
 had assumed a ghastly hue, and the severe bleeding, 
 which was the favourite remedy for griöpa, had drained 
 away all her strength. Irene found her out of spirits 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. T, 14 
 
210 MADEMOISELLE MORIL 
 
 and hardly appearing to hear her cheerful greeting. 
 She sat down by her, and told her where she had spent 
 the afternoon, but Nanna’s head was wandering after 
 other matters, and presently she muttered, “You will 
 be going to marry him soon, Aglia!” Irene almost be- 
 lieved that she must have been thinking aloud, and 
 asked quickly, “Who told you that, Nanna?” 
 
 The old woman looked up sharply, her dimmed 
 eyes brightened, and it was with her old look of 
 mingled coaxing and cunning that she answered: “I 
 know, I know, my darling— when is it to be?” 
 
 “] cannot quite tell you, Nanna, but Leone is to 
 have a better post in the Daferia soon, and then I sup- 
 pose—I hope—we shall be able to marry. ' Say you 
 are glad, dear nurse, you have always been so kind 
 to me!” 
 
 “Ay, iglia. I am glad, to be sure; and so you are 
 very happy?” said Nanna, passing her wrinkled hand 
 over the glossy braids of Irene’s hair. “So my darling 
 is t0o be married!-—ah, well— well!” 
 
 Irene stayed a little while longer and left: her 
 looking quite alive again, so much so, that as soon as 
 she was alone, she hobbled to the door, peered out till 
 assured that no one was near, and then went across to 
 the apartment of the Contessa Clementi. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Chi luogo e tempo aspetta, 
 Vede alfın la sua vendetta. 
 Proverb. 
 
 WHATEVER might be the information conveyed by 
 Nanna, ıt was forwarded immediately by Gemma to 
 her brother, but he did not write to her in return, and 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORL e17T 
 
 nearly a fortnight elapsed uneventfully. The days 
 were at their shortest, darkness had come down on the 
 palace, the fountain murmured in the quadrangle, the 
 corridors were wrapped in gloom. A little spot of red 
 light, glowing through one of the high grated windows 
 of the Contessa Clementi’s apartment, showed that 
 candles had been lighted within. The contessa and her 
 daughter sat together—the former, a frail invalid, 
 leaning in her arm-chaır, her white thin hand resting 
 on a book of prayers, which lay on a table beside her, 
 her feet on a kind of stool filled with hot charcoal. 
 There was no fire nor stove in the large dreary room, 
 which was only lighted by a single candle on the table; 
 heavy red curtains draped the windows and doors; 
 along ‘the walls stood large ancient chairs of black 
 wood, much gilt, whereon many generations of Clementi 
 had sat; a piano was the only modern piece of furniture. 
 
 Opposite to her mother sat Gemma, like her, 
 wrapped in a shawl. She was at work on some rich 
 material, embroidered with gold thread, stiff with de- 
 coration, and doubtless intended as a mantle for some 
 image of the Virgin. The table was half covered with 
 gold and silver thread and patterns; her needle moved 
 fast, less as if it were a labour of love than a vent for 
 concealed impatience; and she scarcely made any re- 
 sponse when her mother’s querulous voice uttered, from 
 time to time, complaints. of her daughter’s unso- 
 ciability. 
 
 “] was just as well off when you were in the con- 
 vent, Gemma,” said she; “I thought when you came 
 home I should have a. companion, but I find your 
 aunt is right in thanking Heaven that she has no 
 daughters.” 
 
 14% 
 
242 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 “She has certainly not the trouble of martying 
 them,” answered Gemma, without lifting her eyes 
 from the golden flowers that grew fast upon her 
 work. 
 
 “There again, Gemma, you might have been well 
 married, you would have been a widow now, with a 
 good fortune, if you had not been so perverse. Who 
 do you suppose will marry a girl with no money, and 
 what is to become of you when I am dead?” 
 
 “It does not matter,” answered the girl, half aloud 
 and tapping her foot on the floor. 
 
 “What are you saying? I cannot hear a word. I 
 wish Pietrucchio would write or come home; I miss him 
 dreadfully; and I cannot understand what this journey 
 means, or where the money to travel with comes from, 
 or what he is about, mixing himself up with these low 
 people; but as long as his uncle is satisfied, Iam. I 
 do insist, Gemma, that you show yourself more respect- 
 ful towards your uncle. Recollect that he can send you 
 back to Sta. Caterina when he pleases.” 
 
 “I almost wish I were there,” said Gemma, break- 
 ing her thread in utter impatience, but not speaking 
 loud enough to be heard. “May I go to my. aunt?” 
 she asked, standing up. 
 
 “Your aunt does not want you; she has visitors, or 
 she would have come here. Why are you in a hurry 
 to go? When I was a girl, I sat all day at my work, 
 and never wanted to leave my mother’s side; but as for 
 you, you are always desirous to leave me.” 
 
 “You did very well without me for a good many 
 years, mamma,” said Gemma, thinking to herself that 
 she had not been brought up to find a mother her na- 
 tural companion. 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORIL 215 
 
 “That is a reason why you should make up for it 
 the more now; you were noble, your uncle got ad- 
 mittance at Sta. Caterina for you, like other girls of 
 your rank; we could not afford to send you to the 
 Sacro Cuore. You learn as strange ideas from 
 Mademoiselle Mori, I suppose.” 
 
 “There is my ide? said Gemma, who had been 
 listening attentively to the sound of a carriage driving 
 into the quadrangle, and now caught the sound of ap- 
 proaching steps. 
 
 “Your uncle? he must have come on business—I 
 hope you have got on with that work, or he will be 
 displeased,” said the contessa, rising feebly but hastily 
 to receive the relation who ruled the whole family with 
 despotie power. A liveried servant, who, when in his 
 undress, enacted the parts of both cook and housemaid 
 in the establishment, threw open the door, and an- 
 nounced Monsignore Clementi, and an ecclesiastic en- 
 tered, saluted his sister-in-law, suffered Gemma to kiss 
 his hand, and seated himself in one of the ponderous 
 chairs which the footman had placed for him near the 
 table. A short and solemn pause ensued; the contessa 
 ‚ looked nervous and anxious; Gemma resumed her work, 
 but a ray of hope lit the eyes which she occasionally 
 turned towards the door. 
 
 Monsignore Clementi was, like a hundred other men 
 of his age and position, of middle stature, with a large, 
 bald forehead, and dark eyes, small and astute, a face 
 at once self-indulgent and shrewd, a figure inclined to 
 corpulence,. but not without a certain dignity. 
 
 The silence remained unbroken till he said, with a 
 glance at Gemma, “By and by I shall have something 
 to say to you, my dear sister.” 
 
214 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 “Instantly,” replied the contessa, in evident trepi- 
 dation. *“Gemma, it is growing late— your uncle per- 
 mits you to retire.” 
 
 “A happy night, my dear uncle,” said Gemma, 
 again kissing his hand; then she saluted her mother, 
 and left the room. A few moments after she returned 
 to another door leading into it, listened for a moment 
 with a look of the bitterest scorn to her uncle’s voice 
 laying down the law, and the hasty and submissive re- 
 plies of her mother, and then softly glided into the 
 ante-room. The next instant she stood outside in the 
 corridor, glancing fearfully up and down with a guilty 
 look. No one was in sight, and with swift steps she 
 hurried down the first flight of stairs, pausing in the 
 midst of the darkness on the landing-place. A voice 
 whispered, “I am here,” and the hand put out to feel 
 for her, drew her into the angle, where stood, unseen, 
 but not unexpected, Ravelli. 
 
 “Ah!” she said, grasping his hand with a sigh of 
 relief, “you are there!” 
 
 “I have waited at least an hour; but it was very 
 well you were here no sooner. My princess, do you 
 know that I encountered your reverend uncle? I was 
 in the corridor, and had no resource, except to become 
 your gardener, and be very busy with the orange-trees, 
 and he stopped and bade me look after the garden 
 better. I thought some awkward questions might be 
 coming, but some excellent person called ‘Pa,’ down 
 below, so I begged his pardon, and answered the 
 summons before ‘Pa,’ could appear.” 
 
 He was still overflowing with mirth at his adven- 
 ture. Gemma broke in impetuously, “Do you know 
 why he came? I can tell you—lI should not be here 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORIL 215. 
 
 if he had not come. What a life it is—watched day 
 and night, threatened continually with the convent, or 
 to be sold to some old man, who may be the greatest 
 wretch on earth for ought they care, so long as he is 
 rich. There they are discussing it now—mamma 
 saying, “Noble of course’—-my uncle, ‘I have begged 
 Mattei to write me word if. he hear of a good match 
 for her; but with her small dowry we must not be too 
 particular.’ ” 
 
 “Let them try to sell you if they dare! Clementi 
 is for us, the times are for us; only do not you give 
 way, Gemma,” and his tone was passionately earnest. 
 
 “]1”? she answered with a low scornful laugh, though 
 she had shivered from head to foot at her brother’s 
 name——“I! And you see that the whole world cannot 
 prevent our meeting.” 
 
 “No, while they-are quietly planning your marriage. 
 Fate is hard on us, Gemma, is she not? but we will 
 conquer her yet; yes, all the three Fates. Come the 
 worst, we will try a little poverty together and another 
 country.” 
 
 “Anywhere! I could breathe more freely in any 
 place but this.” 
 
 - “England, which has sheltered so many exiles? 
 No, too cold and foggy; Spain would do better— 
 Spain, sunnier even than our Italy. I will turn fisher- 
 man, and we will have a cottage under the rocks near 
 the blue sea, with vines and fig-trees, and you shall 
 sing to. me while I mend my nets, and we will fly 
 away like the swallows, and forget Italy, Gemma.” 
 
 “You are not in earnest,” she replied, sullenly. 
 
 “No, I am not in earnest,” he returned, with a 
 light laugh, that showed how rapidly vehemence and 
 
216 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 carelessness succeeded each other in his gay and vari- 
 able mind; “I could not forget my old love for my 
 new—-Rome held me captive long before you did, 
 Gemma.’ 
 
 “If that’s all you have to say, I may as well go 
 back,” she answered, seeking to free her hands, which 
 he held fast, exclaiming, “Silly child! who knows 
 when we may be able to meet again? Do you think 
 I shall let you go in this way? Stay, I am in earnest, 
 quite in earnest now; suppose this marriage project 
 come to anything, what are we to do?” 
 
 “You had better marry Imelda Olivetti.” 
 
 “They shall fish me drowned out of the Tiber first. 
 What do I know of a child whom I never see except' 
 by her mother’s side? Let my father answer it to the 
 Olivetti as he can—-I have told him, as plainly as I 
 can speak, that I do not feel myself bound by this— 
 this family project. I know one who would marry us, 
 Gemma, if it comes to the point; there is always that 
 resource, let what will come after.” | 
 
 “I am ready,” was her reply. 
 
 He uttered some ardent words of gratitude. “But 
 why,” he added, “why do you always protest against) 
 my speaking to your brother? Do you think he does 
 not see that I love you? Clementi not see it! he who 
 sees everything; why he has countenanced it by seem- 
 ing not to see.” 
 
 “No, don’t trust—don’t—don’t—oh, put yourself 
 in no one’s power, trust no one,” she whispered fast 
 and low. 
 
 “Not even you?” 
 
 “You do trust me?” asked Gemma, suspiciously, 
 and bitterly repenting what she had said. 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORL ZUT7. 
 
 “Yes, I trust you, Gemma,” answered Ravelli, with 
 momentary sternness; for, blind as his love was, he 
 felt that one so well practised in deceiving others 
 might one day deceive him also. “I trust you; and 
 take care you do not cheat me, for if you do I will 
 never trust man nor woman more, and never forgive it!” 
 
 For a moment all was storm in Gemma’s mind. 
 She had rarely heard that tone on the lips of the light- 
 hearted Luigi, and she exclaimed, “If you loved me, 
 you would not speak so. I know you would cast me 
 off, if you thought my brother was a Papista.” f 
 
 “Have I done so because you are the niece of 
 Monsignore Clementi? Do you think I don’t know 
 what he is, with his spies in every cafe! What is that 
 to me, while you are my own Gemma?” said Ravelli, 
 instantly neRing,aa as he perceived how much moved 
 she was. 
 
 “Hush! hush!” she whispered in terror, shrinking 
 close to him, as a step became audible on the stairs. 
 “Who can be coming? Oh, let me go!” 
 
 Instead of releasing her, Ravelli clasped her en 
 and close; they held their breath, as a ray of light 
 came up and illuminated a little space around—the 
 intruder had a lamp!: All her courage scarcely enabled 
 her to remain still, though, like Ravelli, she had re- 
 membered that her own door would be closed, and to 
 be found standing outside would be as fatal as being 
 discovered on the stairs. They drew back into the 
 furthest corner, her face hidden against him, and his 
 arm thrown protectingly around her, as he watched, 
 with a‘ defiant look, for the new comer. The light 
 increased and came nearer, but they still stood in deep 
 shadow. Some one wrapped in a cloak passed, without 
 
218 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 casting a glance around, and the sound of his steps 
 died away in the corridor. Ravelli muttered a thanks- 
 giving, but Gemma seemed still stupified with alarm, 
 and bade him imperiously to let her go. “Giorgio 
 will open the door, I am sure—don’t keep me one 
 moment,” she repeated, as Ravelli urged caution and 
 sought to fix another meeting, and the next instant 
 she had flown down the corridor, and throwing some- 
 thing against a window, leant against the wall, waiting 
 in great impatience till the servant opened the door, 
 peeped out, and admitted her. 
 
 “Signorina, signorina, do you know that the count 
 has returned?” he whispered. 
 
 “I know,” said Gemma, “I heard his step,” and 
 she immediately went into her mother’s room. Clementi 
 was there, so was monsignore his uncle, by whom, 
 perhaps, the nephew’s arrival was not wholly unex- 
 pected, and there appeared to be no want of cordiality 
 between them, though rumour said that they had been 
 at daggers drawn, ever since the young count ‘had 
 openly taken the popular side. 
 
 Gemma met her brother with composure that did 
 not betray her inward alarm, and he showed no con- 
 sciousness of having already seen her, but she knew 
 him too well to be re-assured by this. The contessa 
 was excited into unusual talkativeness by her son’s 
 sudden return, and Gemma sat by in silence, growing 
 every moment less able to control herself, till'Clementi 
 called her aside. She faced him boldly. His first 
 words were, “I acted on your letter.” 
 
 They restored all her audacity. “It was worth 
 sending, was it not?” 
 
 “Yes. Have you no more to tell me?” 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 219 
 
 ' “Nanna is very ill, but there is nothing else new.” 
 ©. #Very good,” said Clementi, then looking at her 
 with a rapid, stealthy glance. “The stairs are cold at 
 night.” He had seen them! "She looked full at him 
 in:silence, and he continued, “Be so kind as to be 
 cautious; people may think we lean Zoo much on the 
 liberal side;”’ and he was going back to his seat when 
 she exclaimed, low, but emphatically, “Take care! I 
 should make a dangerous enemy.” 
 
 “Oh yes,” answered Clementi, very quietly, “I have 
 no wish to quarrel with so useful an ally; in fact, 
 neither of us could do without the other at present, 
 only be careful lest, for the honour of the family, I 
 should be obliged to notice the affair.” 
 
 “You know what he came for,” said Gemma, with 
 a glance at her uncle. “Mind! no martrying!” 
 
 “We agreed on that point long ago; I tell you 
 we cannot afford t0 play each other false,” replied 
 Clementi; “come back, there is no need to say any 
 more.’ 
 
 Monsignore Clementi had no more time for his 
 niece’s affairs that night. He remained late, shut up 
 with hisnephew, and any one who had caught a glimpse 
 of the two, the old man with his astute face supported 
 on his hand, his keen eyes fixed on his nephew, and 
 his whole attention given to some matter which the 
 younger man was demonstrating with acute and rapid 
 explanations, by the help of the papers which covered 
 the whole table between them—any one who had 
 witnessed this scene would have suspected that Count 
 Pierfrancesco Clementi was giving an account of his 
 mission to the wrong party. Nor would they have 
 conjectured amiss. 
 
220. MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 By birth and education, Clementi belonged to those 
 who for years had oppressed the liberals, and laboured 
 to extinguish every spark of reform with sword, banish- 
 ment, fine, and imprisonment—of whom it was justly 
 said that they exterminated the liberals without com- 
 passion for the tears of women or the cries of children 
 — who organized a vast system of espionage, and 
 caused the Papal Government to be held in abhorrence; 
 while the people became daily more corrupted by the 
 degradation and treachery which such a system 
 generated. This party were losing ground every day; 
 they were in disgrace; those whom they had oppressed, 
 ruled over them, and they necessarily cherished a 
 deadly hatred towards the triumphant side, and the 
 Pope who had caused their own downfall. Their only 
 chance of regaining their ancient power was to drive 
 the people to such excesses as should terrify the 
 friends of reform, and the ultra-liberals aided them 
 but too well. 
 
 It was no hope of bettering his fortune, that had 
 led Count Clementi from the ranks of the Neri into 
 the hands of the Bianchi. Three years back he had 
 little foreseen where 1847 would find him. Admiration 
 for Irene had led him to seek the acquaintance of Vin- 
 cenzo, when he discovered that Nanna could not help 
 him, a fact which she concealed from him as long as 
 possible. The few words which passed in their first 
 meeting, and the book which Vincenzo was studying, 
 instantly showed him what line he must take in order 
 to propitiate her; but far too adroit to feign himself 
 one of a party whom he could hardly be supposed not 
 to detest, he presented himself in the tempting light 
 of a possible convert, allowed Vincenzo to overcome 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 221 
 
 ‘one prejudice after another, seeking out, at the same 
 time, men known for their liberal opinions, so as to 
 give consistency to his conduct, and finally, deceiving 
 even those most suspicious, and reluctant to trust a 
 ci-devant Papista. His was a strange and most subtle 
 nature, full of fiery passions, yet able entirely to con- 
 ceal them, and waiting for the right moment for months 
 ‚or years before the slightest sign of them was given; 
 and his singularly acute and crafty mind delighted in 
 weaving scheme after scheme, always unweariedly con- 
 structing them anew if the threads were broken. To 
 win Irene was the point on which he had centred all 
 his powers. He had instantly divined Nota’s feelings 
 towards her, and assured himself that she did not see 
 or think about them; but Nota’s long silence was a 
 mystery to him, till it struck him that she must have 
 silenced him, as had been the case with himself the 
 ‚first time he had ventured beyond friendship. He had 
 then instantly drawn back, apparently content to be 
 her friend only. He bided his time. Meanwhile it did 
 not suit him to lose the favour of his uncle, and he 
 found it convenient to be one of the many spies whom 
 Monsignore Clementi privately maintained; and thus 
 —while an absolute breach seemed to have taken 
 place between them, and they ignored each other if 
 they met in public, the secrets of the Bianchi quietly 
 passed into the keeping of the enemy without any 
 suspicion being aroused. 
 
 Never had Clementi been more perplexed than when 
 admitted to a knowledge of the secret society founded 
 by Leone. He would gladly have betrayed him, and 
 got rid of him for ever; but he could hardly .do so 
 ‚without raising such suspicion as would for ever divide 
 
222 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 himself from Irene. The police, however, got scent of 
 the association, and as a preliminary measure, ordered 
 Vincenzo to leave Rome—-a step particularly unwel- 
 come to Clementi, who hastened secretly to exert all 
 his interest to annul the order, and succeeded. While 
 they were seeking for further intelligence of the society, 
 Pope Gregory died, and a new reign had begun. 
 '  Gemma had been a useful auxiliary to her brother, 
 who was perfectly aware of her connexion with Ravelli, 
 and allowed it on the tacit condition that she should 
 keep up an intimate acquaintance with Irene, t0 whom 
 he had made her known as soon as she came home 
 from her convent. To her and Nanna he owed the 
 information of Leone’s expected promotion, on which 
 he had instantly acted. Gemma knew well what was 
 the price set upon her meetings with Ravelli, and she, 
 moreover, knew Clementi too well to believe he would 
 countenance them a moment longer than he could help. 
 She feared she might have gone a step too far this 
 evening. Often and often she had been on the point 
 of avowing all to Ravelli, but always the double fear 
 of him and of her brother sealed her lips, though the 
 struggle was horrible as she felt the net closing on 
 her, and knew she dared not be true, even'to him. 
 Leone’s engagement to Irene had been a blow 
 altogether unexpected by Clementi. In the uncertainty 
 of the time of its termination in marriage, it had never 
 been publicly avowed, and even Nanna had but lately 
 been told of it. To delay such a termination, to wait 
 in hope that time might bring him good fortune, was 
 all that Clementi could do; but he never for.a moment 
 doubted his ultimate success. No sleuth hound could 
 have tracked his prey more patiently’ and obstinately, 
 

 
 ‚MADEMOISELLE MORI. 223 
 
 ‘or more fiercely than he, and, thoroughly aware of the 
 feelings of both the rival parties in Rome, he foresaw 
 the coming outburst, and perceived that at such a time 
 a rival might easily disappear from the scene. When 
 Leone was gone, Clementi would remain with the claim 
 of a love constant through repulse, older even than 
 'Leone’s; Irene—the true, frank, loving Irene—must be 
 his at last! 
 
 The‘ conversation between the nephew and uncle 
 terminated deep in the night. As Monsignore Clementi 
 rose to go,'he said with indifference, “I attended to 
 that affair of young Nota’s; you were right to warn 
 me; such as he must be kept down. My people tell 
 me that when he comes into the ca/ös, the young men 
 call out, ‘Here is Nota; come, Leone, tell us some- 
 thing of the old times;’ and it seems he is an improvi- 
 satore. Improvisation ought to be forbidden by law; 
 ‚such as he fill people’s heads with treason. He must 
 ‘be looked after.” 
 
 “Of course, nor would it be well for young Luigi 
 Ravelli to have the Olivetti fortune to add to his own; 
 I would take every opportunity of hindering that mar- 
 ‚riage.” | 
 
 “We keep an eye upon him‘also; but mark you, 
 my nephew,” said Monsignore Clementi, pausing, with 
 ‘the forefinger of his right hand’ on the palm of his left 
 —“mark you, such as he are working for us; he throws 
 ‚himself headlong into the arms of the extreme party 
 without seeing where they are rushing. It is they who 
 are our chief auxiliaries. I could count you at this 
 moment how many agents of Mazzini there are in Rome, 
 ‘sent, as you know, first to Paris—supplied there with 
 money—forwarded here. We know their movements 
 
224 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 as well as Mazzini himself, but do we interfere with 
 them? No. The times and the extremists are tending 
 one way, let them alone; by-and-bye they will think 
 temporal reforms are not enough, they will attack the 
 spiritual power; and then it is our turn. The tide will 
 turn, but we must let it reach its height first.” 
 
 “There are few who contemplate the future as 
 calmly as you,” said Clementi. 
 
 “We raise an outery as if heaven and earth were 
 coming together, instead of there being every prospect 
 that our power will stand firmer than ever. Pio Nono 
 is above all things a priest; that is what these men 
 have yet to find out; we have not a king at our head, 
 but a Pope; Pio is not Henry VII. of England. Look 
 at the English Reformation; the Parliament and nation 
 believed they were merely controlling the temporal 
 power of the clergy— how did that end? Do you 
 suppose they foresaw it would land them in Protestan- 
 tism? Not they; the actors in events never see where 
 they will be carried. Here, let men make this a lay 
 Government, and the spiritual will go too, but it will 
 rise again. It is the moderatists whom we have to 
 dread—men after the Pope’s own heart—men like 
 Rossi, who want to go gradually—that would ruin 
 everything.” 
 
 “The spirit of the times is too strong for them,” 
 said Clementi; “they will be carried away by it, like 
 a reed on the Tiber. Once let any Italian state break 
 out into revolution, and the wildfire will spring up here 
 spontaneously. You saw how ready it is to break out 
 by these papers I showed you.” 
 
 “You will see the flames either in Austria or in 
 Naples before many months pass; I catch their reflec- 
 
EIS 
 j 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 225 
 
 tion on the horizon already, Pietrucchio; and, as you 
 say, this Hungarian mission of yours shows what the 
 democrats expect. Yes, Naples will be the first; the 
 people there are held tighter every day, while they see 
 other states, what they call, reforming themselves; our 
 wisdom is to sit still. Good night; of course I shall 
 come here no more while you are at home; you know 
 how to send me any intelligence; be cautious, and keep 
 up a friendship with Nota. That young man has talent, 
 you should buy him over.” 
 
 “It cannot be done,” said Clementi. 
 
