The doctor asked two or three questions while he examined him, and then stood quite still for a few seconds, watching him intently. The two young house surgeons who accompanied the great man kept a respectful silence, waiting for his opinion. When he found an interesting case he sometimes delivered a little lecture on it, in a quiet monotonous tone that did not disturb the other patients. But to-day he did not seem inclined to talk.
“Convalescent,” he said, “at least of the fever. He needs good food more than anything else. In two days he will be walking about.”
He passed on, but in his own mind he was wondering what was the matter with the young man, why he had lost his memory, and what accident had brought him alone and friendless to one of the city hospitals. For the present it would be better to let him alone rather than tire him by a thorough examination of his head. There was probably a small fracture somewhere at the back of the skull, the doctor thought, and it would be easy enough to find it when the patient was strong enough to sit up.
The doctor had not been long gone when an elderly man with a grizzled moustache and thoughtful eyes was led to Marcello’s bedside by the Superintendent himself. The appearance of the latter at an unusual hour was always an event in the ward, and the nurses watched him with curiosity. They would have been still more curious had they known that the elderly gentleman was the Chief of the Police himself. The Superintendent raised his hand to motion them away.
“What is your name, sir?” asked the Chief, bending down and speaking in a low voice.
“Marcello.”
“Yes,” replied the other, almost in a whisper, “you are Marcello. But what else? What is your family name? It is very important. Will you tell me?”
The vague look came into Marcello’s eyes, and then the look of pain, and he shook his head rather feebly.
“I cannot remember,” he answered at last. “It hurts me to remember.”
“Is it Consalvi?” asked the officer, smiling encouragement.
“Consalvi?” Marcello’s eyes wandered, as he tried to think. “I cannot remember,” he said again after an interval.
The Chief of Police was not discouraged yet.
“You were knocked down and robbed by thieves, just after you had been talking with Aurora,” he said, inventing what he believed to have happened.
A faint light came into Marcello’s eyes.
“Aurora?” He repeated the name almost eagerly.
“Yes. You had been talking to Signorina Aurora dell’ Armi. You remember that?”
The light faded suddenly.
“I thought I remembered something,” answered Marcello. “Aurora? Aurora? No, it is gone. I was dreaming again. I want to sleep now.”
The Chief stood upright and looked at the Superintendent, who looked at him, and both shook their heads. Then they asked what the visiting doctor had said, and what directions he had given about Marcello’s treatment.
“I am sure it is he,” said the Chief of Police when they were closeted in the Superintendent’s office, five minutes later. “I have studied his photograph every day for nearly three months. Look at it.”
He produced a good-sized photograph of Marcello which had been taken about a year earlier, but was the most recent. The Superintendent looked at it critically, and said it was not much like the patient. The official objected that a man who was half dead of fever and had lain starving for weeks, heaven only knew where, could hardly be quite himself in appearance. The Superintendent pointed out that this was precisely the difficulty; the photograph was not like the sick man. But the Chief politely insisted that it was. They differed altogether on this point, but quarrelled over it in the most urbane manner possible.
The Superintendent suggested that it would be easy to identify Marcello Consalvi, by bringing people who knew him to his bedside, servants and others. The official answered that he should prefer to be sure of everything before calling in any one else. The patient had evidently lost his memory by some accident, and if he could not recall his own name it was not likely that he could recognise a face. Servants would swear that it was he, or not he, just as their interest suggested. Most of the people of his own class who knew him were out of town at the present season; and besides, the upper classes were not, in the Chief’s opinion, a whit more intelligent or trustworthy than those that served them. The world, said the Chief, was an exceedingly bad place. That this was true, the Superintendent could not doubt, and he admitted the fact; but he was not sure how the Chief was applying the statement of it in his own reasoning. Perhaps he thought that some persons might have an interest in recognising Marcello.
“In the meantime,” said the Chief, rising to go away, “we will put him in a private room, where we shall not be watched by everybody when we come to see him. I have funds from Corbario to pay any possible expenses in the case.”
“Who is that man?” asked the Superintendent. “There has been a great deal of talk about him in the papers since his stepson was lost. What was he before he married the rich widow?”
The Chief of Police did not reply at once, but lit a cigarette preparatory to going away, smoothed his hat on his arm, and flicked a tiny speck of dust from the lapel of his well-made coat. Then he smiled pleasantly and gave his answer.
“I suppose that before he married Consalvi’s widow he was a gentleman of small means, like many others. Why should you think that he was ever anything else?”
To this direct question the Superintendent had no answer ready, nor, in fact, had the man who asked it, though he had looked so very wise. Then they glanced at each other and both laughed a little, and they parted.
Half an hour later, Marcello was carried to an airy room with green blinds, and was made even more comfortable than he had been before. He slept, and awoke, and ate and slept again. Twice during the afternoon people were brought to see him. They were servants from the villa on the Janiculum, but he looked at them dully and said that he could not remember them.
