Meanwhile Prince Pietro, moved by conflicting sentiments and forebodings which he was unable to explain to himself, and only strongly conscious of the desire to be avenged on his daughter's cowardly a.s.sailant, whoever it might be, m.u.f.fled himself in a well-worn "Almaviva" cloak, his favourite out-door garment, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and so, looking like a fierce old brigand of the mountains, went out, not quite knowing why he went, but partly impelled by a sense of curiosity. He wanted to hear something,--to find something,--and yet he could not agree with himself as to the nature of the circ.u.mstance he sought to discover. There was a lurking suspicion in his mind to which he would not give a name,--a dark thought that made him tremble with mingled rage and horror,--but he put it away from him as a hint offered by the Evil One--an insidious suggestion as hideous as it was unnatural. The afternoon had now closed into night, and many stars were glistening bravely in the purple depths of the clear sky,--the air was mild and balmy,--and as he crossed the road to turn down the little side street leading to the Tiber, where Florian Varillo had stood but a few hours previously, a flower-girl met him with a large basket of white hyacinths and held them up to his eyes.

"Ecco la primavera, Signor!" she said, with a smile.

He shook his head, and turned abruptly away,--as he did so, his foot struck against some slight obstacle. Stooping to examine it, he saw it was the empty leathern sheath of a dagger. He picked it up, and studied it intently. It was elaborately adorned with old rococco work, and was evidently the ornamental covering of one of those small but deadly weapons which Italians, both men and women, so often wear concealed about their persons, for the purpose of taking vengeance, when deemed necessary, on an unsuspecting enemy. Slipping the thing into his pocket, the Prince looked about him, and soon recognised his bearings,--he was standing about six yards away from the private back-entrance to his daughter's studio. He walked up to the door and tried it,--it was fast locked.

"Yes--I remember!--the servants told me--both doors were locked,--and from this they said the key was gone,--" he muttered, then paused.

Presently, actuated by a sudden impulse, he turned and walked swiftly with long impatient strides through the more populated quarters of Rome towards the Corso, and he had not proceeded very far in this direction before he heard a frenzied and discordant shouting which, though he knew it did not yet bear the truth in its harsh refrain, yet staggered him and made his heart almost stand still with an agony of premonitory fear.

"Morte di Angela Sovrani!"

"a.s.sa.s.sinamento di Angela Sovrani!"

"Morte subito di Angela Sovrani!"

"a.s.sa.s.sinamento crudele della bella Sovrani!"

Prince Pietro held his breath in sharp pain, listening. How horrible was the persistent cry of the newsvendors!--hoa.r.s.e and shrill--now near--now far!--

"Morte di Angela Sovrani!"

How horrible!--how horrible! He put his hands to his ears to try and shut out the din. He had not expected any public outcry--not so soon--but ill news travels fast, and no doubt the very servants of his own household were responsible for having, in the extremity of their terror, given away the report of Angela's death. The terrible shouts were like so many cruel blows on his brain,--yet--half-reeling with the shock of them, he still went on his way,--straight on to the house and studio of Florian Varillo. There, he rang the bell loudly and impatiently. A servant opened the door in haste, and stared aghast at the tall old man with the white hair and blazing eyes, who was wrapped in a dark cloak, the very folds of which seemed to tremble with the suppressed rage of the form it enveloped.

"Il Principe Souvrani!" he stammered feebly, falling back a little from the threshold.

"Where is your master?" demanded Sovrani.

"Eccellenza, he has gone to Naples!"

"When did he leave?"

"But two hours ago, Eccellenza!"

Prince Pietro held up the dagger-sheath he had just found.

"This--belongs--to--him--does it not?" he asked slowly, detaching his words with careful directness.

The man answered readily and at once.

"Yes, Eccellenza!"

Sovrani uttered a terrible oath.

"Let me pa.s.s!"

The servant made a gesture of protest.

"But--Eccellenza--my master is not here! . . ."

Prince Pietro paying no heed to him, strode into the house, and brusquely threw open the door of a room which he knew to be Varillo's own specially private retreat. A woman with a ma.s.s of bright orange-gold hair, half-dressed in a tawdry blue peignoir trimmed with cheap lace, was sprawling lazily on a sofa smoking a cigarette. She sprang up surprised and indignant,--but shrank back visibly as she recognised the intruder, and met the steady tigerish glare of the old man's eyes.

"Where is your lover?" he asked.

"Eccellensa! You amaze--you insult me--!"

"Basta!" and Sovrani came a step nearer to her, his wrath seeming to literally encompa.s.s him like a thunder-cloud--"Play me no tricks! This is not the time for lying! I repeat my question--where is he? You, the companion of his closest thoughts,--you, his 'model'--you, Mademoiselle Pon-Pon, his mistress--you must know all his movements. Tell me then, where he is--or by heaven, if you do not, I will have you arrested for complicity in murder!"