 “So you have said before, which amounts to this, 
 that you do not know his price. Every man has one; 
 let me tell you there are not six men of my acquain- 
 tance, who, if they had to choose between a serious 
 inconvenience and a crime, would not choose the latter. 
 He ought to be on our side; it would shake the liberal 
 cause seriously. There are very few half as formidable 
 as he, for the most part all this outery is mere noise.” 
 
 “They complain out of mere want of something else 
 to do,” said the count, with undetected irony; for Mon- 
 signore Clementi was entirely and truly incapable of 
 perceiving that the laity had even a particle of justice 
 on their side. 
 
 “They do. They set themselves up as wiser than 
 those who have inherited the sacred power of our an- 
 cestors. But enough of this; good night.” 
 
 “A happy night, my dear uncle.” 
 
 Monsignore Clementi descended the stairs ruminat- 
 ing over the intelligence which his nephew had brought 
 him, and making a mental abstract of it to be commu- 
 nicated to certain of his colleagues; the count smiled to 
 himself as he thought that even his uncle did not per- 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. I. 15 
 
226 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 ceive the whole of the plot; and Gemma was alone in 
 her room, on her knees before a crucifix, while drowned 
 in tears, she allowed broken words to escape her lips 
 —“]I dare not—I dare not tell him—but sooner or 
 later he will know— will find all out—and never 
 pardon me—oh, how will it end!” 
 
 CHAPTER/XIV 
 
 Quanti ceı n’® che mi senton cantare 
 Diran; buon per colei c’ha ıl cor contento! 
 
 S’io canto, canto per non dir del male; 
 Faccio per iscialar quel c’ho qua dentro: 
 Faccio per iscialar mi afflıtta doglia;; 
 Sebbene io canto, di piangere ho voglia; 
 Faccio per iscialar l’afflitta pena, 
 Sebbene io canto, di dolor son piena. 
 
 RıspETTo. 
 
 Tue bell of the parish church near Palazzo Clementi 
 tolled slowly, summoning the devout to gain indulgences 
 by attending the Viaticum to a dying person; and pre- 
 sently a boy in a white surcoat came forth on the steps 
 and rang a smaller bell, till a little crowd of various 
 ranks had collected, from whom the priest chose the 
 most respectable, rejecting a charcoal-burner, blackened 
 from head to foot; and furnished them with lighted 
 waxen tapers, two of which were raised on poles and 
 guarded by glass lanterns, lest a sudden gust should 
 extinguish all at once; for without light the Host, or 
 Santissima, as the Romans say, cannot be carried. The 
 procession began to move slowly from the church, 
 headed by two boys, one still ringing his bell, the other 
 bearing a sort of miniature wooden altar. "Those who 
 had volunteered to carry the tapers followed in pairs, 
 guided by one who walked nearly in the centre and 
 assumed the direction of them, Last came the priest, 
 
Ib © ©) 120 De Be 
 j EA v 
 
 Na - 7 
 
 ® 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORL: 227 
 
 carrying the Host in a star-like shrine, and the sacristan 
 holding the canopy above it; a crowd followed behind, 
 some of whom accompanied it all the way to its desti- 
 nation, ‚others only a few yards; all hats were taken 
 off, and the people knelt as it passed. Where a car- 
 riage was standing still, the driver dismounted from his 
 coach-box and joined the worshippers. All movement 
 and traffic were suspended for an instant, as men were 
 called on to acknowledge the Holy Presence; and, 
 hushing the light words of the idle and the serious 
 ones of the busy, rose up the chanted Psalm, the solemn 
 Prayer. Though the hour was still early, the short 
 winter day had ended, but the obscurity was lighted 
 by the lamps that shone from every window, as the 
 peculiar well-known sound of the little bell gave notice 
 that the Viaticum was passing, and all hastened to pay 
 this customary mark of respect. The procession paused 
 under the archway of Palazzo Clementi, the priest and 
 a few of the attendants bore the Host upstairs, the rest 
 
 ‘ waited below, praying for the departing spirit of one, 
 of whom they knew no more than that the soul was 
 about to stand before its Judge. 
 
 That day had the doctor, after his visit to old 
 Nanna, spoken the ominous “Make her see her 
 confessor,”” and he being summoned had heard her last 
 shrift. She had bequeathed such property as she pos- 
 sessed to Irene, and the parish priest was about to ad- 
 minister the Communion to his dying parishioner, The 
 table, covered with a linen cloth, was prepared opposite 
 to the bed to receive the Holy Elements; the old wo- 
 man awaited him, calm in the belief that all her sins 
 were remitted; Irene was with her, but when the Host 
 was brought, left the room—she was a Protestant, and 
 
 15* 
 
2328 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 could not be admitted at the Communion of the Roman 
 Catholic Church. 
 
 About an hour after she sought Vincenzo, looking 
 much cheered, and saying, “The doctor has been here 
 again, and says Nanna is wonderfully better; he thinks 
 she will rally. Oh, what a day it has been! what 
 dismay we were all in this morning! Mrs. Dalzell was 
 the only one not frightened out of her wits; she says 
 English people are much less afraid of illness than we 
 are, but then they have not such sudden, violent attacks. 
 They do not leave a house when some one is dead; 
 even women go to the funeral.” 
 
 “It seems to be conducted very differently from one 
 here,” said Vincenzo. “I remember when our father 
 died, how comforting I thought the service that was 
 read. There is little comfort in the way the dead are 
 treated here.” 
 
 “No,” said Irene, with a shudder; “no respect, no 
 decency—no one who cares present. Oh, one could 
 not bear to see the body of any whom we had loved 
 carried with a dozen others to that pit where they are 
 all heaped together. Don’t speak of it.” 
 
 “You look fagged, dear child,” said Vincenzo. 
 “Come here.” 
 
 “] cannot, I ought to have practised my songs long 
 ago,” said Irene, who had to sing at a private party 
 that evening. “I had not the heart to do so before. 
 I think there is something in me still, though,” she 
 added, warbling a brilliant variation. “Madame Mar- 
 rıotti is going, and will take me; I had a note from 
 her just now. Shall I disturb you, dear?” 
 
 Assured to the contrary, she opened the piano and 
 sang some modern Italian songs—musie so seductive 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI 220 
 
 and voluptuous that it seemed to steal into the heart 
 and witch the senses, as though an Armida sang them 
 in her enchanted gardens to a Rinaldo. Looking up 
 as she ended, Irene perceived that her brother was 
 leaning back in his chair, doing nothing but listen. 
 
 “Am I preventing your reading?” 
 
 “How can I read grave books when you sing that 
 wicked magic music, you naughty siren?” 
 
 “All passion, as German music is all spirit. Iam 
 not sure that I really like it, I should think better of 
 modern Rome, if they admired Rossini less and Cima- 
 rosa more.” 
 
 “Madame Marriotti’s true pupil! I remember the 
 day when you raved about Rossini.” 
 
 “And, of course, I think his music excessively 
 pretty— exquisite; but I had rather sing a severer 
 kind. But tell me if you like this,” said Irene, striking 
 the first chords of a kind of march, to which words 
 equally spirited were set, and looking as she sang like 
 a young priestess. Vincenzo had not heard it before, 
 but instantly recognised the author of the words, and 
 said, “Leone’s, to be sure; “methinks we do know the 
 sweet Roman hand;’” a quotation which, with its com- 
 pliment to Italian writing, he had been delighted with 
 ever since he and Irene began to study Shakspeare 
 together. 
 
 “I certainly am not in good voice to-night,” said 
 Irene, anxiously, running over an exercise. “I must 
 steal some of Madama Cecchi’s pas/a di coftonia |quince 
 jam], which she says is so good for singers” As she 
 rose from the piano the maid entered, and asked 
 whether she knew how late it was. “No! I must dress 
 this very moment—do you know how Signora Dal- 
 
230 MADEMOISELLE MORI 
 
 zell’s headache is? Oh, don’t go to see—I will, 
 presently—” but the girl was already knocking at 
 Mrs. Dalzell’s door, and receiving no reply, put her 
 head in, exclaiming in a voice like that of a sea-gull, 
 
 “Dorme? she sleeps?” Luckily Mrs. Dalzell, though 
 lying on her bed, was not asleep but reading, and 
 Carmela perceiving a book still in her hand, was 
 anxious to know what it was. Mrs. Dalzell showed her 
 the title, knowing she was proud of being able to read, 
 and Carmela, for the first time in her life, touched a 
 Bible. Mrs. Dalzell was not quite aware that she put 
 herself into a somewhat perilous position by encouraging 
 an Italian to read an Italian translation which was not 
 from the Vulgate. Carmela might have read /Ahat if 
 she liked, though few priests would have given her 
 much encouragement to do so. 
 
 “La Bibbia Sanla,’ she read aloud with great 
 emphasis, but in evident uncertainty as to what it was. 
 She leant on the foot ofthe bed with the plain purpose 
 of having a little talk, and inquired if the book were 
 not a history of the creation of the world and the 
 generations of the Hebrew kings, and next whether 
 confession were practised in England. 
 
 “It is permitted, not obligatory,” replied Mrs. 
 Dalzell. 
 
 “So much the better,” said Carmela, twirling the 
 spazzola or feather broom which she had brought in 
 with her; “the priests are rogues.” 
 
 “What!” exclaimed Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “They are rogues,” repeated the girl, with an ex- 
 pressive gesture; “they eat up everything; for their 
 sakes we are taxed; wine is dear, salt is dear, all to 
 make the priests rich. If a man would have his son 
 

 
 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. d3t 
 
 make a living nowadays, he must make him a priest. 
 In my country, and here too, you see more priests 
 than laymen. All is for them.” 
 
 “Take care, Carmela; you will get into trouble if 
 you talk so.’ 
 
 “Pouf! I onlysay what everyone knows. The Capu- 
 cini are not so bad; they have wide sleeves, they are 
 more secular, and know that we who live in the world 
 cannot behave like monks; they give us absolution 
 easily, but the Jesuits—eugh! Does the signora know 
 my country?” 
 er Ent you were Roman, you speak very like 
 one.” 
 
 “No, no, I come from Umbria—Perugia is my 
 town; it is a beautiful place, with a cathedral, and 
 cardinals, and schools, much cheaper than this; the 
 fields are all flowers and the trees all grapes,” replied 
 Carmela, waving her hands in the air. “Does the 
 signora know that I am married?” 
 
 “Married!” repeated Mrs. Dalzell, astonished that 
 this ugly little elf should have a husband. “How come 
 you to be in service, then?” 
 
 “I had been only married six weeks when my hus- 
 band was sent to prison, and then I sought a service,” 
 said the girl, quite proud of having such a distinguished 
 husband. 
 
 “Why was he sent to prison ?” 
 
 “He owed money, and the creditor wanted it back; 
 my husband told him candidly he would murder him 
 unless he was quiet; and as he still insisted, he stabbed 
 him, so he was sent to Spoleto. I can see him, but it 
 takes much money. Ahl!—.here I am, running as if 
 the police were after me,” cried Carmela, elevating her 
 
232 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 voice to its highest pitch, in answer to a distant call, 
 and she rushed out of the room, slamming the door 
 behind her and shouting a most inharmonious song. 
 
 Madama Cecchi received her with a scolding for 
 always dawdling, which charge Carmela received first 
 with a declaration that the English signora had detained 
 her, and then that she had not been absent a moment. 
 The war of words was terrific, but soon subsided, and 
 Madama Cecchi, followed by the other maid, Menica, 
 went to see how Irene’s dressing was prospering. She 
 was attired, all but her scarf, which the padrona put 
 on for her, bidding her wear it coquettishly, now 
 showing the slender waist, then letting it slip so as to 
 display the bracelet and white arm, while Menica oc- 
 casionally put in her oar, standing at Irene’s ‚glass 
 smoothing her own thick hair. Irene listened laughing, 
 and advanced into the sitting-room to show herself to 
 Vincenzo, still pursued by last words from the padrona, 
 who manoeuvred a scarf as dexterously as a Spanish 
 lady did her fan; but Nino was heard coming in and 
 demanding his wife, and with an exclamation of “What 
 a worry!” away she went. Vincenzo had arranged 
 Irene’s music for her, and she was sitting by him, 
 waiting for a summons to go, when Leone came in, 
 with so completely the look of one who had .braced 
 himself against a sudden misfortune that both Vincenzo 
 and Irene exclaimed together, “Dear Leone! what has 
 happened?” 
 
 “I have just heard that Farini is really promoted,” 
 said Leone, with a voice that trembled with indignation 
 and grief, as he threw himself into a chair; “and 
 another man is put over my head! So much for inter- 
 est! A base, pitiful wretch who is well known as a 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 233 
 
 Sanfedist spy! one of Monsignore Clementi’s ömes dam- 
 nees, unless he be marvellously belied. Put over the 
 heads of men. who have worked hard for years! Is it 
 not a charming specimen of how men prosper with a 
 monsignore for their friend?” 
 
 Vincenzo was mute with dismay, and Irene’s face, 
 as she came and stood beside Nota, told what a blow 
 this was. 
 
 “I heard it an hour ago,” continued Leone, “and 
 I have been walking up and down the corridor making 
 up my mind to come in and tell you. Thrown back 
 for years! Not even the consolation, that Ihave worked 
 for this injustice!” 
 
 “Yes, you have, Leone; for you may be sure it is 
 because old scores are remembered against you. Irene, 
 you should remind him ofthe day when you wished he 
 had everything to lose, that all might see how exactly 
 the same course he would pursue.” 
 
 “But I want comfort too much myself to give any 
 away,” said Irene, and Leone looked up at her, smiled 
 and said, “Come, if Fortune escape us in this way, we 
 must catch her in another, the Sanfedists have not 
 beaten us yet.” 
 
 “There! he is comforted, now that he has made 
 you as unhappy as himself, Irene!” 
 
 “You don’t imagine, for an instant, that I wish the 
 past undone—or regret not having tried to propitiate 
 the ruling powers? But hard I must feel it when hope 
 is dashed away in this manner. It is up-hill work at 
 the best, and if I have another chance of rising, the 
 same thing may happen again.” 
 
 It was too true, and there was a sorrowful pause, till 
 he added, “I am not myself to-night—I had bad 
 
234 MADEMOISELLE MORt.. 
 
 news this afternoon, and was forced to make a sad 
 household sadder. Poor Donati!—I learnt his fate 
 at last. He was condemned to fourteen years’ im- 
 prisonment, and his courage gave way—he poisoned 
 himself!” ' 
 
 “Oh, Leone! And you had to tell his poor wife 
 and mother!” 
 
 “Signorina, signorina, the carriage! and the signora 
 begs you will come directly; she will be like a fero- 
 cious beast with anger, unless you do,” cried Carmela, 
 bursting in and giving, to say the least, full effect to a 
 message from Madame Marriotti that she was ready. 
 The recollection of her evening’s work startled Irene; 
 the contrast was ghastly between it and the double 
 tidings she had just heard. 
 
 “Dear Leone, I must go—it is hard to-night,” 
 said Irene, for the first time feeling that her profession 
 had chains, as well as rose wreaths. “Good night, 
 Vincenzo. Leone, you will find time to come a 
 to-morrow?— please!” 
 
 “Perhaps I may be still here when you come home,” 
 said he, wrapping her mantle carefully round her. “Sing 
 well, and don’t catch cold.” 
 
 “Your music!” said Vincenzo, as he saw her going 
 without it. She came hastily back and stooped to kiss 
 him, as she took it. He felt a tear on her cheek. 
 Madama Cecchi came to hurry her away, and she knew 
 that she must not linger a moment longer; but she 
 looked back wistfully as she shut the door, and the 
 mutual glance exchanged between her and Leone was 
 the comfort of both for the rest of the evening. She 
 was to sing at an English party, which seemed a 
 London scene transported to Rome; there were the 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. B55 
 
 lighted rooms, the refreshments, the toilettes, that might 
 have been seen in May Fair; English was spoken on 
 all sides. Irene knew no one, and sat unnoticed, with 
 full time for sad thought, before her turn came to sing. 
 Madame Marriotti, absorbed in her own thoughts as 
 usual, had not noticed her mournful expression, and 
 woke to a consciousness that something had happened 
 to trouble the young cantatrice, only when the un- 
 steadiness of her first notes startled every one with the 
 probability that she would break down. She recovered 
 herself speedily, and ended amid great applause; Ma- 
 dame Marriotti asked, quite indignantly, what she had 
 given her such a fright for?—was Vincenzo ill?— 
 what had happened? 
 
 “Only a hope gone for the present; I will tell you 
 as we go home,” said Irene, who had to attend the 
 next moment to compliments from a celebrated tenor, 
 who had appeared that season at one of the theatres. 
 Madame Marriotti was much pleased, knowing that the 
 great man would not have taken the trouble to be 
 polite to the young frima donna, unless he had thought 
 it worth his while; but muttered as soon as he had 
 moved away, “She sings twice as well as he—I have 
 no patience with the man, an affected fellow! he seems 
 to think it a condescension to sing to us. I must say 
 the child puts her heart into it.” 
 
 “Nature intended him to act a lover on the stage,” 
 said Irene, “he is so pretty!” 
 
 “Hark! there is Häse going to play—now we 
 shall have something worth listening to,” said Madame 
 Marriotti, and Irene was allowed to return to her 
 thoughts till she was wanted to sing again a playful 
 song, one which Vincenzo was particularly fond of. 
 
236 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 She had never sung it better, yet the room she had 
 just left at Palazzo Clementi rose up all the while be- 
 fore her mental eyes, and it seemed to her that there 
 were two Irenes, one performing a part in a brilliant 
 assembly, giving an arch and coquettish song its fullest 
 expression of mirth and malice, and the other sitting 
 by Leone’s side, sharing his disappointment, and 
 weaving plans for the future. Applause fell on an un- 
 heeding ear; compliments were distasteful, and every 
 moment an hour, as she sat longing to be gone, and 
 thinking how soon happiness had spread her butterfly 
 wings and fluttered away; all the grand and elevated 
 views of a musician’s destiny, which she had imbibed 
 from Madame Marriotti, faded lamentably into the back- 
 ground this evening; but, as neither headaches nor 
 heartaches can be openly avowed in society, Irene had 
 to smile, and be courteous, and sing, when askedto do so, 
 
 Had she possessed clairvoyance, she would have 
 discovered that there was some one besides Vincenzo 
 and Leone in the sitting-room at the palace, namely 
 Count Clementi, who was immediately made acquainted 
 with what had happened, and manifested vehement in- 
 dignation. 
 
 “So are served our best men! After all that has 
 been said and done, where are our reforms? Are we 
 any better off than we were two years ago? Are the 
 finances better managed, the law courts improved, com- 
 merce encouraged, or have the clergy given up a single 
 privilege? We are treated like babies, amused with 
 processions and shows, and Heaven knows what; but 
 tell me of what single substantial improvement can we 
 boast? We cannot move a step, but we feel the chains 
 on hand and foot which remind us we are slaves.” 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 237 
 
 “We have no railroads here, count; and, if we had, 
 reforms don’t go by express train; and, though it is 
 true we take ample time about them, the amnesty was 
 enormous gain, and so is the steady progress of the 
 Bianchi opinions,” said Vincenzo. 
 
 “Yes,” ceried Leone, blazing up instantly at a sub- 
 ject which no liberal could calmly name; “at least we 
 are no longer mowed down at our enemies’ pleasure; 
 our citizens are not struck, robbed, abused, assassinated, 
 misused in every conceivable manner. Some years back 
 every road was closed—ay, and kept with a flaming 
 sword—against a man so much as suspected of being 
 a liberal; it was as if you were flung into the Tiber 
 with a stone round your neck. Why, confiscation and 
 death were things of daily occurrence; an anonymous 
 charge was enough to bring a man to the scaffold.” 
 
 “ And how many hundreds were exiled or imprisoned! 
 And you suppose that the priests will calmly abdicate 
 their power? that your slow-paced reforms will be 
 allowed to go on? Oh, blind men, who will not see 
 that a republic is the only hope of Rome!” said Cle- 
 menti. 
 
 “No. No man can wish for that here; the bare 
 idea would set Rome on fire,” said Vincenzo. “The 
 people are not strong enough for it; it would be put- 
 ting a match to a mine of gun-powder. There is true 
 strength in patience, count.” 
 
 “You would sow poppies, and expect them to last 
 as long as ilexes,” said Leone. 
 
 “Everything would be well if.the Ministers were 
 honest,” said Vincenzo; “if they would really follow 
 out the Pope’s schemes; but I don’t see what is to 
 
238 MADEMOISELLE MORI.: 
 
 come of the Pope’s giving commands, and the pespis 
 refusing to believe they emanate from him.” 
 
 “Don’t you?” said Clementi, drily. 
 
 “Government had better beware!’” exclaimed Leone. 
 “If the Neri force us into a reckoning, they need not 
 be surprised if we cast up the accounts our own way. 
 Let them play us false, and the Tiber will run blood 
 from St. Angelo to Ripa Grande. I don’t say so on 
 account of what has just happened to me, though far 
 worse may happen any day with no redress—but it 
 is not I, Leone, who am unjustly used, that is a trifle 
 —it is Nota, the liberal, who is to be kept down!” 
 
 Clementi struck his forehead as if a thought had 
 suddenly stung him. “WNota! I am the cause of it all! 
 you owe it all to me; doubtless it is my uncle’s doing; 
 you are my friend, and as such his enemy. I little 
 thought what our friendship would cost you!” 
 
 “Of course I knew whose man it was that has 
 stepped in,” answered Leone; “but as for the rest— 
 nonsense, count! true or not, what does that matter? 
 You have lost more by taking our side than any man 
 among us. Come, friend, you are not thinking. of this? 
 Do you suppose I cannot make my way in spite of 
 fortune and her allies the Papiste?” 
 
 He made a slight, graceful gesture, as if defying 
 them one and all, and held out his hand to Clementi, 
 who looked thoroughly depressed by the conviction 
 that it was through him that Nota had suffered. Vin- 
 cenzo eagerly sought to convince him to the contrary, 
 and Leone would not listen to a word on the subject; 
 little guessing that, while he warmly assured him of 
 his continual friendship, Clementi was secretly smiling 
 in disdain, and almost scorned to plot against a man 
 

 
 HERE 
 
 ut 
 
 
 

 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORTI, 239 
 
 so easily deceived. They were interrupted by Cecchi, 
 who asked in haste whether Irene had returned; Nanna 
 seemed suddenly much worse, and extreme unction was 
 about to be administered. It had been delayed hitherto 
 on account of her apparent rallying in the afternoon. 
 
 Irene had not come. The day which had begun in 
 sorrow ended in the same manner; this time the old 
 woman showed no signs of recovery; the priest re- 
 turned, touched her limbs with the holy oil; spoke the 
 last prayers for the dying over her while she lay, un- 
 hearing, unconscious, and before Irene came home, the 
 old nurse was dead. 
 
 Nanna had been the orphans’ friend from their 
 birth, and they missed her much; they had loved her 
 more than they knew. Their surprise was great when 
 they found she had thought it worth while to make a 
 will: for they had no idea she possessed a dajocco; 
 but Irene inherited the contents of an earthenware pot, 
 which Nanna had kept concealed by day and put under 
 her pillow by night; and there was a considerable sum 
 left even when the usual heavy funeral expenses were 
 paid. A heap of coins, varying from half a dajocco to 
 a gold piece, was found in it—how acquired no one 
 knew. Clementi could have accounted for some ofthem, 
 though in truth Nanna was richer than he; others had 
 been given by people who commissioned her in days 
 when she accompanied her young mistress to the theatre, 
 to carry notes and messages; but Nanna knew Irene 
 too well to do anything of the kind; she accepted every 
 embassy, pocketed her reward, and said nothing about 
 either. Clementi had first propitiated her, and to him 
 she remained faithful, giving information to him or to 
 Gemma of everything in Madama Cecchi’s household 
 
240 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 ‘which it concerned them to know; and, if she ever 
 revealed her treachery, it was under the seal of the 
 confessional, and Irene never knew of it; but probably 
 Nanna did not see anything wrong in what she did, 
 and would not have classed it amongst sins to be con- 
 fessed. 
 
 In the old nurse Clementi lost a useful and un- 
 scrupulous ally, but he had made his footing sure with 
 the brother and sister, and could do withouther. When 
 Irene had been made acquainted with his fear that he 
 had brought ill-will upon Leone, she showed him an 
 increase of friendliness, to console him for his supposed 
 share in causing a disappointment which so nearly con- 
 cerned herself. He was now far from being the only 
 noble who had joined the popular side—two or three 
 of the highest rank had long countenanced it; and 
 many more gave it their adhesion on finding that the 
 Court faction was growing less and less prosperous; 
 but still the horizon darkened, and the agitation among 
 the people grew more and more threatening. 
 
