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Title: The Passport

Author: Richard Bagot

Release date: August 27, 2014 [eBook #46693]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PASSPORT ***




Produced by Al Haines.




                              THE PASSPORT


                                   BY

                             RICHARD BAGOT



                          NEW YORK AND LONDON
                      HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
                                  MCMV




                 Copyright, 1905, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

                         _All rights Reserved._

                       Published September, 1905.




                             *THE PASSPORT*



                                  *I*


The fierce heat of the mid-day hours was waning, and the leaves stirred
in the first faint breath of the evening breeze stealing over the Roman
Campagna from the sea that lay like a golden streak along the western
horizon.  It was the month of the _sollione_--of the midsummer sun
"rejoicing as a giant to run his course."  From twelve o’clock till four
the little town of Montefiano, nestling among the lower spurs of the
Sabine Hills, had been as a place from which all life had fled.  Not a
human creature had been visible in the steep, tufa-paved street leading
up to the square palace that looked grimly down on the little township
clustering beneath it--not even a dog; only some chickens dusting
themselves, and a strayed pig.

The _cicale_, hidden among the branches of a group of venerable Spanish
chestnuts on the piazza in front of the church, had never ceased their
monotonous rattle; otherwise silence had reigned at Montefiano since the
church bells had rung out _mezzogiorno_—that silence which falls on all
nature in Italy during the hours when the _sollione_ blazes in the
heavens and breeds life on the earth.

But now, with the first coming of the evening breeze, casements were
thrown open, green shutters which had been hermetically closed since
morning were flung back and Montefiano awoke for the second time in the
twenty-four hours.

A side door of the church opened, and Don Agostino, the parish priest,
emerged from it, carrying his breviary in one hand and an umbrella
tucked under the other arm.  Crossing the little square hurriedly, for
the western sun still beat fiercely upon the flag-stones, he sought the
shade of the chestnut-trees, under which he began pacing slowly
backwards and forwards, saying his office the while.

A tall, handsome man, Don Agostino was scarcely the type of priest
usually to be met with in hill villages such as Montefiano.  His black
silk _soutane_ was scrupulously clean and tidy; and its button-holes
stitched with red, as well as the little patch of violet silk at his
throat, proclaimed him to be a _monsignore_.  Nobody at Montefiano
called him so, however.  To his parishioners he was simply Don Agostino;
and, in a district in which priests were none too well looked upon,
there was not a man, woman, or child who had not a good word to say for
him.

This was the more remarkable inasmuch as Don Agostino was evidently of a
very different social grade from even the most well-to-do among his
flock.  At first sight, a stranger would have thought that there could
not be much in common between him and the peasants and farmers who stood
in a little crowd at the doors of his church on a _festa_ while he said
mass, and still less with the women and children who knelt within the
building.  There was, however, the most important thing of all in common
between them, and that was sympathy—human sympathy—so simple a thing,
and yet so rare.

This, again, was remarkable; for no one could glance at Don Agostino’s
countenance without at once realizing that it belonged to a man who was
probably intellectual and certainly refined.  It would not be imagined,
for instance, that there could be any fellow-feeling between him and the
woman a few yards down the street who, indifferent as to the scantiness
of the garments by way of clothing a well-developed bust, was leaning
out of a window screaming objurgations at a small boy for chasing the
strayed pig. Nevertheless, Don Agostino would doubtless have entered
into the feelings of both the woman and the boy—and, probably, also into
those of the pig—had he noticed the uproar, which, his thoughts being
concentrated for the moment on the saying of his office, he did not do.

He had been at Montefiano some years now, and the stories current at the
time of his arrival in the place as to the reason why he had been sent
there from Rome were wellnigh forgotten by his parishioners.  At first
they held aloof from him suspiciously, as from one who was not of their
condition in life, and who had only been sent to Montefiano
because—well, because of some indiscretion committed at Rome.  Some said
it was politics, others that it was women, and others, again, that it
was neither the one nor the other.  All agreed that an _instruito_ like
Don Agostino, with his air of a _gran signore_, and money behind that
air, too, was not sent to a place like Montefiano for nothing.

Don Agostino, however, had not troubled himself as to what was said or
thought, but had taken up his duties with that unquestioning obedience
which spiritual Rome has incorporated with the rest of her heritage from
the Cæsars. He neither offered any explanations nor made any complaints
concerning the surroundings to which he found himself relegated.  For
two or three years after his first coming to Montefiano strangers had
sometimes visited him, and once or twice a cardinal had come from Rome
to see him—but that was ten years ago and more, and now nobody came.
Probably, the Montefianesi said, the Vatican had forgotten him; and they
added, with a shrug of the shoulders, that it was better for a priest to
be forgotten in Montefiano than remembered in a cup of chocolate in
Rome.

As to any little affair of morals—well, it was certain that twenty, nay,
even fifteen, years ago Don Agostino must have been a very good-looking
young man, priest or no priest; and shoulders were shrugged again.

Whatever had been the cause of it, morals or politics, Monsignor
Agostino was _parroco_ of Montefiano, a Sabine village forty miles from
Rome, with a population of some three thousand souls—a gray mass of
houses clustering on a hill-side, crowned by the feudal fortress of its
owners who had not slept a night within its walls since Don Agostino had
taken over the spiritual interests of their people.

To be sure, Montefiano was a commune, and petty officialism was as
rampant within its bounds as in many a more important place.  But the
princes of Montefiano were lords of the soil, and lords also of its
tillers, as they were of other possessions in the Agro Romano.  There
had been a time, not so very many years ago, when a prince of Montefiano
could post from Rome to Naples, passing each night on one of the family
properties; but building-contractors, cards, and cocottes had combined
to reduce the acreage in the late prince’s lifetime, and Montefiano was
now one of the last of the estates left to his only child, a girl of
barely eighteen summers.

The Montefiano family had been singularly unlucky in its last two
generations.  The three younger brothers of the late prince had died—two
of them when mere lads, and the third as a married but childless man.
The prince himself had married early in life the beautiful daughter of a
well-known Venetian house, who had brought a considerable dowry with
her, and whom he had deceived and neglected from the first week of his
marriage with her until her death, which had occurred when the one child
born of the union was but a few months old.

Then, after some years, the prince had married again. He had taken to
religion in later life, when health had suddenly failed him.

His second wife was a Belgian by birth, and had gained a considerable
reputation for holiness in "black" circles in Rome.  Indeed, it was
generally supposed that it was a mere question of time before
Mademoiselle d’Antin should take the veil.  Other questions, however,
apparently presented themselves for her consideration, and she took the
Principe di Montefiano instead.  It appeared that, after all, this, and
not the cloister, was her true vocation; for she piloted the broken-down
_roué_ skilfully, and at the same time rapidly to the entrance, at all
events, to purgatory, where she left the helm in order to enjoy her
widow’s portion, and to undertake the guardianship of her youthful
step-daughter Donna Bianca Acorari, now princess of Montefiano in her
own right.

Some people in Rome said that the deceased Montefiano was bored and
prayed to death by his pious wife and the priests with whom she
surrounded him.  These, however, were chiefly the boon companions of the
prince’s unregenerate days, whose constitutions were presumably stronger
than his had proved itself to be.

Rome—respectable Rome—was edified at the ending that the Prince of
Montefiano had made, at the piety of his widow, and also at the fact
that there was more money in the Montefiano coffers than anybody had
suspected could be the case.

The portion left to the widowed princess was, if not large, at least
considerably larger than had been anticipated even by those who believed
that they knew the state of her husband’s affairs better than their
neighbors; and by the time Donna Bianca should be of an age to marry,
her fortune would, or should, be worth the attention of any husband, let
alone the fiefs and titles she would bring into that husband’s family.

The Princess of Montefiano, since her widowhood, had continued to live
quietly on the first floor of the gloomy old palace behind the Piazza
Campitelli, in Rome, which had belonged to the family from the sixteenth
century.  The months of August, September, and October she and her
step-daughter usually spent at a villa near Velletri, but except for
this brief period Rome was their only habitation. The princess went
little into the world, even into that of the "black" society, and it was
generally understood that she occupied herself with good works.  Indeed,
those who professed to know her intimately declared that had it not been
for the sense of her duty towards her husband’s little girl, she would
have long ago retired into a convent, and would certainly do so when
Donna Bianca married.

In the mean time, the great, square building, with its Renaissance
façade which dominated the little town of Montefiano, remained unvisited
by its possessors, and occupied only by the agent and his family, who
lived in a vast apartment on the ground-floor of the palace.  The agent
collected the rents and forwarded them to the princess’s man of business
in Rome, and to the good people of Montefiano the saints and the angels
were personalities far more realizable than were the owners of the soil
on which they labored.

Not that Don Agostino knew the princess any better than did his
parishioners.  He always insisted that he had never seen her.  His
attitude, indeed, had been a perpetual cause of surprise to the agent,
who, when Don Agostino first came to the place, had not unreasonably
supposed that whenever the priest went to Rome, which he did at long
intervals, becoming ever longer as time went on, one of his first
objects would be to present himself at the Palazzo Acorari.

Apparently, however, Don Agostino did not deem it necessary to know the
princess or Donna Bianca personally. Possibly he considered that so long
as his formal letters to the princess on behalf of his flock in times of
distress or sickness met with a satisfactory response, there was no
reason to obtrude himself individually on their notice.  This, at least,
was the conclusion that the agent and the official classes of Montefiano
arrived at.  As to the humbler members of Don Agostino’s flock, they did
not trouble themselves to draw any conclusions except the most
satisfactory one involved in the knowledge that, as the Madonna and the
saints stood between them and Domeneddio without their being personally
acquainted with him, so Don Agostino stood between them and the
excellencies in Rome, who, of course, could not spare the time to visit
so distant a place as Montefiano.




                                  *II*


Don Agostino, his office completed, closed his breviary and stood gazing
across the plain below to where Rome lay.  On a clear day, and almost
always in the early mornings in summer, the cupola of St. Peter’s could
be seen from Montefiano, hung, as it were, midway between earth and
heaven; but now only a low-lying curtain of haze marked the position of
the city.  Down in the valley, winding between low cliffs clothed with
brushwood and stunted oaks, the waters of the Tiber flashed in the
slanting sun-rays, and the bold outline of Soracte rose in the blue
distance, like an island floating upon a summer sea.

And Don Agostino stood and gazed, and as he did so he thought of the
restless life forever seething in the far-off city he knew so well—the
busy brains that were working, calculating, intriguing in the shadow of
that mighty dome which bore the emblem of self-sacrifice and humility on
its summit, and of all the good and all the evil that was being wrought
beneath that purple patch of mist that hid—Rome.

None knew the good and the evil better than he, and the mysterious way
in which the one sprang from the other in a never-ending circle, as it
had sprung now for wellnigh twenty centuries—ever since the old gods
began to wear halos and to be called saints.

Don Agostino, or, to give him his proper name and ecclesiastical rank,
Monsignor Lelli, had been a canon of the basilica of Santa Maria
Maggiore, in Rome, before he fell into disgrace at the Vatican.

Notwithstanding the gossip which had been rife concerning the reasons
for his exile from Rome to Montefiano, private morals had had nothing to
do with the matter.  For several years he had filled a post of some
confidence at the Vatican—a post, like that held by Judas Iscariot,
involving considerable financial responsibility.

Judas Iscariot, however, had been more fortunate than Monsignor Lelli,
inasmuch as he was attached to the financial service of Christ, and not
to that of Christ’s vicar.

To make a long story short, certain loans, advanced for political
purposes, though private social interests were not extraneous to the
transactions, lightened the money-bags to an unforeseen extent, and the
securities which Monsignor Lelli held in their stead soon proved to be
little better than waste paper.  It was known that Monsignor Lelli had
acted under protest, and, moreover, that he had obeyed instructions
which he had no choice but to obey.

The Vatican, however, differs in no way from any other organization to
carry on which the rules of discipline must be strictly maintained; and
when a superior officer blunders, a subordinate must, if possible, be
found to bear the blame. In this case Monsignor Lelli was manifestly the
fit and proper scape-goat; and here all comparison with Judas Iscariot
ended, for he had walked off with his burden to Montefiano without
uttering so much as a protesting bleat.

But at Rome the true motives for actions both public and private are
rarely to be discovered on the surface.  Nominally, Monsignor Lelli’s
disgrace was the direct consequence of his negligence in safeguarding
the sums of money for the sound investment of which he was supposed to
be responsible.  Practically, its cause lay elsewhere.  He was known to
be a Liberal in his political views, the friend of a prominent foreign
cardinal resident in Rome, to whose influence, indeed, he owed his
canonry of Santa Maria Maggiore, and whose attitude towards the Italian
government, and also towards various dogmatic questions, had for some
time aroused the ill-will of a pontiff who was even more anti-Italian
than his predecessor.  Unfortunately for himself, Monsignor Lelli had
published his views on the relations between Church and State, and had
drawn down upon his head the wrath of the clerical party in consequence.
His enemies, and they were many, left no means untried to bring about
his disgrace, fully aware that by doing so they would at the same time
be striking a blow at the obnoxious cardinal who supported not only
Monsignor Lelli but also every Liberal ecclesiastic in Rome.  When it
became evident that more than one grave financial blunder had been
committed by others in authority, it was equally obvious that the moment
to strike this blow had arrived, and it was delivered accordingly.

All these things, however, had happened years ago.  The cardinal was
dead—of one of those mysteriously rapid illnesses which he made no
secret to his more intimate friends as being likely some day to overtake
him—and Monsignor Lelli remained at Montefiano, forgotten, as his
parishioners declared, though he himself knew well that at Rome nothing
is forgotten, and that so long as his enemies lived, so long would he,
Monsignor Lelli, be required to devote his learning and his intellect to
the needs of a peasant population.  Afterwards—well, it was of the
afterwards he was thinking, as he gazed dreamily over the great plain
stretching away to Rome, when the sound of horses’ hoofs in the street
below attracted his attention, and, looking round, he saw the agent,
Giuseppe Fontana—Sor Beppe, as he was commonly called in
Montefiano—riding towards him apparently in some haste.

Don Agostino moved out of the shade to meet him.

"Signor Fattore, good-evening!" he said, courteously, knowing that the
man liked to be given his full official title as administrator of the
Montefiano fief.

Sor Beppe rode up alongside of him, raising his felt hat as he returned
the salutation.  He wore his official coat of dark-blue cloth, on the
silver buttons of which were engraved the arms and coronet of the
Montefiano.  He was a powerfully made man with a dark, grizzled beard,
inclining to gray, and he sat his horse—a well-built black stallion—as
one who was more often in the saddle than out of it.  On ordinary days
he would carry a double-barrelled gun slung across his shoulders, but
to-day the weapon was absent.

Don Agostino noted the fact, and also that the agent’s face was lighted
up with unusual excitement.

"And what is there new, Signor Fontana?" he asked, briefly.

