The Eternal City | Page 7

"Garibaldi Club,"
"Mazzini Club," "Republican Federation," and "Republic of Man."
"Your friend Antichrist," tipping a finger over his shoulder in the
direction of the palace, "has been taxing bread to build more battleships,
and Rossi has risen against him. But failing in the press, in Parliament
and at the Quirinal, he is coming to the Pope to pray of him to let the
Church play its old part of intermediary between the poor and the
oppressed."
"Preposterous!"
"So?"
"To whom is the Pope to protest? To the King of Italy who robbed him
of his Holy City? Pretty thing to go down on your knees to the brigand
who has stripped you! And at whose bidding is he to protest? At the
bidding of his bitterest enemy? Pshaw!"
"You persist that David Rossi is an enemy of the Pope?"
"The deadliest enemy the Pope has in the world."
II
The subject of the Frenchman's denunciation looked harmless enough
as he sat in his hackney carriage under the shadow of old Baron
Leone's gloomy palace. A first glance showed a man of thirty-odd years,
tall, slightly built, inclined to stoop, with a long, clean-shaven face,
large dark eyes, and dark hair which covered the head in short curls of

almost African profusion. But a second glance revealed all the
characteristics that give the hand-to-hand touch with the common
people, without which no man can hope to lead a great movement.
From the moment of David Rossi's arrival there was a tingling
movement in the air, and from time to time people approached and
spoke to him, when the tired smile struggled through the jaded face and
then slowly died away. After a while, as if to subdue the sense of
personal observation, he took a pen and oblong notepaper and began to
write on his knees.
Meantime the quick-eyed facile crowd around him beguiled the tedium
of waiting with good-humoured chaff. One great creature with a shaggy
mane and a sanguinary voice came up, bottle in hand, saluted the
downcast head with a mixture of deference and familiarity, then
climbed to the box-seat beside the driver, and in deepest bass began the
rarest mimicry. He was a true son of the people, and under an
appearance of ferocity he hid the heart of a child. To look at him you
could hardly help laughing, and the laughter of the crowd at his daring
dashes showed that he was the privileged pet of everybody. Only at
intervals the downcast head was raised from its writing, and a quiet
voice of warning said:
"Bruno!"
Then the shaggy head on the box-seat slewed round and bobbed
downward with an apologetic gesture, and ten seconds afterwards
plunged into wilder excesses.
"Pshaw!" mopping with one hand his forehead under his tipped-up
billicock, and holding the bottle with the other. "It's hot! Dog of a
Government, it's hot, I say! Never mind! here's to the exports of Italy,
brother; and may the Government be the first of them."
"Bruno!"
"Excuse me, sir; the tongue breaks no bones, sir! All Governments are
bad, and the worst Government is the best."

A feeble old man was at that moment crushing his way up to the cab.
Seeing him approach, David Rossi rose and held out his hand. The old
man took it, but did not speak.
"Did you wish to speak to me, father?"
"I can't yet," said the old man, and his voice shook and his eyes were
moist.
David Rossi stepped out of the cab, and with gentle force, against many
protests, put the old man in his place.
"I come from Carrara, sir, and when I go home and tell them I've seen
David Rossi, and spoken to him, they won't believe me. 'He sees the
future clear,' they say, 'as an almanack made by God.'"
Just then there was a commotion in the crowd, an imperious voice cried,
"Clear out," and the next instant David Rossi, who was standing by the
step of his cab, was all but run down by a magnificent equipage with
two high-stepping horses and a fat English coachman in livery of
scarlet and gold.
His face darkened for a moment with some powerful emotion, then
resumed its kindly aspect, and he turned back to the old man without
looking at the occupant of the carriage.
It was a lady. She was tall, with a bold sweep of fulness in figure,
which was on a large scale of beauty. Her hair, which was abundant
and worn full over the forehead, was raven black and glossy, and it
threw off the sunshine that fell on her face. Her complexion had a
golden tint, and her eyes, which were violet, had a slight recklessness
of expression. Her carriage drew up at the entrance of the