“We do not think it is he,” they said, when questioned. “Why does he not know us, if it is he? We are old servants in the house. We carried the young gentleman in our arms when he was small. But this youth does not know us, nor our names. It is not he.”
They were dismissed, and afterwards they met and talked up at the villa.
“The master has been sent for by telegraph,” they said one to another. “We shall do what he says. If he tells us that it is the young gentleman we will also say that it is; but if he says it is not he, we will also deny it. This is the only way.”
Having decided upon this diplomatic course as the one most likely to prove advantageous to them, they went back to their several occupations and amusements. But at the very first they said what they really thought; none of them really believed the sick youth at the hospital to be Marcello. An illness of nearly seven weeks and a long course of privation can make a terrible difference in the looks of a very young person, and when the memory is gone, too, the chances of his being recognised are slight.
But the Chief of Police was not disturbed in his belief, and after he had smoked several cigarettes very thoughtfully in his private office, he wrote a telegram to Corbario, advising him to come back to Rome at once. He was surprised to receive an answer from Folco late that night, inquiring why he was wanted. To this he replied in a second telegram of more length, which explained matters clearly. The next morning Corbario telegraphed that he was starting.
The visiting physician came early and examined Marcello’s head with the greatest minuteness. After much trouble he found what he was looking for — a very slight depression in the skull. There was no sign of a wound that had healed, and it was clear that the injury must have been either the result of a fall, in which case the scalp had been protected by a stiff hat, or else of a blow dealt with something like a sandbag, which had fractured the bone without leaving any mark beyond a bruise, now no longer visible.
“It is my opinion,” said the doctor, “that as soon as the pressure
is removed the man’s memory will come back exactly as it was before. We will operate next week, when he has gained a little more strength. Feed him and give him plenty of air, for he is very weak.”
So he went away for the day. But presently Regina came and demanded admittance according to the promise she had received, and she was immediately brought to the Superintendent’s office, for he had given very clear instructions to this effect in case the girl came again. He had not told the Chief of Police about her, for he thought it would be amusing to do a little detective work on his own account, and he anticipated the triumph of finding out Marcello’s story alone, and of then laying the facts before the authorities, just to show what ordinary common sense could do without the intervention of the law.
Regina was ushered into the high cool room where the Superintendent sat alone, and the heavy door closed behind her. He was a large man with close-cropped hair and a short brown beard, and he had kind brown eyes. Regina came forward a few steps and then stood still, looking at him, and waiting for him to speak. He was astonished at her beauty, and at once decided that she had a romantic attachment for Marcello, and probably knew all about him. He leaned back in his chair, and pointed to a seat near him.
“Pray sit down,” he said. “I wish to have a little talk with you before you go upstairs to see Marcello.”
“How is he?” asked Regina, eagerly. “Is he worse?”
“He is much better. But sit down, if you please. You shall stay with him as long as you like, or as long as it is good for him. You may come every day if you wish it.”
“Every day?” cried Regina in delight. “They told me that I could only come on Sunday.”
“Yes. That is the rule, my dear child. But I can give you permission to come every day, and as the poor young man seems to have no friends, it is very fortunate for him that you can be with him. You will cheer him and help him to get well.”
“Thank you, thank you!” answered the girl fervently, as she sat down.
A great lady of Rome had been to see the Superintendent about a patient on the previous afternoon; he did not remember that she moved with more dignity than this peasant girl, or with nearly as much grace. Regina swept the folds of her short coarse skirt forward and sideways a little, so that they hid her brown woollen ankles as she took her seat, and with the other hand she threw back the end of the kerchief from her face.
“You do not mind telling me your name?” said the Superintendent in a questioning tone.
“Spalletta Regina,” answered the girl promptly, putting her family name first, according to Italian custom. “I am of Rocca di Papa.”
“Thank you. I shall remember that. And you say that you know this poor young man. Now, what is his name, if you please? He does not seem able to remember anything about himself.”
“I have always called him Marcello,” answered Regina.
“Indeed? You call him Marcello? Yes, yes. Thank you. But, you know, we like to write down the full name of each patient in our books. Marcello, and then? What else?”
By this time Regina felt quite at her ease with the pleasant-spoken gentleman, but in a flash it occurred to her that he would think it very strange if she could not answer such a simple question about a young man she professed to know very well.
“His name is Botti,” she said, with no apparent hesitation, and giving the first name that occurred to her.
“Thank you. I shall enter him in the books as ‘Botti Marcello.’”
“Yes. That is the name.” She watched the Superintendent’s pen, though she could not read writing very well.
“Thank you,” he said, as he stuck the pen into a little pot of small-shot before him, and then looked at his watch. “The nurse is probably just making him comfortable after the doctor’s morning visit, so you had better wait five minutes, if you do not mind. Besides, it will help us a good deal if you will tell me something about his illness. I suppose you have taken care of him.”
“As well as I could,” Regina answered.