"_Perbacco_!  What is there new?" repeated Fontana. "There is a whole
world of new—but your reverence will never guess what it is!  Such a
thing has not happened for fifteen years—"

"But what is it?" insisted Don Agostino, tranquilly. "I quite believe
that nothing new has happened in Montefiano for fifteen years.  I have
been here nearly ten, and—"

"I have ridden down to tell you.  The letter came only an hour ago.  Her
excellency the princess—their excellencies the princesses, I should
say—"

"Well," interrupted Don Agostino, "what about them?"

The agent took a letter from his pocket and spread it out on the pommel
of his saddle.  Then he handed it to Don Agostino.

"There!" he exclaimed.  "It is her excellency herself who writes.  They
are coming here—to the palace—to stay for weeks—months, perhaps."

Don Agostino uttered a sudden ejaculation.  It was difficult to say
whether it was of surprise or dismay.

"Here!" he said—"to Montefiano?  But the place is dismantled—a barrack!"

"And do I not know it—I?" returned Sor Beppe.  "There are some tables
and some chairs—and there are things that once were beds; but there is
nothing else, unless it is some pictures on the walls—and the
prince—blessed soul—took the best of those to Rome years ago."

Don Agostino read the letter attentively.

"The princess says that all the necessary furniture will be sent from
Rome at once," he observed, "and servants—everything, in fact.  The
rooms on the _piano nobile_ are to be made ready—and the chapel.  Well,
Signor Fontana," he continued, "you will have plenty to occupy your time
if, as the princess says, everything is to be ready in a fortnight from
to-day.  After all, the palace was built to be lived in—is it not true?"

"Very true, reverence; but it is so sudden.  After so many years, to
want everything done in fifteen days—"

"Women, my dear Signor Fontana—women!" said Don Agostino, deprecatingly.

The agent laughed.  "That is what I said to my wife," he replied.

"It was not a wise thing to say," observed Don Agostino.

"It is an incredible affair," resumed the other, brushing a fly from his
horse’s flank as he spoke; "and no reception by the people—as little
notice as possible to be taken of their excellencies’ arrival.  You see
what the letter says, reverence?"

"Yes," replied Don Agostino, meditatively.  "It is unusual, certainly,
under the circumstances."

"But," he added, "the princess has undoubtedly some good reason for
wishing to arrive at Montefiano in as quiet a manner as possible.
Perhaps she is ill, or her daughter is ill—who knows?"

"They say she is a saint," observed Fontana.

Don Agostino looked at him; the tone of Sor Beppe’s voice implied that
such a fact would account for any eccentricity.  Then he smiled.

"She is at all events the mistress of Montefiano, until the young
princess is of age or marries," he remarked; "so, Signor Fontana, there
is nothing more to be said or done."

"Except to obey her excellency’s instructions."

"Exactly—except to obey her instructions," repeated Don Agostino.

"It is strange that your reverence, the _parroco_ of Montefiano, should
never have seen our _padrona_."

"It is still stranger that you—her representative here—should never have
seen her," returned Don Agostino.

"That is true," said the agent; "but"—and his white teeth gleamed in his
beard as he smiled—"saints do not often show themselves, _reverendo_!
My respects," he added, lifting his hat and gathering up his reins.  "I
have to ride down to Poggio to arrange with the station-master there for
the arrival of the things which will be sent from Rome."  And settling
himself in his saddle, Sor Beppe started off at an easy canter and soon
disappeared round a turn of the white road, leaving a cloud of dust
behind him.

Don Agostino looked after him for a moment or two, and then returned
thoughtfully to his house.

The intelligence the agent had brought him was news, indeed, and he
wondered what its true purport might be.  It was certainly strange that,
after studiously avoiding Montefiano for all these years, the princess
should suddenly take it into her head to come there for a prolonged
stay.  Hitherto, Don Agostino had been very happy in his exile, chiefly
because that exile was so complete.  There had been nobody at Montefiano
to rake up the past, to open old wounds which the passing of years had
cicatrized, and which only throbbed now and again when memory insisted
upon asserting her rights.

The petty jealousies and malignities which poison the atmosphere of most
courts, and which in that of the Vatican are the more poisonous inasmuch
as they wear a religious mask, could not penetrate to Montefiano, or, if
they did, could not long survive out of the air of Rome.  Monsignor
Lelli had quickly realized this; and, the confidence of his parishioners
once gained, he had learned to appreciate the change of air.  The
financial conditions of the Vatican did not interest Montefiano.
Consequently, the story of Don Agostino’s financial indiscretions had
not reached the little room in the Corso Garibaldi, which was the
nightly resort of the more wealthy among the community, and in which
high political matters were settled with a rapidity that should have
made the parliaments of Europe blush—were any one of them capable of
blushing.

As to the other stories—well, Don Agostino had soon lived them down.
Montefiano had declared—with some cynicism, perhaps, but with much
justice—that there were those who were lucky in their adventures and
those who were unlucky, and that priests, when all was said and done,
were much the same as other people.  Nevertheless, Montefiano had kept
its eyes on Don Agostino for a while, in case of accidents—for nobody
likes accidents to happen at home.

But it was not entirely of these matters that Don Agostino was thinking
as he let himself into the little garden by the side of the church.  His
house, connected with the sacristy by a _pergola_ over which vines and
roses were struggling for the mastery, stood at the end of this garden,
and Don Agostino, opening the door quietly lest his housekeeper should
hear and descend upon him, passed into his study.

The news Sor Beppe had brought had awakened other memories—memories
which took him back to the days before he was a priest; when he had been
a young fellow of three or four and twenty, very free from care, very
good to look upon, and very much in love.

It was strange, perhaps, that the impending arrival at Montefiano of an
elderly lady and a girl of seventeen, neither of whom Don Agostino had
ever seen, should arouse in him memories of his own youth; but so it
was.  Such links in the chain that binds us to the past—a chain that
perhaps death itself is powerless to break—are perpetually forging
themselves in the present, and often trifles as light as air rivet them.

In this case the link had been forged long ago.  Don Agostino remembered
the forging of it every time he donned the sacred vestments to say mass,
and was conscious that the years had riveted it only more firmly.

It was, perhaps, as well that his housekeeper was busy plucking a
chicken in the back premises; and it was certainly as well that none of
his flock could have observed their pastor’s actions when he had shut
himself into his study, otherwise unprofitable surmises, long rejected
as such, would have cropped up again round the measures of wine in the
Caffè Garibaldi that evening.

For some time Don Agostino sat in front of his writing-table thinking,
his face buried in his hands.  The joyous chattering of the
house-martins flying to and from their nests came through the open
windows, and the scent of roses and Madonna lilies.  But presently the
liquid notes of the swallows changed into the soft lapping of waters
rising and falling on marble steps; the scent of the lilies was there,
but mingling with it was the salt smell of the lagoons, the warm, silky
air blowing in from the Adriatic. The distant sounds from the village
street became, in Don Agostino’s ears, the cries of the gondoliers and
the fishermen, and Venice rose before his eyes—Venice, with the rosy
light of a summer evening falling on her palaces and her churches,
turning her laughing waters into liquid flame; Venice, with her murmur
of music in the air as the gondolas and the fishing-boats glided away
from the city across the lagoons to the Lido and the sea; Venice,
holding out to him youth and love, and the first sweet dawning of the
passion that only youth and love can know.

Suddenly Don Agostino raised his head and looked about him as one looks
who wakes from a dream.  His eyes fell upon the crucifix standing on his
table and on the ivory Christ nailed to it.  And then his dream passed.

Rising, he crossed the room, and, unlocking a cabinet, took from it a
tiny miniature and one letter—the only one left to him, for he had
burned the rest.  The keeping of this letter had been a compromise.  For
do not the best of us make a compromise with our consciences
occasionally?

The face in the miniature was that of a young girl—a child almost—but
exceedingly beautiful, with the red-gold hair and creamy coloring of the
Venetian woman of the Renaissance.

Don Agostino looked at it long; afterwards, almost mechanically, he
raised the picture towards his lips.  Then, with a sudden gesture, as
though realizing what he was about to do, he thrust it back into the
drawer of the cabinet. But he kissed the letter before he replaced it
beside the miniature.

It was merely another compromise, this time not so much with his
conscience, perhaps, as with his priesthood.

"Bianca!" he said, aloud, and his voice dwelt on the name with a
lingering tenderness.  "Bianca!  And she—that other woman—she brings
your child here—here, where I am!  Well, perhaps it is you who send
her—who knows? Perhaps it was you who sent me to Montefiano—you, or the
blessed Mother of us all—again, who knows?  It was strange, was it not,
that of all places they should send me here, where your child was born,
the child that should have been—"

The door was flung open hastily, and Don Agostino’s housekeeper filled
the threshold.

"_Madonna mia Santissima!_" she exclaimed.  "It is your reverence, after
all.  I thought I heard voices—"

"Yes, Ernana, it is I," said Don Agostino, quietly.

"_Accidente!_ but you frightened me!" grumbled the woman.  "I was
plucking the chicken for your reverence’s supper, and—"

"So I perceive," remarked Don Agostino, watching feathers falling off
her person to the floor.  "And you heard voices," he added.  "Well, I
was talking to myself.  You can return to the chicken, Ernana, in
peace!"

"The chicken is a fat chicken," observed Ernana, reflectively. "_A
proposito_," she added, "will your reverence eat it boiled?  It sits
more lightly on the stomach at night—boiled."

"I will eat it boiled," said Don Agostino.

"And with a _contorno_ of rice?"

Don Agostino sighed.

"Rice?" he repeated, absently.  "Of course, Ernana; with rice, certainly
with rice."




                                 *III*


Palazzo Acorari, the residence in Rome of the princes of Montefiano, was
situated, as has already been said, in that old quarter of the city
known as the Campitelli.  It stood, indeed, but a few yards away from
the piazza of the name, in a deserted little square through which few
people passed save those whose business took them into the squalid
streets and _vicoli_ opening out of the Piazza Montanara.

It was not one of the well-known palaces of Rome, although it was of far
greater antiquity than many described at length in the guide-books;
neither was it large in comparison with some of its near neighbors.
Nine people out of ten, if asked by a stranger to direct them to Palazzo
Acorari, would have been unable to reply, although, from a mingled sense
of the courtesy due to a _forestiero_, and fear of being taken for
_forestiero_ themselves, they would probably have attempted to do so all
the same, to the subsequent indignation of the stranger.

There was no particular reason why Palazzo Acorari should be well known.
It contained no famous works of art, and its apartments, though stately
in their way, were neither historic nor on a large enough scale to have
ever been rented by rich foreigners as a stage on which they could play
at being Roman nobles to an appreciative if somewhat cynical audience.

A narrow and gloomy _porte cochère_ opened from the street into the
court-yard round which the Palazzo Acorari was built.  Except for an
hour or two at mid-day no ray of sunlight ever penetrated into this
court, which, nevertheless, was picturesque enough with its graceful
arches and its time-worn statues mounting guard around it.  A porter in
faded livery dozed in his little office on one side of the entrance, in
the intervals of gossiping with a passer-by on the doings and misdoings
of the neighbors, and he, together with a few pigeons and a black cat,
were generally the only animate objects to be seen by those who happened
to glance into the quadrangle.

The princess and her step-daughter inhabited the first floor of the
palace, while the ground-floor was apportioned off into various _locali_
opening on to the streets, in which a cobbler, a retail charcoal and
coke vender, a mattress-maker, and others plied their respective trades.

On the second floor, immediately above the princess’s apartment, was
another suite of rooms.  This apartment had been unlet for two or three
years, and it was only some six or eight months since it had found a
tenant.

The princess was not an accommodating landlady.  Possibly she regarded
concessions to the tenants of her second floor as works of
supererogation—laudable, perhaps, but not necessary to salvation.
Moreover, the tenants on the second floor never went to mass—at least,
so the Abbé Roux had gathered from the porter, whose business it was to
know the concerns of every one dwelling in or near Palazzo Acorari.

There had been, consequently, passages of arms concerning responsibility
for the repairs of water-pipes and similar objects, in which it was
clearly injurious to the glory of God and the interests of the Church
that the princess should be the one to give way.  She had been, indeed,
on the point of declining the offer of Professor Rossano to take the
vacant apartment.  He was a well-known scientist, with a reputation
which had travelled far beyond the frontiers of Italy, and, in
recognition of his work in the domain of physical science, had been
created a senator of the Italian kingdom.  But a scientific reputation
was not a thing which appealed to the princess, regarding as she did all
scientific men as misguided and arrogant individuals in league with the
freemasons and the devil to destroy faith upon the earth.  The Abbé
Roux, however, had counselled tolerance, accompanied by an addition of
five hundred francs a year to the rent.  The apartment had been long
unlet, and was considerably out of repair; but the professor had taken a
fancy to it, as being in a quiet and secluded position where he could
pursue his studies undisturbed by the noise of the tram-cars, which even
then were beginning to render the chief thoroughfares of Rome odious to
walk and drive in, and still more odious to live in.

As he was a man of some means, he had not demurred at the extra rent
which the princess’s agent had demanded at the last moment before the
signing of the lease.  Apart from the fact that he was a scientist and a
senator of that kingdom of which the princess affected to ignore the
existence, there had seemed to be nothing undesirable about Professor
Rossano as a tenant.  He was a widower, with a son of four-and-twenty
and a daughter a year or two older who lived with him; and, after her
tenant’s furniture had been carried in and the upholsterers had done
their work, the princess had been hardly conscious that the apartment
immediately above her own was occupied.  On rare occasions she had
encountered the professor on the staircase, and had bowed in answer to
his salutation; but there was no acquaintance between them, nor did
either show symptoms of wishing to interchange anything but the most
formal of courtesies.  Sometimes, too, when going out for, or returning
from, their daily drive, the princess and her step-daughter would meet
Professor Rossano’s daughter, who was usually accompanied by her maid, a
middle-aged person of staid demeanor who seemed to act as a companion to
the Signorina Giacinta, as, according to the porter, Senator Rossano’s
daughter was called.  The girls used to look at each other curiously,
but weeks went by before a word passed between them.

"They are not of our world," the princess had said, decisively, to
Bianca shortly after the Rossanos’ arrival, "and there is no necessity
for us to know them"—and the girl had nodded her head silently, though
with a slight sigh. It was not amusing to be princess of Montefiano in
one’s own right and do nothing but drive out in a closed carriage every
afternoon, and perhaps walk for half an hour outside one of the city
gates or in the Villa Pamphili with one’s stepmother by one’s side and a
footman ten paces behind. Bianca Acorari thought she would like to have
known Giacinta Rossano, who looked amiable and _simpatica_, and was
certainly pretty.  But though there was only the thickness of a floor
between them, the two establishments were as completely apart as if the
Tiber separated them, and Bianca knew by experience that it would be
useless to attempt to combat her step-mother’s prejudices.  Indeed, she
herself regarded the professor and his daughter with a curiosity not
unmixed with awe, and would scarcely have been surprised if a judgment
had overtaken them even on their way up and down the staircase; for had
not Monsieur l’Abbé declared that neither father nor daughter ever went
to mass?