 The commencement of Pio Nono’s reign resembled 
 those brilliant southern days when heaven and earth 
 seem enchanted into halcyon beauty, but which only 
 precede the shock of the earthquake and the flow of 
 the lava. T'he moderate liberals found their number 
 daily diminished by desertions to the ultra party; wise 
 men trembled, and the populace resisted, like an un- 
 broken horse, when the least curb was put on their 
 clamorous demands. Strong hands and heads were 
 needed to rule them, and these were not numerous in 
 the Pope’s Cabinet. 
 
 The Ministers temporized, the Austrians threatened, 
 and took the outrageous step of occupying Ferrara. A 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORL. 241 
 
 proclamation forbidding processions and dimostrazioni 
 in piazza, was issued at Rome; and produced violent 
 discontent, for it touched the populace in a point as 
 dear to them as'the games of the circus had been to 
 their ancestors. The people hated the Government 
 more heartily for this trifle than for all the past griev- 
 ances; for, after all, what the masses wanted was strong 
 excitement. They had all something of the tiger nature, 
 ready to break out savagely at any time; revolution 
 would have pleased them better than reform; they were 
 neither liberal nor Papal; and followed any leader who 
 could win their favour. 
 
 The anniversary of the amnesty was marked by 
 ominous tumults; there sprang up an extraordinary 
 suspicion that a plot against the personal freedom of 
 the Pope was brewing among the Sanfedists. Instead 
 of a festal procession, howls for vengeance echoed 
 through the streets; unknown hands put up a list of 
 the supposed conspirators on the walls. They were 
 well-known names; the military tore down the paper, a 
 riot ensued, resulting in a popular triumph; when in- 
 stead of severe measures of repression, the Secretary of 
 State publicly praised the people for their moderation, 
 and a notification was published by authority, that the 
 authors of the supposed plot should be punished. 
 Those suspected had already fled for their lives from 
 the mob, who hunted them like wild beasts, and broke 
 open their houses. Sad omens for the future did that 
 June of 1847 bring; but better hopes might be gathered 
 from the cry of indignation that rang throughout Italy 
 againstthe Austrian invaders. The occupation of Ferrara 
 had lighted up a flame which had blazed up far too 
 fiercely to be extinguished, even when, tardily and 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. T. 16 
 
222" MADEMOISELLE MORT. ‘ 
 
 grudgingly, the Court of Austria listened to the Papal 
 remonstrances, and withdrew from that city. With one 
 accord the Romans offered arms, men, and money to 
 the Pope; and, as if the love of their country had 
 awakened at last in hearts hitherto devoted to self 
 alone, the Gregoriani, the priests, and religious orders 
 were foremost in the work. The very children met 
 and practised military manoeuvres; the peaceful, gentle 
 Pio nono found himself turned into a generalissimo just 
 at the time when one of his chief counsellors had left 
 him to go as ambassador to the Court of Sardinia, and 
 death had deprived him of another. 
 
 But all these things were in the future, when Nota 
 and his friends held the foregoing conversation in Pa- 
 lazzo Clementi. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Stranger, within these grounds, whoe’er thou art, 
 No limitation of thy freedom fear; 
 
 Go where thou wilt, and when thou wilt, depart; 
 Since for thy pleasure all is ordered here. 
 
 As all was golden in the age of gold, 
 
 Man trusted man, and laws were yet unknown; 
 Bound by no sterner code our friends we hold, 
 Than honour’s law lays down for every one. 
 
 But who, with ıll-design prepense, shall dare 
 The golden rules of courtesy to break, 
 Our villa’s guardian bids that wight beware, 
 Lest those of friendship’s grace he forfeit make. 
 Latin Inscription in the Villa Borghese. 
 
 «WHAT are you going to do with yourself to-day?” 
 asked Count Clementi of his sister, who came into the 
 room where he was turning over a French novel. She 
 carried a bundle of pieces of black silk, which she 
 threw down on the table, and began fitting together. 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. ' 243. 
 
 “] am busy,” she replied. “I am going to Irene 
 Mori presently—does that please you?” 
 
 “What is all that rubbish?” asked Clementi, taking 
 no notice of the last part of her speech. 
 
 “Black silk.” 
 
 “I see that. Some valuable present from our aunt?” 
 
 Gemma shrugged her shoulders. “To make a hood 
 if there be enough—I must have it ready for to-night.” 
 
 “Going to Casa Olivetti? You were out this, 
 morning.” 
 
 “At mass, of course; it is St. Joseph’s day, as you 
 might know.” 
 
 “By the bye! So I have committed mortal sin by 
 not being up in time to go. And you brought home 
 some good resolutions, I presume, for I think it was 
 only yesterday that you protested you would never go 
 out of the house again, unless you had a new dress.” 
 
 Gemma did not say what had changed her resolu- 
 tion; she merely asked, “Any message to Vincenzo?” 
 
 “It is of no use for you to go now; Irene is gone 
 out.” 
 
 “You have been up long enough to discover that.” 
 
 “Ravelli looked in and mentioned it.” 
 
 Gemma found she got the worst of this cut-and- 
 thrust dialogue, and spoke no more till the contessa 
 came in, and settled herself in the arm-chair which 
 Clementi placed for her in a sunny position. Whatever 
 were his faults, he was a most attentive son; and it was 
 with reason that she complained of the difference be- 
 tween Gemma’s conduct and his. 
 
 “What are you about, Gemma?” she asked, in the 
 querulous tones which always exasperated her daughter, 
 as if they contained a reproach. 
 
 16* 
 
344 MADEMOISELLE MORL. 
 
 “Making a hood.” 
 
 “So, after all, "you are goitig with your aunt to- 
 
 night; I am sure I don’t know what you are to wear; 
 that last dress is not paid for, and you had it a year 
 ago.” / 
 
 “There is no large party,” said Gemma. 
 
 “No, so I suppose; but I can’t have you going not 
 fit to be seen; bring me your dress, and let me look 
 at it.” 
 
 “I have not time now,” said Gemma, and she left 
 the room, and applied herself to the ironing of sundry 
 collars and sleeves adorned with her own beautiful 
 embroidery, the only ornamental kind of dress which 
 the young countess could afford. Her mother never 
 went into society, and was too poor to give entertain- 
 ments; their visitors were only Gemma’s two uncles 
 (one of whom had married a wife with a good dowry, 
 and lived in the rooms above the contessa’s) and the 
 Olivetti, very old acquaintances, who occasionally passed 
 an evening with the contessa. Gemma’s: monotonous 
 life was a little varied by going out with her aunt, but 
 the pleasure was sadly diminished by the age of her 
 dresses, especially when she compared them withImelda’s 
 expensive toilettes; and she had seriously declared, only 
 the evening before, that she would go nowhere till she 
 had a new gown, a thing which the family finances 
 could by no means compass, as the richer uncle and 
 aunt were deaf to her hints, and a stormy scene ensued, 
 tears on her part, cool contempt on Clementi’s, and 
 lamentations on her mother’s. 
 
 Early in the morning she might have been seen 
 watering the two great orange-trees which stood in 
 their tubs on either side of the door leading from Con- 
 
 ” 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. ‘245 
 
 ‚tessa Clementi’s apartment into the corridor; the hollow 
 trunk of one had often served as a post-office, and once 
 more she found there a note from Ravelli, which told 
 her that he should be at Casa Olivetti that evening. 
 All else became unimportant; Gemma went gaily with 
 her aunt to mass, and afterwards received from her 
 sundry pieces of old silk to do what she liked with. 
 She was happy again, she had a scheme to occupy her 
 mind—-better off so far than her brother, who had no- 
 thing particular on hand; the day would be too long, 
 ‚though as usual he had risen late. 
 
 He sauntered into the: Corso with a cigar; met 
 there a new acquaintance, a cousin of the Olivetti, 
 who proposed a drive to celebrate the /es/a which 
 enforced idleness on every one; encountered Ravelli, 
 ‚and invited him to join them, :as they stepped into one 
 of the carriages waiting on the stand. All three drove 
 towards the Borghese Gardens, already thronged with 
 pleasure seekers, who found shade in its ilex avenues, 
 and sunshine on the open lawns, where children 
 scrambled about, nurses carried white-robed babies, 
 men smoked their cigars, loitered about, or sat on the 
 stone benches; ladies walked up and down the grassy 
 terraces, carriages stood empty waiting for their owners, 
 „or drove along the road to and from the villa—the 
 band playing on the Pincio was distinctly heard, and 
 the delicious day invited irresistibly to idleness—a day 
 when spring and summer seemed married together, and 
 the fruit trees strewed the bridal path with their snowy 
 blossoms. 
 
 Meanwhile Gemma, as soon as Irene came in, sought 
 her and found her reading the JZalia of Leopardi to 
 Vincenzo, who was copying the music of a part she 
 
246 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 was soon to rehearse. They did not look as if they 
 wanted any one else, but Gemma sat down and began 
 to talk of anything that came into her head. Irene 
 put away her book, and sat idle near the open window 
 where the warm soft air came breathing in; Vincenzo 
 looked at her with a smile and said, “It is an unusual 
 thing to see you idle, Irene.” 
 
 “Yes; I am giving myself a treat; I have been 
 practising all the morning. I shall have to be very 
 busy when the theatres re-open after Lent.” 
 
 “You never work,” said Gemma. 
 
 “I detest needlework; I like being very busy or 
 very idle; and needlework is neither business nor idle- 
 ness. Mrs. Dalzell is always doing some, but it is not 
 my nature.” 
 
 “Maddalena does all your work for you,” said 
 Gemma. Maddalena was Irene’s servant. 
 
 “Yes; but I assure you I don’t trust the planning 
 of my costumes to her, she only executes my designs; 
 you don’t know how much dress has to do with success 
 on the stage,” said Irene. 
 
 “What a dragon Maddalena looks!” said Gemma. 
 
 “That was one of her recommendations in Madama 
 Cecchi’s eyes,” said Vincenzo, “when she urged us to 
 have her for Irene’s maid; she said to me, “# drutia, 
 dbrutla, cosi non fard Pamore!’” 
 
 “She is one of my chief admirers,” said Irene; 
 “when I am practising she stands outside the door to 
 listen, and won’t let any one come in to interrupt me!” 
 
 “Irene, could you lend me some silk to work with? 
 I have forgotten mine.” 
 
 “Here, take what you want. Your hood is nearly 
 
 17? 
 
 .made! 
 
 
 

 
 'MADEMOISELLE MORI. '247 
 
 “If I had only something to line it with!” 
 
 “You want something rose-coloured.” 
 
 Gemma made a face, which expressed that she had 
 none, and was very unlikely ever to have any. “I 
 may as well let it alone; I cannot wear it without a 
 lining.” 
 
 “I dare say I have some,” said Irene, searching in 
 a drawer. “Here.” 
 
 Gemma thanked her, and made such good use of 
 the pieces offered to her, that the little hood soon be- 
 came the prettiest head-dress imaginable. 
 
 “Oh, Irene, did you see the Marchesa Viola’s 
 wreath the last time we were at the Valle? Any- 
 thing so ridiculous! and she was dressed in full gala 
 costume. Every one was talking about it; and there 
 was the Cavaliere Monteverdi with her again!” 
 
 “People talk of nothing but what such and such a 
 one has worn,” said Irene; “I sometimes wonder if 
 all society be as satirical and gossiping and false as 
 ours!” 
 
 “What would you have us talk of?” 
 
 “Why—I don’t know—but surely in some places 
 there must be a little talk about books, or art, or 
 science, not merely whom one has seen, or what has 
 happened lately, or what our friends wear, and whether 
 their clothes came from Paris or not!” 
 
 “I never heard of any place where people talked 
 of books instead of persons—it would be very dull. 
 Now I have finished, all but the strings. Have you 
 anything that would make strings, you dear, good 
 Irene?” 
 
 “IT don’t know—come and look.” 
 
 Gemma sighed as she turned over the pieces of 
 
248 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 silk, the ribbons, the fragments, which careless Irene 
 had heaped together and forgotten—there was so 
 much that Gemma would gladly have 'appropriated. 
 Strings at least she could secure, and when they were 
 attached, the hood was ready for wear. While she was 
 putting it on to display it, Mrs. Dalzell came in and 
 proposed to Vincenzo a drive in the Borghese Gardens. 
 He gladly accepted, declaring he could “crutch” him- 
 self downstairs unaided; Gemma looked so imploring 
 that the invitation was extended to her, and she ran to 
 fetch her bonnet, troubling herself no further about her 
 mother’s consent than to look in and say, “Mamma, I 
 am going 22 carrozza with the English lady.” 
 
 Vincenzo laughingly observed to his sister, “She 
 got half her hood out of you—I know she ‚came on 
 purpose!” 
 
 “They must be wretchedly poor,” said Irene, “or 
 else it would be too mean—not that I grudge her the 
 silk, if she would only ask outright.” 
 
 “And not imagine that she humbugs you with her 
 sweet names! She has done the same thing fifty times 
 before; they are too proud to let Clementi work, or 
 Gemma marry a commoner, but not too proud to get 
 all they can out of other people. "They will not work, 
 and are »o/ ashamed to beg. I am not speaking of the 
 count.” 
 
 At this moment Gemma came back, and they went 
 downstairs, accommodating their pace to Vincenzo’s 
 capabilities. "The carriage stood waiting, with its hand- 
 some pair: of horses and liveried servant; Gemma did 
 not fail to notice the completeness of the equipage, and 
 as she sat opposite ‘to Mrs. Dalzell, her black eyes 
 ‚surveyed the Englishwoman’s features and dress with 
 
 
 

 
 .MADEMOISELLE MORI. 249 
 
 ‘an unflinching, curious scrutiny, as different as possible 
 from the sincere, gladsome look of Irene. They drove 
 out through the Piazza del Popolo, where the sun 
 . poured down dazzlingly on the white dusty ground, 
 and illumined the buildings, till architecture that would 
 have been mean, and streets that would have been 
 gloomy elsewhere, became perfectly beautiful under the 
 wand of that great enchanter the sun, who, like Hap- 
 piness, calls out all that is lovely and beautifies even 
 that which is not already fair. The obelisk rose up 
 into as blue a sky as ever canopied it in its own Helio- 
 polis; the lions spouted out clear streams of water at 
 each corner of its stone steps, with a refreshing sound; 
 on the shadier side beggars lay basking and sleeping 
 — extended, too, at full length on the steps of the 
 church, which the Roman people raised to purify the 
 site of the unholy sepulchre of Nero; boys hopped in 
 all directions in the game of campana, or hop-scotch, 
 without paying the slightest regard to the carriages 
 which ‘drove incessantly through the piazza, and 
 threatened to annihilate them; bird-voices, rare sounds 
 in Rome, twittered in the belt of cypresses; every one 
 and everything seemed in a state of enjoyment. 
 Everybody eats fritters on St. Joseph’s day, and at 
 the corners of the streets booths were erected, sheltered 
 by arbours of green boughs, and sometimes adorned 
 with broadsides of verses in large print that all the 
 world might see; fritter-eaters crowded around them, 
 so fiercely eager that the white-robed cooks were 
 breathless with frying, and handing their wares to the 
 consumers. Being a fes/a, which happened not only to 
 fall in Mid-Lent, but on a Friday, the Romans were 
 doubly delighted to celebrate it, and not a carriage was 
 
250 MADEMOISELLE MORI, 
 
 to be seen on any of the stands—all were engaged by 
 pleasure-seekers. 
 
 There had been no rain for weeks, and Mrs. Dalzell 
 and her party found the dust so disagreeable that they 
 were very glad to leave the carriage, and sit down 
 among the ilexes. Irene applied herself to seeking 
 wild flowers, Vincenzo lay on the turf, and Gemma 
 began catechizing the English lady. Her restless spirit 
 pined for change, as a traveller in the desert pines for 
 water; out of Rome she saw novelty, liberty; English 
 women appeared to her the most enviable creatures in 
 the world; she never guessed that they seldom used 
 their liberty in the way that she contemplated. 
 
 “The signora lives in London?” she began. 
 
 “No, in the country.” 
 
 “In summer—in villeggiatura?” 
 
 “All the year round when I am in England.” 
 
 “In atown in the country, then,” persisted Gemma, 
 unable to understand that country society so peculiarly 
 English, and consisting in great part of the families of 
 a married priesthood. 
 
 “But you go to London for the carnival?” 
 
 “We have none in England.” 
 
 “No carnival!” said Gemma, incredulously; “nor 
 theatres?” 
 
 Her evidently declining estimation of England was 
 raised again, when she heard there were theatres. 
 
 “And English ladies walk about alone, and marry 
 whom they please, do they not? I have heard Signora 
 Olivetti say that their parents trust girls in England, 
 as if they were jrgli maschi” (male sons). 
 
 “They walk alone in the country, but no young girl 
 ‚goes out by herself in London, and a marriage against 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORIL. 251 
 
 , a parent’s wish is rare. We trust girls because they 
 ' are brought up not to abuse confidence.” 
 
 “Flere no one trusts them, and in the convent they 
 never can think for themselves; and when they come 
 out, and have not the nuns always after them, they 
 get into mischief,” said Gemma; a remark that hit the 
 truth so nearly, that Mrs. Dalzell perceived that the 
 girl had now, at all events, begun to think for herself, 
 and besides had a keen wit. “They have nothing that 
 they care to do— some are satisfied to make their 
 dresses and knit stockings by their mother’s side, and 
 some are so weary of their life that they would die 
 outright, if they did not find something else to think 
 of— pain or pleasure—either is a change; it makes 
 one’s heart beat a little faster. There is at least one 
 minute in the day to look for, to scheme for—that 
 one feels mad :to be deprived of—one lives thus!” 
 Her face expressed such stormy passions as could be 
 only known to a hot-blooded native of the south, as 
 she described her own feelings under this thin disguise, 
 little guessing that the English lady had the clue to 
 each word. In the old times this girl would have been 
 the heroine of some such terrible tragedy as the annals 
 of almost every Italian family can furnish; the fiery, 
 lawless nature still existed, the times only were 
 altered; it was a wild beast, growing sullen and savage 
 in a cage. 
 
 “See, signora,” said Irene, returning with a handful 
 of delicate white starlike flowers which she had found 
 under the ilexes. “What are these?” 
 
 They were unknown both to Mıs. Dalzell and 
 Vincenzo, who had begun to study botany a little, 
 though much hindered by the lack of Italian works on 
 
252 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 the subject; and they examined them with an interest 
 incomprehensible to Gemma, who rose and wandered 
 away, enjoying the unwonted freedom. Mrs. Dalzell 
 was so busy discussing the natural system with Vin- 
 cenzo, that she‘ did not notice the girl’s absence, but 
 Irene exclaiming, “Where can she have gone? there 
 will be a scandal if she be seen alone,” hastened to 
 seek her. | 
 
 But another eye. saw her long before Irene could 
 find her; Ravelli, as he sauntered with his two com- 
 panions, caught sight of a well-known dress—the 
 face was turned in another direction, yet it could be 
 no other than Gemma, unlikely' as it seemed that she 
 should be wandering here alone. With some excuse 
 to his friends he withdrew his arm from Clementi’s, 
 and crossed into the avenue slowly, so as to meet her 
 when they had passed out of sight. The count, with 
 his lynx eyes, saw her quite as soon as Ravelli, and a 
 frown knit his finely marked black brows together; but 
 he saw without choosing to see, and continued his talk 
 with Signor Lelio Olivetti, a cousin of Imelda’s, just 
 come to Rome for the express purpose of seeing a wife 
 whom Signora Olivetti wrote to tell him she had found 
 for him. A meeting with Ravelli, Gemma had: not 
 dared to hope for; but: when she found he had been 
 with her brother, her consternation was so evident, that 
 it again aroused the' wonder of her lover.. Her firm 
 conviction that Clementi would sooner or later play her 
 false made her ready at any moment to betray him; 
 but the impossibility of explaining away her own long 
 course of deceit again prevailed, and she let herself feel 
 nothing but the joy of these few free moments, troubled 
 very speedily, as it seemed, by the appearance of 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI 253 
 
 Irene, who came straight up to Gemma with no more 
 notice of Ravelli than if she had never seen him before, 
 and said briefly, “We are going home.” 
 
 “Already!” 
 
 “Already? we have been here an hour at least. 
 Come.” 
 “Not so much as a look for me, Irene?” said 
 Ravelli, with mischievous pleasure in her evident in- 
 dignation. 
 
 “I shall see you to-night at Casa Olivetti,” an- 
 swered Irene, with meaning, and Gemma looked at her 
 as if she could have killed her. 
 
 “ Au revoir, hard-hearted one, then, unless you will 
 let me come t00,” said Ravellı. 
 
 Irene turned and looked at him with eyes full of 
 indignant reproach. 
 
 “Luigi!” she exclaimed, “once for all, I must say 
 it—how can you act so basely? Do you know that I 
 am sometimes ready to renounce you as.a friend! If 
 you love Gemma, tell the world so, and take the con- 
 sequences; but do not risk her fair name and Imelda’s 
 happiness any longer.” 
 
 “As the consequences would be the cloister for 
 Gemma, I can hardly take your advice, Irene.” 
 
 “Then wait, without such meetings as this.” 
 
 “Why? do you suppose I knew she would be 
 here?” 
 
 “It is only one of many; is not that true, Luigi?” 
 
 “Come,” said Gemma, whose impatience now 
 brimmed over, “it is you who linger now—come!” 
 She caught Irene’s hand to hasten her on; but Ravelli 
 was stung by her look and words, and said, haughtily, 
 “One minute, Irene. Gemma is dependent on her 
 
254: MADEMOISELLE MORIL 
 
 uncle; perhaps you will ask his consent for us! You 
 
 need not suppose it is on my own account that I keep 
 our love secret; you ought to know what persecution 
 would come on her if he heard of it, but the day will 
 come when we shall be independent of Monsignore 
 Clementi. If you suppose that we prefer such meetings 
 as these to being openly affianced, you are much mis- 
 taken.” 
 
 “Perhaps Gemma likes them better than you do, 
 Luigi,” said Irene; and the words struck home, for 
 Gemma did, by nature, love anything that required 
 plotting or scheming. 
 
 “Come!” Gemma exclaimed, flushing scarlet, and 
 hurrying on. Irene had no more to say, and followed 
 her. As they got out of sight of Ravelli, who stood 
 still in an attitude of despondency most unusual to him, 
 Gemma whispered, in a tone of such intense hatred 
 that Irene started, “I thank you—lI shall not forget 
 this, Mademoiselle Mori!” 
 
 Ravelli’s feelings were not soothing. No man could 
 like a woman to despise him, and he had a deep 
 esteem and admiration for Leone’s betrothed bride. He 
 loved Gemma passionately, yet he doubted her, he 
 could not esteem her; but still, to have a glimpse of 
 her, to exchange a look—a word—was the absorbing 
 thought of each day. He could not have told why. 
 He knew perfectly that Irene. was a thousand times 
 superior; that Imelda would make him a better wife, 
 
 but he loved Gemma. There was no why or where- 
 
 fore—it was the fact. He did not greatly fear Count 
 Clementi’s aristocratic prejudices, but he knew the 
 uncle would end the matter at once should it come 
 to his ears; and as for his own father, Signor Ravelli, 
 
 
 

 
&3 
 
 ET), 9 27 
 
 a ö pr n > I 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORL | 255 
 
 Luigi had been already driven nearly mad with irri- 
 tation at his obstinate determination, that the long- 
 arranged marriage between his son and Imelda Olivetti 
 should take place. Nothing but his mother’s terrified, 
 tearful face, her misery after similar scenes, prevented 
 Luigi from making some outrageous reply; but he 
 knew himself, after all, to be as much the idol of his 
 old father as of his mother, and, in every calmer mo- 
 ment, reproached himself for refusing to make them 
 happy. Some time before, he would have married the 
 pretty child they had chosen for him, and been con- 
 tented; he had always made a pet of her, and liked 
 her in a brotherly way, which might easily have glided 
 into a husband’s affection; but at Casa Olivetti he met 
 Gemma, he saw her frequently with Irene, and feelings 
 awoke which were very dissimilar to his calm liking 
 for Imelda. Now, if-he would, he could not marry, 
 for Gemma responded to his love with the unbounded 
 ardour of her violent nature; he had linked his fate to 
 hers, and could not disentangle them. His lips were 
 compressed, his brow darkened, as he stood meditat- 
 ing; but, speedily, his usual gay, mocking smile re- 
 turned, he was Luigi Ravelli again; a fire-fly, defying 
 fate and enjoying the battle; something of a weather- 
 cock by nature, but withal thoroughly affectionate, 
 generous, and manly; and the best of the club who met 
 to play at pallone in Palazzo Barbariniı on summer 
 evenings, a distinction which proved that he had not 
 his match in Rome for speed of foot, lightness of ateD 
 and quickness of eye. 
 