“Where? At Rocca di Papa? The air is good there.”
“No, it was not in the village.” The girl hesitated a moment, quickly making up her mind how much of the truth to tell. “You see,” she continued presently, “I was only the servant girl there, and I saw that the people meant to let him die, because he was a burden on them. So I wrapped him in a blanket and carried him downstairs in the night.”
“You carried him down?” The Superintendent look at her in admiration.
“Oh, yes,” answered Regina quietly. “I could carry you up and down stairs easily. Do you wish to see?”
The Superintendent laughed, for she actually made a movement as if she were going to leave her seat and pick him up.
“Thank you,” he said. “I quite believe you. What a nurse you would make! You say that you carried him down in the night — and then? What did you do?”
“I laid him on the tail of a cart. The carter was asleep. I walked behind to the gate, for I was sure that when he was found he would be brought here, and that he would have care, and would get well.”
“Was it far to walk?” inquired the Superintendent, delighted with the result of his efforts as a detective. “You must have been very tired!”
“What is it to walk all night, if one carries no load on one’s head?” asked Regina with some scorn. “I walk as I breathe.”
“You walked all night, then? That was Friday night. I do not wish to keep you, my dear child, but if you would tell me how long Botti has been ill—” he waited.
“This is the forty-ninth day,” Regina answered at once.
“Dear me! Poor boy! That is a long time!”
“I stole eggs and wine to keep him alive,” the girl explained. “They tried to make me give him white beans and oil. They wanted him to die, because he was an expense to them.”
“Who were those people?” asked the Superintendent, putting the question suddenly.
But Regina had gained time to prepare her story.
“Why should I tell you who they are?” she asked. “They did no harm, after all, and they let him lie in their house. At first they hoped he would get well, but you know how it is in the country. When sick people linger on, every one wishes them to die, because they are in the way, and cost money. That is how it is.”
“But you wished him to live,” said the Superintendent in an encouraging tone.
Regina shrugged her shoulders and smiled, without the slightest affectation or shyness.
“What could I do?” she asked. “A passion for him had taken me, the first time that I saw him. So I stole for him, and sat up with him, and did what was possible. He lay in an attic with only one blanket, and my heart spoke. What could I do? If he had died I should have thrown myself into the water below the mill.”
Now there had been no mill within many miles of the inn on the Frascati road, in which there could be water in summer. Regina was perfectly sincere in describing her love for Marcello, but as she was a clever woman she knew that it was precisely when she was speaking with the greatest sincerity about one thing, that she could most easily throw a man off the scent with regard to another. The Superintendent mentally noted the allusion to the mill for future use; it had created an image in his mind; it meant that the place where Marcello had lain ill had been in the hills and probably near Tivoli, where there is much water and mills are plentiful.
“I suppose he was a poor relation of the people,” said the Superintendent thoughtfully, after a little pause. “That is why they wished to get rid of him.”
Regina made a gesture of indifferent assent, and told something like the truth.
“He had not been there since I had been servant to them,” she answered. “It must have been a long time since they had seen him. We found him early in the morning, lying unconscious against the door of the house, and we took him in. That is the whole story. Why should I tell you who the people are? I have eaten their bread, I have left them, I wish them no harm. They kne
w their business.”
“Certainly, my dear, certainly. I suppose I may say that Marcello Botti comes from Rocca di Papa?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Regina readily. “You may say that, if you like.”
As a matter of fact she did not care what he wrote in his big book, and he might as well write one name as another, so far as she was concerned.
“But I never saw him there,” she added by an afterthought. “There are many people of that name in our village, but I never saw him. Perhaps you had better say that he came from Albano.”
“Why from Albano?” asked the Superintendent, surprised.
“It is a bigger place,” explained Regina quite naturally.
“Then I might as well write ‘Rome’ at once?”
“Yes. Why not? If you must put down the name of a town in the book, you had better write a big one. You will be less likely to be found out if you have made a mistake.”
“I see,” said the Superintendent, smiling. “I am much obliged for your advice. And now, if you will come with me, you shall see Botti. He has a room by himself and is very well cared for.”
The orderlies and nurses who came and went about the hospital glanced with a little discreet surprise at the handsome peasant girl who followed the Superintendent, but she paid no attention to them and looked straight before her, at the back of his head; for her heart was beating faster than if she had run a mile uphill.
Marcello put out his arms when he saw her enter, and returning life sent a faint colour to his emaciated cheeks.
“Regina — at last!” he cried in a stronger and clearer tone than she had ever heard him use.
A splendid blush of pleasure glowed in her own face as she ran forward and leaned over him, smoothing the smooth pillow unconsciously, and looking down into his eyes.
The Superintendent observed that Marcello certainly had no difficulty in recalling the girl’s name, whatever might have become of his own during his illness. What Regina answered was not audible, but she kissed Marcello’s eyes, and then stood upright beside the bed, and laughed a little.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1083
