Chapter EIGHT: The Double Nought

I spent the day wandering about the broad, handsome streets of Rome--Rome under Mussolini. I noted where cobbled piazzas had been bare and dusty there were now bright flower-beds, shady trees, and often refreshing fountains. Around me on every side arose great palatial buildings worthy of the proudest city in the world.

I watched the tourists feeding the pigeons, and took several _apéritifs_ at the popular cafés.

The idea of the State ball, for which I had already received a card from the Minister of the Royal Household, nauseated me. I was in no mood for brilliant throngs, Court etiquette, or dance-music. Yet the Little Countess attracted me. I felt absolutely certain that we had once been friends, but to what extent, or in what circumstances, I was in entire ignorance. My memory concerning her was also a complete blank.

At ten o’clock that night I put on my uniform, and taking my cocked hat and gloves, drove to the Palace, where I passed across the red carpet, and along the great, brilliantly-lit corridor lined by the Royal servants, and the Guards in their brilliant uniforms. With me entered several foreign diplomats with their ladies, including Grant, the secretary of the United States Embassy, whom I recognized as an old friend I had known in Paris.

Assembled in the great salon with five hundred others, we awaited the coming of their Majesties. I gazed eagerly around to discover the Contessina, but was sorely disappointed. She was not present! And yet she herself had pressed me to come and dance with her.

Of a sudden there came the three resounding bangs upon the great gilt double doors. The Marshal of the Court, an aged Duke with snow-white hair and heavy moustache, threw them open, and the King in the full-dress uniform of a General, walking with the Queen, whose diamonds flashed with a thousand fires, entered, smiling at the bowing and curtsying assembly.

Their Majesties, accompanied by the Prince of Savoy and other members of the Italian Royal Family, made a slow tour of the great gilt chamber, with its hundred crystal electroliers; and then, after they had ascended their dais, the dance commenced.

It was not until that moment that, amid the crowd of Roman nobility and the diplomatic circle, I caught sight of the charming girl I sought.

She was dressed in a cloth of silver, the skirt embellished with a broad band of diamanté and pearl embroidery, which reflected the light from a thousand angles--one of the most striking costumes at the Court. I saw her accept a tall, slim attaché of the French Embassy as her partner. Her face, slightly flushed, was as beautiful as the angel of Lanfranco upon the wall of Sant’ Andrea. Afterwards, as I watched, I saw her elegant cavalier, in his gold-braided uniform, hand her over to a well-dressed and rather stiff-looking lady of middle-age; and presently I noticed her chatting merrily with the Princess Pallavicini, the Queen’s principal lady-in-waiting.

Later on, as though quite accidentally, I met her, and bowed low over her hand.

She smiled at me, and expressed satisfaction that we should meet again. Her attitude was much more cordial than on the previous night.

“Lady Kingscliffe told me that you are always traveling,” she said in French, as we stood against the wall together watching the dancers. “I love traveling, but----” And she raised her shoulders expressive of disappointment.

“You do not travel very much?” I asked in the same language.

“Alas! no,” she replied, with a smile. “I want to see London and New York--and Athens.”

“Well, if you traveled as constantly as I do, you would, I fear, grow very tired of trains, Contessina,” I said, noting the exquisite taste of her gown.

“You have been in Rome before, I suppose?” I remarked.

“Yes. Once before. I go out daily with the tourists to see the monuments. It is such great fun--I assure you! But, oh! I do so want to see your London.”

She spoke with an air of greatest refinement, and her eyes, as she looked at me, seemed so childlike and innocent.

“Yet when one is not one’s own mistress, what can one do?” she added.

“Some young ladies become defiant of parents and chaperons,” I laughed. “But I would not advise such a course. Will you honor me with a dance, Contessina, and let us forget all our troubles, eh?”

She accepted my invitation, and a few moments later, we were waltzing together, while Lady Kingscliffe, who, I knew, had been watching, turned away with an amused smile.

Angela charlestoned beautifully. As a dancer myself I had been to many balls, and had had some splendid partners. But this brown-eyed girl of mystery eclipsed them all.