 He perceived his friends on the main road, and 
 joining them, all sauntered on, till, in a little thicket, 
 where the ground was coloured by purple anemones 
 

 
 256 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 and blue periwinkles in rich mosaic, they beheld a 
 Decameron-like group—Mrs. Dalzell and her com- 
 panions seated or lying on the turf, luxuriating in the 
 enchanting day, when every breath inhaled air suffused 
 with sunshine. They had not yet quite made up their 
 minds to go, and the arrival of the young men gave 
 an excuse for lingering another half-hour. 
 
 Count Clementi introduced his new acquaintance, 
 and some exchange of compliments and trifling talk 
 ensued. Irene alone sat silent, enjoying the soft, 
 enervating day, but thinking, at the same time, of 
 Imelda. Clementi sat near her, and made an occasional 
 remark, chiming in with her mood, but keeping, un- 
 observed, an eye on his sister and Ravelli, who had 
 just answered Vincenzo’s question, why he had not 
 visited them the evening before, that he and Leone 
 had been discussing a scheme, with some others, for a 
 circolo or club. 
 
 Gemma’s face clouded. When she had contrived 
 that night to slip in on purpose to meet him, he had 
 stayed away to flirt with her sworn rival, politics! 
 She entered at once into conversation with Lelio Oli- 
 vetti, who began with, “I have heard of you repeat- 
 edly, contessa, though this is the first time I have seen 
 Rome.” 
 
 “And what do you think of our Rome, signor?” 
 
 “How shall Itell you what I think of it! I stand 
 on the bridges, and admire the views like a foreigner!” 
 
 From sentiment they got to satire; Gemma was in 
 a wicked mood, and spared none of her acquaintance. 
 Mrs. Dalzell, singularly as she had been thrown into 
 foreign society, did not know enough of it to under- 
 stand the allusions which called forth repeated peals of 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORt. aa 
 
 laughter from the two chief talkers; but she saw by 
 the curl on Vincenzo’s lip what he thought of the con- 
 versation, and began to wonder if she were doing right 
 to allow the young lady to make this new acquaintance. 
 Uncertain of Roman customs, she would have been 
 uneasy, had not the presence of Count Clementi reas- 
 sured her. He was saying to Irene, “How you must 
 be looking forward to vrlleggiatura.” 
 
 “Yes; but I shall have some hard work first. Did 
 I tell you that we are to have a new opera, with an 
 old Roman story for the plot—/Z Caio is the name, 
 and I believe I am to be the heroine, Valeria. I 
 don’t know its merits yet. When we do leave Rome, 
 I hope we shall go to some new place; Frascati and 
 Albano have become places where people only go to 
 show their fine clothes.” 
 
 “They save all the year round to make a show in 
 villeggiatura, just as the poor put away a dajocco or 
 two a week for the October feasts, and then hey! for 
 drives, and new dresses, and peacock’s feathers in 
 the hats, and a feast at some little inn outside the 
 walls!” 
 
 “Well, are they not wise? Mankind must have 
 something to look forward to—a laurel crown or an 
 October feast, it does not matter which!” 
 
 “They both occasion headaches very often,” said 
 Vincenzo; “but the laurels last longer.” 
 
 “Than the headaches or the feast? This is a day 
 when roses seem more appropriate than laurels—/a 
 parure 4 l’hiver, mais le deuil de l’&lE, you know!” 
 
 “If Ihad the making of the wreath, it should be 
 both, mixed—the summer should have its laurels, 
 and the winter its roses,” replied Clementi, in a tone 
 
 ademoiselle Mori. T. 17 
 
258- MADEMOISELLE MORI.. 
 
 of such real interest, that the words were not compli-- 
 
 mentary but sympathetic, and Irene smiled gratefully. 
 
 He had a bit of bay in his hand, and springing lightly 
 
 up, he gathered a handful of sprays from several trees 
 near, and twisted them into a garland. “See, Vin- 
 cenzo, my friend,” said he, playfully, “my wreath will 
 be more enduring than your wild flowers. Offer your 
 bouquet to Flora — mine is for the Priestess of 
 Apollo.” 
 
 “Cypress!” said Vincenzo; “are you crowning her 
 with cypress?” 
 
 “No, no; lignum vita.” 
 
 “Nay, it is cypress,” said Irene; “never mind, I 
 am not afraid.” 
 
 “Don’t put it on,” said Clementi, hastily., “A 
 cypress crown! the first thing I ever gave you!” 
 
 “Only. a very little bit, and a great deal of bay to 
 counteract it. Let me have it.” 
 
 “No,” said Clementi, untwisting the wreath, and 
 throwing away the sprays. A little gust of warm wind 
 bore them back to Irene, who exclaimed, as she took 
 up the ill-omened bough, “after all, it has come back 
 to me! See, Count!” She looked the personification 
 of glad fearlessness as she spoke, holding the cypress 
 bough above her head, her mirthful mood entirely re- 
 stored by the evident seriousness with which Clementi 
 regarded the omen. He broke to pieces a branch which 
 had fallen near him, thinking how true the omen might 
 be—one created only by his own conscience, and thus, 
 indeed, prophetic. 
 
 “Are there laurels in the world to suffice both you 
 and Leone, Irene?” asked Ravelli, breaking off a con- 
 versation with Mrs. Dalzell, during which his eye con- 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 _ MADEMOISELLE MORI. . 259 
 
 stantly sought Gemma, who was entirely engrossed with 
 her new acquaintance. 
 
 “Qur laurels grow on different trees, Luigi, and his 
 are higher and more evergreen than mine.” 
 
 “Why is he not here? we only want him to com- 
 plete our party,” said Count Clementi. 
 
 “It was a sudden plan of Mrs. Dalzell’s; Gemma 
 was with us, and we all came together,” said Vincenzo. 
 “The sun was so dazzling in the piazzas that the only 
 thing to look at comfortably was one’s own shadow. I 
 fully comprehend the force of the Arabian wish, ‘May 
 your shadow never be less.’ ” 
 
 “We shall have to fly into the country as soon as 
 we can,” said Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “You think of remaining amongst us all the year, 
 signora? Irene will succeed in persuading you to live 
 altogether in Italy at last,” said Clementi. 
 
 “No; I have too many friends in England; but I 
 confess that Italy attracts me every autumn, as iflI 
 were a migratory bird.” 
 
 “The swallows have not such good taste,” said 
 Vincenzo; “in autumn you may see them clustering 
 about Sta. Maria del Popolo by hundreds, and then, 
 off they go.” 
 
 “San Benedelto, rondina sollo’l letlo; I] see they are 
 come,” said Irene. 
 
 “Sing Pellegrina Rondinella, Irene,” said Clementi, 
 humming the first lines of Grossi’s lovely verses, in a 
 voice so sweet and rich, that Mrs. Dalzell at once per- 
 ceived why Madame Marriotti preferred him to Leone. 
 Irene complied, and he sang a second by ear, and the 
 passers-by stopped with one accord, taking off their 
 hats as ıt concluded, with a murmur of “Zravi! Bravi!” 
 
 27 
 
2360 MADEMOISELLE MORt. 
 
 “They have found you out, Irene,” said Ravellı. 
 “By the bye, did Leone turn poet on purpose to write 
 songs for you? I have always intended to ask him.” 
 
 “You know very well that his poems were famous 
 long before he ever saw us,” she answered, provoked 
 just as he meant her to be. 
 
 “I shall break with him soon, I foresee,” said 
 Ravelli, between jest and earnest; “he has more power 
 than any man in Rome over the people, and the 
 villain uses it t0 promote his confounded half measures, 
 moderation, peace, and such stuff. There is nothing 
 so peaceful as death; we have lain in the tomb for 
 ages—ay, like the poor wretches whom Dante saw in 
 their open sepulchres with a shower of burning snow 
 falling on them; if life return to us, it must be in 
 struggles and suffering. What are we good for, but to 
 fight for our country—live or die for her, as she needs 
 us? Moderation, while the Austrian stands on our soil? 
 Viva U’Italia! | 
 
 “E fuori ! Barbari! But no more politics to-day, 
 Luigi,” said Clementi, perceiving that Signor Lelio was 
 suddenly regarding them with a stare of offended amaze- . 
 ment: “can’t you talk of something else on a summer’s 
 day?” 
 
 “Oh, to be sure,” said Ravelli, flinging himself 
 back on the turf; “by all means; let us talk of violets, 
 and lambs, and brooks, if you like; no doubt there is 
 much that is profitable to say about them.” 
 
 “Or suppose we go home,” said Mrs. Dalzell. “Are 
 you ready, signorina?” 
 
 “Quite,” answered Gemma, rising; and they all 
 walked together towards the carriage. 
 
 
 

 
 _ MADEMOISELLE MORI. 261 
 
 “] shall see you to-night at my cousin’s, contessina ?” 
 ‚asked Olivetti, who kept by her side. 
 
 “Yes; unless my aunt changes her mind as to going. 
 A rivederla, signor.” 
 
 She sprang into the carriage, and held out a hand 
 to Vincenzo, but Irene looked on waiting upon him as 
 ‚her special right, and speedily arranged his cushions 
 and helped him in; Mrs. Dalzell followed, the carriage 
 drove away, the young men walked on towards their 
 own, which was at some distance, Olivetti exclaiming, 
 “Count, often as I have heard of your sister’s beauty 
 from my cousin, I was still unprepared for it—what is 
 her name?” 
 
 “Gemma,” replied Clementi, carelessly, while Ra- 
 velli looked daggers at this new rival, who continued 
 to express his admiration, and asked if she were yet 
 betrothed. Ravelli looked sharply at the count, whose 
 simple negative was not all he had hoped for. A 
 beggar boy had been following and persecuting them 
 for some minutes, his dolorous whine much interfering 
 with the eloquence of Signor Olivetti, who repulsed 
 him in vain, then suddenly lost patience, and struck 
 him. The boy staggered, but recovered himself with 
 an imprecation, “May you die ofa Pratiolo,” he cried, 
 as he stood glaring after the young man, who had 
 walked on laughing. The lad took no notice of a 
 silver coin which one of those who had seen the brutal 
 act tossed to him, but in a minute or two sprang into 
 a side avenue, and followed Olivetti and his com- 
 panions. Clementi remarked coolly, “Rash, my friend; 
 we have stilettoes here.” 
 
 “If all the canaglia of Rome wore stilettoes, it is 
 the same to me,” answered Olivetti, disdainfully. 
 
»62 MADEMOISELLE MORL. 
 
 “Before the signor has been here many days, he 
 will learn that the canaglia are not to be trampled on,” 
 said Ravelli, flushed to the temples, and half choked 
 with indignation; “I shall see you again to-night, 
 count,” and he walked rapidly away without greeting 
 of any sort to Olivetti, who said, 
 
 “A friend of yours, count? he seems to love the 
 rabble strangely.” 
 
 “Dear signor, is that wonderful in days when King 
 Mob rules?” asked Clementi, with his quiet smile. 
 “When the new monarch’s affairs become out of order, 
 we shall see how many adherents he retains.” 
 
 “] conclude he is a plebeian, this Signor Ravelli; 
 but is it possible that you, a noble, have adopted these 
 republican opinions?” asked Olivetti, whose wealth 
 would have enriched a dozen such counts as Clementi, 
 but who laboured under a desire to buy the title which 
 birth had denied to him, and was a more rigid aris- 
 tocrat than the far-descended Roman nobles themselves. 
 
 “It is so. You have heard little of Roman politics, 
 signor, if you know nothing of Ravelli!” 
 
 “I have heard of him as a turbulent, seditious man, 
 and I regret profoundly that my family are to be con- 
 nected with him. He is not noble; but you, count, I 
 cannot conceive that you really take the side of the 
 mob—-you, the head of so old a family?” 
 
 And Clementi found it harder to convince the 
 parvenu of his sincerity, than to deceive all the liberals 
 put together. He inwardly muttered a malediction on 
 his obstinacy, and reflected what unpleasant doubts 
 such talk might awaken among the Bianchi if it should 
 ever come to their ears. Resolved to stop him, he 
 said at last, “I am so little of an aristocrat, that I 
 
 
 
 | 
 2 | 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 263 
 
 would give my sister to a commoner did it depend 
 on me.” 
 
 “On whom, then, does it depend? Are not you 
 the head of the family?” 
 
 “My uncle, Monsignore Clementi, is her guardian, 
 and his prejudices are invincible.” 
 
 Signor Olivetti’s admiration of aristocratic senti- 
 ments received a rude shock, but he had acquired the 
 certainty that Clementi would not oppose his wishes. 
 The new friends vied with one another in their ex- 
 pressions of affection as they parted, though each party 
 well knew this warmth to be only assumed out of 
 politeness. 
 
 In the evening they met again at Signor Olivetti’s 
 ‚house, where Irene, the Ravelli family, Gemma and 
 her uncle and aunt, formed the rest of the soczefd. The 
 ladies all wore dark morning dresses; there was no at- 
 tempt to beautify the room. For some time the gen- 
 tlemen talked together, and the ladies did the same, 
 exchanging confidences and condolences on the de- 
 linquencies of their servants, or discussing the last 
 sermon at the Gesz, and inquiring what had been given 
 out as the subject of the next. Imelda was happy in 
 having Irene with her, but unconsciously shrank a little 
 from Gemma, who, still burning with anger against 
 both Irene and Ravelli, revenged herself on the latter 
 by speedily engaging Lelio Olivetti in a lively con- 
 versation. Her aunt scarcely attended to her pro- 
 ceedings, and her uncle thought them his wife’s affair. 
 Clementi presently left the elder gentlemen, and dis- 
 cussed the new opera with Irene; and Ravelli, stung 
 by Gemma’s conduct, seated himself by his betrothed, 
 to the visible satisfaction of his father and mother, the 
 
264 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 latter of whom turned a thankful look to him, believing 
 these attentions to be paid entirely for her sake.. He 
 smiled as he met his mother’s eye, and Imelda’s heart 
 beat with frightened joy that made her hardly able to 
 answer his questions—questions put after all with the 
 patronizing yet affectionate manner of a young man 
 towards a pet child. Imelda never did herself justice 
 with Luigi; she would have got on much better had 
 she been more indifferent to him; she was too anxious 
 to be worthy of his notice, too much afraid of his 
 thinking her silly, to be at ease with him; there was 
 always a kind of strain on her mind when she talked 
 to him. It might have been otherwise had she ever 
 been alone with him, or had she been educated so as 
 to be at home in the subjects which interested him. 
 But whether he liked it or not, he could hardly help 
 knowing what he was to her, and this knowledge 
 usually made him keep aloof without asking himself 
 why. There was sometimes, however, a sort of pleasure 
 in knowing that it was his presence which brightened 
 that young face, and the conversation begun by him 
 in pure irritation lasted till all the party were called to 
 play at Zombola, a kind of “lottery tickets,” as an old- 
 fashioned game of cards was once called in England. 
 Pauls were now rapidly won and lost, and the noise 
 and excitement waxed so great, that the elder Signor 
 Olivetti exclaimed, “Hush—hush, scandalous people! 
 it is Lent!” 
 
 “No, not to-day, not to-day,” cried several voices 
 in reply, “it is Pianela rossa to-day!” implying by this 
 that the priests had said mass in the red robe which 
 marks a festival, and that therefore Lent was sus- 
 pended, | 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 265 
 
 “Tet the children enjoy themselves,” said his wife; 
 “we shall not have another game for ages; I am going 
 into retreat after Easter.’ 
 
 “Where is it to be? Oh, I know you always go 
 to the same place every year; I shall be at the Sacro 
 Cuore this year,” said Signora Ravelli; and remarks on 
 ‚this exclusion from the world, the preparation for Easter 
 and Whitsuntide, mingled with the shrieks of delight 
 as fortune favoured or frowned on the players. 
 
 Ravelli still sat by Imelda, but his eyes turned 
 frequently to Gemma, whose face, to eyes that could 
 read her expression, betrayed jealous uneasiness, though 
 she still seemed engrossed by her game and by Signor 
 Lelio. 
 
 Signora Olivetti had her reasons for wishing that 
 Gemma were married; she had long prepared her cousin 
 Lelio to admire the young contessina, and had now in- 
 duced her husband to arrange this party expressly for 
 the sake of bringing about a meeting. The interview 
 in the Borghese Gardens had been better luck than 
 she could have hoped; Lelio was as anxious as could 
 be wished to secure so handsome a wife; especially as, 
 though dowerless, she was noble. All on his side was 
 so satisfactory, that the next day Signora Olivetti paid 
 a diplomatic visit to. Contessa Clementi, who rose to 
 meet her with tender embraces, which were returned 
 with equal warmth, while mutual amicable reproaches 
 were exchanged for the length of time that had elapsed 
 since they met. 
 
 “Sit down, cara,” said the contessa, throwing an 
 indescribable amount of caressing politeness into the 
 simple words, and using the familiar /«. Though they 
 were acquaintances of thirty years’ standing, Signora 
 
266 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 
 
 Olivetti replied with “vor,” less formal than “ella,” but 
 more respectful than the second person singular. The 
 contessa called the visitor by her Christian name, but 
 the title was used in return; for the poverty-stricken 
 Clementi were noble, and the rich commoner was far 
 beneath them. 
 
 “Excuse my not having visited you, dear Gigia,” 
 said the contessa, sinking into her chair again, and ob- 
 serving every minute particular of her visitor’s dress 
 as she spoke. “I go nowhere—I cannot even get to 
 mass now; I was obliged to get a dispensation from 
 fasting this Lent; my doctor said it would have killed 
 me. But you— you never come near me? I am so 
 happy to see you, it is life to me.” 
 
 “It is the greatest pleasure in the world to me, 
 dearest contessa; I must thank you too for letting 
 Gemma come to me last night. Did she tell you what 
 a conquest she made of my cousin? Ah, naughty girl! 
 your mamma knows nothing about it!” 
 
 “No, she never tells me anything. Why have you 
 not brought Imelda? When is she to be married? I 
 heard it was to be at Easter.” 
 
 “] cannot spare her yet; I must keep her a little 
 longer if Luigi will let me: but you know we mothers 
 must not be unreasonable, and he grows impatient. 
 This autumn I suppose I must let her go. And when 
 is Gemma to marry ?” 
 
 “Ah, my dear Gigia, you know she might have 
 been married long ago—that excellent marchese—” 
 
 “Well, she will be wiser next time; will you not, 
 Gemma? Suppose I knew of a good match—an ad- 
 mirable young man—the best of EL SEE 
 rich as Plutus!” | 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORt. 267 
 
 “Noble?” inquired the contessa. 
 
 “No, but of a good family; you cannot have every- 
 thing, contessa mia! He would live in Rome if you 
 positively desired it; but his house —his estate—a 
 paradise, I assure you. No one need wish to live else- 
 where. She would have an establishment like a princess.” 
 
 “] am afraid my brother-in-law would not consent,” 
 said the contessa, doubtfully. 
 
 “Monsignore Clementi will hear reason. A young 
 man who does not so much as ask if she has a dowry!” 
 
 “Ah! that is much!” sighed Contessa Clementi. 
 “What is his name—this cousin of Signor Olivetti?” 
 
 “Yes—I know his whole history; no debts, no 
 affairs of the heart, an immense property in the Marches 
 —only one fault, he is an enraged Papista! Do not 
 fail to tell monsignore this, contessa. I do not mind 
 telling you his name. I should wish everything to be 
 open and candid—Lelio Benedetto Mariano Olivetti. 
 What did you think of him, my dear little Gemma?” 
 
 “] can’t tell yet; I have only seen him twice.” 
 
 “But one knows immediately in these matters, 
 carina, it is the impression on the heart by which we 
 must judge; character will come by-and-bye.” 
 
 “] think he is too much of a courtier.” 
 
 “There it is!—how often I have said, ‘Zelio mio, 
 speak sincerely; put sincerity into your manner; these 
 polite ways may please a foreigner, but no Roman girl 
 will ever marry you!’ But I do assure you he is an 
 angel—an angel, my dear child.’ 
 
 “He wants an immediate answer, I suppose,” said 
 the contessa, looking apprehensively at her daughter; 
 “I don’t know—I must consult monsignore and my 
 son—I can’t say—” : 
 
268 MADEMOISELLE MORTL. 
 
 “He will wait, he will wait a reasonable time, con- 
 tessa; I know you have some difficulty with monsignore 
 ‚at present, but I have great hopes. I trust that Lelio’s 
 politics will not make your son his enemy? Meanwhile 
 this darling willconsider the matter; is it not so, Gemma?’” 
 
 “] must have a week at least then,” said Gemma; 
 “I do not believe I can love him, and I shall make a 
 prayer to be assisted to decide. I cannot consent un- 
 less I feel that it is Heaven’s will, dear signora.”’ 
 
 “There is a sweet child! See how good and pious 
 she is, contessa! I know how she will decide, and I 
 hope monsignore will be favourable to Lelio too. Now 
 I must return; he ıs dying to know the result of my 
 visit. Good-bye, good-bye, dearest contessa —good- 
 bye, my Gemma.” 
 
 New embraces followed before Signora Olivetti, in 
 her splendid dress, swept out of the room. 
 
 “What ostentation! what vulgarity to wear such 
 velvet as that! Merely to show she is rich! That is 
 the only way these commoners can try to equal us,” 
 said Contessa Clementi. “She is intolerable; but if this 
 cousin is really such a good match, we must think 
 about him, Gemma.” 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 Non piace a lei che innumerabil turba, 
 
 Viva in alto di fuor, morta di dentro, 
 
 Le applauda a casa, e mano a man percuota; 
 Ne sirallegra de le rozze voci, 
 
 Volgano a lei quelle infiniti lodi— 
 
 —Ma la possanza del divino ingegno 
 
 Vita di dentro. 
 
 “THERE is only one thing that I wish, Vincenzo” 
 —said Mrs. Dalzell, concluding a long conversation 
 

 
 ur 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 269 
 
 concerning the prospects of Nota and Irene, “that he 
 were a Protestant; the more I see of Romanism, the 
 more I shrink from it. I half hoped that studying and 
 ‚ ‚talking with you might win him over.” 
 
 “You forget how greatly my superior he is, dear 
 Mrs. Dalzell, and besides we never touch on that sub- 
 ‚ ject. You don’t know how dangerous for us both it 
 would be, though, for that matter, we have discussed 
 things more perilous before now.” 
 
 “Dangerous?” 
 
 “Yes; there are severe laws against spreading Pro- 
 testant opinions. If you belong to a nation that can 
 take care of you, such as England or France, you will 
 only be expelled by the police; but if you are an 
 Italian, or say a Swiss, or a Swede, then you will, as 
 sure as fate, see the inside of the Inquisition.” 
 
 “The Inquisition, in these days! is not that a fig- 
 ment of the anti-papist faction ?” 
 
 “On my honour, it is not. I don’t say that torture 
 is used now; but I know, for a fact, that now, at this 
 moment, the prisons near the Vatican are used for all 
 heretics or priests whom the Holy Tribunal sees fit to 
 imprison; and all Romanists are dound to denounce a 
 Protestant who attempts to convert them. But the real 
 reason why I never argue on religion with Leone is, 
 that I know it would be useless; he has the entire, 
 childlike belief that one often finds here, where there 
 is faith at all.” 
 
 “It is strange, Vincenzo!” 
 
 “It is; I see more how strange since I have studied 
 the subject, as I really have tried to do. You see that, 
 in some incomprehensible way, the most learned men 
 believe they can reconcile the Church of Rome’s pre- 
 
270. MADEMOISELLE MORL. . 
 
 sent claims with antiquity. Padre Rinaldi does so, for. 
 
 instance. I know, however, that there is not quite as 
 much unity among them as they wish us to believe, 
 they differ as to the amount of worship to be paid to 
 images, and modern perverts go infinitely further than 
 those bred and born in the Roman Communion. I 
 don’t pretend to comprehend how, in an infallible 
 Church, there can be differences of opinion, or how 
 men can limit their belief; but I know that Leone and 
 a few others hold that, if Protestants are fully per- 
 suaded they are in the right, then they are in the Ca- 
 tholic Church; but most would say there is no hope of 
 salvation for a heretic.” 
 
 “Like the old beggar whom I heard saying yester- 
 day, as poor Mr. Domville’s funeral passed by, ‘Why 
 make such a fuss for a heretic, who must belong to 
 the evil one!’ You don’t think Leone would wish to 
 convert Irene?” 
 
 “Oh no, and, unlike most Romanists, he knows a 
 good deal about the Church of England; but still it is 
 sad when husband and wife cannot worship together. 
 I wish from my heart that he belonged to us.” 
 
 “You are not one of those who think the spirit 
 everything, and the form nothing, Vincenzo.” 
 
