"My last point, dearest...."
Her pen stopped. How was she to put what she wished to say next? David
Rossi was in danger--a double danger--danger from within as well as
danger from without. His last letter showed plainly that he was engaged
in an enterprise which his adversaries would call a plot. Roma
remembered her father, doomed to a life-long exile and a lonely death,
and asked herself if it was not always the case that the reformer partly
reformed his age, and was partly corrupted by it.
If she could only draw David Rossi away from associations that were
always reeking of revolution, if she could bring him back to Rome before
he was too far involved in plots and with plotters! But how could she do
it? To tell him the plain truth that he was going headlong to domicilio
coatto was useless. She must resort to artifice. A light shot through
her brain, her eyes gleamed, and she began again:
"My last point, dearest, is that I am growing jealous. Yes, indeed,
jealous! I know you love me, but knowing it doesn't help me to forget
that you are always meeting women who must admire and love you. I
tremble to think you may be happy with them. I want you to be happy, yet
I feel as if it would be treason for you to be happy without me. What an
illogical thing love is! But where Love reigns jealousy is always the
Prime Minister, and in order to banish my jealousy you must come back
immediately...."
Her pen stopped again. The artifice was too trivial, too palpable, and
he would certainly see through it. She tore up the sheet and began
afresh.
"My last point, dearest, is that I fear you are forgetting me in your
work. While thinking of the revolution you are making in Europe, you
forget the revolution you have already made in this poor little heart.
Of course I love your glory more than I love myself, yet I am afraid it
is taking you away from me, and will end by leading you up, up, up, out
of a woman's reach. Why didn't I give you my portrait to put in your
watch-case when you went away? Don't let this folly disgust you,
dearest. A woman is a foolish thing, isn't she? But if you don't want me
to make a torment of everything you will hasten back in time to...."
She threw down the pen and began to cry. Hadn't she promised him that,
come what would, her love for him should never stand in his way? In the
midst of her tears a little stab at her heart made her think of
something else, and she took up the pen again.