The Eternal City | Page 8

palace, and
the porter, with the silver-headed staff, came running and bowing to
receive her. She rose to her feet with a consciousness of many eyes
upon her, and with an unabashed glance she looked around on the
crowd.
There was a sulky silence among the people, almost a sense of

antagonism, and if anybody had cheered there might have been a
counter demonstration. At the same time, there was a certain daring in
that marked brow and steadfast smile which seemed to say that if
anybody had hissed she would have stood her ground.
She lifted from the blue silk cushions of the carriage a small
half-clipped black poodle with a bow of blue ribbon on its forehead,
tucked it under her arm, stepped down to the street, and passed into the
courtyard, leaving an odour of ottar of roses behind her.
Only then did the people speak.
"Donna Roma!"
The name seemed to pass over the crowd in a breathless whisper,
soundless, supernatural, like the flight of a bat in the dark.
III
The Baron Bonelli had invited certain of his friends to witness the
Pope's procession from the windows and balconies of his palace
overlooking the piazza, and they had begun to arrive as early as
half-past nine.
In the green courtyard they were received by the porter in the cocked
hat, on the dark stone staircase by lackeys in knee-breeches and yellow
stockings, in the outer hall, intended for coats and hats, by more
lackeys in powdered wigs, and in the first reception-room, gorgeously
decorated in the yellow and gold of the middle ages, by Felice, in a
dress coat, the Baron's solemn personal servant, who said, in sepulchral
tones:
"The Baron's excuses, Excellency! Engaged in the Council-room with
some of the Ministers, but expects to be out presently. Sit in the Loggia,
Excellency?"
"So our host is holding a Cabinet Council, General?" said the English
Ambassador.

"A sort of scratch council, seemingly. Something that concerns the
day's doings, I guess, and is urgent and important."
"A great man, General, if half one hears about him is true."
"Great?" said the American. "Yes, and no, Sir Evelyn, according as you
regard him. In the opinion of some of his followers the Baron Bonelli is
the greatest man in the country--greater than the King himself--and a
statesman too big for Italy. One of those commanding personages who
carry everything before them, so that when they speak even monarchs
are bound to obey. That's one view of his picture, Sir Evelyn."
"And the other view?"
General Potter glanced in the direction of a door hung with curtains,
from which there came at intervals the deadened drumming of voices,
and then he said:
"A man of implacable temper and imperious soul, an infidel of hard
and cynical spirit, a sceptic and a tyrant."
"Which view do the people take?"
"Can you ask? The people hate him for the heavy burden of taxation
with which he is destroying the nation in his attempt to build it up."
"And the clergy, and the Court, and the aristocracy?"
"The clergy fear him, the Court detests him, and the Roman aristocracy
are rancorously hostile."
"Yet he rules them all, nevertheless?"
"Yes, sir, with a rod of iron--people, Court, princes, Parliament, King
as well--and seems to have only one unsatisfied desire, to break up the
last remaining rights of the Vatican and rule the old Pope himself."
"And yet he invites us to sit in his Loggia and look at the Pope's
procession."

"Perhaps because he intends it shall be the last we may ever see of it."
"The Princess Bellini and Don Camillo Murelli," said Felice's
sepulchral voice from the door.
An elderly aristocratic beauty wearing nodding white plumes came in
with a pallid young Roman noble dressed in the English fashion.
"You come to church, Don Camillo?"
"Heard it was a service which happened only once in a hundred years,
dear General, and thought it mightn't be convenient to come next time,"
said the young Roman.
"And you, Princess! Come now, confess, is it the perfume of the
incense which brings you to the Pope's procession, or the perfume of
the promenaders?"
"Nonsense, General!" said the little woman, tapping the American with
the tip of her lorgnette. "Who comes to a ceremony like this to say her
prayers? Nobody whatever, and if the Holy Father himself were to
say...."
"Oh! oh!"
"Which reminds me," said the little lady, "where is Donna Roma?"
"Yes, indeed, where is Donna Roma?" said the young Roman.
"Who is Donna Roma?" said the Englishman.
"Santo Dio! the man doesn't know Donna Roma!"
The white plumes bobbed up, the powdered face fell back, the little
twinkling eyes closed, and the company laughed and seated themselves
in the Loggia.
"Donna Roma, dear