 “No man could live here and think so,” he replied 
 with emphasis; “I believe our form of prayer has saved 
 England from the unbelief of the Germans.” 
 
 “It is a blessing that many would readily take from 
 
 us. I notice that, with all Leone’s bitter feeling to- 
 wards the priests (Madama Cecchi the same), they both 
 reverence the priest’s office.” 
 
 “He looks on the office as entirely holy and dis- 
 tinct; a bad priest cannot destroy the holiness of his 
 
er 
 
 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. a 
 
 profession, any more than a bad Levite could. You 
 see, the reason Madama Cecchi and others abhor the 
 priests in general is, that they look on them as spies. 
 If the police want information, they go to the priests, 
 who are bound to be able to give it, using the confes- 
 sional as their engine, and some wretched old women 
 as spies on the parish. Perhaps you don’t know why 
 poor old Nanna was so unpopular; she always con- 
 fessed to the parish priest, and doubtless reported to 
 him all that went on in the palace. I dreaded her 
 
 ‚more than I can tell you, when we were deep in 
 
 conspiracy, and hundreds of lives depended on our 
 prudence.” 
 
 “Nanna would surely never have betrayed or in- 
 jured you?” 
 
 “] cannot tell, if superstition had come into play; 
 and certainly in a deathbed confession she would. You 
 little know the net of espionage thrown over Rome!” 
 
 “Will you tell me what you hoped for from all the 
 risk you ran?” 
 
 “To counteract the Sanfedists and the Austrian in- 
 fluence, and have a strong party ready to carry out 
 reforms when the right time came. There was com- 
 pensation for all our harass and peril, in knowing what 
 a gallant set of men there were, ready to risk every- 
 thing for Italy, even when all patriotism appeared to 
 be crushed out. But now, half their heads seem turned; 
 and, while they exalt Nota to the skies, they act on 
 Cecchi’s doctrine—not that he is much of a leader, 
 he is too silent and undemonstrative to make much 
 show; but he and those like him are dangerous men, 
 and I don’t know that Ravelli is much better, though 
 he only preaches wild doctrines, because he is a mad, 
 
272 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 headstrong fellow, who enjoys uproar and danger; not 
 that he has any personal grudge against Government; 
 and, somehow, the more provoking and unreasonable 
 he is, the better I like him! It would take half the 
 day to count up his freaks. I always believed that 
 he knew, from the best authority, who chalked up, 
 on the door of the Austrian Embassy’s Palace, *Fwor? 
 i barbarı!’” 
 
 “Leone once said he was like the wind, equally 
 
 unstable and equally violent,” said Mrs. Dalzell. 
 
 “There is a spirit and fun in him, that somehow 
 one can’t help being taken with,” said Vincenzo, smil- 
 ing at many old recollections; “and yet he has often 
 thoroughly exasperated me.” 
 
 “To return to Leone,” said Mrs. Dalzell, “whom I 
 like more the more I see of him. I wish he and 
 Irene could marry; I am rather an advocate for early 
 marriages.” 
 
 “We are very happy as we are,” said Vincenzo, 
 “I don’t think a little waiting matters.” 
 
 “Would they say the same?” 
 
 “Well, I am not quite so sure, and after all I wish 
 nearly as much to have Leone for a brother as he can 
 to have Irene for a wife. No one can guess what he 
 has been to me.” 
 
 “Vincenzo,” said Mrs. Dalzell, “let me ask this 
 once—are you happy now?” 
 
 His pale face flushed. “Yes, signora, I am happy,” 
 he answered, in a deep, low tone, and with a look that 
 seemed to gaze far away. “Yes, I have learnt at last 
 that sickness may be a vocation, as well as labour— 
 and I have had so much to make it easy to me.” 
 
 He had once wrung her heart by the anguish that 
 
 
 

 
 a ee 5 ee “ 
 4 rreng 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 273 
 
 his despair had re-awakened there; but she received 
 double recompense, as she felt that her words at that 
 time had been a prophecy. Vincenzo had conquered 
 in a battle where stronger men might have sunk down 
 and perished, and the reward was a peace which none 
 should ever take away. Mrs. Dalzell bent down and 
 kissed him, as if he had been the lost son for whose 
 sake she had first loved him. That love of hers was 
 one of the things to which Vincenzo alluded when he 
 spoke of some things that had lightened his trials, but 
 truly the orphans had well repaid her for her kindness. 
 She knew that many of her friends, especially at Rome, 
 had commented on her conduct towards them, had even 
 blamed her; but she was accountable to no one; she 
 said all that was necessary to such as had any right to 
 question her, and let the rest of the world make a nine- 
 days’ wonder of the matter if it liked. One or two 
 knew that the orphan brother and sister had come into 
 her hands, when something to love was a true Godsend 
 to her. The old saying, so fittingly expressed by 
 Schiller, applied in this case as in many others. 
 
 “* A millstone and the human heart go ever round and round; 
 If they have nothing else to grind, themselves they must be ground.” 
 
 Her friends had grown accustomed to the affaır and 
 speculated no longer about it; indeed she began to de- 
 rive credit from having patronized so promising a can- 
 tatrice as Mademoiselle Mori: but some of her ac- 
 quaintance could still torment her a little when an 
 opportunity occurred, as she found when, after her 
 conversation with Vincenzo was over, she walked to 
 one of the libraries in the Piazza di Spagna, to see by 
 the arrival book whether a friend had yet reached 
 Rome. As usual, the shop was nearly full of idlers, 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori, 1. 13 
 
274 MADEMOISELLE MORI 
 
 some looking at a portfolio of photographs, others ex- 
 amining the books, or speaking to the courteous libra- 
 rıan, others looking at the list of ceremonies to see 
 what was going on that week. Disconnected sentences 
 in English and German crossed and recrossed in all 
 directions; here two Englishmen were conversing, one 
 looking up like a cock-sparrow at the other, a tall, 
 fresh-coloured Oxford Ba who dolefully in 
 that “Rome was so slow.” 
 
 “Why, when I saw you last you were going to 
 set up a boat on the Tiber!” responded his little 
 friend. 
 
 “Couldn’t be done. I don’t know what on earth 
 to do with myself to-day; Travers has been to the 
 place where the pigs are killed, but he says it's a 
 beastly sight.” 
 
 “You should do like me, try a tour in the Oxes 
 pagna—beds uncommon hard, fare not so bad—good 
 for your constitution.” 
 
 The treble of female voices entering drowned the 
 rest. A blooming, red-haired girl was saying to her 
 companions, “Oh, I am half-dead with sight-seeing; 
 we kept ıt all for Lent, for really we had no energy 
 for it when we were going to two or three parties 
 every night.” 
 
 “Well, Iam glad to have seen Rome, certainly, but 
 I shall be so thankful to go away.” 
 
 “Off to Naples?” floated across from another group; 
 “you come back for Holy Week?” 
 
 “Service at San Luigi, four p.m.; write that down, 
 Louisa.” 
 
 “Oh, mamma, I am so anxious to hear Pere 
 Vaudreuil preach; I wonder if we could get introduced 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 275 
 
 to Mrs. Mayor; she has a private chapel in her house 
 
 Mrs. Dalzell listened with amusement, as she looked 
 down the pages of the arrival book undisturbed, till 
 two of her acquaintances came in, the lady with whom 
 she had driven on the Pincian Hill the first Sunday 
 that she had noticed Vincenzo, the other a gentleman 
 whose face betrayed so sarcastic a nature, that his ad- 
 dress, “Pray how are your orphans?” seemed a satire, 
 simple as it was. 
 
 “] thought you were gone to Naples,” replied Mrs. 
 Dalzell. 
 
 “No, I leave that to people who wish to ob- 
 serve Lent strictly. I hope your Profdges are flourish- 
 ing?” 
 
 “Very, thank you; and I hope you kept your 
 word, and went to see Mademoiselle Mori on Tuesday 
 night.” 
 
 “I did, and I think you are a bold woman to have 
 anything to do with so admirable an actress.” 
 
 “Mr. Thornton maintains that no girl could enter 
 so entirely into the feelings of Adelarde without having 
 experienced them,” said the other lady. 
 
 “] hope Mr. Thornton will not whisper calumny to 
 support his theory, which is otherwise quite untenable,” 
 said Mrs. Dalzell, not quite as calmly as usual. 
 
 “I don’t dispute the fact of Mademoiselle Mori 
 being a prodigy of virtue as well as talent,” said Mr. 
 Thornton. “No doubt actresses are very different here 
 from what they are in England—I only say you are a 
 bold woman.” 
 
 “Mademoiselle Mori ıs a cantatrice,” said Mrs. 
 Dalzell, “and you ought to know how much higher 
 
 18* 
 
276 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 her profession ranks here than that of the ‘prose 
 actresses.’ ” 
 
 “Oh, my dear, it is only a part of his systematical 
 disbelief in everything good,” said the second lady; 
 “all the world knows that mademoiselle is as good as 
 she is clever. There is no society into which she is 
 not received, and I hear that her brother is such an 
 “interesting person. I confess that I did tremble for 
 you at first, especially when I heard that your Irene 
 was to be a cantatrice; but you were wiser than 
 we.” 
 
 “«IJf Mr. Thornton deserved it, I would introduce 
 him to Signor Mori and his sister,” said Mrs. Dalzell; 
 “but with him not even seeing is believing where 
 goodness is concerned.” 
 
 Mr. Thornton made her a half-mocking bow as she 
 shook hands and left the library. “An extraordinary 
 freak, certainly!” said he; “and yet she is a sensible 
 woman, and not romantic.” 
 
 “Oh yes, she is indeed; you don’t know her,” said 
 his companion, laughingly; “she absolutely believes in 
 truth, and honour, and gratitude—obsolete virtues, 
 which wise people like you and me know no longer 
 exist, if they ever did; and strange to say, nothing 
 ever occurs to show her what a sad delusion she is 
 labouring under!” 
 
 “She must find this charitable whim rather ex- 
 pensive!” 
 
 “No, you are wrong again; I know as a fact that 
 this brother and sister have entirely maintained them- 
 selves for some time, and Mademoiselle Mori has al- 
 ready made her profession honoured here; if you 
 sneered at it in Roman society, the Aaditues would 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI, er1 
 
 quote her directly against you. The cantatrices have 
 always been tolerably well spoken of, and she has 
 given a sort of credit to them all; I know from many 
 facts that she is as noble a creature as ever existed. 
 Now you may believe me, for you know very well 
 that Iam not much given to crediting goodness in any 
 one.” 
 
 Before Mrs. Dalzell came in again, Irene returned 
 from rehearsal, looking weary and vexed. Vincenzo 
 was at the window, trimming his plants and making 
 - friendly signs to Velvet Cap over the way; but he 
 turned round as she opened the door, with a face of 
 welcome. She smiled in answer, but her countenance 
 was clouded still. 
 
 “The rehearsal has not gone smoothly? Madame 
 St. Simon out of humour?” asked Vincenzo. 
 
 “As usual. We have been rehearsing for three 
 hours, and I am quite tired,” said Irene, sitting down 
 wearily. “She will not appear in the Cazo, half out of 
 spite to me, half because Marchese Cortona is sure to 
 be offended by the new opera. She appeared—-pre- 
 tended to be too ill to sing, but was not too ill to set 
 all the company quarrelling. At last Signor Mattei 
 settled that Emilia Orioli takes her part, Iam Valeria, 
 Sanzio is Virginio, Varchi is Caro. The disputes, the 
 vile, mean motives that degrade everything, even music! 
 malice and jealousy and party-spirit—I feel as if I 
 hated it all after such a morning as this!” 
 
 “It is the prosaic side of your art, dear Irene.” 
 
 “Oh, it is all vanıty and vexation—all! When 
 I think of what music should be—of what I have in 
 my mind, and how utterly mean, how despicable my 
 best attempts to express it are—Vincenzo, I am ready 
 
278 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 never to act again! It is here—in my mind—I have 
 glorious visions here; but oh, it is all failure when I 
 try to give them form. I despise myself and those who 
 applaud me—I can do nothing— nothing!” 
 
 “You would do nothing worth doing assuredly, if 
 you did reach your own ideal. That ought to be too 
 high to be ever attained,” said Vincenzo. 
 
 “And then,” continued Irene, who was visibly de- 
 spondent and excited, “if I were a true artist, should I 
 care as I do for applause not worth having? I 
 could not act without it—I should be cold, unin- 
 spired—.” 
 
 “My dear, you know nothing about it. It is not 
 the mere applause; it is the sympathy, the conscious- 
 ness of power over the feelings of others, that inspires 
 you, not the plaudits of a crowd. What artist does 
 not feel the same!” And then, as Irene sighed wearily, 
 he added, “You, and all who have stolen a spark of 
 heavenly fire, must take the penalty with it, my dear 
 Prometheus. Come, you want something to sober you 
 —one of Madame Marriotti’s musical sozrees.’ 
 
 “Ah! this is her evening! that will be thorough 
 refreshment. I wonder if we'shall all be there to-night. 
 Madame Marriotti has picked up ‚another al/o, a nice 
 :middle-aged Miss Graham; she walked home from 
 church yesterday with Mrs. Dalzell and me. I think 
 it is pleasant to know some English.” 
 
 “Shall you go on practising that piece of Scarlatti’s 
 to-night?” | 
 
 “Most likely, and a madrigal of Felice Anerio’s. 
 There certainly is some attraction about Madame 
 MarriottiÄ, which brings all musicians t0 her house, 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 279 
 
 Vincenzino, is it quite impossible that you should go 
 there to-night? I want you to hear us perform.” 
 
 He shook his head. “My powers of locomotion 
 don’t increase. DBesides, I have had pleasure enough 
 for one day.” 
 
 “What is it?” 
 
 “A visıtor. A Sir Arthur Laurie, who had heard 
 of my carvings, and came to find me out—and why 
 do you think? He has one of our father’s paintings, 
 and wanted to make out if I were the same Mori. I 
 wish you had been indoors, that you might have heard 
 how pleasantly he told me how he was delighted with 
 it at the Royal Academy years ago, and bought it. 
 He always intended to look for the artist if ever he 
 came to Rome; and having come at last, he inquired 
 after him, but nobody could give him ‚any information; 
 they thought he must mean me, and said there was a 
 Mori who carved, but did not paint.” 
 
 “Ah, I suppose that here papa was only one 
 
 _ amongst the hundreds of painters; but I never see any 
 
 pictures like his. If we could but find any of those 
 we were forced to sell!” 
 
 “He is remembered in England, however; and Sır 
 Arthur said that if we ever go to England, we must 
 visit him in his house in Northumberland, and see the 
 painting.” 
 
 “That is pleasant, dear Vincenzo—.” 
 
 “]] signor—”’ announced Carmela, looking in, and 
 leaving the visitor waiting in the ante-room. 
 
 “Oh, Carmela, do remember to ask visitors in at 
 once—who is it? ZFavorisca, signor. Ah! Signor 
 Sanzio.” 
 
 “Good morning,” said Vincenzo, holding out his 
 
280 MADEMOISELLE MORL' 
 
 hand cordially to the chief bass singer at Irene’s 
 theatre, who being an old friend, on the strength of it 
 presently observed to Irene, “So, signorina, I am glad 
 to see that brow of yours rather smoother than when I 
 had the pleasure of rehearsing with you.” 
 
 “Oh, I am quite amiable now, signor; but who 
 could have been calm this morning in such a storm of 
 cross purposes? Signor Mattei in despair, Madame St. 
 Simon in open rebellion, all the rest insubordinate.” 
 
 “Mademoiselle Mori included. I have been advising 
 our manager to change the opera, but—” 
 
 “Change the opera!” cried Irene; “let the others 
 triumph !—not for a moment!” 
 
 “You are disinterested, signora, for I never heard 
 you in a part less suited to you. You know this new 
 thing that we are at all sixes and sevens about, Signor 
 Mori? A folly got up for the present time; an ancient 
 Roman story to fit modern Roman times, liberty, fra- 
 ternity, &c. Va bene—I dare say your sister has 
 told you all the ins and outs. For my part I think 
 the opera had better keep clear of politics; we are 
 only running ourselves into zmdroglios, but that I leave 
 to Signor Mattei. However, I must say that the part 
 of Valeria is quite unworthy of your sister—she will 
 never make anything of it.” 
 
 “Indeed!” said Irene, with a little scorn; “wait and 
 see, signor.” 
 
 She sat down to the piano and commenced the 
 first solo in the forthcoming opera, one where the 
 Roman maiden Valeria described her lover in combat 
 against the enemies of Rome. As Signor Sanzio had 
 said, the opera was a slight thing, got up merely to 
 please the popular taste of the day, and had no chance 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 288 
 
 against criticism; but Irene put so much soul into her 
 part, that its poverty and triviality disappeared; she 
 created it, in fact; she was singing her own feelings; 
 she too was Roman, and Nota was her hero! 
 
 “Ah! you sang very differently this morning,” said 
 Signor Sanzio, shaking his head. 
 
 “I know—. I could not feel it then. Is it not 
 true that something can be made of Valeria?” 
 
 “True enough, it seems; but I am convinced that 
 this. operetta is a folly—una pazzeria. There is a 
 ‚strong, party for Madame St.Simon, and she will move 
 heaven and earth to make us fail; her engagement is 
 just out, she is going to Naples, and she will wind up 
 comfortably by spiting you. Besides, I know this will 
 be made a furious party matter; the Oscurantisti will 
 raise a tumult as sure as I sing bass at our theatre. 
 Parties are running so high just now, that a feather 
 would cause a revolution.” 
 
 “Poor music!” said Vincenzo. 
 
 “Ay, poor music! she gets into very indifferent 
 society sometimes; one can’t keep her in the hands of 
 Santa Cecilia and the angels. It is a trade after all; 
 we cater for the public, and we must please the popular 
 taste, though your sister won’t allow it.” 
 
 “Even Madame Marriotti says something of the 
 same kind at times,” said Vincenzo; “but I believe 
 she looks forward to Irene’s going to regions where 
 music is better understood.” 
 
 Irene smiled and shook her head; her hopes centred 
 in Rome. 
 
 “Vienna, or London for instance,” continued Signor 
 Sanzio. , “It would be just as well to go away for 
 zwhile; you would come back with fresh Zrestige, and 
 
382 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 
 
 we should have felt the want of you. At present there 
 is a faction for Madame St. Simon, and that implies 
 one against you; you have more enemies than friends 
 in the company, for all the bad ones are against you, 
 and only the good for you, including myself!” 
 
 “You have indeed been an excellent friend, Signor 
 Sanzio,” said Vincenzo; “Irene would not now stand 
 as she does, quite free from all the Zracasseries of the 
 theatre, but for you.” 
 
 “Pooh—pooh, I only gave her the benefit of a 
 little of my five-and-thirty years’ experience of’ the 
 stage; she would have fought her way well enough, 
 even if I had not been there.” 
 
 “But you often held out a hand to me, when others 
 stood by, waiting to see me fall,” said Irene. 
 
 “The only danger for you was, that you were too 
 inexperienced to know evil when you saw it; that 
 wisdom is soon acquired. I knew it would be war to 
 the death from Madame St. Simon from the night that 
 you made so much of that trifling part of Zilvrra, that 
 you quite threw her into the background. She had 
 broken in the poor Bresca so completely, that the girl 
 never dreamed of doing anything but second her, and 
 doubtless it was very unpleasant to find that a new 
 rival had sprung up—such a very intractable one too!” 
 
 “] suspect, signor, you have no great love for 
 Madame St. Simon,” said Vincenzo. 
 
 “Signor Mori, if you could conceive what that 
 woman has made me suffer! I could forgive her airs 
 and caprices and jealousies—all that is allowable to 
 her as rima donna, and as woman; but, when I hear 
 'her falsifying a great composer’s work to show. off her 
 voice, I feel capable of any excesses! Now, the very 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 283 
 
 reason why from the first I had great hopes of your 
 sister was, that she never tried to propitiate the Saint 
 Simon, and never made a point at the expense of truth; 
 when a part was simple, she let it remain so; she 
 follows what the composer indicates; whereas the 
 habits of most singers are such, that Rossini was 
 obliged to write all his ornaments; but sometimes the 
 composer indicates nothing, as in this Caro, and she 
 makes far too much of Valeria, and that is wrong, for 
 the audience will believe the music worth something.” 
 
 “If ever I am Zrima donna assoluta,” began Irene. 
 
 “That is to say, if you are here next season, when 
 we are delivered from the Saint Simon—” 
 
 “] should try very hard to make the chorus a little 
 less like mop-sticks. They ought all to feel that they 
 are priestesses of the temple, though of a lower grade, 
 and the scenery might surely be less bad, and our 
 wardrobe more classical.” 
 
 “In vain—quite in vain, signorina. First of all, 
 the style of accessory you are imagining would cost. 
 more, chorus and scenery. You can’t make a bramble- 
 bush into an orange-tree by money, but you must pay 
 if you want oranges instead of blackberries. ‚A better 
 style of singer would want higher pay. Then, secondly, 
 what do the Romans care for good acting or scenery 
 in the opera? They say, we want singing, not acting; 
 they are content with a voice mo/fo agıle, with plenty 
 of foritura in it; that alone has made Madame St. 
 Simon popular—she has not, and never had a spark 
 of genius.” 
 
 “Surely it is our business to improve the public 
 taste, Signor Sanzio, not to take advantage of its low 
 tone.” 
 
284 MADEMOISELLE MORL 
 
 “Dreams, dreams, signorina; you must go to 
 England. There the opera is for the rich, here it is 
 for the people. If you can inspire us all with your 
 own ideas, manco male, but—!” 
 
 “It is of no use arguing with you, signor! You 
 spoke of Catarina Bresca just now—why has she not 
 been at rehearsal lately?” 
 
 “ll, I believe. She has been dismissed for non- 
 attendance. I have not heard of her since the night 
 she failed.” 
 
 “Poor Catarina!” said Irene, “the public little 
 think how cruel they are. That night when she was 
 hissed, I saw her just before the call-boy summoned 
 us; she was leaning against the wall, choking with 
 tears; I tried to learn what was the matter, but she 
 only repulsed me, and then came, ‘Srgnori e signore, si 
 va cominciar, and I could not wait. I have never seen 
 her since.” 
 
 “Ah, poor thing, it has been clear this long while 
 her voice was going.” 
 
 “What do you suppose will become of her?” 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. “What does become 
 of such as she when they cease to charm the public? 
 I should suppose she had not a farthing in the world. 
 It is no joke to depend on one’s voice for a sub- 
 sistence; a cold, an illness—’tis gone! I shall never 
 forget the look of terror and anguish with which poor 
 Viola once said to me, ‘I am losing my voice!’ and 
 I could not deny it. Ah, poveretta, she died in a 
 garret; she, the queen of cantatrices! She and all the 
 rest of us live like grasshoppers we chirp all the 
 summer, and perish in the winter!” 
 
 Vincenzo looked fondly at Irene, and thought with 
 
 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 285 
 
 gratitude that she was not entirely dependent on her 
 voice for a subsistence. She looked sad, and said, “I 
 should like to know something about Catarina; where 
 does she live?” 
 
 Signor Sanzio gave the address, but added, “You 
 have done wisely to keep aloof from her, poor thing, 
 so far—for what are you seeking after her now? You 
 know she and others have done many an ill turn to 
 ‘Sant’ Irene!’ Do you know, Signor Mori, that a certain 
 set have bestowed that name on your sister? They 
 declare she lives like an anchorite, and that if she 
 were not a heretic the Pope ought to canonize her!” 
 
 Irene blushed, as much past annoyance was thus 
 recalled to her mind. “Did I ever seem to care for 
 their folly, signor?” 
 
 “Yes, my signorina, for any one who saw how your 
 lip would curve, and how loftily you carried that grace- 
 ful head, would have seen that in your heart you did 
 care, and little marvel; but you are no doubt too proud 
 to bear malice.” 
 
 “I hope so,” said Irene, laughingly. “A theatrical 
 life ought to harden one against little vexations, or it 
 would be intolerable.” 
 
 “If ever you feel cast down and discouraged, as I 
 saw you when you left the theatre to-day, remember 
 this, signorina,” said the old man, suddenly changing 
 his bantering, satirical tone for one full of feeling: 
 “you have not lived in vain; you have done honour to 
 our profession; you have raised its character, young as 
 you are. You have proved that a cantatrice may be 
 admired and successful, and yet bear as fair a name 
 as any nun in a cloister. Only keep on as you have 
 begun; I cannot say more than that!” 
 
 . 
 
286 MADEMOISELLE MORI: 
 
 “Thanks, Signor Sanzio,” said Vincenzo, much 
 gratified, and Irene’s eyes were glistening with tears 
 that prevented her from replying. Temptations, harass, 
 trials, all seemed nothing at that moment, when her 
 heart thrilled with the consciousness that what Signor 
 Sanzio said was but the truth. 
 
