"Lived in England, you say?"
"Apparently, and if his early life could be traced it would probably be found that he was brought up in an atmosphere of conspiracy—perhaps under the influence of some vile revolutionary living in London under the protection of your too liberal laws."
Donna Roma sprang up with a movement full of grace and energy. "Anyhow," she said, "he is young and good-looking and romantic and mysterious, and I'm head over ears in love with him already."
"Well, every man is a world," said the American.
"And what about woman?" said Roma.
He threw up his hands, she smiled full into his face, and they laughed together.
VI
A fanfare of trumpets came from the piazza, and with a cry of delight Roma ran into the balcony, followed by all the women and most of the men.
"Only the signal that the cortège has started," said Don Camillo. "They'll be some minutes still."
"Santo Dio!" cried Roma. "What a sight! It dazzles me; it makes me dizzy!"
Her face beamed, her eyes danced, and she was all aglow from head to foot. The American Ambassador stood behind her, and, as permitted by his greater age, he tossed back the shuttlecock of her playful talk with chaff and laughter.
"How patient the people are! See the little groups on camp-stools munching biscuits and reading the journals. 'La Vera Roma!'" (mimicking the cry of the newspaper sellers). "Look at that pretty girl—the fair one with the young man in the Homburg hat! She has climbed up the obelisk, and is inviting him to sit on an inch and a half of corbel beside her."
"Ah, those who love take up little room!"
"Don't they? What a lovely world it is! I'll tell you what this makes me think about—a wedding! Glorious morning, beautiful sunshine, flowers, wreaths, bridesmaids ready; coachman all a posy, only waiting for the bride!"
"A wedding is what you women are always dreaming about—you begin dreaming about it in your cradles—it's in a woman's bones, I do believe," said the American.
"Must be the ones she got from Adam, then," said Roma.
Meantime the Baron was still parading the hearthrug inside and listening to the warnings of his Minister of War.
"You are resolved to arrest the man?"
"If he gives us an opportunity—yes."
"You do not forget that he is a Deputy?"
"It is because I remember it that my resolution is fixed. In Parliament he is a privileged person; let him make half as much disorder outside and you shall see where he will be."
"Anarchists!" said Roma. "That group below the balcony? Is David Rossi among them? Yes? Which of them? Which? Which? Which? The tall man in the black hat with his back to us? Oh! why doesn't he turn his face? Should I shout?"
"Roma!" from the little Princess.
"I know; I'll faint, and you'll catch me, and the Princess will cry 'Madonna mia!' and then he'll turn round and look up."
"My child!"
"He'll see through you, though, and then where will you be?"
"See through me, indeed!" and she laughed the laugh a man loves to hear, half-raillery, half-caress.
"Donna Roma Volonna, daughter of a line of princes, making love to a nameless nobody!"
"Shows what a heavenly character she is, then! See how good I am at throwing bouquets at myself?"
"Well, what is love, anyway? A certain boy and a certain girl agree to go for a row in the same boat to the same place, and if they pull together, what does it matter where they come from?"
"What, indeed?" she said, and a smile, partly serious, played about the parted mouth.
"Could you think like that?"
"I could! I could! I could!"
The clock struck eleven. Another fanfare of trumpets came from the direction of the Vatican, and then the confused noises in the square suddenly ceased and a broad "Ah!" passed over it, as of a vast living creature taking breath.
"They're coming!" cried Roma. "Baron, the cortège is coming."
"Presently," the Baron answered from within.
Roma's dog, which had slept on a chair through the tumult, was awakened by the lull and began to bark. She picked it up, tucked it under her arm and ran back to the balcony, where she stood by the parapet, in full view of the people below, with the young Roman on one side, the American on the other, and the ladies seated around.
By this time the procession had begun to appear, issuing from a bronze gate under the right arm of the colonnade, and passing down the channel which had been kept open by the cordon of infantry.
Roma abandoned herself to the fascinations of the scene, and her gaiety infected everybody.
"Camillo, you must tell me who they all are. There now—those men who come first in black and red?"
"Laymen," said the young Roman. "They're called the Apostolic Cursori. When a Cardinal is nominated they take him the news, and get two or three thousand francs for their trouble."
"And these little fat folk in white lace pinafores?"
"Singers of the Sistine Chapel. That's the Director, old Maestro Mustafa—used to be the greatest soprano of the century."
"And this dear old friar with the mittens and rosary and the comfortable linsey-woolsey sort of face?"
"That's Father Pifferi of San Lorenzo, confessor to the Pope. He knows all the Pope's sins."
"Oh!" said Roma.
At that moment her dog barked furiously, and the old friar looked up at her, whereupon she smiled down on him, and then a half-smile played about his good-natured face.
"He is a Capuchin, and those Frati in different colours coming behind him. … "
"I know them; see if I don't," she cried, as there passed under the balcony a double file of friars and monks. "The brown ones—Capuchins and Franciscans! Brown and white—Carmelites! Black—Augustinians and Benedictines! Black with a white cross—Passionists! And the monks all white are Trappists. I know the Trappists best, because I drive out to Tre Fontane to buy eucalyptus and flirt with Father John."
"Shocking!" said the American.
"Why not? What are their vows of celibacy but conspiracies against us poor women? Nearly every man a woman wants is either mated or has sworn off in some way. Oh, how I should love to meet one of those anchorites in real life and make him fly!"
"Well, I dare say the whisk of a petticoat would be more frightening than all his doctors of divinity."
"Listen!"
From a part of the procession which had passed the balcony there came the sound of harmonious voices.
"The singers of the Sistine Chapel! They're singing a hymn."
"I know it. 'Veni, Creator!' How splendid! How glorious! I feel as if I wanted to cry!"
All at once the singing stopped, the murmuring and