This assertion was not strictly true—at any rate, so far as the
Signorina Giacinta was concerned.  The professor, no doubt, seldom went
inside a church, except, perhaps, on special occasions, such as Easter
or Christmas.  He possessed a scientific conscience as well as a
spiritual conscience, and he found an insuperable difficulty in
reconciling the one with the other on a certain point of dogma which
need not be named.  He was not antichristian, however, though he might
be anticlerical, and he encouraged Giacinta to go to the churches rather
than the reverse, as many fathers of families in his position do, both
in Italy and elsewhere.

Professor Rossano and his daughter had inhabited the Palazzo Acorari
nearly three months before Bianca made the discovery that the girl at
whom she had cast stolen glances of curiosity, as being the first
heretic of her own nationality she had ever beheld, was, if appearances
spoke the truth, no heretic at all.  She had actually seen Giacinta
kneeling in the most orthodox manner at mass in the neighboring church
of Santa Maria dei Campitelli.  Bianca had informed the princess of her
discovery that very day at breakfast in the presence of the Abbé Roux,
who was an invariable guest on Sundays and feast-days.  She nourished a
secret hope that her step-mother might become more favorably disposed
towards the family on the second floor if it could satisfactorily be
proved not to be entirely heretical. The princess, however, did not
receive the information in the spirit Bianca had expected.

"People of that sort," she had responded, coldly, "often go to mass in
order to keep up appearances, or sometimes to meet—oh, well"—she broke
off, abruptly—"to stare about them as you seem to have been doing this
morning, Bianca, instead of saying your prayers.  Is it not so, Monsieur
l’Abbé?" she added to the priest, with whom she generally conversed in
French, though both spoke Italian perfectly.

The Abbé Roux sighed.  "Ah, yes, madame," he replied, "unluckily it is
undoubtedly so.  The Professor Rossano, if one is to judge by certain
arrogant and anticatholic works of which he is the author, is not likely
to have brought up his children to be believers.  And if one does not
believe, what is the use of going to mass?—except—except—"  And here he
checked himself as the princess had done, feeling himself to be on the
verge of an indiscretion.

"You hear, Bianca, what Monsieur l’Abbé says," observed the princess.
"You must understand once for all, that what Professor Rossano and his
daughter may or may not do is no concern of ours—"

"So long as they pay their rent," added the Abbé, pouring himself out
another glass of red wine.

"So long as they pay their rent," the princess repeated. "They are not
of our society—" she continued.

"And do not dance," interrupted Bianca.

The princess looked at her a little suspiciously.  She was never quite
sure whether Bianca, notwithstanding her quiet and apparently somewhat
apathetic disposition, was altogether so submissive as she seemed.

"Dance!" she exclaimed.  "Why should they dance? I don’t know what you
mean, Bianca."

"It is against the contract to dance on the second floor. The guests
might fall through on to our heads," observed Bianca, tranquilly.
"Bettina told me so, and the porter told her—"

The princess frowned.  "Bettina talks too much," she said, with an
unmistakable air of desiring that the subject should drop.

Bianca relapsed into silence.  It was very evident that, however devout
the Rossano girl might be, she would not be allowed to make her
acquaintance.  Her observant eyes had watched the Abbé Roux’s
countenance as she made her little effort to further that desired event,
for she was very well aware that no step was likely to be taken in this,
or, indeed, in any other matter unless the Abbé approved of it.
Privately, Bianca detested the priest, and with a child’s unerring
instinct—for she was still scarcely more than a child in some things—she
felt that he disliked her.

Nor was this state of things of recent origin.  Ever since the Abbé Roux
had become, as it were, a member of the Montefiano household, Bianca
Acorari had entertained the same feeling towards him.  Her obstinacy on
this point, indeed, had first awakened the princess to the fact that her
step-daughter had a very decided will of her own, which, short of
breaking, nothing was likely to conquer.

This stubbornness, as the princess called it, had shown itself in an
unmistakable manner when Bianca, though only twelve years old, had
firmly and absolutely refused to confess to Monsieur l’Abbé.  In vain
the princess had threatened punishment both immediate and future, and in
vain the Abbé Roux had admonished her.  Make her confession to him, she
would not.  To any other priest, yes; to him, no—not then or ever.
There was nothing more to be said or done—for both the princess and
Monsieur l’Abbé knew well enough that the child was within her rights
according to the laws of the Church, though of course she herself was
unaware of the fact.  There had been nothing for it, as weeks went on
and Bianca never drew back from the position she had taken up, but to
give way as gracefully as might be—but it was doubtful if the Abbé Roux
had ever forgiven the want of confidence in him which the child had
displayed, although he had afterwards told her that the Church left to
all penitents the right of choice as to their confessors.

When Bianca grew older, the princess had intended to send her to the
Convent of the Assumption in order to complete her education, and at the
same time place her under some discipline.  The girl was delicate,
however, and it was eventually decided that it was better that she
should be educated at home.

Perhaps it was the gradual consciousness that she was debarred from
associating with any one of her own age which had made Bianca think
wistfully that it would be pleasant to make the acquaintance of the
attractive-looking girl whom she passed occasionally on the staircase,
and who had come to live under the same roof as herself.  She could not
but notice that the older she became the more she seemed to be cut off
from the society of others of her years. Formerly she had occasionally
been allowed to associate with the children of her step-mother’s friends
and acquaintances, and, at rare intervals, they had been invited to some
childish festivity at Palazzo Acorari.

By degrees, however, her life had become more and more isolated, and for
the last year or two the princess, a governess who came daily to teach
her modern languages and music, and her maid and attendant, Bettina, had
been her only companions.

Rightly or wrongly, Bianca associated the restriction of her
surroundings with the influence of the Abbé Roux, and the suspicion only
increased the dislike she had always instinctively borne him.

It never entered into her head, however, to suggest to the princess that
her life was an exceedingly dull one.  Indeed, having no means of
comparing it with the lives of other girls of her age, she scarcely
realized that it was dull, and she accepted it as the natural order of
things.  It had not been until she had seen Giacinta Rossano that an
indefinable longing for some companionship other than that of those much
older than herself began to make itself felt within her, and she had
found herself wondering why she had no brothers and sisters, no cousins,
such as other girls must have, with whom they could associate.

In the mean time, life in Palazzo Acorari went on as usual for Bianca.
She fancied that, when they passed each other, the daughter of the
mysterious old professor on the second floor who wrote wicked books
looked at her with increasing interest; and that once or twice, when
Bianca had been accompanied only by Bettina, she had half-paused as
though about to speak, but had then thought better of it and walked on
with a bow and a slight smile.

On one occasion she had ventured to sound Bettina as to whether it would
not be at least courteous on her part to do something more than bow as
she passed the Signorina Rossano.  But Bettina was very cautious in her
reply.  The princess, it appeared, had been resolute in forbidding any
communication between the two floors, excepting such as might have to be
carried on through the medium of the porter, in the case of such a
calamity as pipes bursting or roofs leaking.

December was nearly over, and Rome was _sotto Natale_. People were
hurrying through the streets buying their Christmas presents, and
thronging the churches to look at the representations of the Holy Child
lying in the manger of Bethlehem; for it was Christmas Eve, and the
great bells of the basilicas were booming forth the tidings of the birth
of Christ.  In every house in Rome, among rich and poor alike,
preparations were going on for the family gathering that should take
place that night, and for the supper that should be eaten after midnight
when the strict fast of the Christmas vigil should be over.

The majority, perhaps, paid but little heed to the fasting and
abstinence enjoined by the priests, unless the addition of fresh fish to
the bill of fare—fish brought from Anzio and Nettuno the day before by
the ton weight and sold at the traditional _cottìo_ throughout the
night—could be taken as a sign of obedience to the laws of the Church.
But the truly faithful conformed rigidly throughout the day, reserving
themselves for the meats that would be permissible on the return from
the midnight masses, when the birth of a God would be celebrated, as it
has ever been, by a larger consumption than usual of the flesh of His
most innocent creatures on the part of those who invoke Him as a
merciful and compassionate Creator.

This particular Christmas Eve it so happened that the princess was
confined to her bed with a severe cold and fever, which made attendance
at the midnight masses an impossibility so far as she was concerned.
Bianca, however, was allowed to go, accompanied by Bettina, and shortly
after half-past eleven they left Palazzo Acorari, meaning to walk to the
church of San Luigi dei Francesi in the Piazza Navona, one of the few
churches in Rome to which the public were admitted to be present at the
three masses appointed to be said at the dawning hours of Christmas Day.

It was raining in torrents as they emerged from the _portone_ of the
_palazzo_, and to get a cab at that hour of night on Christmas Eve
appeared to be an impossibility, except, perhaps, in the main streets.

Bianca and her attendant consulted together.  They would certainly be
wet through before they could reach the Piazza Navona, and it seemed as
though there was nothing to be done but to remain at home.  Bettina,
however, suddenly remembered that at the little church of the Sudario,
less than half-way to the Piazza Navona, the midnight masses were also
celebrated.  To be sure, it was the church of the Piedmontese, and
chiefly attended by members of the royal household, and often by the
queen herself.  The princess would not be altogether pleased, therefore,
at the substitution; but, under the circumstances, Bianca expressed her
determination of going there, and her maid was obliged to acquiesce.

Five minutes plunging through puddles and mud, and battling with a warm
sirocco wind which blew in gusts at the corners of every street, brought
them to the little church hidden away behind the Corso Vittorio
Emmanuele.

A side door communicating with the building was open, and they passed
from the darkness and the driving rain into a blaze of warm light and
the mingled scent of incense and flowers.  The high altar, adorned with
priceless white-and-gold embroideries, sparkled in the radiance of
countless wax-candles. Overhead, from a gallery at the opposite end of
the church, the organ was playing softly, the player reproducing on the
reed-stops the pastoral melodies of the _pifferari_, in imitation of the
pipes of the shepherds watching over their flocks through that wonderful
night nineteen centuries ago.

Although it wanted yet twenty minutes to midnight the church was nearly
full, and Bianca and her companion made their way to some vacant seats
half-way up it.  Glancing at her neighbors immediately in front of her,
Bianca gave a start of surprise as she recognized Giacinta Rossano.

Bettina’s gaze was fixed on the altar, and Bianca hesitated for a
moment.  Then she leaned forward and whispered timidly, "_Buona Natale,
buona feste_"—with a little smile.

A pair of soft, dark eyes smiled back into her own. "_Buona Natale, e
buona anno, Donna Bianca_."  Giacinta Rossano replied, in a low, clear
voice which caused Bettina to withdraw her eyes from the altar and to
look sharply round to see whence it proceeded.  Somebody else turned
round also—a young man whom Bianca had not noticed, but who was sitting
next to Giacinta.  For a moment their eyes met, and then she looked away
quickly, half conscious of a sensation of effort in doing so that caused
her a vague surprise.  The gaze she had suddenly encountered had seemed
to enchain her own.  The eyes that had looked into hers with a
wondering, questioning look were like Giacinta Rossano’s, only they were
blue—Bianca felt quite sure of that.  They had seemed to shut out for a
second or two the blaze of light on the altar.  The momentary feeling of
surprise passed, she turned her head towards the altar again, and as she
did so she overheard Giacinta Rossano’s companion whisper to her,
"_Chiè?_" accompanied by a rapid backward motion of his head.

Giacinta’s reply was inaudible, for at that moment a clear alto voice
from the gallery rang out with the opening notes of the _Adeste
Fideles_.  The doors of the sacristy opened, and the officiating priest,
glittering in his vestments of gold-and-white, knelt before the altar.
_Venite Adoremus_ burst forth triumphantly from the choir, the alto
voice rising above the rest like an angel’s song.  Presently, as the
strains of the Christmas hymn died away, and the soft reed-notes of the
organ resumed the plaintive refrain of the _pifferari_, the celebrant
rose, and then kneeling again on the lowest step of the altar, murmured
the _Confiteor_—and the first mass of the Nativity began.

After the elevation, Bianca Acorari rose from her knees and resumed her
seat.  The mellow light from the wax-candles glinted upon the tawny gold
of her hair and her creamy complexion, both of which she had inherited
from her Venetian mother.  Many eyes were turned upon her, for though,
so far as regularity of features was concerned, she could not be called
beautiful, yet her face was striking enough, combining as it did the
Italian grace and mobility with a coloring that, but for its warmth,
might have stamped her as belonging to some Northern race.

Owing to the general shuffling of chairs consequent upon the members of
the congregation resuming their seats after the elevation, Bianca
suddenly became aware that Giacinta Rossano’s companion had somewhat
changed his position, and that he was now sitting where he could see her
without, as before, turning half round in his seat.  Apparently, too, he
was not allowing the opportunity to escape him, for more than once she
felt conscious that his eyes were resting upon her; and, indeed, each
time she ventured to steal a glance in Giacinta’s direction that glance
was intercepted—not rudely or offensively, but with the same almost
wondering look in the dark-blue eyes that they had worn when they first
met her own.

Bianca glanced furtively from Giacinta’s companion to Giacinta herself
as soon as the former looked away.

Decidedly, she thought, they were very like each other, except in the
coloring of the eyes, for Giacinta’s eyes were of a deep, velvety brown.
Suddenly a light dawned upon her.  Of course! this must be Giacinta
Rossano’s brother—come, no doubt, to spend Christmas with his father and
sister.  She had always heard that the professor had a son; but as this
son had never appeared upon the scene since the Rossanos had lived in
the Palazzo Acorari, Bianca had forgotten that he had any existence.

How she wished she had a brother come to spend Christmas with her!  It
would, at all events, be more amusing than sitting at dinner opposite to
Monsieur l’Abbé, which would certainly be her fate the following
evening.  From all of which reflections it may be gathered that Bianca
was not deriving as much spiritual benefit from her attendance at mass
as could be desired.  Perhaps the thought struck her, for she turned
somewhat hastily to Bettina, only to see an expression on that worthy
woman’s face which puzzled her. It was a curious expression, half-uneasy
and half-humorous, and Bianca remembered it afterwards.

The three masses came to an end at last, and to the calm, sweet music of
the Pastoral symphony from Händel’s _Messiah_ (for the organist at the
Sudario, unlike the majority of his colleagues in Rome, was a musician
and an artist) the congregation slowly left the church, its members
exchanging Christmas greetings with their friends before going home to
supper.  Bettina hurried her charge through the throng, never slackening
speed until they had left the building and turned down a by-street out
of the crowd thronging the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele.  Even then she
glanced nervously over her shoulder from time to time, as though to make
sure they were not being followed.

The rain had ceased by this time, and the moon shone in a deep violet
sky, softening the grim mass of the Caetani and Antici-Mattei palaces
which frowned above them.  Presently Bettina halted under a flickering
gas-lamp.

"A fine thing, truly," she exclaimed, abruptly, "to go to a midnight
mass to stare at a good-looking boy—under the very nose, too, speaking
with respect, of the _santissimo_!"

Bianca flushed.  "He looked at me!" she said, indignantly.

"It is the same thing," returned Bettina—"at least," she added, "it is
generally the same thing—in the end. Holy Virgin! what would her
excellency say—and Monsieur l’Abbé—if they knew such a thing?  And the
insolence of it!  He looked—and looked!  Signorina, it is a thing
unheard of—"

"What thing?" interrupted Bianca, tranquilly.