 “There, I hear another visitor coming; I shall go,” 
 said he, rising; but Vincenzo stopped him with, “No, 
 pray stay; it is Nota.”’ 
 
 “Signor Nota? Ah; I generally do have the plea- 
 sure of meeting him here,” said Signor Sanzio, with a 
 smiling, penetrating look at Irene, whose engagement 
 to Leone was generally surmised, though not formally 
 acknowledged. “Well, signor, have you headed any 
 more deputations to his Holiness lately?” 
 
 “No,” said Leone, who looked somewhat harassed. 
 “We have too much of such demonstrations. Talk 
 hinders work. Irene, I have been finding out all I can 
 of Nettuno for Mrs. Dalzell; I don’t believe it is a 
 place for you to make your vılleggralura in.” 
 
 “What! Nettuno!” said Signor Sanzio, “near the 
 old Porto d’Ansio? A mere village: the sea has eaten 
 away the rocks, till it washes under a thin shell of 
 ground; village, and fortress, and all will be swallowed 
 some day. You are not going there?” 
 
 “We heard it was a pretty place, with sea, and 
 oak woods.” 
 
 “Sea, yes. Forest three miles off, unless you count 
 brushwood. A wretched place; the one good thing 
 about it is the costume.” 
 
 “I have seen it in Carnival,” said Vincenzo; “the 
 girls wear green ribbons in their hair, the wives red, 
 and the widows violet; but I can’t help thinking Net- 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 287 
 
 tuno: used to have a Greek costume—why did they 
 lessenitoffPi:; Kar . 
 
 “I can’t say—ask the poet.” 
 
 “The tradition says, that they once wore a kirtle 
 of scarlet, reaching the knee,” said Leone, “till: the 
 plague swept off half the population; and after this 
 sign that heaven was displeased at their scandalous 
 dress, they changed it. So you don’t recommend 
 Nettuno, Signor Sanzio?” 
 
 “No, indeed, it would be villeggialura with a ven- 
 ‚geance. ‘Jn ogni paese 2 buona slanza dove si leve ıl 
 sole, as they say in my own Florence; but it is a 
 sitanza 1 should hire by the day, rather than the week; 
 and it would be dear at a paul. Well, what news do 
 you bring of public affairs, Signor Nota? I see you 
 have the Pafria there; the Alba has gone mad, I verily 
 believe; I wish Government would prohibit it.” 
 
 “Oh, you are an Oscurantisto!” said Irene, play- 
 fully; “that is why you are against the Cazo.” 
 
 “Only too old to roll along with the times, sig- 
 norina. I shall go to Naples, where they are going 
 backwards, instead of forwards. Some day we shall 
 hear of a new kind of Vesuvius there. Oh, what asses, 
 what asses our rulers are here and there, and what 
 days you young rebels will see yet! Ah, you don’t 
 believe me! Addio, then, addio; remember what I say 
 about Valeria, signorina!” 
 
 Seizing his purple umbrella, Signor Sanzio- de- 
 parted, keeping on the shady side of every street, with 
 his canopy over his head, and murmuring something 
 to himself which might have been satire, or might have 
 been song; the odd smile upon his face seemed to 
 hint it was the former. 
 
 » 
 
288 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 When he was gone Irene taxed Leone with look- 
 ing weary and asked if it was the fault of his work in 
 the Daferia, or the newspaper which he now edited, or 
 what? 
 
 “This is a splendid article in reply to that atrocious 
 paper in the Alda,” said Vincenzo, taking up Leone’s 
 newspaper. “I knew immediately that you had 
 written it.” 
 
 “It has gone some way towards shaking my in- 
 fluence, Vincenzo. Ifind that a man who wishes to 
 be popular must lead the cry of the day; once try to 
 hold the people in, and you grow unpopular. We had 
 a stormy meeting again last night; a speech of Cle- 
 menti’s set everybody by the ears; then two or three 
 more spoke, urging violent measures and a Republic. 
 I got up and talked for nearly an hour, and I believe 
 had made some impression; but that ass of a Lelio 
 Olivetti had found his way in, and must needs try his 
 hand at a speech—made a furious, blundering, double- 
 distilled Papisia one, and there was an uproar as if all 
 the lunatics from Santo Spirito were let loose among 
 us! There will be an outbreak soon, unless some 
 outlet be found for the spirit of the people. If they 
 could only enlist, and march against the Austrians! I 
 got a hearing again, and suggested a volunteer corps, 
 and the idea took; but I don’t know whether we shall 
 be allowed to carry it out.” 
 
 “It will come to that some day,” said Vincenzo, 
 and Irene’s soft, dark eyes rested anxiously on Leone, 
 who, however, dropped the subject with “And how do 
 you suppose the police have been employed this morn- 
 ing? In sweeping up little red caps of lıberty with 
 which unknown hands had strewed the whole Corso!” 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MOR!. 289 
 
 Irene laughed, and Vincenzo asked, “Was Ravelli 
 at the meeting last night?” 
 
 “Oh, to be sure—the most outrageous there!” 
 
 Leone could not help joining in the laugh, and no 
 one thought it necessary to express their entire con- 
 viction who was the author of the practical joke that 
 had so much scandalized the authorities. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Lungi dal proprio ramo, 
 Povera foglia frale, 
 Dove vaitu? Dal faggio 
 La dov’ io nacqui mi divise il vento, 
 Vo pellegrina, e tutto l’altro ignoro. 
 LEOPARDI. 
 
 ATTENDED by her maid, Irene went to seek for Ca- 
 tarina Bresca, whom hitherto she had only seen with 
 disdain and aversion, as one of those who brought dis- 
 credit on her profession. Catarina took secondary 
 parts, and had a telling voice, and the beauty of youth 
 and loveliness, when Irene first saw her; but voice and 
 beauty had been fast vanishing of late. The girl,was 
 grieving about something, or overworked, or—in short, 
 no one knew or cared what; she had been dismissed 
 from the corps dramaltıque, and was already nearly for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Irene reached the house whither she had been 
 directed by Signor Sanzio, and leaving her maid below 
 to wait for her, ran up the dark, creaking staircase, 
 and knocked at a door, which opening gave to view a 
 dirty, untidy room, apparently serving for. a whole 
 family to live in both by day and night. Two men 
 were busy cutting cameos by the window: a group of 
 noisy children sat on the floor playing at Zupo, and 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. T. 19 
 
2090 MADEMOISELLE MORIL 
 
 half-a-dozen pigeons walked familiarly about. Irene 
 could hardly make her inquiries heard, but at last was 
 bidden to go up to another story. Here she found a 
 woman spinning, who directed her to an opposite room. 
 “Passi!” was returned to her knock, and she entered 
 a small disorderly apartment, where a girl lay on a 
 bed, wrapped in a shawl of gay colours and fine tex- 
 ture, which, though now soiled and dirty, betrayed by 
 its costliness that she had known riches as well as 
 poverty. A ray of sunshine came in through the glow- 
 ing window panes, and glittered on a half-made Swiss 
 costume, the gaudy hues of which contrasted strangely 
 with the squalid look of everything else. Catarina 
 raised herself up with difficulty, to see who had come 
 in, and a deeper flush came on her thin, hectic cheeks. 
 
 “What! Sant’ Irene!” she "exclamea ea 
 Irene here! Zere! She who would not have touched 
 me with the hem of her gown!” A fit of hard and 
 painful coughing stopped her, and shivering, she drew 
 her shawl closer round her. 
 
 “I thought you must be ill, Catarina; I have not 
 seen you at rehearsal all the week,” said Irene, taking 
 the girl’s fevered hand in her own cool fresh one. Ca- 
 tarina snatched it away. 
 
 “Say it out; you have not seen me since the night 
 I was hissed! Ah, the stony hearts! I had not tasted 
 food that day—I was ready to faint; and I had to go 
 on the stage and be hissed for singing false. You may 
 know yet what it is to have to act when your heart is 
 breaking! Oh no, not you; you have rich friends, 
 you can afford to despise such as I am.” 
 
 “Catarina, I have known what it is to be starving.” 
 «Your | 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI 291 
 
 “Yes, I and my brother; but a kind friend saved 
 us. Will you not let me help you, as she helped me? 
 Indeed, I want to be friends with you, Catarina.” 
 
 “What did you come here for?” asked Catarina, 
 scrutinizing her face. 
 
 “Only to see if I could do anything for you.” 
 “You would not have spoken to me a week ago.” 
 Irene was silent, and the girl broke out passionately, 
 
 “Oh, you who hold yourselves so high above us poor 
 wretches, what do you know of our temptations, you 
 who are kept like relics in a shrine, and have kind 
 friends and a home! I might have been a saint ifI 
 had had a home like yours. I was born in a back 
 street in Naples, and I don’t know who my father was; 
 and if people wished to twit me, they cast my mother’s 
 name in my teeth! No one about us knew bad from 
 good; we were not ashamed; for we did not know what 
 to be ashamed of; we believed the whole world was 
 like ourselves. I sang at the ca/ds, and Giordani took 
 me as his pupil on speculation; and then I was at the 
 theatres there, and next I came here, and you know 
 the rest. I may as well die now, for T’ve nothing to 
 live by but my voice, and that’s gone—I’ve no more 
 than—a jay,” she concluded with a bitter laugh, as 
 she uttered that word, the most contemptuous, when 
 applied to a woman, in the Italian language. 
 
 “I must have often seemed very cruel,” said Irene, 
 remorsefully, as she recalled how she had always 
 shrunk from the unhappy girl. 
 
 “]Jt was no wonder,” said Catarina, too feeble to 
 'sustain her vehement tone, and touched by the compas- 
 'sion of Irene’s tearful eyes. “You had a right to de- 
 spise me, I suppose—all the world would do the 
 
 19* 
 
292 MADEMOISELLE MORI, 
 = 
 
 same, and those who led me to this would be the fırst 
 to do so. I have not a creature in the world that cares 
 for me. I have been a leaf blown about in the wind 
 all my life, and the sooner it withers the better. If 
 you were ill, you would have a dozen friends round 
 you. They say you are half Neapolitan, is that true?” 
 
 “My mother came from Sora.” 
 
 “Do you remember her?” asked the girl, sudying 
 her face with strange, sad curiosity. 
 
 “Oh, yes, I often see her in.my dreams.” 
 
 “Ah, you are not ashamed to name her?” said 
 Catarina, a tear stealing down her hot cheek. “You 
 are happy! No one can taunt you with her name, 
 I always gave money as long as I had any, to buy 
 masses for my mother’s soul. I had some one to love 
 me while she lived; and when people taunt me about 
 her, I give them as good as they bring, for I loved 
 her dearly. No one else ever cared whether I lived 
 or died, or I might have been different from what I 
 am.” 
 
 “Are you really alone here all day?” 
 
 “Yes. The neighbours don’t like to come much, 
 because they say consumption is contagious. I may 
 not have got it—no doctor has said so;”—-Catarina 
 interrupted herself quickly— “They are a set .of 
 cowards. There, now I suppose you will not venture 
 here again—I don’t know why I suppose you would. 
 You had better not.” 
 
 Some lingering dislike of Irene, desire to retain 
 this her only visitor, and something of generous fear 
 that she might be injured by her visits to a consumptive 
 girl, mingled in this speech. Irene assured her she had 
 no fear, and reflected what she could do for her. 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORIT. 293 
 
 “Tell me what you want most, Catarina?” 
 
 “Everything! I have nothing even to drink. I 
 woke last night dying of thirst, and could not reach a 
 drop of water. I coughed till morning, and at last 
 the woman in the room opposite heard me, and 
 came in.” 
 
 “Would she fetch hat you want?” 
 
 “Yes, I daresay she would. Oh, I have so longed 
 for an orange! These last three nights I have dreamed 
 of the orange trees at Sorrento, and when I wake and 
 find myself in the dark in this hole, I would throw 
 myself out of the window, only I dare not—death is 
 so terrible. I could have been so happy if life had 
 been a little less cruel; after all, death can hardly be 
 worse. I am sure I did not ask for much!” 
 
 Irene leant over her and kissed her, full of com- 
 passion. Catarina looked up astonished. 
 
 “No one has ever kissed me so kindly since my 
 mother died!” said she; “if all heretics be like ‘you, 
 there can be no room for Catholics in Paradise. But 
 I shall never get there—our old priest said so long 
 
 “Dear Catarina,” said Irene, “I have read the 
 history of our Lord Jesus Christ, and it tells how 
 many people came to Him to be cured of sickness, and 
 blindness, and deafness, but only one is mentioned as 
 having come to Him for nothing but to ask forgiveness 
 for her sins, and that was a woman. She had led so 
 bad a lıfe, that all the city knew of it, and scorned 
 her; and yet, when she came to Him, in the midst of 
 a great feast, He did not send her away.” 
 
 “Go on; did the Holy Virgin pray for her?” 
 
 “No, she does not seem to have been there. This 
 
294 MADEMOISELLE MORI, 
 
 poor woman came through the crowd, and stood weep- 
 ing by Him, without even a word; yet He said that, 
 whatever the world thought of her, He forgave her, 
 because she loved Him much.” 
 
 “Are you sure it is true? is it in our Bible?” 
 
 “Indeed it is; ask your priest, if you like, and don’t 
 forget it, Catarina!” 
 
 “Because she loved much! Then He loved her 
 too, for He would not let her be so wretched as to 
 love without any one loving her again. I should not 
 mind dying, if it were not for purgatory. Oh, I once 
 heard such a sermon on purgatory—it, drives me 
 mad to think of it—and it must come!” said the girl, 
 shrinking down and covering her face. Irene knew 
 that she must not combat her persuasion; it would have 
 been useless. 
 
 “But if Christ said to you that your sins were for- 
 given, He could not intend you to suffer more,” she 
 said. “Ask Him, Catarina.” 
 
 “I will. I can do that! Are you going? Shall you 
 come back?” | 
 
 “Yes, to-morrow. I must go, I have to study my 
 part for next week.” 
 
 “You .are going to take ValeriaP Oh, Irene, I know 
 Madame St. Simon has been plotting against you, and 
 her great protector Cortona will do anything she wishes! 
 If they should get up a party and hiss you— you don’t 
 know what it is to be hissed! I wished once that you 
 should know, and now I wonder why! No one re- 
 membered me but you.’ 
 
 “Thank you for letting me help you, Catarina. 
 Make that woman you spoke of get whatever you want; 
 I am answerable for it. And should you dislike to see 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 295 
 
 Signora Olivetti? She has the care of the sick in this 
 parish.” 
 
 Catarina had not been so brought up as to hl 
 from obligation to strangers, The offer was gladly ac- 
 cepted, and Irene departed with a promise of seeing 
 Signora Olivetti, then stepping across into the room of 
 the spinner, she directed her to fetch whatever her 
 neighbour needed. The woman seemed kindly disposed 
 towards the poor invalid, and drew a sad picture of 
 her wants and loneliness. “A fortnight ago, signora, 
 
 she heard the family who lived below me bewailing 
 
 themselves because some one had robbed them and 
 stolen away the eldest girl’s dowry, so that her mar- 
 riage could not take place. When the signorina heard 
 that, down she came with five or six scudi in her hand, 
 and gave them to the girl—who is now married; and 
 when I asked Signorina Bresca what she herself was 
 to do— for you see I knew she was poor herself— 
 ‘Eh!’ said she, ‘Madonna Santa Cecilia will provide 
 for me!” Poor thing, she had not a single paul left 
 and has earned next to nothing since!” 
 
 Irene smiled and sighed as she recognised the 
 generous improvident artist-spirit. As she returned into 
 the street, the tray of a vendor of oranges and lemons 
 caught her eye, full of freshly plucked fruit; Catarina’s 
 desire for an orange recurred to her, and she could not 
 help buying as many as her hands would hold for her. 
 She ran upstairs again with them, and poured out the 
 fragrant golden treasures on the bed. 
 
 “Oh, Santa Vergine! it is what I was thinking of! 
 May she reward you, dear Irene!” said Catarina, over- 
 joyed, and Irene once more rejoined her staid duenna 
 below stairs, and went, escorted by her, to Casa Olivetti, 
 
296 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 where she reported Catarina’s case to the signora, who 
 was one of the ladies appointed by, authority to look 
 after the sick and needy in that parish. There was 
 no fear now that Catarina would not be well cared 
 for, and with a lighter heart Irene returned home to 
 study Valeria. 
 
 Her pulses beat a little faster than usa wich 
 defiance however, not with fear, when she thought of 
 the Caro. She knew that Signor Mattei had been 
 strongly urged to withdraw it, and excitement and 
 whispering at rehearsal betrayed that plots and cabals 
 were clustering thickly round the new opera, which in 
 fact had become doubly a party matter; the liberals 
 taking it is a compliment, and the anti-liberals regard- 
 ing it as an insult. Madame St. Simon, enraged by 
 being set aside by the manager, was benton humiliating 
 her young rival, and all who favoured her or who had 
 a spite against Irene, ranged themselves in opposition 
 to the Caro. The manager would have withdrawn it 
 at last, when he found what a violent party matter it 
 had become, had he not known that this would afford 
 an unbounded triumph to a certain theatre which had 
 been making head against him, and would moreover 
 enrage the liberal party. He did all that could be done 
 to insure success; unusual pains were taken in the 
 getting up, and repeated rehearsals drilled all the per- 
 formers thoroughly in their parts. All knew that the 
 dangerous moment would be Irene’s solo with its ardent 
 apostrophe to liberty. The chances, however, were 
 strong, that her exquisite voice and finished acting 
 would’ carry it safely through; and in other scenes 
 Sanzio seconded her so well in the rehearsals, that 
 Signor Mattei’s courage rose high. 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 297 
 
 Great was the excitement and trepidation visible 
 among the corps dramatigue on the night when the Caro 
 was to be brought out, and seldom had so overflowing 
 an audience appeared in the theatre. Every box was 
 more than full, there was barely standing-room in the 
 pit, and heated and crushed spectators exclaimed that 
 it was as bad as St. Andrea when Padre Rinaldi 
 preached! The curtain drew up amid breathless ex- 
 pectation; the first scene was a chorus, and Irene did 
 not appear in it; the next was a duet between her and 
 ‚Sanzio, and the applause as she entered was vehement, 
 but partial. If she had only thought of herself, it 
 would have been very formidable to encounter the 
 myriads of curious eyes that scrutinized her from boxes 
 and pit; but there was no shrinking or tremor in Irene; 
 never had she looked so inspired nor so lofty as when 
 she stood, braced up by a knowledge of coming peril; 
 and the two next scenes ended amid rapturous and in- 
 creasing plaudits, which turned Madame St. Simon, 
 concealed in her box, yellow with jealousy and malice. 
 But the trial point came later, with the solo, which 
 had universally been fixed on as the battle ground. 
 The address to liberty alluded so plainly to the events 
 of the day, that at almost the first lines, a mingled 
 thrill of applause and discontent ran through the house, 
 A version had been prepared, greatly modified from 
 the ultra expressions of the first draught; and this 
 Irene had at first intended to have given, but that 
 show of discontent roused her high spirit; she accepted 
 the challenge, rashly—perhaps unjustiiably—and 
 burst forth with all the power of her rich voice into 
 an apostrophe to freedom. The denunciation of tyrants 
 electrified the audience for a moment. The next, her 
 
298 MADEMOISELLE, MORI. 
 
 notes were almost drowned in an uproar which shook 
 the whole theatre. Hisses, outcries, stamping, stifled 
 the applause, which was still loudly raised by all the 
 liberals present; the orchestra was totally inaudible; 
 every time the noise was lulled, it rose again wilder 
 than before; the pit was a scene of confusion in- 
 describable, voices and gestures let loose—a mimic war. 
 Signor Mattei appeared, and sought in vain with im- 
 ploring gestures to make himself heard; the chorus 
 shrank terrified out of sight; the contralto, Emilia 
 Orioli, was sobbing from actual alarm; Signor Sanzio 
 stood composedly surveying the tumult, and Irene, with 
 eyes flashing light on those who had insulted her, 
 remained in the full front of the stage, disdaining to 
 retreat, and apparently looking as indifferently on the 
 outrageous audience as the moon on all the dogs that 
 bay at her. Suddenly, above all the uproar, a voice 
 like a trumpet called “Shame,” and then her eyes 
 filled with tears, something seemed to choke her, she 
 knew that Leone had seen her insulted, and the cause 
 of liberty insulted in her. 
 
 So entirely hopeless was ıt to quell the riot, that 
 Signor Mattei ordered the curtain to fall, and the com- 
 pany gathered behind it in the utmost consternation, 
 every one except Irene open-mouthed with assertions, 
 declarations, and reproaches. She stood silent, her 
 features full of scorn, making no reply to the blame 
 heaped unsparingly upon her, only when Signor Sanzio 
 said apart to her, “I told you how it would be,” she 
 answered, “If I had stayed there all night, they should 
 have heard me at last. Signor Mattei has given them 
 a triumph.” 
 
 Signor Mattei had just settled that.the. curtain 
 
 
 

 
 er pEE 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. | 209 
 
 ‚should rise again and the prose piece begin, as if the 
 
 opera had been performed and ended as usual. The 
 uproar had now died out; and, as though to mark the 
 motive of the tumult, the play was received well, and 
 the nerves of the actors experienced no further shocks. 
 Irene had no more to do; and left the theatre with her 
 maid, who was waiting for her. She had not gone three 
 steps when Leone was by her side. “My darling! 
 that they should have dared to insult you! they shall 
 have reason to repent this night! Let me look at you, 
 Irene.’ 
 
 She turned her face to him, now pale and tearful. 
 “All say it was my own fault, Leone; but I did not 
 feel as if they were insulting me, but our cause.” 
 
 “]t was the betrothed of Leone Nota! Oh, they 
 meant to hit more than you, and I had to look on 
 while you stood there, my own Irene! braver than 
 all the cowards who hissed a woman for praising 
 liberty !”’ 
 
 “I did not care, Leone; I was only contemptuous 
 till I heard your voice. I could not be afraid of a 
 miserable mob like that.” | 
 
 . “This threatens for the future; perhaps, Ravelli is 
 right, and we shall do nothing with these Papiste till 
 we fight them, and show which is the strongest. The 
 cowardly crew!” 
 
 “] heard Ravelli’s voice and Clementi’s, I think. 
 My farewell to this season!” 
 
 “Your farewell to the Roman stage, Irene; you 
 shall never appear there again.” 
 
 “Don’t talk of it to-night, dear Leone—I can’t 
 think; I can’t judge to-night. That sea of madmen is 
 always before my eyes. Ah, I feel now, that a woman 
 
300 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 cannot step out of private life without suffering for it 
 This will grieve Vincenzo.” 
 
 It was Irene’s first experience of the ficklöniess of 
 popular favour; she was deeply wounded, and felt 
 keenly how bitterly Leone suffered with her. It was 
 well that the season soon ended, and a change of scene 
 gave her overwrought mind time to recover its natural 
 healthy tone. The unhappy operetta was withdrawn, 
 and for the remainder of the season Madame St. Simon 
 had it all her own way. | 
 
 In the meantime, Irene’s leisure was divided be- 
 tween Madame Marriotti, whose vexation at the result 
 of the Caro had brought on an attack of illness, and 
 Catarina, who, the day after the failure, sent to entreat 
 Mademoiselle Mori to visit her. Dispirited and worn 
 out as Irene felt, she obeyed the summons and was 
 cheered by the effort. Catarina’s vehement sympathy 
 did her good, and she employed herself in making ar- 
 rangements for the invalid’s benefit during her absence. 
 The parting was sad, for she felt that she should never 
 see the dying girl again; no kindness nor care could 
 save her, but at least her deathbed would not be de- 
 solate. Catarina’s last words to her were, “But for 
 you, I should have died in the street. I should have 
 been less bad, if we had met sooner. Speak kindly 
 sometimes to Clarice Monti, and tell her about me; I 
 think you might save her, if you would.” 
 
 Irene never saw her again; she died a few days 
 later, murmuring, in her own Neapolitan, some song 
 that she had heard as a child sung by the fisher- 
 men on the blue waters that kiss the sunny shores of 
 Naples. 
 