The Baron de Carbonnel, Ambassador of France, who was dancing with the young Princess di Forano, daughter of the Duchess di San Donato, passed us, and I noticed that he smiled at my partner in recognition.

Later, after an enjoyable hour, during which I endeavored, by all the means in my power, to discover more concerning the mysterious girl, I took her in to supper, where we sat down to a _tête-à-tête_ repast.

Around us were many people I recognized, for very slowly my memory was returning. Rospigliosi, with his wife, the Minister Sonnino, Caetani and his daughter, the pretty Donna Stella, and the ever-popular Princess Odescalchi with her wonderful emeralds.

From the chatter of the Little Countess it was apparent that she moved in high circles and was acquainted with many officials.

Later, I led her back to the ballroom.

“M’sieur Hipwell,” whispered the Little Countess just as we were about to dance, “I wonder if you--well, if I dare ask you to do a very great favor for me?”

“Most certainly I will,” was my eager reply.

“Well, I cannot tell you here. Could you meet me--to-morrow? I will be alone.”

“Where?” I asked.

She reflected a moment.

“In the Church of Sant’ Agnese, in the Piazza Navona,” she replied in a low voice. “Would eleven o’clock suit you?”

“Certainly. I will be there.”

And thus it was arranged.

Punctually at the hour she had named I entered the great, domed church, with its huge columns of Cottanello, built upon the spot where Saint Agnes suffered martyrdom. The silent interior was quite dark after the glare of the sun in the piazza outside; but in a few moments I saw a slim figure in a neat navy-blue street-suit, which I instantly recognized as the Contessina’s, standing before the antique statue of San Sebastian. A whispered, timorous greeting and a warm handshake, whereupon she suggested in a low voice:

“Let us talk here. If we go outside somebody who knows you may see us.”

“_Bien!_” I replied. “There are chairs yonder.” And we crossed to several rush-bottomed chairs near one of the side-altars, before which the light was burning in its red-glass shade. It was evident that she meant to preserve the strictest secrecy, and this very fact increased my interest in her.

“Last night you told me that I could trust you, M’sieur Hipwell,” she said in a low voice, though we were alone in the great church. “I am a mystery to you, I know that.”

“But we have met before. Have we not?” I asked, fixing my eyes on her. She gave vent to a little hysterical laugh.

“You know. But perhaps you have forgotten. You forget many things.”

“But I could never forget you, Contessina!” I declared. “Will you not enlighten my darkness of mind? You tell me that I forget many things.”

“In life there are many things that are surely best forgotten,” she remarked, with a slight sigh.

I paused, not being able to follow her meaning.

She was aware that she puzzled me, and, next instant, with a sweet smile, she went on: “I told you, M’sieur Hipwell, that I trust you. Will you not also take me on trust and do me a little favor which--which will be of the greatest assistance to me--relieve me perhaps of a great peril which threatens to overwhelm me?”

“Peril!” I echoed, staring at her. “In what peril are you? Please be more explicit. I know that we were friends in the past, just as we are friends now. Cannot you give me a single hint which may form a connecting link in my mind between the past and the present?”

“The past is of the past, and matters not,” replied the girl in a serious, philosophic mood. “It is the present and the future which concern both of us--yourself more perhaps than you ever dream.”

She saw perplexity on my face.

“I know that in your present half-consciousness of the past I must be a complete enigma to-day,” she added. “For the present it must be so.” Then her hand slowly stole into mine, and she asked: “Are you willing to do me this one little favor?”

“I will, Contessina, most certainly,” I said at once. “What is it?”

“Not a very difficult mission,” she replied in French, her manner instantly changing. “Now we thoroughly understand each other, eh? You are going to London. Would you take a verbal message for me--to someone----” And she paused. “Ah!” she went on, “I see you wonder why I do not write. But there are times when writing is an indiscretion. Well, this is an instance. True, I could write, but I should most probably seriously jeopardize myself if I did so. I am in a great difficulty--and that is why I venture to ask you to help me.”

“I will assist you willingly,” I repeated.

“Very well, then. When you get to London will you write and make an appointment to meet Mr. Roddy Owen, who lives at Harrington Court, Park Lane?”