"What thing?" repeated Bettina, somewhat taken aback. "Why—why—oh,
well," she added, hastily, "it doesn’t matter what thing—only, for the
love of God, signorina, do not let her excellency know that you spoke to
the Signorina Rossano to-night!"

"There was no harm," replied Bianca.  "I only wished her a good
Christmas—"

"No harm—perhaps not!" returned Bettina; "but, signorina, I do not wish
to find myself in the street, you understand—and it is I who would be
blamed."

Bianca raised her head proudly.  "You need not be afraid," she said.  "I
do not allow others to be blamed for what I do.  As to the Signorina
Rossano, I have made her acquaintance, and I mean to keep it.  For the
rest, it is not necessary to say when or how I made it.  Come, Bettina,
I hear footsteps."

"You will make the acquaintance of the other one, too," Bettina said to
herself—"but who knows whether you will keep it?  Mali!" and with a
sharp shrug of the shoulders she walked by Bianca’s side in silence
until they reached Palazzo Acorari, where the porter, who was waiting
for them at the entrance, let them through the gateway and lighted them
up the dark staircase to the doors of the _piano nobile_.




                                  *IV*


"I tell you that it is a _pazzia_—a madness," said Giacinta Rossano.
"The girl is a good girl, and I am sorry for her—shut up in this dreary
house with a step-mother and a priest.  But we are not of their world,
and they are not of ours.  The princess has made that very clear from
the first."

"And what does it matter?" Silvio Rossano exclaimed, impetuously.  "We
are not princes, but neither are we beggars.  Does not everybody know
who my father is, Giacinta?  And some day, perhaps, I shall make a name
for myself, too—"

Giacinta glanced at her brother proudly.

"Yes," she said, "I believe you will—I am sure you will, if—"  And then
she hesitated.

"If what?" demanded Silvio.

"If you do not make an imbecile of yourself first," his sister replied,
dryly.

Silvio Rossano flung the newspaper he had been reading on to the floor,
and his eyes flashed with anger.  In a moment, however, the anger
passed, and he laughed.

"All men are imbeciles once in their lives," he said, "and most men are
imbeciles much more frequently—"

"Oh, with these last it does not matter," observed Giacinta, sapiently;
"they do themselves no harm.  But you—you are not of that sort, Silvio
_mio_.  So before making an imbecile of yourself, it will be better to
be sure that it is worth the trouble.  Besides, the thing is ridiculous.
People do not fall in love at first sight, except in novels—and if they
do, they can easily fall out of it again."

"Not the other ones," said Silvio, briefly.

"The other ones?  Ah, I understand," and Giacinta looked at him more
gravely.  She was very fond of this only brother of hers, and very proud
of him—proud of his already promising career and of his frank, lovable
disposition, as well as of his extreme good looks.  In truth, when she
compared Silvio with the large majority of young men of his age and
standing, she had some reason for her pride. Unlike so many young Romans
of the more leisured classes, Silvio Rossano had never been content to
lead a useless and brainless existence.  Being an only son, he had been
exempt from military service; but, instead of lounging in the Corso in
the afternoons and frequenting music-halls and other resorts of a more
doubtful character at night, he had turned his attention at a
comparatively early age to engineering. At the present moment, though
barely five-and-twenty, he had just completed the erection of some
important water-works at Bari, during the formation of which he had been
specially chosen by one of the most eminent engineers in Italy to
superintend the works during the great man’s repeated absences
elsewhere.  Thanks to Silvio Rossano’s untiring energy and technical
skill, as well as to his popularity with his subordinates and workmen,
serious difficulties had been overcome in an unusually short space of
time, and a government contract, which at one moment looked as if about
to be unfulfilled by the company with whom it had been placed, was
completed within the period agreed upon. There could be little doubt
that, after his last success, Silvio would be given some lucrative work
to carry out, and, in the mean time, after an absence of nearly a year,
he had come home for a few weeks’ rest and holiday, to find his father
and sister installed in Palazzo Acorari.

It was, perhaps, not to be wondered at if Giacinta Rossano felt uneasy
in her mind on her brother’s account.  She knew his character as nobody
else could know it, for he was barely two years younger than she, and
they had grown up together.  She knew that beneath his careless,
good-natured manner there lay an inflexible will and indomitable energy,
and that once these were fully aroused they would carry him far towards
the end he might have in view.

The interest that Donna Bianca Acorari had aroused in Silvio had not
escaped Giacinta’s notice.  She had observed where his gaze had wandered
so frequently during the midnight mass a few nights previously, and,
knowing that Silvio’s life had been too busy a one to have left him much
time to think about love, she had marvelled at the effect that Bianca
Acorari seemed suddenly to have had upon him. Since that night, whenever
they were alone together, he would begin to question her as to the
surroundings of their neighbors on the floor below them, and urge her to
make friends with Donna Bianca.  It was in vain that Giacinta pointed
out that she had only interchanged a word or two with the girl in her
life, and that there was evidently a fixed determination on the
princess’s part not to permit any acquaintance.

This last argument, she soon discovered, was the very worst that she
could use.  Like most Romans of the _bourgeoisie_ to which he by birth
belonged—and, indeed, like Romans of every class outside the so-called
nobility—Silvio was a republican at heart so far as social differences
were concerned; nor—in view of the degeneracy of a class which has done
all in its power in modern days to vulgarize itself in exchange for
dollars, American or otherwise, and to lose any remnant of the
traditions that, until a generation ago, gave the Roman noblesse a claim
upon the respect of the classes nominally below it—could this attitude
be blamed or wondered at.

At first, Giacinta had laughed at her brother for the way in which he
had fallen a victim to the attractions of a young girl whom he had never
seen before, but she had very soon begun to suspect that Silvio’s
infatuation was no mere passing whim.  She was well aware, too, that
passing whims were foreign to his nature.  Since that Christmas night,
he had been more silent and thoughtful than she had ever seen him,
except, perhaps, in his student days, when he had been working more than
usually hard before the examinations.

Of Bianca Acorari herself he spoke little, but Giacinta understood that
the drift of his conversation generally flowed towards the family on the
_piano nobile_ and how its members occupied their day.  Moreover,
Silvio, she observed, was much more frequently _in casa_ than was
altogether natural for a young fellow supposed to be taking a holiday,
and he appeared to be strangely neglectful of friends and acquaintances
to whose houses he had formerly been ready to go.  Another thing, too,
struck Giacinta as unusual, and scarcely edifying.  Silvio had never
been remarkable for an alacrity to go to mass, and Giacinta knew that he
shared the professor’s views on certain subjects, and that he had little
partiality for the clergy as a caste. Apparently, however, he had
suddenly developed a devotion to some saint whose relic might or might
not be in the church of Santa Maria in Piazza Campitelli, for Giacinta,
to her surprise, had met him face to face one morning as she had gone to
mass there, and on another occasion she had caught a glimpse of his
figure disappearing behind a corner in the same church.  It was only
charitable, she thought, casually to inform this devout church-goer that
the Princess Montefiano had a private chapel in her apartment, in which
the Abbé Roux said mass every morning at half-past eight o’clock.

In the mean time, the professor, occupied with his scientific research,
was in happy ignorance of the fact that disturbing elements were
beginning to be at work within his small domestic circle, and Giacinta
kept her own counsel.  She hoped that Silvio would soon get some
employment which would take him away from Rome, for she was very sure
that nothing but mortification and unhappiness would ensue were he to
make Bianca Acorari’s acquaintance.

Some days had elapsed since Christmas, and Giacinta Rossano had not
again seen either Bianca or the princess. Under the circumstances, she
by no means regretted the fact, for she rather dreaded lest she and her
brother might encounter them on the staircase, and then, if Silvio
behaved as he had behaved in the Sudario, the princess would certainly
suspect his admiration for her step-daughter.

In Rome, however, families can live under the same roof for weeks, or
even months, without necessarily encountering each other, or knowing
anything of each other’s lives or movements; and it so happened that no
opportunity was given to Giacinta, even had she desired it, again to
interchange even a formal greeting with the girl who had evidently made
such an impression at first sight on her brother.

Of late, too, Silvio’s interest in their neighbors had apparently
diminished, for he asked fewer questions concerning them, and
occasionally, Giacinta thought, almost seemed as though desirous of
avoiding the subject.

She was not altogether pleased, however, when, after he had been at home
about a month, Silvio one day announced that he had been offered work in
Rome which would certainly keep him in the city for the whole summer.
It was delightful, no doubt, to have him with them.  She saw that her
father was overjoyed at the idea, and, had it not been for other
considerations, Giacinta would have desired nothing better than that
Silvio should live permanently with them, for his being at home made her
own life infinitely more varied.  She could not help wondering, however,
whether Bianca Acorari had anything to do with Silvio’s evident
satisfaction at remaining in Rome.  Hitherto, he had shown eagerness
rather than disinclination to get away from Rome, declaring that there
was so little money or enterprise in the capital that any young Roman
wishing to make his way in the world had better not waste his time by
remaining in it.

Now, however, to judge of Silvio’s contented attitude, he had found work
which would be remunerative enough without being obliged to seek it in
other parts of Italy or abroad. And so the weeks went by.  Lent was
already over, and Easter and spring had come, when Giacinta made a
discovery which roused afresh all her uneasiness on her brother’s
behalf.

In some way or another she began to feel convinced that Silvio had
managed either to meet Bianca Acorari, or, at all events, to have some
communication with her.  For some little time, indeed, she had suspected
that his entire cessation from any mention of the girl or her
step-mother was not due to his interest in Bianca having subsided.
Silvio’s interest in anything was not apt easily to subside when once
fully aroused, and that it had been fully aroused, Giacinta had never
entertained any doubt.  Chance furnished her with a clew as to where
Silvio’s channels of communication might possibly lie, if indeed he
could have any direct communication with Donna Bianca, which, under the
circumstances, would seem to be almost incredible.

It so happened that one April morning, when summer seemed to have
entered into premature possession of its inheritance, when the Banksia
roses by the steps of the Ara Coeli were bursting into bloom and the
swifts were chasing each other with shrill screams in the blue sky
overhead, Giacinta was returning from her usual walk before the mid-day
breakfast, and, as she turned into the little piazza in which Palazzo
Acorari was situated, she nearly collided with Silvio, apparently
engaged in lighting a cigarette.  There was nothing unusual in his being
there at that hour, for he sometimes returned to breakfast _a casa_,
especially on Thursdays, when little or no work is done in Rome in the
afternoons, and this was a Thursday.  It struck her, nevertheless, that
Silvio seemed to be somewhat embarrassed by her sudden appearance round
the corner of the narrow lane which connected the piazza with the Piazza
Campitelli. His embarrassment was only momentary, however, and he
accompanied her to the _palazzo_.  The cannon at San Angelo boomed
mid-day as they turned into the _portone_, and was answered by the bells
of the churches round.  As they slowly mounted the staircase, a lady
came down it. Giacinta did not know her by sight, and, after she had
passed them, she half-turned to look at her, for she fancied that a
glance of mutual recognition was exchanged between her and Silvio,
though the latter raised his hat only with the formality usual in
passing an unknown lady on a staircase. The stranger seemed to hesitate
for a moment, as though she were disconcerted at seeing Silvio in
another person’s company.  The lady continued her way, however, and if
Giacinta had not happened to look round as she and Silvio turned the
corner of the staircase, she probably would have thought no more of her,
for she was not particularly remarkable, being merely a quietly dressed
woman, perhaps eight-and-twenty or thirty years of age, neither
good-looking nor the reverse.  But, as Giacinta looked, the lady
coughed, and the cough re-echoed up the staircase.  At the same time she
dropped a folded piece of paper. Apparently she was unconscious that she
had done so, for she continued to descend the stairs without turning her
head, and disappeared round the angle of the court-yard.

"She has dropped something, Silvio," Giacinta said. "Had you not better
go after her?  It is a letter, I think."

"Of course!" Silvio answered, a little hastily.  "I will catch up with
her and give it to her," and he turned and ran down the staircase as he
spoke.

Giacinta, leaning over the balustrade, saw him pick up the piece of
paper.  Then he crumpled it up and thrust it into his pocket.

"That," said Giacinta to herself, "was not prudent of Silvio.  One does
not crumple up a letter and pocket it if one is about to restore it to
its owner, unless one’s pocket is its proper destination."

Nevertheless, Silvio continued to pursue the lady, and three or four
minutes or more elapsed before he rejoined his sister.

"Well," Giacinta observed, tranquilly.  "You gave her back her letter?"

"It was not a letter," said Silvio, "it was only a—a memorandum—written
on a scrap of paper.  A thing of no importance, Giacinta."

"I am glad it was of no importance," returned Giacinta, not caring to
press her original question.  "Do you know who she is?" she added.

"I think," answered Silvio, carelessly, "that she must be the lady who
comes to teach the princess’s daughter."

"Step-daughter," corrected Giacinta, dryly.

"Of course—step-daughter—I had forgotten.  Do you know, Giacinta," he
continued, "that we shall be very late for breakfast?"

It was a silent affair, that breakfast.  The professor had been occupied
the whole of the morning in correcting the proofs of a new scientific
treatise, and he had even brought to the table some diagrams which he
proceeded to study between the courses.  Silvio’s handsome face wore a
thoughtful and worried expression, and Giacinta was engrossed with her
own reflections.

Presently Professor Rossano broke the silence.  He was eating asparagus,
and it is not easy to eat asparagus and verify diagrams at the same
time.

"Silvio," he said, mildly, "may one ask whether it is true that you have
fallen in love?"

Silvio started, and looked at his father with amazement. Then he
recovered himself.

"One may ask it, certainly," he replied, "but—"

"But one should not ask indiscreet questions, eh?" continued the
professor.  "Well, falling in love is a disease like any
other—infectious in the first stage—after that, contagious—decidedly
contagious."

Silvio laughed a little nervously.  "And in the last stage?" he asked.

"Oh, in the last stage one—peels.  H one does not, the affair is
serious.  I met Giacomelli yesterday—your _maestro_. He said to me:
’Senator, our excellent Silvio is in love. I am convinced that he is in
love.  It is a thousand pities; because, when one is in love, one is apt
to take false measurements; and for an engineer to take false
measurements is a bad thing!’  That is what Giacomelli said to me in
Piazza Colonna yesterday afternoon."

Silvio looked evidently relieved.

"And may one ask whom I am supposed to be in love with?" he demanded.

"As to that," observed the professor, dryly, "you probably know best.
All that I would suggest is, that you do not allow the malady to become
too far advanced in the second stage—unless"—and here he glanced at
Giacinta—"well, unless you are quite sure that you will peel."  And with
a quiet chuckle he turned to his diagrams again.