 The idea of going to Nettuno was given up; Ma- 
 
 
 
MADEMOISELLE MORI. 301 
 
 dame Marriotti invited Mrs. Dalzell, Irene, and Vincenzo 
 to spend the hot months with her near Florence; and 
 thought herself very fortunate in securing them, for in 
 many things the old lady still resembled a child, she 
 had a child’s love of being taken care of and consoled 
 in any little trouble; a solitary journey, or any unusual 
 effort, alarmed her as if she had never faced public 
 life. She had learned to rely completely on Irene, 
 whom she expected, as a matter of course, to smooth 
 everything for her, and fully intended to accompany 
 her in another year to Germany. Irene quietly said 
 that she must have time to consider this plan; she did 
 not think it feasible, and then let the matter drop. 
 Madame Marriotti’s villa at Florence received Mrs. 
 Dalzell, Vincenzo, and Irene, and there Irene turned 
 her mind from theatrical affairs, and rested her facul- 
 ties till the recommencement of the theatrical season, 
 against which she received an offer of an engagement 
 from the Teatro Regio. It was too good to be refused; 
 Madame Marriotti, therefore, reserved her Vienna 
 scheme until the next season, and Leone reluctantly 
 consented to Irene’s reapearance at a Roman theatre, 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 E non so, e non so, 
 Se marito prenderd. 
 Canto Poßolare. 
 
 GEMMA had not calculated the consequences of 
 making herself so agreeable to Lelio Olivetti. She in- 
 stantly felt that she had fallen into a snare, when 
 Signora Olivetti came to propose him as a Zarii,; and, 
 as soon as she was again alone with her mother, she 
 declared, with passion, that nothing should induce her 
 
302 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 to marry him; she would kill herself if it were so 
 much as named to her uncle. The poor contessa at- 
 tempted no reply, but speedily and secretly informed 
 Monsignore Clementi how matters stood, and he ap- 
 peared in awful majesty in her drawing-room, to sub- 
 due the contumacious Gemma; whose conduct in 
 refusing a match so good that (as her aunt and mother 
 both agreed) only her patron saint could have sent it, 
 was absolutely sinful in the eyes of her whole family. 
 Her redoubtable uncle did not waste many words upon 
 the sullen, anger-flushed girl who stood immoveable 
 before him, not even seeming to hear that he addressed 
 her, as he gave her the choice of.marriage or a con- 
 vent. This last alternative would have divided her too 
 hopelessly from Ravelli, and at last she spoke, to de- 
 clare that, if he attempted to send her to a convent, 
 she would resist till every one in the palace came to 
 see what was the cause of the uproar. There could be 
 no doubt she would keep her word, and Monsignore 
 Clementi actually changed colour at the idea of such a 
 scandal; but he only appointed a certain time in which 
 she was to make up her mind; and then withdrew, 
 leaving her under the ban of his displeasure. 
 Thenceforward began the combat' between Germnma 
 and her family, who all carefully followed out a course 
 of conduct prescribed by Monsignore Clementi. There 
 was neither remonstrance nor reproach, but she was 
 treated as a disgrace to her house, and unworthy of 
 notice. If she spoke, she got no answer; no one ever 
 addressed her; if a visitor entered, she was dismissed; 
 she found exactly the same manner observed to her 
 by her aunt and uncle, as by her mother; and visits 
 to, and with, this aunt had in former days been 
 
 
 

 
 - MADEMOISELLE MORI. 303 
 
 Gemma’s one variety and relief. The man-servant was 
 changed; perhaps Clementi had divined that he was a 
 go-between of Gemma and Ravelli; she saw no one but 
 her relatives. A better plan for exasperating a violent 
 temper could hardly have been devised. She burst 
 into wild passions, implored, threatened, and met only 
 silence and passive indifference. Her mother, indeed, 
 would tremble and grow pale, but she obeyed her 
 formidable brother-in-law’s instructions to the letter, and 
 took no notice of Gemma’s outbreaks. Then Gemma 
 threatened to starve herself, and did not eat for a day 
 and a half—no one seemed to perceive it. She be- 
 sought her aunt to have pity on her, and was answered 
 by reproachful shakes of the head. She spent whole 
 days in her room, but no one called her from morning 
 to night. Her condition was becoming intolerable; she 
 felt that there was only one way of ending it, and of 
 seeing Ravelli once more, since she was never allowed 
 to leave her apartments, and in the absence of her 
 brother and of the Mori, Luigi had no excuse for fre- 
 quenting the palace. 
 ‘The count was at Ravenna. He had studiously 
 held aloof from the whole affair; since it would have 
 been inconsistent with his profession of ultra-liberal 
 politics to promote his sister’s marriage with a vehe- 
 ment Papista; nor could even such important family 
 matters bring his uncle and himself together, so wide 
 was the apparent rupture between them. He thought 
 all communication cut off between Gemma and him 
 whom she preferred, since Irene was at Florence, and 
 Ravelli was fully occupied in surveying for a proposed 
 railroad from Civita Vecchia. 
 
 The Olivetti family had gone for a short time into 
 
304 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 the country; but monsignore had pledged himself to 
 give a speedy and decisive answer to Lelio. When 
 next he summoned Gemma before him, she consented 
 to the marriage. | : 
 
 It was nothing but a glimpse of Luigi Ravelli that 
 had brought her to this. 
 
 One evening, as she leant wearily at her window, 
 high above the street, she had seen him pass, and had 
 been seized with such a longing to hear his voice, to 
 meet him again, that she thought only how to purchase 
 a moment of his presence. She knew that he and his 
 family would be invited to assist at the CapzZoli, as the 
 legal ceremony is called,—a part of a marriage distinct 
 from the religious ceremony, and performed at the 
 bride’s own house. And thus she gave her word. 
 
 Monsignore Clementi gave her his benediction and 
 dismissed her, while he announced her consent to the 
 rest of the family. Gemma flew back to her room, 
 pursued by a little greyhound, a gift nominally to the 
 countess from Rayellı. She bolted her door, wrote a 
 few lines on a sheet of paper, and waited at her window. 
 A new idea struck her all at once; she fastened the 
 note to the collar of the little dog, opened her window, 
 and waited again. It was a perilous height above the 
 street. So much the worse for the greyhound; for as 
 a figure passed in the dusk which she recognised as 
 that of Ravelli, she slid the slender little creature 
 through the bars and dropped it without a moment’s 
 hesitation. It fell like a feather, and the eager eyes 
 above saw it spring up, shake itself, and run after its 
 old master, who feeling two little paws strike his knee, 
 looked down and saw his former pet. He was de- 
 lighted at having a good reason for calling in Palazzo 
 
 
 

 
 ‘MADEMOISELLE MORT. ‘305 
 
 Clementi, stooped down to stroke the little creature, 
 ‚and perceived the note. A presentiment of evil struck 
 him; he opened it beneath a lamp which burnt before 
 a picture of the Virgin—read—and dashed towards 
 Palazzo Clementi. He was half way up the stairs be- 
 fore he recollected that Count Clementi was at Ravenna. 
 "He could only ring and restore the greyhound, and was 
 told that the countess saw no one that evening. There 
 was nothing to be done, but wait, like Gemma, for that 
 last interview. 
 
 When relations have consented, marriage follows 
 quickly on betrothal in Rome. Almost before Gemma 
 had realized that consent had been wrung from her, 
 the contract was prepared, and Signor Lelio acknow- 
 ledged as her husband elect. He came immediately 
 to Rome, whither the Olivetti family had now re- 
 turned, and appeared almost every evening in Palazzo 
 Clementi, where he assuredly did not find Gemma as 
 agreeable as at their first meeting; but he was blind 
 and deaf to her slights and rebuffs; her uncle had pro- 
 mised her to him, and he never thought of asking what 
 her own sentiments might be. Count Clementi took 
 good care that, in the midst of the family favour which 
 now shone upon Gemma, she should be as closely 
 watched as before, and entirely rejected the offer of 
 Lelio to live in Rome, should his future wife desire it. 
 There were few things that he wished more than to 
 see her safely married and gone. So closely was she 
 watched that she could never slip a note into the trunk 
 of the old orange tree, and she only went out with 
 her mother to invite the guests for the evening of the 
 Capitol!. 
 
 Signor Lelio was in a state of felicity indescribable, 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. 1, 20 
 
3 o6 MADEMOISELLE MORI 
 
 when he thought of the aristocratic alliance he was 
 about to make; he spent fabulous sums on presents for 
 his bride, and did not fail to tell every one how much 
 they cost. He appeared first at one circolo and then 
 another, making speeches which excited mingled laughter 
 and wrath; he was always seizing on some reluctant 
 acquaintance to pour out histale of bliss to him. Signora 
 Olivetti knew beforehand that she must listen to him 
 for an hour at least whenever he could find her; and 
 in short, he strutted about so glorious and so elated 
 that he furnished amusement in half the salons of 
 Rome. And all the time he was dogged by a black 
 shadow of vengeance which had long sought after him, 
 and had tracked him at last, but hitherto never alone. 
 Some idea that he was watched by an enemy crossed 
 his mind, and he suggested it to his cousin, Signor 
 Olivetti, who took it as a further proof of Lelio’s self- 
 importance, and laughed at him, with the assurance 
 that his life mattered to nobody but himself; but Lelio 
 felt himself a person of importance; he puffed with in- 
 jured dignity, and turned with his suspicions to the 
 signora, who thought of Ravelli, then was angry with 
 herself, but bade Lelio never go about alone, especially 
 at night—advice which he was delighted to take, and 
 his fears of assassination added a fresh jest to the 
 many already circulating concerning him; though mur- 
 ders were not uncommon, and the laughter at Lelio’s 
 alarms was apt to die away into stories of stabbing, of 
 murdered men found lying at their own doors staining 
 the steps with their heart’s blood, of priest poniarded 
 for having refused absolution; but these were mostly 
 rumours from the provinces, though such things did 
 happen in Rome itself, 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 307 
 
 The evening of the Capzfoli came, and there was a 
 reception in the contessa’s apartment; the customary 
 rinfresco, or banquet, was offered; for the family had 
 made a great effort to keep up appearances on this 
 occasion; the wedding gifts were arranged conspicuously, 
 and friends and relations began to pour in. Among 
 them were all the Ravelli family; Gemma never looked 
 towards Luigi as he entered, but she saw, nevertheless, 
 that his eyes were upon her, and read wonder, re- 
 proach, and misery in his glance. Dressed in white, 
 with a white rose fastened on her boddice, she stood 
 near her future husband, accepting the congratulations 
 offered to her; Clementi was near, her uncle close by; 
 she was environed;. she felt that one of the passionate 
 scenes she had lately wasted on them would be worse 
 than useless now, and seemed so self-possessed and 
 calm that they breathed more freely; for Monsignore 
 Clementi himself felt a little afraid of his niece’s temper, 
 and as for the contessa — she had suffered a martyr- 
 dom during the visits she had been obliged to make 
 with Gemma to invite the guests, expecting every mo- 
 ment an outbreak. But then, as now, the girl only 
 maintained her lowering look, without any manifesta- 
 tion of resistance, and she allowed Lelio to talk to her 
 incessantly, as custom permitted him on this evening; 
 yet her eye glanced on him sometimes, as if she could: 
 have struck the exultant coxcomb who paraded his 
 rights so ostentatiously, and called every one’s atten- 
 tion so anxiously to the wedding presents, amongst 
 which were conspicuous the diamonds presented by 
 himself, — necklace, ring, and earrings complete. Once 
 or twice she looked from him to Ravelli, as if com- 
 paring them, but he made no attempt to approach her. 
 
 20* 
 
308 MADEMOISELLE MORt. 
 
 The notary and his clerk arrived, and there was an 
 instantaneous hush as the assembly gathered together 
 to hear the contract read aloud, with its stipulations 
 concerning residence, villeggialura, and twenty scudi a 
 month, 2er Ze spille, otherwise pin-money. The bride’s 
 dowry, a very small one, was handed over in gold in 
 a white pocket-handkerchief to the bridegroom, who 
 affıxed his name to the contract; the bride also signed, 
 as did her mother. The religious ceremony was not 
 to take place till a week later. This important matter 
 being accomplished, there was a general move, a 
 tendency to collect round the ices, creams, and Ziqueurs; 
 Ravelli found an opportunity ofstanding beside Gemma, 
 who was comparatively unwatched, and whispered a 
 few impetuous words in her ear. 
 
 “I was driven to it, but I shall never see the inside 
 of a church with him; if you cannot make some plan 
 before this day week, I will escape without you.” 
 
 Their eyes met; he saw she meant what she said. 
 
 “Well, there is only one way — let him look to 
 it,” muttered Ravelli, and he drew back; but his eye 
 turned on Olivetti with an expression that had some- 
 thing deadly in it. When the party broke up, Ravelli 
 went out at the same moment with Olivetti; a moment 
 before there had been some words exchanged between 
 them, first courteous on the part of the latter, who, in 
 the plenitude of his happiness, was inclined to patronize 
 even Ravelli, but the next instant they became angıy, 
 defiant. It all passed in an instant, and no one ob- 
 served it but Gemma. There was a general laughing 
 offer among Lelio’s acquaintances to wait and escort 
 him, which he declined with great dignity, and departed 
 to his apartment at no great distance from the palace, 
 
 
 

 
  MADEMOISELLE MORI. 309. 
 
 Gemma’s manner was so much less sullen than it 
 had been for weeks, when she bade her family good 
 ' night, that her uncle praised her, and said, turning to 
 his nephew, as soon as she was gone, “Take care, she 
 has some plan brewing to-night.” 
 
 “There is no fear now,” said the count, “but I 
 shall watch her.” 
 
 “Never trust a woman, especially if she speaks you 
 soft, my nephew; it is a still stream that ruins the 
 bridges, and you know ‘women have seven spirits in 
 their bodies’ A happy night, my dear sister-in-law; 
 nay, nay, nay” — withdrawing his hand as she stooped 
 to kiss it — “do not think of it! Adieu, nephew;” 
 and he spoke with a cordiality which would rather 
 have surprised the guests, had they still been present; 
 for amongst the little bits of scandal which all had 
 carried away with them, was the exceeding coldness 
 evident between uncle and nephew, and much was. 
 whispered concerning the young count’s folly or pa- 
 triotism, according to the politics of the speakers, in 
 sacrificing his chances of fortune from his uncle. 
 
 Monsignore Clementi had over-shot the mark when 
 he declared that his niece had a plan for this night, 
 but he did not guess amiss in believing that there was 
 something hidden under that controlled demeanour, 
 which, like the turbid river, allowed nothing beneath 
 to be seen. She leant her forehead against her window 
 hour after hour, expecting nothing yet everything; her 
 heart beat almost audibly in the silence; a little lamp 
 burnt on the table, illuminating the crucifix and a pic- 
 ture of the Virgin on the wall. Above her pillow was 
 a cup for holy water, and one of the blessed palms, 
 brought a few Sundays before from St. Peter’s; all in 
 
3Io MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 the chamber seemed pure and innocent, as if aught else 
 would have been misplaced in such a sanctuary. But 
 what were the thoughts that surged in Gemma’s breast? 
 Flight, disgrace, was before her, or escape by means 
 which involved cowardly crime in the one whom she 
 loved! She only waited to choose between them. If 
 seven spirits really haunted her, they must have been 
 very evil ones; a good angel must have turned aside, 
 and hidden his face from the look on hers, as she 
 watched the clouds fly over the moon before the szrocco 
 that swept through the streets and shook every door 
 and shutter in the old palace that night. Perhaps a 
 consciousness of evil visited her mind; for, starting 
 suddenly up, she flung her handkerchief over the pic- 
 ture of the Madonna, and then went back to her ex- 
 cited yet purposeless watch. 
 
 Another kept ward for long hours; namely, Cle- 
 menti, who, though he had the key of the outer-door 
 in his own possession, trusted Gemma so little that he 
 wished to be secure she did not leave her room that 
 night. He had marked the whisper between her and 
 Ravelli, but the look of Ravelli was not that of a man 
 with a scheme promising success. Still, as he muttered 
 to himself, while ensconced in an arm-chair, he listened 
 warily, “With each man be on your guard, but four 
 times as much with a friend; as for Gemma, Za donna 
 ne sa un punto piü del diavolo. "There is but one woman 
 in the world whom I could trust, and she is but half a 
 Roman!” and once more ‘he calculated his chances of 
 winning Irene’s heart, and how soon he could dismiss 
 Leone from the scene. He surveyed the tangled web 
 of the present, and that still more tangled of the pro- 
 bable future, of which each new day revealed a portion, 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 41 
 
 and thought long on the predictions of his sagacious- 
 and far-sighted uncle, one of the few priests who did 
 not look with horror and dismay on the aspect of 
 public affairs, and prophesied that all would turn out 
 well for him and his colleagues. Count Clementi was, 
 at heart, supremely indifferent as to which party might 
 eventually succeed, except that he looked for some 
 pecuniary advantage from his uncle’s good fortune, and 
 had felt as indignant as Monsignore Clementi himself, 
 that all hopes of a cardinal’s hat seemed dead with 
  Gregorio XVI. The whole family had looked forward 
 to debts being paid, and their fallen fortunes rising 
 with this event, which, though extremely costly to the 
 new dignitary at the time, is very lucrative in the end. 
 
 Convinced at last that Gemma was resigned to her 
 destiny, he gave up his vigil and went to bed, whence 
 he did not emerge till towards luncheon time next day. 
 The contessa had been so wearied by the unusual ex- 
 citement of the evening before, that she too was un- 
 usually late, and did not appear till her son and 
 daughter were about to begin their simple meal, which 
 to-day was augmented by fragments of the rinfresco. 
 Contessa Clementi could speak of nothing but the con- 
 tract and wedding presents, especially Signora Oli- 
 vetti’s — “a shawl, which must have cost at least a 
 hundred sceudi!” 
 
 “I told you, Gemma, she would give you some- 
 thing handsome; and, really that emerald brooch that 
 Signora Ravelli brought you, was magnificent; those 
 people like to give something superb, to show off their 
 wealth a little; they are all rich — it is only the real 
 old noble families that condescend to be poor. The 
 English, who are all merchants, are as rich as empe- 
 
312» MADEMOISELLE MORL. : 
 
 rors. If we had been commoners, your brother would. 
 have made a fortune in some profession; but, as we. 
 were noble, I could not let him degrade himself; and 
 he could not be an ecclesiastic, for he is the last of 
 the Clementi, and Antonio has no children.” 
 
 “Oh, Count Arrigo has taken an zmpiego,” said 
 Gemma, impatiently. 
 
 “Oh, Count Arrigo, they are mere Zarvenus com- 
 pared to us; I have heard that there was one of our 
 family in the time of some Roman Emperor — Julius 
 Cxsar I think it was — there is no family older than 
 ours, Gemma. I wish Signor Lelio were noble; but 
 then you had no dowry. In my time, however, girls 
 of rank never married at all unless their parents met 
 with a husband of equal rank for them; it would have 
 been a disgrace. But all that seems changed now. I 
 can't think what is to be the end of all these new 
 ideas, and how, Pietrucchio, you can take them up is 
 incomprehensible to me.” 
 
 “It is the only way left for me to make my fortune, 
 mamma mia, said Clementi, with the playful and caress- 
 ing tone in which he usually addressed his mother, and. 
 she smiled and said, “You are a good boy, Pietrucchio 
 — where are you going now?” 
 
 “] was thinking of looking for Olivetti; a friend of 
 mine proposed a boar-hunt for next week, and I dare- 
 say Lelio will join us, and be delighted to set us all 
 to rights.” 
 
 “A ‚boar-hunt? it is not the season.” 
 
 “There is more or less of it all the year round; I 
 saw four boars with magnificent tusks in a shop near 
 the Pantheon yesterday, and all the PSaniE were look- 
 ing at. them,” 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 313 
 
 “But if you go out I shall have nobody but Gemma. 
 Signor Lelio might come here, I think; he might wait 
 till after marriage to be so ungallant.” 
 
 “I will stay, mamma. Close that shutter, Gemma, 
 the sun dazzles her.” 
 
 “You are always thoughtful, Pietrucchio nzo; sons 
 are more comfort than daughters. I wish you would 
 marry some rich girl, and then we could all live to- 
 gether, and pay off our debts. It is a great thing to 
 have Gemma provided for.” 
 
 “] wonder why daughters are born, since all that 
 their parents wish is to get rid of them,” said Gemma, 
 in a voice where acute pain and resentment were 
 mingled together. “You are happy now, mamma; it 
 is the first time you ever were pleased where I was 
 concerned.” 
 
 “Now, Gemma, that is one of your perverse fancies; 
 pray, pray don’t get into one of those dreadful tempers! 
 I wish to see you well married of course, since you 
 have no vocation for the convent. Pietrucchio!” said 
 the contessa, imploringly, as ıf bespeaking his protec- 
 tion from Gemma. 
 
 “You need not be afraid, mamma—you will not 
 be burdened with me long, any way,” said Gemma, 
 sitting down at some distance. "The contessa looked so 
 nervous and shaken that Clementi, who never inter- 
 fered between her and Gemma, set himself to compose 
 her, and introduced a subject that never failed to in- 
 terest her—namely, the lottery. “I had no time to 
 tell you yesterday, dear mother, but imagine what a 
 friend of mine has done. His sisters all dreamed of 
 the same number. The eldest one night, the second 
 on the next night, the third on the following one, Of 
 
314 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 course they felt it was an advertisement from Heaven; 
 they told their brother, who has no faith in these 
 things. He is a sad sceptic indeed, and laughed at. 
 them, but promised to take the number for them. 
 Alas! he forgot entirely, and it has just been announced 
 to be the winning number!” 
 
 “See that!” exclaimed the contessa; “I call that a 
 warning from Heaven to him!” 
 
 “What do you want, Filippo?” asked Gemma of 
 the servant, who stood at the door making signs un- 
 perceived to the count. “Come in.” 
 
 “What is it? Why does he not speak? Make him 
 tell us, Pietrucchio—I must know—” said the con- 
 tessa, greatly alarmed by this mysterious pantomime, 
 and Clementi said sharply, “Come in, and say what- 
 ever it is at once, stupid fellow.” 
 
 The man advanced with looks full of horror. “He’s 
 dead, signor; they have murdered him!” 
 
 “Olivetti!” exclaimed Gemma. 
 
 “Si, signorina, si; he has been found with a knife 
 in his heart—he is dead and cold!” 
 
 “ Asino! hold your tongue, you will kill my mother!” 
 cried Clementi, as the contessa gasped out some unin- 
 telligible words and sank back insensible. “She’s dy- 
 ing— here, scents, water—Gemma, help her!” 
 
 Gemma was the only one who had not lost all self- 
 possession. Her hand indeed trembled so that she could 
 not open the scent-bottle, but she remembered where it 
 was, and fetched water instantly, and her mother slowly 
 revived, and looked vacantly round as if trying to re- 
 member what had caused her swoon. Clementi leant 
 over her, terrified out of his senses at the sudden attack. 
 “There, there, you are better now, darling mother; 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORt. 315 
 
 there’s nothing wrong—speak to me—I am here. 
 Pietrucchio is with you, mamma mia!” 
 
 “Why don’t you give her air? Don’t hang over 
 her in that way,” said Gemma, in tones strangely harsh 
 and forced, as she opened a window wide. “Do stand 
 back, Pietrucchio; she can’t breathe. Mamma, you can 
 go to your room now—-let me help you.” 
 
 “Pietrucchio, Pietrucchio,” whispered the contessa, 
 shrinking against him, while he held her hand and 
 called her by every caressing name; “are you there? 
 what has happened? who did Filippo say was killed? 
 tellme’ 
 
 “It is some lie about a murder; one hears a dozen 
 like tales every day—I don’t believe a word of it, 
 mamma mia.” 
 
 “Signor Conte, it is true,” cried Filippo. “I saw 
 the poor dear signor’s valet only just now. "The people 
 speak of nothing else; the street was full all the morn- 
 ing of crowds come to see where he was found Iying. 
 He was stabbed in the Ripetta; I saw a crowd there 
 when I was out just now going to the market; so I 
 turned down to see, and a woman cried out that it was 
 a friend of the Olivetti who had been murdered, and I 
 went to the poor signor’s lodgings and heard it was he 
 from Enrico. Signor Olivetti has gone to Rocca di 
 Passa, but they have sent to tell him. Some say it 
 was for politics, and some that an old enemy had him 
 murdered.” 
 
 During this speech the contessa gradually understood 
 what had happened, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, 
 “Holy Virgin! who can have done this? Oh, Gemma, 
 unhappy child! it is worse than the marchese.” 
 
 “You see it is dangerous to ask me in marriage, 
 
316 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 mamma,” replied Gemma; “but there are the wedding 
 presents to comfort you.” 
 
 “Sangue della Madonna!” ejaculated Filippo, staring 
 at his young mistress; “she will not break her heart for 
 Signor Lelio apparently!” 
 
 “Let me take you to your room, dearest mother; 
 Filippo shall tell my aunt—go and tell her, Filippo,” 
 said Clementi, putting his arm round his mother, and 
 almost carrying her away. Her feeble lamentations 
 were soon lost in the distance; Gemma remained alone, 
 with a strange look on her face—horror, revenge, 
 triumph mixed together. Her hand closed as if on an 
 imaginary dagger, the scene appeared passing before 
 her; she did not flinch when Clementi returned and 
 asked abruptly, “How did you know who was mur- 
 dered?” 
 