“Just a moment,” I interrupted. “I’ll write down the address.” And in the dim light I scribbled it upon my shirt-cuff. I knew Harrington Court as a great block of new and expensive bachelor chambers. “Yes; and when I see him what shall I say?”

“Give him this. It will be your credential, and by it he will know you come from me.” And she pressed something hard and flat into my hand.

I looked at it, and saw that it was a piece of exquisitely carved stone, about two inches long, and with a gold ring in it--a pendant of clear blue aquamarine. It was square, perforated, and carved in antique design, with two circles, the figures double nought--an unique ornament of crystalline beauty.

“Give it to him,” she whispered to me in a strange, hard voice, “and tell him--tell him that--that it is all impossible, and that he must forget. That----”

And she hesitated, trembling, drawing a long breath.

“That it is all impossible--and that he must forget,” I repeated slowly.

“Yes. Impress upon him that he must not write again to me, because it would place me in very grave danger.”

I looked into her beautiful face, much puzzled. In the faint light I saw that my companion’s countenance was now pale and hard, as though what she had said was against her will, and that she was much perturbed.

“That he must not write again,” I repeated. “Yes, I understand. You wish him to break off all communication with you--I take it?”

Again she drew a long breath.

“Yes. Alas! It must be so,” she answered hoarsely. “But tell him that it is not my fault--not my fault. I am acting under compulsion. He--he will understand.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing,” she answered in a low, despondent whisper.

Then, after a pause, she added:

“I know, M’sieur Hipwell, that all this must seem very mysterious to you. But when one day you know the truth, you will also know what a great and invaluable service you have rendered one who--well, one who is very, very unhappy!”

“I can see that, Contessina,” was my reply. “Can I do nothing further to assist you? Of course, I do not desire to pry into your private affairs,” I added.

She shook her head sorrowfully, saying:

“No. It is really extremely kind of you to do me this service--one which I value very highly. And after all the--the unpleasantness that has passed. If we ever meet again, which I doubt----”

“But we shall!” I interrupted. “I shall see you and report the result of my interview with Mr. Owen.”

“I don’t know,” was her dubious reply. “I am not staying much longer in Rome.”

“Where will you go?”

“Just where my fancy leads me. Probably to the Italian lakes--possibly to Garda--I love it.”

“And where may I write to you?” I asked eagerly.

For some time she reflected. At last she said:

“Address me: ‘Ferma in Posta, Gardone--Lake of Garda.’”

“Gardone!” I exclaimed. “I was once there! How beautiful it is! The big white hotel, the palms and the flowers, the tiny village, and the blue lake stretching away to the mountains.”

“Yes. It is very charming. I shall probably go there.”

“And your home?” I ventured to ask.

“No, M’sieur Hipwell. You said you did not desire to inquire into my private affairs, so the whereabouts of my home is a secret. Treat me still as a mystery--just a mystery, that is all!”

I was sorely disappointed. It had been within my experience that certain girls loved to assume an air of mystery in order to further interest men; but in Angela’s case it was different. There was some deep, underlying motive for it all. Her intense seriousness impressed me with an air of romantic tragedy, while her admission of unpleasantness between us in the past drove me to desperation.

I tried again to learn her true nationality and where she lived. I felt certain that Lady Kingscliffe knew, but that for some reason she was preserving the secret. Adventuresses are not received at table in any British Embassy abroad, though some, who could be named, have dined with Cabinet Ministers at home.

My suggestion that we should take a taxi and go for a run in the sunshine out to Tivoli she would not accept.

“I am very sorry. But for certain reasons I am compelled to be discreet. I have an appointment for luncheon at twelve,” she said. “No. We must say adieu here. It is really most generous of you to convey my message.”

“I will write to you, Contessina,” I promised, “and when I am next in Italy--perhaps in a month’s time--I will make a point of seeing you, and telling you the result of my interview.”

“There can be no result,” she exclaimed blankly. Just then a noisy party of British tourists entered the church with their guide.

“But I shall see you, nevertheless,” I declared. Whereat she smiled.

Then at the door I took her gloved hand, and watched her neatly-dressed figure cross the sun-blanched piazza. Afterwards I sauntered out myself, strolling back to the Excelsior, more puzzled than ever.