Silvio caught his sister’s eyes fixed upon him.  Giacinta had perhaps
not entirely understood her father’s metaphors, but it was very clear to
her that others had noticed the change she had observed in Silvio.  He
had evidently been less attentive to his work than was his wont; and the
eminent engineer under whom he had studied and made a name for himself,
becoming aware of the fact, had unconsciously divined the true cause of
it.  The Commendatore Giacomelli had doubtless spoken in jest to the
father of his favorite pupil, thinking that a parental hint might be
useful in helping Silvio to return to his former diligence.  Giacinta
knew her father’s good-natured cynicism well enough, and felt certain
that, though treating the matter as a joke, he had intended to let
Silvio know that his superiors had noticed some falling off in his work.

But Giacinta was, unfortunately, only too sure that the right nail had
been hit on the head, even if the blow had fallen accidentally.  She did
not feel uneasy lest her father should discover the fact, nor, if he did
so, that he would make any efforts to discover the quarter in which
Silvio’s affections were engaged.  The professor lived a life very much
of his own, and his nature was a singularly detached one.  His attitude
towards the world was that of a quiet and not inappreciative spectator
of a high comedy.  His interests were centred in the stage, and also in
the stage-machinery, and he was always ready to be amused or to
sympathize as the case might be, in the passing scenes which that
complex machinery produced.  Giacinta often wondered whether her father
ever thought of the possibility of her marriage, or ever considered that
her position as an only daughter was somewhat a lonely one.  He had
never made the faintest allusion to the subject to her; but she was sure
that if she were suddenly to announce to him that she was going to
marry, he would receive the information placidly enough, and, when once
he had satisfied himself that she had chosen wisely, would think no more
about the matter.  And it would be the same thing as far as Silvio was
concerned—only, in Silvio’s case, if Donna Bianca Acorari were the
object on which he had set his affections, Giacinta was certain that the
professor would not consider the choice a wise one.  He had a great
dislike to anything in the nature of social unpleasantness, as have many
clever people who live in a detached atmosphere of their own.  In print,
or in a lecture-room, he could hit hard enough, and appeared to be
utterly indifferent as to how many enemies he made, or how many pet
theories he exploded by a logic which was at times irritatingly humorous
and at times severely caustic.  But, apart from his pen and his
conferences, the Senator Rossano was merely a placid individual,
slightly past middle age, with a beard inclining to gray, and a broad,
intellectual forehead from under which a pair of keen, brown eyes looked
upon life good-naturedly enough. Perhaps the greatest charm about
Professor Rossano was his genuine simplicity—the simplicity which is
occasionally, but by no means always, the accompaniment of intellectual
power, and the possession of which usually denotes that power to be of a
very high order.  This simplicity deceived others not infrequently, but
it never deceived him; on the contrary, it was perpetually adding to his
knowledge, scientific and otherwise.

Both Professor Rossano’s children had inherited something of their
father’s nature, but Silvio had inherited it in a more complex way,
perhaps, than his sister.  In him the scientific tendency had shown
itself in the more practical form of a love for the purely mechanical
and utilitarian. Nevertheless, he had the same detached nature, the same
facility for regarding life from the objective point of view, as his
father, and the same good-humored if slightly cynical disposition.  Of
the two, Giacinta was probably the more completely practical, and had,
perhaps, the harder disposition.  Nor was this unnatural; for their
mother had died when Silvio was a child between five and six years old,
and Giacinta, being then nearly eight, had speedily acquired a certain
sense of responsibility, which, owing to the professor’s absorption in
his scientific researches, largely increased as time went on.  But
Giacinta, also, had her full share of good-nature and sympathy, though
she was incapable of, as it were, holding herself mentally aloof from
the world around her as did her father and, to a certain degree, her
brother.

Breakfast over, Professor Rossano soon retired again to the correction
of his proofs, leaving Giacinta and Silvio alone together.  For a short
time neither of them spoke, and Silvio apparently devoted his whole
attention to the proper roasting of the end of a "Verginia" cigar in the
flame of a candle.  Giacinta meditated on the possible contents of the
piece of paper that she felt positive was still lying in a crumpled
condition in her brother’s pocket, and wondered what particular part the
lady who had passed them on the staircase might be playing in the
business—though she had already made a very natural guess at it.  She
would have given a good deal to know whether the note—or the memorandum,
as Silvio had called it, with a possibly unconscious humor that had made
Giacinta smile—was written by Bianca Acorari herself or by the quietly
dressed young person who was, no doubt, Bianca’s daily governess. If it
were from Donna Bianca, then things must have advanced to what the
professor would have termed the contagious stage—only Giacinta did not
employ that simile, its suggestiveness having escaped her—which would be
a decidedly serious affair.  If, however, as was far more probable, the
missive came from the governess, who had been disappointed of the
expected opportunity to give it to Silvio unobserved, and so had dropped
it for him to pick up, the matter was serious, too, but not so serious.
If Silvio had won over the governess to aid him in furthering his plans,
Giacinta thought that she, too, might manage to do a little corrupting
on her own account with the same individual.  It did not immediately
strike her that Silvio’s sex, as well as his particularly attractive
face and personality, might have removed many difficulties out of his
path in dealing with the demure-looking female who devoted three hours a
day to the improvement of Donna Bianca’s education.

Presently, Giacinta became restive under the prolonged silence which
followed the professor’s departure from the room.

"You see, Silvio," she observed, as though she were merely continuing an
interrupted conversation, "it is not only I who notice that you have had
your head in the clouds lately—oh, ever since Christmas.  And first of
all, people will say: ’He is in love’—as Giacomelli said to papa
yesterday; and then they will begin to ask: ’Who is the girl?’  And
then, very soon, some busybody will find out.  It is always like that.
And then—"

"Yes, Giacinta—and then?" repeated Silvio.

"I will tell you!" returned Giacinta, decidedly.  "Then that priest,
Monsieur l’Abbé Roux, as they call him, will be sent by the princess to
see papa, and there will be well, a terrible _disturbo_—"

"The Abbé Roux can go to hell," observed Silvio.

"Afterwards—yes, perhaps.  Papa has several times given him a similar
permission.  But in the mean time he will make matters exceedingly
unpleasant.  After all, Silvio," Giacinta continued, "let us be
reasonable.  The girl is an heiress—a princess in her own right, and
we—we are not noble.  You know what the world would say."

Silvio Rossano glanced at her.

"We are Romans," he said, "of a family as old as the Acorari themselves.
It is true that we are not noble. Perhaps, when we look at some of those
who are, it is as well!  But we are not poor, either, Giacinta—not so
poor as to have to be fed by rich American and English adventurers at
the Grand Hôtel, like some of your nobles."

Giacinta shrugged her shoulders.  "Donna Bianca Acorari is of that
class," she said, quietly.

Silvio instantly flew into a rage.  "That is so like a woman!" he
retorted.  "Do you suppose I meant to imply that all our nobles are like
that?  Each class has its _canaglia_, and the pity of it is that the
foreigners as a rule see more of our _canaglia_ than they do of the
rest, and judge us accordingly.  As to Donna Bianca Acorari, we can
leave her name out of the discussion—"

Giacinta laughed.  "Scarcely," she said; "but, Silvio _mio_, you must
not be angry.  You know that I do not care at all whether people are
noble by birth or whether they are not.  All the same, I think you are
preparing for yourself a great deal of mortification; and for that girl,
if you make her care for you, a great deal of unhappiness.  You see how
she is isolated.  Does anybody, even of their own world, ever come to
visit the princess and Donna Bianca?  A few old women come occasionally,
and a few priests—but that is all.  Who or what the girl is being kept
for I do not know—but it is certainly not for marriage with one not of
her condition.  Besides, except as her _fidanzato_, what opportunity
could you have, or ever hope to have, of seeing her or of knowing what
her feelings might be towards you?"

"And if I know them already?" burst out Silvio.

Giacinta looked grave.

"If you know them already," she said, "it means—well, it means that
somebody has been behaving like an idiot."

"I, for instance!" exclaimed Silvio.

"Certainly, you—before anybody, you.  Afterwards—"

"Afterwards—?"

"The woman who dropped the note that you have in your pocket."

"Giacinta!"

"Oh, I am not an imbecile, you know, Silvio.  You were waiting for that
woman to come away from her morning’s lessons with Bianca, and I do not
suppose it is the first time that you have waited for her—and—and, what
is to be the end of it all, Heaven only knows," concluded Giacinta.  It
was a weak conclusion, and she was fully aware of the fact; but a look
on Silvio’s face warned her that she had said enough for the moment.

He took his cigar from his lips and threw it out of the open window.
Then, rising from his chair, he came and stood by his sister.

"I will tell you the end of it," he said, very quietly—and his eyes
seemed to send forth little flashes of light as he spoke.  "The end of
it will be that I will marry Bianca Acorari.  You quite understand,
Giacinta?  Noble or not, heiress or not, I will marry her, and she will
marry me."

"But, Silvio—it is impossible—it is a madness—"

"_Basta_!  I say that I will marry her.  Have I failed yet in anything
that I have set myself to do, Giacinta?  But you," he added, in a
sterner voice than Giacinta had ever heard from him—"you will keep
silence.  You will know nothing, see nothing.  If the time comes when I
need your help, I will come to you and ask you to give it me, as I would
give it you."

Giacinta was silent for a moment.  Then she plucked up her courage to
make one more effort to stem the current of a passion that she felt
would carry Silvio away with it, she knew not whither.

"But the girl," she said, "she is almost a child still, Silvio.  Have
you thought what unhappiness you may bring upon her if—if the princess,
and that priest who, they say, manages all her affairs, should prove too
strong for you? You do not know; they might put her in a
convent—anywhere—to get her away from you."

Silvio Rossano swore under his breath.

"_Basta_, Giacinta!" he exclaimed again.  "I say that I will marry her."

And then, before Giacinta had time to reply, he suddenly kissed her and
went quickly out of the room.




                                  *V*


Giacinto Rossano was quite mistaken in supposing the piece of paper she
had seen her brother thrust into his pocket to have been still there
when he returned to her after its pretended restoration to its rightful
owner.  As a matter of fact, a capricious April breeze was blowing its
scattered remnants about the court-yard of Palazzo Acorari, for Silvio
had torn it into little shreds so soon as he had read the words written
upon it.

She had been perfectly correct, however, in her other suppositions, for
since Silvio had first beheld Donna Bianca in the church of the Sudario
on Christmas night, he had certainly not wasted his time.  He had been,
it is true, considerably dismayed at learning from Giacinta who the girl
was who had so immediate and so powerful an attraction for him.  Had she
been almost anything else than what she was, he thought to himself
impatiently, the situation would have been a far simpler one; but
between him and the heiress and last remaining representative of the
Acorari, princes of Montefiano, there was assuredly a great gulf fixed,
not in rank only, but in traditional prejudices of caste, in
politics—even, it might be said, in religion—since Bianca Acorari no
doubt implicitly believed all that the Church proposed to be believed,
while he, like most educated laymen, believed—considerably less.

Perhaps the very difficulties besetting his path made Silvio Rossano the
more determined to conquer them and tread that path to the end.  What he
had said of himself to his sister, not in any spirit of conceit, but
rather in the confident assurance which his youth and ardent temperament
gave him, was true.  When he had set his mind on success, he had always
gained it in the end; and why should he not gain it now?

After all, there were things in his favor.  Although he might not be of
noble blood, his family was a good and an old one.  There had been
Rossano in Rome before a peasant of the name of Borghese became a pope
and turned his relations into princes.  One of these early Rossano,
indeed, had been a cardinal.  But, unluckily for the family, he had also
been a conscientious priest and an honest man—a combination rarely to be
met with in the Sacred College of those days.

But there were other things to which Silvio attached more weight—things
of the present which must ever appeal to youth more than those of the
past.  His father was a distinguished man; and he himself might
have—nay, would have—a distinguished career before him.  Money, too, was
not wanting to him.  The professor was not a rich man; but he had
considerably more capital to divide between his two children than many
people possessed who drove up and down the Corso with coronets on their
carriages, while their creditors saluted them from the pavements.

And there were yet other things which Silvio, reflecting upon the wares
he had to go to market with, thought he might fairly take into account,
details such as good character, good health, and—well, for some reason
or other, women had never looked unfavorably upon him, though he had
hitherto been singularly indifferent as to whether they did so or not.
Something—the professor would no doubt have found a scientific
explanation of a radio-active nature for it—told him, even in that
instant when he first met her glance, that Bianca Acorari did not find
him _antipatico_. He wondered very much how far he had been able to
convey to her his impressions as regarded herself.

In an incredibly short space of time it had become absolutely necessary
to him to satisfy his curiosity on this point—hence that sudden desire
to attend the early masses at Santa Maria in Campitelli, which had done
more than anything else to arouse Giacinta’s suspicions.

For some weeks, however, Silvio had been absolutely foiled in his
attempts again to find himself near Bianca Acorari.  He had very quickly
realized that any efforts on his sister’s part to improve her
acquaintance with the girl would be detrimental rather than the reverse
to his own objects, and he had, consequently, soon ceased to urge
Giacinta to make them.  But Silvio Rossano had not spent several years
of his boyhood in drawing plans and making calculations for nothing; and
he had set himself to think out the situation in much the same spirit as
that in which he would have grappled with a professional problem
demanding accurate solution.

Occasionally he had caught glimpses of Bianca as she went out driving
with the princess, and once or twice he had seen her walking in the
early morning, accompanied by the same woman who had been with her in
the Sudario.  It had been impossible, of course, for him to venture to
salute her, even if he had not fancied that her companion eyed him
sharply, as though suspecting that his proximity was not merely
accidental.

Bettina was probably unconscious that she had been more than once the
subject of a searching study on the part of the _signorino_ of the
second floor, as she called him.  But the results of the study were
negative, for Silvio had instinctively felt that any attempt to suborn
Donna Bianca’s maid would almost certainly prove disastrous.  The woman
was not young enough to be romantic, he thought, with some shrewdness,
nor old enough to be avaricious.

And so he had found himself obliged to discover a weaker point in the
defences of Casa Acorari, and this time fortune favored him; though in
those calmer moments, when scruples of conscience are apt to become so
tiresome, he felt somewhat ashamed of himself for taking advantage of
it.

It had not escaped Silvio’s notice that punctually at nine o’clock every
morning a neatly dressed Frenchwoman entered Palazzo Acorari, and was
admitted into the princess’s apartment, and the porter informed him that
she was the _principessina’s_ governess, who came from nine o’clock till
twelve every day, excepting Sundays and the great _feste_.

Silvio studied Donna Bianca’s governess as he had studied her maid.
Mademoiselle Durand was certainly much younger than the latter, and
better looking.  Moreover, unlike Bettina, she did not look at Silvio
witheringly when she happened to meet him in or near Palazzo Acorari,
but perhaps a little the reverse.  At any rate, after a few mornings on
which bows only were exchanged between them, Silvio felt that he might
venture to remark on the beauty of the spring weather.  He spoke French
fluently, though with the usual unmistakable Italian accent, and his
overtures were well received.