She fell back from him trembling, her full red mouth half open,--and her face paling with terror.

"Murder!" she whispered--"Dio mio! Dio mio!"

"Yes--murder!" and the Prince thrust before her wide-opened eyes the dagger-sheath he held--"What! Have you not heard? Not yet? Not though the whole city rings with the news? What news? That Angela Sovrani is dead! That she--my daughter--the sweetest, purest, most innocent and loving of women as well as the greatest and most gifted--has been mortally stabbed in her own studio this very day by some cowardly fiend unknown! Unknown did I say? Not so--known! This sheath belongs to Florian Varillo. Where is he? Tell me at once--if only to save YOURSELF trouble!"

Overcome by fear, and to do her justice, horror as well, the miserable Pon-Pon threw herself on her knees.

"I swear he has gone to Naples!" she cried--"On my word!--as I live!--I swear it!--he has gone! He seemed as usual,--he was not in any haste--he left no message--he said he would be back in two or three days--he sent flowers to la Donna Sovrani--he wrote to her . . . O Santissima Virgine! . . . I swear to you I know nothing!"

The Prince eyed her with grim attention.

"They are shouting it in the streets--" he said--"Listen!" He held up one hand,--she cowered on the floor--she could hear nothing, and she stared at him in fascinated terror--"They are telling all Rome of the death of my child! First Rome--and then--the world! The world shall hear of it! For there is only one Angela Sovrani,--and earth and heaven cry out for justice in her name! Tell this to the devil who has bought you for his pleasure! I leave the message with you,--tell him that when the world clamours for vengeance upon her murderer, I KNOW WHERE TO FIND HIM!"

With that, he put the dagger-sheath back in his breastpocket with jealous care, and left her where she crouched, shivering and moaning.

Walking as in a dream he brushed past the astonished and frightened servant unseeingly, and went out of the house into the street once more. There he paused dizzily,--the stars appeared to rock in the sky, and the houses seemed moving slowly round him in a sort of circular procession. The shouting of the newsvendors which had ceased for a while, began again with even louder persistency.

"Morte di Angela Sovrani!"

"La bella Sovrani!--a.s.sa.s.sinamento crudele!"

The old man's heart beat in strong hammer-strokes,--he listened vaguely,--his tall figure shaking a little with the storm pent-up within him, till all at once as if the full realization of the position had only just burst upon him, he uttered a sharp cry--

"Her lover! Her promised husband! One whom she trusted and loved more than her own father! The hope of her life!--the man whose praise was sweeter to her than the plaudits of the whole world!--he--even he--her MURDERER! For even if she lives in body, he has murdered her soul!"

He looked up at the deep starlit heavens, his dark face growing livid in the intensity of his wrath and pain.

"May G.o.d curse him!" he whispered thickly--"May all evil track his footsteps, and the terrors of a cursed conscience hound him to his death! May he never know peace by day or night!--may the devils in his own soul destroy him! G.o.d curse him!"

He clenched his fist and raised it threateningly,--and gathering his cloak about him tried to walk on,--but there was a black mist before his eyes . . . he could not see--he stumbled forward blindly, and would have fallen, had not a strong arm caught him and held him upright. He turned a dazed and wondering look on the man whose friendly grasp supported him,--then, with an exclamation, made a trembling attempt to raise his hat.

"Il Re!" he murmured feebly--"Il Re!"

King Humbert--for it was he--held him still more closely.

"Courage, amico!" he said kindly--"Courage!--yes--yes!--I know--I have heard the news! All Italy will give you vengeance for your child! We will spare no pains to discover her murderer. But now--you are ill--you are weary--do not try to speak--come with me! Let me take you home--come!"

A great sob broke from the old man's breast as he yielded to his Sovereign's imperative yet gentle guidance, and before he could realize the situation, he was in the King's own carriage, with the King beside him, being rapidly driven back to his own house. Arrived at the Palazzo Sovrani, a strange sight greeted them. The great porte-cochere was wide open, and, pressing through it, and surrounding the stately building at every point was a vast crowd,--densely packed and almost absolutely silent. Quite up to the inner portico these waiting thousands pressed,--though, as they recognised the Royal liveries, they did their best to make immediate way, and a low murmur arose "Evviva il Re!" But there was no loud shouting, and the continued hush was more distinctly recognisable than the murmur. Prince Sovrani gazed bewilderedly at the great throng as the carriage moved slowly through, and putting his hand to his head murmured--

"What--what is this! I do not understand--why are these people here?"

The King pressed his hand.

"All the world honours and loves your daughter, my friend!" he said, "And Rome, the Mother of Nations, mourns the loss of her youngest child of genius."