 “It was natural I should think immediately of 
 Signor Lelio.” 
 
 “Are you a fool, to suppose that pretext will take 
 me in?” 
 
 “Not at all, Pietrucchio; I did not say I /eared it 
 was he.” 
 
 “Gemma! you knew of this!” 
 
 “No, I did not,” she answered, without shrinking 
 from the grasp in which he held her arm; “No, I did 
 not,” she repeated, and her eyes met his so steadily 
 that his belief in her complicity was shaken, and he 
 released her. She silently raised her sleeve and showed 
 her wrist bruised by his violenee. He winced—no 
 man would hurt a woman in cold blood, and she took 
 the advantage he had given her. “I know nothing 
 about it, Pietrucchio, I tell you; I cannot be sorry, but 
 I am not a murderess,” 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 317 
 
 “If you were, it would be little use to find it out 
 now,” muttered Clementi; “I believe devoutly that you 
 are capable of it. Of course you won’t say if er 
 suspect any one?” 
 
 “Take care whom you suspect, Pietrucchio, if ever 
 you mean to see Irene’s face again.” 
 
 “Serpent that you are! and idiot that I was to let 
 you worm yourself into my confidence,” said Clementi, 
 through his set teeth; “it will come to open war be- 
 tween us; but I must wait awhile I suppose.” 
 
 Frequent as assassinations had become under the 
 late reigns, this murder in Rome itself, and of a man 
 well connected, and inoffensive except from his absurd 
 vanity, was so startling that there was a great sensation 
 throughout the city, and unusual efforts were made to 
 discover the criminal. The elder Olivetti offered large 
 rewards; the police arrested several persons on sus- 
 picion; but after a tedious examination they were 
 released, as nothing could be proved against them. 
 The only thing that could serve as a clue was a Tras- 
 teverine knife, which was found stained with blood 
 near the corpse, and confirmed at once a suspicion that 
 had speedily suggested itself to Clementi, who did not 
 after the first moment believe Ravelli the author of the 
 deed, though his suspicions were again strongly roused 
 by Gemma’s evident belief in Ravelli’s guilt, and his 
 own strange manner, so unlike his usual one that all 
 remarked it. But if Lelio Olivetti had offended one of 
 the unforgetting, unforgiving Trasteverini, his death 
 was accounted for; and Clementi having made up his 
 mind that one of the dasso cefo, or populace, was the 
 eriminal, was satisfied, and let the matter drop without 
 expressing his private opinion. It suited him well that 
 
318 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 the deed should be laid to the door of the liberal party, 
 who were supposed to be offended by Lelio’s obtrusive 
 Austrian tendencies; and absurd as the rumour was, it 
 floated far and wide, and gained credence in Roman 
 society, always eager to seize on any gossip, whether 
 it be how a priest sang mass well or ill, or that a man 
 beat his wife in the Trastevere. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Happy is he who loves companionship, 
 
 And lıights on thee, Luigi; 
 
 Thy locks jet black, and clustering round a face 
 
 Open as day and full of manly darıng; 
 
 Thou hadst a heart, a hand for all that came— 
 
 Mishap passed o’er thee as a summer cloud. 
 ROGERrs. 
 
 Ir could be no trifle that made Luigi Ravelli’s gloom 
 so lasting, and Count Clementi silently sought to dis- 
 cover the cause, and with this object allowed him 
 several opportunities for conversation with Gemma, 
 taking care to be within earshot. Nature had given 
 him the acute eye and ear of a savage; he seemed to 
 hear and see whatever he wished at any distance, but 
 he listened in vain, and Ravelli seemed reluctant to 
 meet Gemma. He could not, however, refuse an invi- 
 tation one evening to return home from the Circolo’ 
 with Clementi, and the old spell presently drew him, 
 in spite of himself, to Gemma’s side. Clementi was 
 playing at cards with his mother, who did not catch a 
 sound from the other two; yet he heard Gemma speak 
 as plainly as if he had been by her side. He threw 
 new animation into his play, and said something which 
 made the contessa laugh heartily; but his ear was in- 
 tent on the whisper at the other end of the room, as 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI 319 
 
 Ravelli examined Gemma’s work and stooped to pick 
 up her fallen silk. “Really, Luigi, no one has been so 
 much afflıcted by Olivetti’s death as yourself! How 
 long do you mean to wear mourning for him? You 
 seem quite inconsolable. Ithink, if Ican bear his loss, 
 you might! Now do tell me, did you know anything 
 about it?” 
 
 She spoke very low, and glanced towards the card- 
 table. “Come, tell me, Luigi,” she persevered, reas- 
 sured by the attention paid by the players to their 
 game. 
 
 “What do you mean?” demanded Ravelli, as low, 
 but so angrily, that a less audacious spirit than hers 
 would have retracted in haste. Not so Gemma. 
 
 “Why! Do you mean that he disappeared, so very 
 opportunely, by chance?” 
 
 “Do you mean that you take me for an assassin, 
 Gemma?” 
 
 “I don’t take you for anything shocking; I only 
 want to know why you go about looking as doleful as 
 a death’s-head.” 
 
 “You hold life lightly,” said Ravelli, looking down 
 on her almost with repugnance. “You knew this man, 
 you consented to marry him; he is murdered almost at 
 your door, and you are less moved than if your canary- 
 bird had died!” 
 
 “] hated that man,” she answered hastily, her face 
 changing from its mocking smile into fierce earnestness. 
 “«] would have thanked anybody who had poisoned 
 him or me that night! You need not taunt me with 
 having consented to marry him; it was only that I 
 might see you again—you know I should have fled 
 to the world’s end before he called me his wife. I 
 
320 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 thought you took the only means left to deliver me 
 from him.” 
 
 “You really believed that I murdered Lelio Oli- 
 vettir” 
 
 “I saw you exchange not very amicable words 
 with him, and next morning he is found dead,” she 
 answered, amazed at the manner in which he repelled 
 her accusation. “I was miserable enough, I am sure, 
 for if any one else had noticed the quarrel, they must 
 have suspected you—how could you be so rash, 
 Luigi?” 
 
 He turned from her with a look, as if she, whom 
 he had thought so fair, had turned into a serpent be- 
 fore his eyes. She saw, and rising, stepped before him. 
 “What do you mean? What have I said? Tell me 
 what you are thinking of.” | 
 
 “] think— why I think that I know you better than 
 I did—and so—.addıo, contessina.” 
 
 “Are you mad? What is it, Luigi?” 
 
 He would not take the hand put out to stop him, 
 but passed impetuously by, and the contessa, awaken- 
 ing to the fact that her daughter was almost Zöfe-a-iöte 
 with a young man, called her to come nearer the 
 light. 
 
 “What were you telling Gemma, signor?” 
 
 I was saying adıeu, Signora Contessa; I am obliged 
 to go.” 
 
 “Already?P My salutations to your mother, and 
 Signora Olivetti, when you see her. I suppose you 
 are going there. A rivedervi, signor. Pietrucchio, I 
 have won a paul—no, two; what good fortune! and a 
 grosso!” 
 
 Clementi rose to accompany his friend to the door, 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
a m 
 a [ 
 E Ruf t 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 3217 
 
 and bid him an affectionate good night. Gemma never 
 looked up till Ravelli was at the door—then she lifted 
 her eyes and met his—their expression stung her 
 intolerably. She sat reflecting on what had passed, 
 and wondering what had ‚happened to him, and Con-. 
 tessa Clementi pursued her game with the remark, 
 “Something must have gone wrong with young Ravelli 
 — he looked perfectly dowleversd. Pietrucchio, it is you 
 to play.” 
 
 Ravelli had no thoughts of going to Casa Olivetti 
 that night. He wandered towards St. Angelo, and 
 leant upon the parapet of the bridge, watching, without 
 knowing that he did so, the tawny water flow beneath, 
 eddying against the piles, and breaking the reflections 
 from the lamps near into long shimmering trails of 
 light. A red star was rising against the most distant 
 houses whose line, dark and indistinct, followed the 
 bend of the shore. One or two boats passed under the 
 bridge with a couple of dark figures in each, doubtless 
 fishermen; a light burnt afar in a window over the 
 river, as if some Hero kept watch‘ for a Leander. 
 Great fleecy clouds almost hid the moon, which never- 
 theless at intervals came out into the clear and tender 
 blue of the sky; the night was perfect in its southern 
 beauty, tranquil, refreshing, bringing rest and calm 
 after the labour and heat of the day. Its breeze blew 
 cool on the brow which Luigi bared to it, but the 
 fevered thoughts that rushed through his mind required 
 a mightier magic than any sweet hour of the night 
 possessed, to quiet them. After long meditation, he 
 uttered an audible exclamation, and starting upright, 
 walked away without a glance at the peaceful scene 
 around him. 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori, 7. «I 
 
322. MADEMOISELLE MORI 
 
 Luigi shunned Palazzo Clementi and Casa Olivetti‘ 
 alike for some days, until his father entrusted him with 
 some business to transact with Signor Olivetti, which 
 obliged him to visit the latter house. Fle would rather 
 have gone ten miles in another direction, and wished 
 himself making measurements at Civita Vecchia, though 
 under the hottest sun of the dog-days, rather than at 
 Casa Olivetti; but it was not worth a quarrel with old 
 Signor Ravelli, and he went. Signor Olivetti was out, 
 and he had to await his return; the salotto was unoc- 
 cupied; Luigi gave himself up undisturbed to thoughts 
 of no very cheering kind, and even his attitude showed 
 his dejection. The opening of the door roused him; 
 Imelda looked in, coloured on seeing who was there, 
 and was about to withdraw with a timid “I beg your 
 pardon;” but she had observed his melancholy, and 
 instead of going, came in, and lingered to hear if he 
 were going to say anything to her. His betrothed was 
 the last person whom Luigi wished to see, but a glance 
 at her, as she stood before him with her serious, child- 
 like grace, banished his perceptible vexation, and he 
 said, “I am waiting for your father, but nothing is to 
 be seen of him.” 
 
 “He will very soon be at home; Cardinal Torquati 
 sent for him this morning, Mamma is taking her 
 siesia,” said Imelda, conscious that every rule of 
 etiquette bade her go, but detained by a stronger feel- 
 ing. Luigi made some remark about the heat, to which 
 she returned an answer without knowing what she said; 
 then, taking her courage by both hands, as it were, 
 asked— “Luigi, is anything the matter?” 
 
 “What should be the matter?” he answered, much 
 surprised. 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORL 823 
 
 She looked up at him with her soft wistful eyes, as 
 if to say that she felt that something was wrong. 
 Ravelli said, abruptly, “Imelda, you are the last person 
 whom I should like for a confessor—you would under- 
 stand a sin too little to forgive it.” 
 
 “But unless it were against me I should have to 
 sympathize, not forgive,” said Imelda, encouraged. 
 
 “As if you could sympathize with a crime—you 
 little white dove, who wonder why crows are black !— 
 I am not thinking of a trifle, such as a hasty word, 
 but of crimes; do you know what a crime is? murder, 
 for instance.” 
 
 “Oh, Luigi! but after all it would be the person, 
 not the crime that I should sympathize with. Surely 
 no one could want comfort so much as a man who had 
 done such a dreadful thing as a murder? he would be 
 so unhappy!” 
 
 “You are right,” said Ravelli, absently; but recol- 
 lecting what he was saying, he thought he saw her 
 start—“Don’t be alarmed, I am not speaking of my- 
 self.” 
 
 “No,” said Imelda, with a little light laugh at 
 the idea that he could have supposed that she 
 thought so. 
 
 “You think it impossible for me to commit such a 
 crime? for any one?” 
 
 “It has been done,” said Imelda, low and shrink- 
 ingly, as she glanced at her mourning dress. 
 
 “Ay. Suppose I could tell you who did that deed 
 —-or suppose that you were told that I did it, on the 
 best authority? what then?” 
 
 He seemed quite serious; Imelda answered, won- 
 deringly, “I should not believe it—” and then, gaining 
 
 21* 
 
324 'MADEMOISELLE MORIL 
 
 fresh courage from feeling that she was becoming his 
 confidante, “not if you told me so yourself.” 
 
 Was it that sympathy always had irresistible 
 charms for Luigi, or that he sought to get rid of the 
 depression so foreign to his nature by any means— 
 even by confiding in Imelda? Probably both, for he 
 exclaimed, “Imelda, Imelda, you don’t know what you 
 are saying— you fancy all the world as peaceful as 
 your own home— what would you think of man’s life 
 if you knew a tithe of it? Why I—now you stand by 
 me you look at me as if you believed me as innocent 
 as yourself—what would you say if I told you that a 
 fortnight ago there was a man whom I hated, so that 
 I had resolved that he or I should visit Purgatory be- 
 fore another day was out. Never mind who he was— 
 no, I may as well tell you— your cousin, Lelio. IfI 
 did not murder him, I let him be murdered—there is 
 little difference. There! you turn pale and shrink away 
 —I knew how it would be!” 
 
 “It ıs so horrible to thınk of his death,” said 
 Imelda, shuddering, but still remaining by Ravelli’s 
 side. “How could you have anything to do with his 
 death? he was stabbed.” 
 
 “Well, what reason is that?” 
 
 “He was assassinated,” repeated Imelda. 
 
 “Ah! I understand,” said Ravelli, with a look of 
 satisfaction; “you mean I should have tried fair fight. 
 True—you know me better than some, whom I ex- 
 pected to trust me. Listen, Tll tell you how it was. 
 That night—when—when—he was murdered— before 
 we left the palazzo—he asked me to walk home with 
 him—the old story, he fancied he was dogged by 
 some one. I only wanted an excuse for a quarrel; 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORI. 323 
 
 ‘I insulted him, told him he was a coward: when one 
 man says that to another you know what comes of it. 
 We had not much to settle after that; we went down- 
 stairs together, settled time and place, and parted. I 
 had not gone a hundred yards when I heard a shout 
 for help—turned back—there was a minute’s scuffle 
 between two people down the street—one fell, the 
 other made off at full speed—lI after him—-I caught 
 him before he reached a vzcolo he was making for; he 
 had dropped his knife, so it was fair fight between 
 us; we wrestled together—I got him down at last, 
 and saw his face; he was a Trasteverine—I knew him 
 .—it was the father of the boy whom Lelio struck in 
 Villa Borghese. You had not heard of it? that was 
 the motive; a Trasteverine never thinks a blow can 
 be wiped out without blood. I knew that—and—Jet 
 him go. I suppose I ought to have had him executed; 
 and whether I let him escape because Lelio. was my 
 enemy, or because the way he treated that lad was 
 so brutal, is more than I know. I went back to your 
 cousin—he was quite dead; there was nothing to be 
 done. When I found that, I began to think it might 
 be a case of beheading me instead of my 'Trasteverine 
 friend, ıf I were seen there. Not a creature came 
 ‚that way from the palace—they all lived in other 
 directions. I lingered about all night till some one 
 came by soon after dawn, saw the body, and raised 
 an outery. That night—I nearly went mad—I walked 
 up and down the side-streets; whenever I turned 
 towards the Ripetta I seemed to see in a moment 
 that black heap in the distance, and then I thought 
 he called or stirred. I went once all the way into the 
 Piazza di Spagna, but some demon drove me back to 
 
326  MADEMOISELLE MORT. 
 
 look at that dead man, his face turned up towards the 
 moon—-horrible!—a look to haunt one for ever—they 
 say men always look so who die by a stab; and while 
 I was leaning over him the wind waved a corner of 
 his cloak—I thought he had come to life and was 
 looking at me with that ghastiy——Imelda, I must be 
 mad outright to tell all this to you— poor child, what 
 was I dreaming of?” 
 
 He passed his arm round her, and pale and trem- 
 bling though she was, she leant against him and slid 
 her hand into his, and he kissed it as he had never 
 yet done in all their familiar intercourse. 
 
 “If you can hear all this without renouncing me, 
 Imelda, there is some hope for me; where could you 
 have learned to be so charitable?” 
 
 “Thank you for telling me,” whispered Imelda. 
 
 “Tell no one!” said Ravelli hastily, as a doubt of 
 the safety of his secret occurred to him; “there are 
 some who might not believe me as innocent as you do.” 
 
 “Oh no, of course I shall tell no one; mamma has 
 always said it is wicked to betray a secret.” 
 
 “Fidare era un buon uomo, Nontifidare & meglio,” 
 said Ravelli, quoting between jest and earnest a well- 
 known proverb. 
 
 “Chi 2 in sospello 2 in difetto,” answered Imelda, 
 with more liveliness than she often ventured to show 
 before Ravelli, who laughed and said with almost his 
 usual light-heartedness, “I suppose that women can 
 keep their own secrets, if not other people’s.”’ 
 
 “Then this shall be my very own.” 
 
 “I cannot understand why you women are not 
 more shocked, Imelda. I should have expected you to 
 look on me as a monster made manifest, when I tell 
 
 
 

 
 MADEMOISELLE MORT. 32 
 
 you I intended to shoot a man as if he had been a 
 wild beast, and that I was the cause of his death, 
 for, but for what I said, he would not have gone home 
 alone.” 
 
 “] think that it is very sad you should have felt 
 so, said Imelda, “but you cannot be answerable for 
 the murder; you did not believe he really had an 
 enemy, and I have often heard papa laugh at the idea. 
 He said it was only a proof of how important poor 
 Lelio thought himself. ‘And you have been so un- 
 happy, Luigi; that is all that one can do when one has 
 been wrong. I am sure any priest would give you ab- 
 solution directly.” 
 
 “Yes, I have been unhappy, as you say, Imelda,” 
 replied Ravelli with a sudden return of gloom. “Heaven 
 knows that is true. But whether I should not have 
 brought that man to justice—” 
 
 “] think I should have let him go,” said Imelda, 
 hesitatingly, and the idea of her doing battle with, and 
 magnanimously releasing a ruffian who had well-nigh 
 mastered himself, almost moved Ravelli to laughter. 
 
 Signora Olivetti’s entrance arrested the conversa- 
 tion—the first which Imelda had ever had alone with 
 Luigi. Her mother’s look of surprise reminded her of 
 how great a breach of etiquette she had committed, 
 and she blushed like a rose when Signora Olivetti said, 
 “If Luigi were not so soon to be your husband, I don’t 
 know what I should say, Imelda.” 
 
 Ravelli smiled, and the prospect did not seem at 
 that moment unwelcome. It was the perception of this 
 which made Signora Olivetti spare her little daughter 
 ‚any further reproof, and cease to question her as to 
 

 
 328 | "MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 what Ravelli had said to her when she found Imelda 
 for the first time reluctant to answer. 
 
 Ravelli stood in a peculiar position with regard to 
 Imelda; a kind of family compact had existed from her 
 babyhood that she should be his wife, and she was 
 now nearly sixteen, quite old enough, according to 
 Roman notions, to be married. Signora Olivetti had 
 divined the true reason of all the delays, which old 
 Signor Ravelli sought to explain away, but she kept 
 her suspicions to herself, and did not enlighten her 
 'husband; she had desired the marriage for years; Luigi 
 was in almost every respect the husband whom she 
 would have selected for Imelda—he was manly and 
 spirited, he had never gambled or been dissipated; he 
 was very different from the blase, effeminate, graceful 
 set of young men, to whom other mothers gladly gave 
 their daughters; but Signora Olivetti would rather have 
 seen pretty Imelda in her grave than have given her 
 to a husband whom she could not love and respect. 
 When she heard of Luigi’s mad freaks, or his daring 
 riding, and his beautiful horse, all of which were re- 
 nowned in the races got up by the English in winter, 
 on the Campagna, she only thought she liked him all 
 the better, even if he were a scapegrace, and that Luigi 
 was worth all the idle, harmless youths of her acquaint- 
 ance whose “affairs of the heart” were their only em- 
 ployment, to the scandal of their families, and the pro- 
 fit of no one. Bitterly did she regret that she had ever 
 allowed Gemma to visit Imelda, and anxiously had she 
 sought to marry the young countess to some one—no 
 matter to whom—-so she were but disposed of! Imelda 
 had been the delight, the happiness of years to 
 her; to secure her entrance into a family which would 
 

 
 Me Dr 
 
 
 
 _... MADEMOISELLE MORL 1329 
 
 cherish her, was the aim of Signora Olivetti’s life. Na- 
 turally she thought more of this than did her husband, 
 who desired the marriage because the Ravelli were 
 very old friends and wealthy; but his wife knew from 
 bitter experience, how wretched the life of a young 
 bride might be, unless kindly received by her husband’s _ 
 family, under the common Roman system of bride and 
 ‚bridegroom living with the father and mother of the 
 latter. Before Imelda was released from her swaddling- 
 clothes, her mother had looked forward to giving her 
 the meek Signora Ravelli as a mother-in-law, and 
 vowed, silently, that this child should never go through 
 what she herself had done. 
 
 Imelda was very fond of Signora Ravelli, and even 
 ‚of the irascible old father of Luigi, who, for her, had 
 always a joke and a caress, and smoothed his brow at 
 the sight of his little daughter-in-law elect. She found 
 double favour in his sight, as an heiress and the child 
 of a very old friend, and, most of all, as his own 
 choice for Luigi; and no one could wonder at his 
 astonished wrath, when Luigi, after having known and 
 contentedly regarded this match for years as a thing 
 fixed as fate, had suddenly turned round, and ab- 
 solutely refused to hear of it, without assigning any 
 reason for the change. To his mother he was more 
 communicative, but Signora Ravelli was submissive as 
 a slave to her husband, and would have been perfectly 
 ill at the bare idea of opposing him, even for the sake 
 of her darling Luigi. Moreover, though she tried to 
 say that she liked Gemma, to please him, she could 
 not do so. The thought of having this girl for a 
 daughter-in-law, instead of sweet little Imelda, posi- 
 tively terrified her; and, though she listened to his 
 
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 330  MADEMOISELLE MORI. 
 
 . confidences with the most unwearied sympathy and 
 patience, Luigi knew that she could not, and would 
 not, help him. His own strong will was, however, 
 quite a match for his father’s, despotic and imperious 
 asthe old man was. Alternately indulged and checked 
 by him, and invariably spoiled by his mother, Luigi 
 had not been trained to submit in such a juncture; and 
 fiery scenes were but too frequent in Casa Ravelli. 
 But the father had one strong hold over his son— 
 without his good pleasure Luigi had not a penny in 
 the world. 
 
 The rupture with Gemma had now led to a truce; 
 Ravelli could not think of her without anger and bitter- 
 ness; he visited Casa Olivetti constantly, and found 
 amusement and interest in the conversation’of Imelda, 
 now that she had gained a little confidence with him. 
 But in all his fluctuations the thought of Gemma was 
 never long absent, causing feelings anything but gentle, 
 and yet always present even when he lingered by 
 Imelda’s side in the window, where they often sat, 
 under Signora Olivetti’s eye, but far enough off to talk 
 unheard. Imelda took courage to tell Luigi of her 
 favourite occupations, her little hopes and fears, and 
 won him sometimes to speak of himself, and those were 
 happy evenings for both; but often his thoughts had 
 flown to the old stormy, precious interviews snatched 
 in peril, and lasting but a few moments, yet worth 
 whole days of calmer pleasures, which he and Gemma 
 used to have on the stairs of Palazzo Clementi. 
 
 And, when he left Casa Olivetti, his steps would 
 turn towards the palace, to be withdrawn in anger and 
 shame. He would go home to recite the rosarzo de- 
 voutly with his family; go out into society again, and 
 

 
 2 his first. an od nei room was to see if N BR, 
 
 were present; and once they met and spoke coldiy fr 
 
 a moment, then parted; both full of feelings that would 
 
 have burst out in defiance of conventionalities and wi- 
 nesses, had they given way to them for one instant; 
 
 and yet no one saw more than a slight, indifferent 
 greeting passing between them! en 
 
 The shock occasioned by the glimpse which Gemma 8 
 had given of her true self, was after all not strong 
 enough effectually to detach Ravelli. He met her again 
 in the Corso, as she went to mass with her aunt; he 
 bowed, and passed on, but he thought her face looked 
 pale and changed; he heard, accidentally, that she had 
 been ill. An invitation from Clementi to spend the 
 evening with him at the palazzo was irresistible, and 
 that night beheld him as much Gemma’s slave as ever. 
 
 The elders of the Olivetti and Ravelli families would 
 not have taken his vacillations patiently, but that the 
 death of so near a relative as Lelio, put Imelda’s mar- 
 riage out of the question for the present. 
 
 END OF VOL. L 
 

 
 3 
 
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