Mademoiselle Durand smiled pleasantly.  "Monsieur lived in Palazzo
Acorari, did he not?  A son of the famous Professor Rossano?  Ah,
yes—she had heard him lecture at the Collegio Romano.  But perhaps it
would be as well not to say so to Madame la Princesse.  Madame la
Princesse did not approve of science"—and Mademoiselle Durand looked at
him, smiling again.  Then she colored a little, for her glance had been
one of obvious admiration, though Silvio, full of his own thoughts, was
not aware of it.

After that, the ice once broken, it had been an easy matter to become
fairly intimate with Donna Bianca’s instructress.  Knowing the precise
hour at which she was accustomed to leave Palazzo Acorari, Silvio
frequently managed to meet her as she crossed the Piazza Campitelli on
her way back to her abode in the Via d’Ara Coeli, where she occupied a
couple of rooms over a small curiosity shop.

Fortunately, probably, for Silvio, Mademoiselle Durand very soon
discovered that it was due to no special interest in herself if this
good-looking young Roman sought her acquaintance.  It had scarcely
struck him that his advances might easily be misinterpreted; and,
indeed, for the space of a few days there had been not a little danger
of this misinterpretation actually occurring.  The shrewdness of her
race, however, had prevented Mademoiselle Durand from deceiving herself;
and Silvio’s questions, which he flattered himself were triumphs of
subtle diplomacy, speedily revealed to her how and where the land lay.

On the whole, the thought of lending herself to a little intrigue rather
commended itself to the Frenchwoman. Life in Rome was not very amusing,
and to be the confidante in a love-affair, and especially in such an
apparently hopeless love-affair, would add an interest to it.  Perhaps a
little of the sentimentality, the existence of which in Bettina Silvio
had doubted, entered into the matter. Mademoiselle Durand liked her
pupil, and had always secretly pitied her for the dulness and isolation
of her life; and as for Silvio—well, when he looked at her with his soft
Roman eyes, and seemed to be throwing himself upon her generosity and
compassion, Mademoiselle Durand felt that she would do anything in the
world he asked her to do.  The Princess of Montefiano she regarded as a
mere machine in the hands of the Abbé Roux.  Though she had only been a
few moments in her present position, Mademoiselle Durand had fully
realized that the Abbé Roux was master in the Montefiano establishment;
and, though she had been highly recommended to the princess by most
pious people, she entertained a cordial dislike to priests except in
church, where, she averred, they were necessary to the business, and no
doubt useful enough.

"It is Monsieur l’Abbé of whom you must beware," she insisted to Silvio,
after she was in full possession of his secret.  "The princess is an
imbecile—so engaged in trying to secure a good place in the next world
that she has made herself a nonentity in this.  No—it is of the priest
you must think.  I do not suppose it would suit him that Donna Bianca
should marry."

"Does he want to put her in a convent, then?" asked Silvio, angrily, on
hearing this remark.

"But no, Monsieur Silvio!  Convents are like husbands—they want a
dowry."  She looked at Silvio sharply as she spoke, but it was clear to
her that he was quite unconscious of any possible allusion to himself in
her words.

"It is true, mademoiselle," he answered, thoughtfully.  "I forgot that.
It is a very unlucky thing that Donna Bianca Acorari has not half a
dozen brothers and as many sisters; for then she would have very little
money, I should imagine, and no titles."

Mademoiselle Durand hesitated for a moment.  Then she looked at him
again, and this time her black eyes no longer had the same shrewd,
suspicious expression.

"_Tiens!_" she muttered to herself; and then she said, aloud: "And what
do you want me to do for you, Monsieur Silvio? You have not confided in
me for nothing—_hein_?  Am I to take your proposals for Donna Bianca’s
hand to Madame la Princesse?  It seems to me that monsieur your father
is the fit and proper person to send on such an errand, and not a poor
governess."

"_Per Carità!_" exclaimed Silvio, relapsing in his alarm into his native
tongue.  "Of course I do not mean that, mademoiselle.  I thought
perhaps—that is to say, I hoped—"

He looked so disconcerted that Mademoiselle Durand laughed outright.

"No, _mon ami_," she replied.  "I may call you that, Monsieur Silvio,
may I not, since conspirators should be friends?  I promise you I will
not give your secret away. All the same, unless I am mistaken, there is
one person to whom you wish me to confide it—is it not so?"

"Yes," replied Silvio; "there is certainly one person."

"But it will not be easy," continued Mademoiselle Durand, "and it will
take time.  Yes," she added, as though to herself—"it will be fairly
amusing to outwit Monsieur l’Abbé—only—only—" and then she paused,
hesitatingly.

"Only?" repeated Silvio, interrogatively.

"_Ma foi_, monsieur, only this," exclaimed his companion, energetically,
"that I like the child, and I do not wish any harm to come to her
through me.  Have you thought well, Monsieur Silvio?  You say that you
love her, and that she can learn to love you; you will marry her if she
be twenty times Princess of Montefiano.  Well, I believe that you love
her; and if a good countenance is any proof of a good heart, your love
should be worth having.  But if you make her love you, and are not
strong enough to break down the barriers which will be raised to prevent
her from marrying you, will you not be bringing on her a greater
unhappiness than if you left her to her natural destiny?"

Silvio was silent for a moment.  Was this not what Giacinta had said to
him more than once?  Then a dogged expression came over his face—his
eyes seemed to harden suddenly, and his lips compressed themselves.

"Her destiny is to be my wife," he said, briefly.

Mademoiselle Durand shot a quick glance of approval at him.

"_Diable!_" she exclaimed, "but you Romans have wills of your own even
in these days, it seems.  And suppose the girl never learns to care for
you—how then, Monsieur Silvio?  Will you carry her off as your ancestors
did the Sabine women?"

Silvio shrugged his shoulders.  "She will learn to care for me," he
said, "if she is properly taught."

Mademoiselle Durand laughed.  "_Tiens!_" she murmured again.  "And I am
to give her a little rudimentary instruction—to prepare her, in short,
for more advanced knowledge?  Oh, la, la!  Monsieur Silvio, you must
know that such things do not come within the province of a daily
governess."

"But you see her for three hours every day," returned Silvio, earnestly.
"In three hours one can do a great deal," he continued.

"A great deal too much sometimes!" interrupted Mademoiselle Durand
rapidly, under her breath.

"And when it is day after day," proceeded Silvio, "it is much easier.  A
word here, and a word there, and she would soon learn that there is
somebody who loves her—somebody who would make her a better husband than
some brainless idiot of her own class, who will only want her money and
her lands.  And then, perhaps, if we could meet—if she could hear it all
from my lips, she would understand."

Mademoiselle Durand gave a quick little sigh.  "Oh," she said, "if she
could learn it all from your lips, I have no doubt that she would
understand very quickly.  Most women would, Monsieur Silvio."

"That is what I thought," observed Silvio, naïvely.

The Frenchwoman tapped her foot impatiently on the ground.

"Well," she said, after a pause, "I will see what I can do. But you must
be patient.  Only, do not blame me if things go wrong—for they are
scarcely likely to go right, I should say.  For me it does not matter.
I came to Rome to learn Italian and to teach French—and other things.  I
have done both; and in any case, when my engagement with Madame la
Princesse is over, I shall return to Paris, and then perhaps go to
London or Petersburg—who knows?  So if my present engagement were to end
somewhat abruptly, I should be little the worse.  Yes—I will help you,
_mon ami_—if I can.  Oh, not for money—I am not of that sort—but
for—well, for other things."

"What other things?" asked Silvio, absently.

Mademoiselle Durand fairly stamped her foot this time.

"_Peste!_" she exclaimed, sharply.  "What do they matter—the other
things?  Let us say that I want to play a trick on the princess; to
spite the priest—by-the-way, Monsieur l’Abbé sometimes looks at me in a
way that I am sure you never look at women, Monsieur Silvio!  Let us say
that I am sorry for that poor child, who will lead a stagnant existence
till she is a dried-up old maid, unless somebody rescues her.  All these
things are true, and are they not reasons enough?"

And Silvio was quite satisfied that they were so.




                                  *VI*


Bianca Acorari was sitting by herself in the room devoted to her own
especial use, where she studied in the mornings with Mademoiselle
Durand, and, indeed, spent most of her time.  It was now the beginning
of June—the moment in all the year, perhaps, when Rome is the most
enjoyable; when the hotels are empty, and the foreigners have fled
before the imaginary spectres of heat, malaria, and other evils to which
those who remain in the city during the late spring and summer are
popularly supposed to fall victims.

Entertainments, except those of an intimate character, being at an end,
the American invasion has rolled northward. The gaunt English spinsters,
severe of aspect, and with preposterous feet, who have spent the winter
in the environs of the Piazza di Spagna with the double object of
improving their minds and converting some of the "poor, ignorant Roman
Catholics" to Protestantism, have gone northward too, to make merriment
for the inhabitants of Perugia, or Sienna, of Venice, and a hundred
other hunting-grounds. Only the German tourists remain, carrying with
them the atmosphere of the _bierhalle_ wherever they go, and generally
behaving themselves as though Italy were a province of the fatherland.
In the summer months Rome is her true self, and those who know her not
then know her not at all.

To Bianca Acorari, however, all seasons of the year were much the same,
excepting the three months or so that she passed in the villa near
Velletri.  To these months she looked forward with delight.  The dull
routine of her life in Rome was interrupted, and any variety was
something in the nature of an excitement.  It was pleasanter to be able
to wander about the gardens and vineyards belonging to the villa than to
drive about Rome in a closed carriage, waiting perhaps for an hour or
more outside some convent or charitable institution while her
step-mother was engaged in pious works.  At the Villa Acorari, she could
at all events walk about by herself, so long as she did not leave its
grounds. But these grounds were tolerably extensive, and there were many
quiet nooks whither Bianca was wont to resort and dream over what might
be going on in that world around her, of which she supposed it must be
the natural lot of princesses to know very little.  The absence of
perpetual supervision, the sense of being free to be alone out-of-doors
if she chose to be so, was a luxury all the more enjoyable after eight
months spent in Palazzo Acorari.

But within the last few weeks Bianca Acorari had become vaguely
conscious of the presence of something fresh in her life, something as
yet indefinable, but around which her thoughts, hitherto purely
abstract, seemed to concentrate themselves.  The world was no longer
quite the unknown realm peopled with shadows that it had till recently
appeared to her to be.  It held individuals; individuals in whom she
could take an interest, and who, if she was to believe what she was
told, took an interest in her.  That it was a forbidden interest—a thing
to be talked about with bated breath, and that only to one discreet and
sympathizing friend, did not by any means diminish its fascination.

It had spoken well for Mademoiselle Durand’s capabilities of reading the
characters of her pupils that she had at once realized that what Bianca
Acorari lacked in her life was human sympathy.  This the girl had never
experienced; but, all the same, it was evident to any one who, like
Mademoiselle Durand, had taken the trouble to study her nature, that she
was unconsciously crying out for it.  There was, indeed, not a person
about her with whom she had anything in common.  The princess, wrapped
up in her religion and in her anxiety to keep her own soul in a proper
state of polish, was an egoist, as people perpetually bent upon laying
up for themselves treasure in heaven usually are.  And Bianca
practically had no other companion than her stepmother except servants,
for the few people she occasionally saw at rare intervals did not enter
in the smallest degree into her life.

Mademoiselle Durand had very soon discovered Bianca’s desire to know the
girl who lived in the apartment above her, and her annoyance that she
had not been allowed to make any acquaintance with the Signorina
Rossano.  This very natural wish on her pupil’s part to make friends
with some one of her own sex, and more nearly approaching her own age
than the people by whom she was surrounded, had afforded Mademoiselle
Durand the very opening she required in order to commence her campaign
in Silvio Rossano’s interests.  As she had anticipated, it had proved no
difficult matter to sing the praises of the brother while apparently
conversing with Bianca about the sister, and it must be confessed that
she sang Silvio’s praises in a manner by no means half-hearted.  Nor did
Mademoiselle Durand find that her efforts fell upon altogether unwilling
ears.  It was evident that in some way or another Bianca’s curiosity had
been already aroused, and that she was not altogether ignorant of the
fact that the heretical professor’s good-looking son regarded her with
some interest.

Mademoiselle Durand, indeed, was somewhat surprised at the readiness
displayed by her pupil to discuss not only Giacinta, but also Giacinta’s
brother, and she at first suspected that things were a little further
advanced than Silvio had pretended to be the case.

She soon came to the conclusion, however, that this was not so, and that
Bianca’s curiosity was at present the only feeling which had been
aroused in her.

Mademoiselle Durand was not particularly well-read in her Bible; but she
did remember that curiosity in woman had, from the very beginning of
things, been gratified by man, and also that the action of a third party
had before now been necessary in order to bring the desired object
within the reach of both.  She was aware that the action of the third
party had not been regarded as commendable; nevertheless, she quieted
any qualms of conscience by the thought that, after all, circumstances
in this case were somewhat different.

On this particular June afternoon Bianca Acorari was free to amuse
herself in-doors as she chose until five o’clock, at which hour the
princess had ordered the carriage, and Bianca would have to accompany
her to visit an orphanage outside the Porta Pia.  She was not at all
sorry for those orphans.  An orphan herself, she had always thought
their life must be certainly more amusing than her own, and she had once
ventured to hint as much, to the manifest annoyance of her step-mother,
who had reproved her for want of charity.

The afternoon was warm, and Bianca, tired of reading, and still more
tired of a certain piece of embroidery destined to serve as an
altar-frontal for a convent-chapel, sat dreaming in the subdued light
coming through closed _persiennes_. Through the open windows she could
hear the distant noise of the traffic in the streets, the monotonous cry
of _Fragole! Fragole!_ of the hawkers of fresh strawberries from Nemi
and the Alban Hills, and now and again the clock of some neighboring
church striking the quarters of the hour.

In a little more than a fortnight, Bianca was saying to herself with
satisfaction—when St. Peter’s day was over, before which festival the
princess would never dream of leaving Rome—she would be at the Villa
Acorari, away from the dust and the glare of the city, passing those hot
hours of the day in the deep, cool shade of the old ilex-trees, and
listening to the murmur of the moss-grown fountains in the quiet
grounds, half garden and half wilderness, that surrounded the house.

The view from the ilex avenue seemed to unfold itself before her—the
vine-clad ridges melting away into the plain beneath, Cori, Norma, and
Sermoneta just visible, perched on the distant mountain-sides away
towards the south; and, rising out of the blue mist, with the sea
flashing in the sunlight around it, Monte Circeo, the scene of so many
mysterious legends both in the past and in the present.  Far away over
the Campagna the hot summer haze quivered over Rome.  Bianca could see
it all in her imagination as she sat with her hands clasped behind her
tawny mass of curling hair; though, in reality, her eyes were fastened
upon an indifferent painting of a Holy Family, in which St. Joseph
appeared more conscious than usual of being _de trop_.

The three hours of studies with Mademoiselle Durand that morning had
been frequently interrupted by conversation. Of late, indeed, this had
often been the case.  Bianca had been delighted when she learned that
Mademoiselle Durand was intimate with the Rossano family, and the
governess had not thought it necessary to explain that Silvio was the
only member of it with whom she was on speaking terms.

