The day after she went to walk on the Pincian Hill— the Hyde Park of the Roman idlers—possibly in hopes to have another sight of Lord Steyne. But she met another acquaintance there: it was Mr. Fiche, his lordship’s confidential man, who came up nodding to her rather familiarly and putting a finger to his hat. “I knew that Madame was here,” he said; “I followed her from her hotel. I have some advice to give Madame.”

“From the Marquis of Steyne?” Becky asked, resuming as much of her dignity as she could muster, and not a little agitated by hope and expectation.

“No,” said the valet; “it is from me. Rome is very unwholesome.”

“Not at this season, Monsieur Fiche—not till after Easter.”

“I tell Madame it is unwholesome now. There is always malaria for some people. That cursed marsh wind kills many at all seasons. Look, Madame Crawley, you were always bon enfant, and I have an interest in you, parole d’honneur. Be warned. Go away from Rome, I tell you— or you will be ill and die.”

Becky laughed, though in rage and fury. “What! assassinate poor little me?” she said. “How romantic! Does my lord carry bravos for couriers, and stilettos in the fourgons? Bah! I will stay, if but to plague him. I have those who will defend me whilst I am here.”

It was Monsieur Fiche’s turn to laugh now. “Defend you,” he said, “and who? The Major, the Captain, any one of those gambling men whom Madame sees would take her life for a hundred louis. We know things about Major Loder (he is no more a Major than I am my Lord the Marquis) which would send him to the galleys or worse. We know everything and have friends everywhere. We know whom you saw at Paris, and what relations you found there. Yes, Madame may stare, but we do. How was it that no minister on the Continent would receive Madame? She has offended somebody: who never forgives—whose rage redoubled when he saw you. He was like a madman last night when he came home. Madame de Belladonna made him a scene about you and fired off in one of her furies.”

“Oh, it was Madame de Belladonna, was it?” Becky said, relieved a little, for the information she had just got had scared her.

“No—she does not matter—she is always jealous. I tell you it was Monseigneur. You did wrong to show yourself to him. And if you stay here you will repent it. Mark my words. Go. Here is my lord’s carriage”—and seizing Becky’s arm, he rushed down an alley of the garden as Lord Steyne’s barouche, blazing with heraldic devices, came whirling along the avenue, borne by the almost priceless horses, and bearing Madame de Belladonna lolling on the cushions, dark, sulky, and blooming, a King Charles in her lap, a white parasol swaying over her head, and old Steyne stretched at her side with a livid face and ghastly eyes. Hate, or anger, or desire caused them to brighten now and then still, but ordinarily, they gave no light, and seemed tired of looking out on a world of which almost all the pleasure and all the best beauty had palled upon the worn-out wicked old man.

“Monseigneur has never recovered the shock of that night, never,” Monsieur Fiche whispered to Mrs. Crawley as the carriage flashed by, and she peeped out at it from behind the shrubs that hid her. “That was a consolation at any rate,” Becky thought.

Whether my lord really had murderous intentions towards Mrs. Becky as Monsieur Fiche said (since Monseigneur’s death he has returned to his native country, where he lives much respected, and has purchased from his Prince the title of Baron Ficci), and the factotum objected to have to do with assassination; or whether he simply had a commission to frighten Mrs. Crawley out of a city where his Lordship proposed to pass the winter, and the sight of her would be eminently disagreeable to the great nobleman, is a point which has never been ascertained: but the threat had its effect upon the little woman, and she sought no more to intrude herself upon the presence of her old patron.