The fact was that Silvio had been becoming impatient lately, and
Mademoiselle Durand’s task grew more difficult in consequence.  To
afford him any opportunity of meeting Bianca, or of interchanging even a
single word with her, appeared to be impossible.  The girl was too well
guarded. Mademoiselle Durand had once suggested to her that she should
take her some morning to the galleries in the Vatican which Bianca had
never seen.  The princess’s permission had, of course, to be obtained,
and Bianca broached the subject one day at breakfast.  For a moment her
step-mother had hesitated, and seemed disposed to allow her to accept
Mademoiselle Durand’s proposition.  Unfortunately, however, Monsieur
l’Abbé was present, and, true to her practice, the princess appealed to
him as to whether there could be any objections.

Apparently there were objections, although the Abbé Roux did not specify
them.  But Bianca knew by his manner that he disapproved of the idea,
and was not surprised, therefore, when the princess said it could not
be—adding that she would herself take her through the Vatican some day.

It was but another instance, Bianca thought, of the priest’s
interference in her life, and she resented it accordingly.  Latterly she
had become much more friendly with Mademoiselle Durand, who had at first
confined herself almost entirely to lessons during the hours she was at
Palazzo Acorari.

Nevertheless, after it became evident that she would never be allowed to
go out under her escort, Bianca thought it prudent not to let it be
supposed that Mademoiselle Durand talked with her on any other subject
but those she was engaged to talk about, lest she should be dismissed
and a less agreeable woman take her place.

Whether it was that Mademoiselle Durand was urged to stronger efforts by
Silvio Rossano’s increasing impatience, or whether she considered the
time arrived when she could safely venture to convey to her pupil that
Giacinta Rossano’s good-looking brother was madly in love with her, the
fact remained on this particular morning that never before had she
spoken so much or so openly of Silvio, and of the happiness that was in
store for any girl sensible enough to marry him.

Bianca Acorari sat listening in silence for some time.

"He is certainly very handsome," she observed, presently—"and he looks
good," she added, meditatively.

"Handsome!" ejaculated Mademoiselle Durand.  "There is a statue in the
Vatican—a Hermes, they call it—  Well, never mind—of course he is
handsome.  And as to being good, a young man who is a good son and a
good brother makes a good husband—if he gets the wife he wants.  If not,
it does not follow.  I am sorry for that poor boy—truly sorry for him!"
she added, with a sigh.

Bianca pushed away a French history book and became suddenly more
interested.

"Why, mademoiselle?" she asked.

Mademoiselle Durand pursed up her lips.

"Because I fear that he will certainly be very unhappy. _Enfin_, he _is_
very unhappy, so there is no more to be said."

"He did not look it when I saw him," observed Bianca, tranquilly.

Mademoiselle Durand glanced at her.  Like Princess Montefiano, she was
never quite sure how much might be concealed beneath Bianca’s quiet
manner.  But, like most of her race, she was quick to seize a point in
conversation and use it to advance her own argument.

"Of course he did not look it—when you saw him," she repeated, "or when
he saw you," she added, significantly.

Bianca knitted her brows.  "If he is unhappy," she said, "and I am very
sorry he should be unhappy—I do not see how a person he does not know
can make him less so."

"That," said Mademoiselle Durand, "all depends on who the person is.  It
is certainly very sad—poor young man!" and she sighed again.

"I suppose," Bianca said, thoughtfully, "that he is in love with
somebody—somebody whom he cannot marry."

"Yes," returned Mademoiselle Durand, dryly, "he is in love with
somebody.  He could marry her, perhaps—"

"Then why doesn’t he?" Bianca asked, practically.

Mademoiselle Durand was a little taken aback at the abruptness of the
question.

"I will tell you," she replied, after hesitating for a moment or two.
"He has no opportunity of seeing the girl, except sometimes as she is
driving in her carriage, or well, in church.  By-the-way, I believe he
first saw her in a church, and fell in love with her.  That was odd, was
it not? But what is the use of seeing people if you can never speak to
them?"

"He could speak to her parents," said Bianca, who apparently knew what
was proper under such circumstances.

Mademoiselle Durand shrugged her shoulders.

"Scarcely," she said, "since they are in heaven.  Besides, he would not
be allowed to ask for this girl’s hand in any case.  She is like you, of
noble birth; and, like you again, she is rich.  Those about her, I dare
say, are not very anxious that she should marry at all.  It is
possible."

Bianca Acorari did not speak for a few moments.  At length she said,
slowly: "I wonder what you would do, mademoiselle, if you knew somebody
was in love with you, and you were not allowed to see or speak to that
person?"

Mademoiselle Durand looked at her critically.

"It entirely depends," she replied.

"And upon what?"

"Upon what?  Oh, upon something very simple.  It would depend upon
whether I were in love with him."

"I don’t think it is at all simple," observed Bianca.  "How would you
know if you were in love with him or not?"

Mademoiselle Durand laughed outright.  Then she became suddenly grave.
"Well," she replied, after hesitating a moment, "I will tell you.  If I
thought I did not know—if I were not sure—I should say to myself:
’Marie, you are in love.  Why?  Because, if you are not, you would be
sure of the fact—oh, quite sure!’"

"And supposing you were in love with him?" demanded Bianca.  She looked
beyond Mademoiselle Durand as she spoke.

"Ah—if I were, then—well, then I should leave the rest to him to manage.
Between ourselves, I believe that to be what is troubling the poor young
Rossano.  He does not know if the girl he loves has any idea that he
does so, and still less if she could ever return his love.  It is very
sad. If I were that girl, I should certainly find some means of letting
him know that I cared for him—"

"But you say she cannot—that she would never be allowed—"

Mademoiselle Durand sang the first few bars of the _habanera_ in
"Carmen" to herself.  "When two people are in love," she observed, "they
do not always stop to think of what is allowed.  But, if you please,
Donna Bianca, we will go on with our history—I mean, our French history,
not that of Monsieur Silvio Rossano," and Mademoiselle Durand suddenly
reassumed her professional demeanor.

It was of this little interlude in her morning’s studies that Bianca
Acorari was meditating as she sat waiting for the hour when she would
have to accompany her step-mother in her afternoon drive.  She wished
that Mademoiselle Durand would have been more communicative.  It was
certainly interesting to hear about Giacinta Rossano’s brother.  Silvio!
Yes, it was a nice name, decidedly—and somehow, she thought, it suited
its owner.  It must be an odd sensation—that of being in love.  Perhaps
one always saw in the imagination the person one was in love with. One
saw a well-built figure and a sun-tanned face with dark, curling hair
clustering over a broad brow, and a pair of dark-blue eyes that
looked—but, how they looked! as though asking a perpetual question....
How pleasant it would be there in the gardens of Villa Acorari!—so quiet
and cool in the deep shade of the ilex-trees, with the sound of the
water falling from the fountains.  But it was a little dull to be
alone—always alone.  What a difference if she had had a brother, as
Giacinta Rossano had.  He would have wandered about with her sometimes,
perhaps, in these gardens ... and he and she would have sat and talked
together by the fountains where the water was always making a soft music
of its own.  What was the story she had heard the people tell of some
heathen god of long ago who haunted the ilex grove?  How still it
was—and how the water murmured always ... and the eyes looked at her,
always with that question in their blue depths—and the graceful head
with its short, close curls bent towards her ... the god, of course—they
said he often came—and how his sweet curved lips smiled at her as he
stood in that chequered ray of sunlight slanting through the heavy
foliage overhead....

And with a little sigh Bianca passed from dreaming into sleep; her face,
with its crown of tawny gold hair, thrown into sharp relief by the red
damask cushions of the chair on which she was sitting, and her lips
parted in a slight smile.




                                 *VII*


"Bianca is certainly a strange child," the Princess Montefiano was
saying.  "I confess I do not understand her; but then, I never did
understand children."

Baron d’Antin looked at his sister, and then he smiled a little
satirically.

"After all," he replied, "the fact is not surprising.  You married too
late in your life—or, shall we say, too late in your husband’s life—but
it does not matter!  No, Bianca is decidedly not like other girls of her
age, in certain ways. But I think, Jeanne, that you make a mistake in
regarding her as a child.  She seems to me to be a fairly well-developed
young woman."

"Physically so, perhaps," returned the princess.

Her brother smiled again—not a very pleasant smile. Monsieur d’Antin was
scarcely middle-aged, being a good many years younger than his sister.
He was tall for a Belgian, and tolerably handsome, with well-cut,
regular features, and iron-gray hair as yet fairly plentiful.  But he
was a man who looked as though he had "lived."  His eyes had a worn,
faded expression, which every now and then turned to a hard glitter when
they became animated; and his small, well-shaped hands were apt to move
restlessly, as though their owner’s nerves were not always in the best
of order.

"Physically?" he repeated.  "Precisely, my dear Jeanne. Physically, your
step-daughter is—well, no longer a child, we will suppose.  Some young
man will probably suppose the same thing one of these days; and he will
presumably not wish to confine himself to suppositions," and Monsieur
d’Antin blinked his eyes interrogatively at his sister.

During the last couple of years, Baron d’Antin had abandoned Brussels
and Paris, where he had hitherto passed the greater part of his time,
for Rome.  He had certainly not chosen Rome as a place of residence on
account of its worldly attractions, and its other claims to interest did
not particularly appeal to him.  As a matter of fact, Monsieur d’Antin
found Rome exceedingly dull, as a city.  It is, indeed, scarcely the
capital that a man of pleasure would elect to live in.  Now Monsieur
d’Antin had certainly been a man of pleasure while his constitution and
years had allowed him to be so, and he still liked amusing himself and
being amused.  Unfortunately, however, when necessity obliged him to
pursue other pastimes with greater moderation, he had given way more and
more to a passion for gambling, and he had left the larger portion of
his patrimony in clubs, both in his own capital, in Paris, and in Nice.
It was not unnatural, perhaps, that, on financial disaster overtaking
him, he should have remembered his sister, the Princess of Montefiano,
and have been seized with a desire to pass a season or two in Rome; and
it had never, somehow or other, been quite convenient to return to
Belgium or to Paris since.

He had come to Rome, he told his acquaintances, to economize; which, in
plainer language, meant to say that he had come there to live upon his
sister.  The princess, indeed, was not unconscious of the fact; but her
brother carried out his intention with such unfailing tact and
consideration that she had no excuse for resenting it.

Monsieur d’Antin did not often invade the austere seclusion of Palazzo
Acorari.  It would, no doubt, have been more economical to breakfast and
dine at his sister’s table, when not bidden elsewhere, than to eat at a
restaurant or club. But Monsieur d’Antin liked to be independent; and,
moreover, the pious atmosphere of Palazzo Acorari did not at all appeal
to him.

His sister bored him, and her entourage bored him still more.  It was
infinitely more convenient every now and then to borrow sums of money
from her to meet current expenses, on the tacit understanding that such
loans would never be repaid, than to take up his abode in Palazzo
Acorari, as the princess had at first more than once suggested he should
do.

Monsieur d’Antin was an egoist, pure and simple, but he could be a very
agreeable egoist—so long as he was supplied with all he wanted.
Fortunately, perhaps, for his popularity, his egoism was tempered by an
almost imperturbable good-humor, which, as a rule, prevented it from
ruffling the nerves of others.

There are some men, and a great many women, who invariably succeed in
obtaining what they want out of daily life.  Their needs are trifling,
possibly, but then life is made up of trifles—if one chooses to live
only for the present. But to be a really successful egoist, it is
necessary at all events to acquire a reputation for good-humor.

Monsieur d’Antin had acquired this reputation in Rome, as he had
acquired it elsewhere; and he was shrewd enough to make it one of his
most useful possessions.  Indeed, it was almost a pleasure to lose money
to Monsieur d’Antin at cards, or to place at his disposal any
convenience of which he might momentarily be in need, such was his
invariable _bonhomie_ in society.  He had very soon made a place for
himself in the Roman world, and in this it must be confessed that he had
shown remarkable ingenuity.  Had he arrived in the Eternal City
possessed of ready money, it would have made no difference whether he
was a Belgian gentleman or an English or American "bounder," for all
Rome would have willingly allowed him to entertain it at the Grand Hotel
or elsewhere, provided he got the right society women to "run him."  But
Baron d’Antin had arrived in Rome with no reputation at all, beyond that
of being an elderly _viveur_ who happened to be the brother of the
Principessa di Montefiano.  He had studied his ground, however, and it
had not taken him long to come to the conclusion that an unofficial
foreigner, to be a social success in modern Rome, must usually be either
an adventurer or a snob, and that the two almost invariably went
together.  Being a gentleman in his own country, albeit in somewhat
straitened circumstances, Monsieur d’Antin had at first been amazed at
the apparent inability of the average Romans of society to distinguish
between a foreigner, man or woman, who was well-bred and one who was
not.  Finally, he had come to the conclusion that good-breeding was not
expected from the unofficial foreigner, nor, indeed, any other of the
usual passports to society—but merely a supply of ready money and a
proper appreciation of the condescension on the part of the Roman
nobility in allowing it to be spent on their entertainment.  This,
however, was not a condition of affairs that suited Monsieur d’Antin’s
plans.  He had come to Rome not to be lived upon by the society he found
there, but to make that society useful to him.  That he had done so was
entirely due to his own social talents, and to his apparently amiable
disposition.  He had no need of the Palazzo Acorari, so far as his
society and his food were concerned, for there were few evenings of the
week during the winter and spring that he had not a dinner invitation;
and if by any chance he had no engagement for that meal, there were
various methods at his disposal of supplying the deficiency.

Altogether, Baron d’Antin had become _persona grata_ in Roman society,
and in his good-humored, careless way he had deliberately laid himself
out to be so, even waiving his prejudices and suppressing a certain
nervous irritation which the Anglo-Saxon race generally produced in him,
sufficiently to dine with its Roman members in their rented palaces.

"My dear Jeanne," he would say to his sister, "you have no sense of
humor—absolutely none at all.  I dined the other night with some of my
Anglo-Saxon friends—I should rather say that I passed some hours of the
evening in eating and drinking with them.  The wines were
execrable—execrable!—and the man who poured them out told us their
supposed dates.  Some of them, I believe, had been purchased when Noah
sold off his cellar after the subsidence of the flood—although, if I
remember rightly, he liked his wine, and his—well, sacred history is
more in your line than mine, Jeanne.  In any case, it was very
amusing—and when one looked at the fine old rooms—the _mise en scène_ of
the comedy, you know—it was more amusing still."

But Monsieur d’Antin was much too shrewd to laugh at any of the
component parts of the society he had determined to exploit.  Had he
wanted nothing out of it, as he frequently told himself, he could have
afforded to laugh a good deal; and, being possessed of a very keen sense
of humor, he would probably have done so.  As it was, however, he
concealed his amusement, or, at the most, allowed himself to give it
rein when calling upon his sister, who was unable to appreciate his
sarcasms, living as she did, completely apart from the cosmopolitan
society in which her brother preferred to move.

Monsieur d’Antin had been paying the princess one of his occasional
visits, which he did at regular intervals.  To say the truth, he did not
by any means approve of the compatriot he as often as not would find
sitting with his sister when he was announced.  He was well aware that
Jeanne was a very pious woman; and very pious women, especially those
who had reached a certain age, liked to have a priest at their beck and
call.  This, Monsieur d’Antin considered, was very natural—pathetically
natural, indeed.  All the same, he wished that the Abbé Roux had been an
Italian, and not a Belgian priest.  When Monsieur d’Antin had first
appeared upon the scene in Rome, he had instantly felt that the director
of his sister’s spiritual affairs was not over well pleased at his
coming.  Accustomed as he was to study those with whom he was likely at
any time to be brought much into contact, Baron d’Antin had at once
arrived at the conclusion that the abbé probably did not confine himself
to the direction of Princess Montefiano’s spiritual concerns only;
otherwise the advent of her brother would have left him profoundly
indifferent.  A sudden instinct told Monsieur d’Antin that he and the
priest must clash—and then he had reflected, not without some humor,
that, after all, there might be such a thing as honor among thieves.  He
had done his best to conciliate the Abbé Roux whenever they had chanced
to meet at Palazzo Acorari, but the priest had not responded in any way
to his advances.  Monsieur d’Antin knew that the late Prince Montefiano
had left as much as the law allowed him to leave in his wife’s hands,
and that she was his daughter’s sole guardian until the girl should
marry or come of age.  The princess, however, had never written to her
brother concerning her affairs—neither had there been any particular
reason why she should do so.  Rome had absorbed her, and even for some
years before her marriage she had practically become Roman in everything
but in name.  There are many, both women and men, whom Rome has absorbed
in a similar way; nor can an explanation of her magnetic attraction
always be found in religion or in art, since the irreligious and the
inartistic are equally prone to fall under her spell.  Rather, perhaps,
is the secret of her power to be found in the mysterious sense of
universal motherhood which clings around her name—in the knowledge, at
once awe-inspiring and comforting, that there is no good and no evil, no
joy and no sorrow which humanity can experience, unknown to her; and
that however heavily the burden may bear upon our shoulders as we walk
through her streets, multitudes more laden than we have trod those
stones before us, and have found—rest.

It could hardly be supposed, however, that the burden borne by Princess
Montefiano was of a nature requiring the psychological assistance of
Rome to lighten it.  So far as she was concerned—and in this she
differed in no respect from many other pious people of both sexes—Rome
merely suggested itself to her as a place offering peculiar facilities
for the keeping of her soul in a satisfactory state of polish.

As he saw more of his sister in her home life, Monsieur d’Antin became
convinced that the Abbé Roux, as he had at once suspected, by no means
confined himself to directing her spiritual affairs.  It was very
evident that the Abbé managed Palazzo Acorari, and this was quite
sufficient to account for his distant attitude towards a possible
intruder. As a matter of fact, Monsieur d’Antin had no great desire to
intrude.  He intended to benefit by the accident of having a sister who
was also a Roman princess with a comfortable dowry, and he had very
quickly made up his mind not to attempt to interfere with the Abbé Roux
so long as that ecclesiastic did not attempt to interfere with him.

During the last few months, Monsieur d’Antin had often found himself
wondering what his sister’s position would be should her step-daughter
marry.  In any case, scarcely four years would elapse before Donna
Bianca Acorari must enter into absolute possession of the Montefiano
estates, and yet it was evident that the princess regarded her as a mere
child who could be kept in the background.  It had not escaped his
notice that it was clearly his sister’s wish that Donna Bianca should
not receive any more attention than would naturally be paid to a child.
Nevertheless, when Monsieur d’Antin looked at the girl, he would say to
himself that Jeanne was shutting her eyes to obvious facts, and that at
some not very distant day they would probably be opened unexpectedly.

He had tried to make friends with Bianca, but the princess had markedly
discouraged any such efforts; and latterly he had observed that his
sister almost invariably sent her step-daughter out of the room if she
happened to be in it when he was announced.

Bianca Acorari herself had shown no disinclination to be friendly with
her newly arrived step-uncle.  Anybody who was not the Abbé Roux was
welcome in her eyes.  When Monsieur d’Antin had first come to Rome,
before he had realized the monotony of domestic life in Palazzo Acorari,
he had been in the habit of coming there more frequently than was now
the case, and had repeatedly dined with his sister Bianca, and
occasionally the Abbé Roux, making a little _partie carrée_.

It had amused him to address no small part of his conversation to his
step-niece during these little dinners, and Bianca had talked to him
readily enough.  She was pleased, possibly, at having the opportunity to
show the Abbé Roux that she could talk, if there was anybody she cared
to talk with.  Perhaps Monsieur d’Antin, with his accustomed
penetration, had already guessed that the relations between the girl and
her step-mother’s spiritual director were those of a species of armed
neutrality, at all events upon Bianca’s side.  However this might be, he
had affected not to perceive the obvious disapproval with which his
sister regarded his endeavors always to draw Bianca into the
conversation, nor the offended demeanor of the priest at being sometimes
left out of it.

To say the truth, Monsieur d’Antin was by no means insensible to Bianca
Acorari’s physical attractions.  He flattered himself that he had an eye
for female beauty in its developing stages; and he had arrived at an age
when such stages have a peculiar fascination for men of a certain
temperament.  Perhaps the observant eyes of the Abbé Roux detected more
warmth in his lay compatriot’s glance, as the latter laughed and talked
with the girl, than altogether commended itself to his priestly sense of
what was due to innocence.  In any case it was certain that on the last
two occasions on which Monsieur d’Antin had proposed himself to dinner
at Palazzo Acorari, Bianca had presumably dined in her own apartment;
for she did not appear, and when Monsieur d’Antin inquired after her,
the princess had said dryly that her step-daughter was scarcely old
enough to dine with grown-up people.

Monsieur d’Antin felt this banishment to be due to clerical suggestion;
and so, it must be confessed, did Bianca herself.  He was bound to
admit, however—and he admitted it with decided complacency—that his
sister was right in safeguarding her step-daughter from premature
masculine admiration.  He reflected, too, that in Italy—as, indeed, in
Belgium, or other Catholic countries—uncles and nieces were permitted to
marry under dispensations comparatively easy to obtain; and that in the
case of a step-uncle, no consanguinity existed.  The reflection had been
a pleasant one to Monsieur d’Antin, and he looked upon the uneasiness he
had apparently inspired in the mind of the Abbé Roux as a proof that he
might still consider himself as dangerous to female peace of
mind—whereby he showed himself to possess to the full that peculiar form
of male vanity supposed to be inherent in the Gallic races.




                                 *VIII*


"Yes," continued Monsieur d’Antin, as his sister gazed at him in a
slightly bewildered manner, "Bianca has only got to be seen, and to see
a few men who do not cover their legs with a cassock, and she will very
soon find out, Jeanne, that she is no child."

"Really, Philippe!" expostulated Princess Montefiano.

"There is no necessity to be shocked," proceeded Monsieur d’Antin,
tranquilly.  "I know what I am talking about.  There are certain
temperaments—female temperaments—one has come across them, you know.
_Bien_, your step-daughter is one of these, unless I am much mistaken.
Mark my words, Jeanne, if you keep her as though she were going to be a
nun, everything will go on quietly for a time, and then one fine day you
will discover that she has had an affair with the footman.  What would
you have?" and Monsieur d’Antin shrugged his shoulders philosophically.

Princess Montefiano appeared thoroughly alarmed.

"Do you really think so?" she asked, hurriedly.  "I have always looked
upon Bianca as—well, as quite a child still in all these ways, you know.
I wonder," she added, suddenly, looking at her brother, "what makes you
think she is not."

"Ah," repeated Monsieur d’Antin, meditatively, "what makes me think she
is not?"

His meditations seemed to afford him some pleasure, for he did not hurry
himself to answer the question.  "Well, really," he continued, at
length, with a little chuckle, "I could hardly explain what it is that
makes me think so, my dear Jeanne—not to you, at all events, for I do
not at all suppose you would understand.  But all the same, I think
so—oh yes—I certainly think so!" and, rising from his chair, Monsieur
d’Antin began to walk up and down the room, gently rubbing his hands
together the while.

The princess looked perplexed.  "After all, Philippe," she said, "Bianca
is only just seventeen.  Of course she is tall for her age, and, as you
say—er—well developed. I suppose men only judge by what they see—"

"Precisely," interrupted Monsieur d’Antin; "it is the only way we have
of forming an idea of—what we do not see."

"I have thought only of her mind—her nature," continued the princess.
"I suppose," she added, "that is what you mean?  I cannot say that I
understand her.  I find her silent—apathetic.  She seems to me to
interest herself in nothing."

"Probably because you do not provide her with sufficient material."

"I try to do my duty by her," returned the princess, a little stiffly.
"A step-mother is always placed in a difficult position.  Of course,
Bianca being, as it were, like an only son, and everything going to her,
does not make things easier."

Monsieur d’Antin looked at his sister curiously.  She had very rarely
spoken to him of family affairs, and he had very little idea how the
Montefiano property was settled, beyond a natural conclusion that the
old prince would have left the bulk of it to his only child and
representative.

"But of course," he observed, "you are always well provided for—in the
event of Bianca marrying, I mean—or, as she must do before very long,
taking over the estates into her own hands?"

"There is my jointure, certainly," said the princess, "but it is not
large.  I do not understand business matters very well, but naturally,
so long as Bianca is a minor and unmarried, I must be better off than I
shall be afterwards. A great deal will depend upon Bianca’s husband.
That is what Monsieur l’Abbé always says to me—that we must not be in a
hurry to marry Bianca.  She must not marry a man who simply wants her
titles and money to use them for his own purposes."

"Monsieur l’Abbé is perfectly right," said Baron d’Antin, with a dry
little laugh.

The princess glanced at him.  "You do not like him," she said.

Monsieur d’Antin hesitated for a moment.  Then he laughed again, easily.

"Not like him?" he repeated.  "But, my dear Jeanne, I like him very
much.  I am not fond of priests as a rule. They are not—well, not what I
am accustomed to, you know.  But your tame abbé, I should say that he
was a most estimable person, and, no doubt, to a woman in your position,
a most useful adviser."

The princess sighed.  "Oh, most useful!" she exclaimed. "He is a good
man of business, too," she continued.  "I feel that he acts as a kind of
intermediary between me, as Bianca’s representative, and the agents and
people.  After all, Philippe, I am a foreigner, you know—though I
scarcely feel myself to be one—and Bianca is not.  So I am doubly glad
of Monsieur l’Abbé’s advice sometimes."

"But he is as much a foreigner as you are, Jeanne," remarked Monsieur
d’Antin.

"Oh, but then he is a priest!" exclaimed the princess. "That makes such
a difference.  You see, he was brought up in Rome, and went through his
studies here."

"An admirable training," said Monsieur d’Antin, suavely.

"Yes, admirable," assented the princess.  "It gives such a grasp of,
such an insight into, human nature.  That is one of the strange things
about Bianca, for instance," she added, suddenly.

"That she has an insight into human nature?" demanded Monsieur d’Antin.
"If she has, Jeanne, it must be a miraculous gift, for she can have seen
little enough of it."

"No, no!  I mean that she cannot bear Monsieur l’Abbé. Would you believe
it, Philippe, that notwithstanding all his kindness, that child
positively refuses to go to confession to him?  She refused years ago,
and now I never mention the subject."

"_Tiens!_" observed Monsieur d’Antin.

"It is incredible," continued his sister, "but nevertheless it is true."

Monsieur d’Antin shrugged his shoulders.

"It appears," he said, enigmatically, "that your step-daughter also has
studied in Rome."

The princess dropped her voice mysteriously.

"I believe," she said, "that the mother, my blessed husband’s first
wife, you know, was an odd woman—or child, rather—for she was little
more.  There was some story—she was in love with some other man who was
not thought a good enough match for her, and her family obliged her to
marry my poor husband.  It was not a happy marriage."

"That," observed Monsieur d’Antin, "was no doubt his reason for marrying
again.  He was determined to find happiness."

"Ah, well!" Princess Montefiano replied, with a sigh—"he needed rest.
His life had been a troubled one, and he needed rest."

Monsieur d’Antin smiled sympathetically.  He had heard it remarked in
Rome that the late Montefiano had indeed worn himself out at a
comparatively early period in life.

"I do not wonder," he said, presently, "that you feel the responsibility
of selecting a suitable husband for Bianca. All the same," he added, "I
think you will be wise to contemplate the possibility of her not
remaining a child indefinitely.  If you do not, I should be inclined to
regard the footmen as a perpetual source of anxiety."

"Philippe!" exclaimed the princess.  "You are really perfectly
scandalous!  One does not allude to such things, even in jest.  But I
see what you mean, although I must say that I think you put it rather
grossly.  I will consult Monsieur l’Abbé about the advisability of
gradually letting Bianca see a few more people.  I don’t want it to be
supposed that I am keeping her from marrying when the proper time comes
for her to do so; and my only object would be to find her a suitable
husband.  Of course, as Monsieur l’Abbé says her marriage must almost
certainly alter my own circumstances, but one must not allow one’s self
to think of that."

"Ah," said Monsieur d’Antin, thoughtfully, "Monsieur l’Abbé says so,
does he?"

"It is natural that he should look at the matter from all points of
view," returned the princess.

"Perfectly natural—from all points of view," repeated Monsieur d’Antin;
"and," he added to himself, "more particularly from his own, I imagine.
Well," he continued, "I must leave you, Jeanne.  I should consult
Monsieur Roux, by all means.  He looks as though he knew something about
feminine development—your little abbé; and you tell me that he has
studied in Rome.  _Au revoir_, my dear Jeanne—_à bientot_!  Ah,
by-the-way, there is one little matter I had nearly forgotten.  Could
you without inconvenience—but absolutely without inconvenience—lend me a
thousand francs or so?  Two thousand would be more useful—I do not say
no.  In a few weeks my miserable rents must come in, and then we will
settle our accounts—but, in the mean time, it would be a great
convenience."

The princess looked uneasy.  "I will try," she said; "but, to say the
truth, it is not a very favorable moment—"

Monsieur d’Antin waved his hands.

"Not a word—not a word more, I beg of you, my dear Jeanne!" he
exclaimed.  "You will think the matter over; and if two thousand is not
convenient, I must make one thousand suffice.  In the mean time, _di
nuovo_, as the Italians say," and he kissed his sister affectionately
and hurried from the room.

As he walked from the Palazzo Acorari to his little apartment in the
Ludovisi quarter of the city, Monsieur d’Antin was unusually
preoccupied, and more than once he chuckled to himself.  His sister
Jeanne was certainly not gifted with a sense of humor, but he found
himself wondering whether she was quite as incompetent to look after her
own affairs as she wished him to believe.  Experience taught him that
while piety and humor seldom went together, piety and a shrewd eye to
worldly advantage were by no means unfrequently to be found working very
harmoniously side by side.

Somebody in Palazzo Acorari, Monsieur d’Antin felt convinced, had an
interest in maintaining the _status quo_, so far as the existing
constitution of the Montefiano establishment was concerned.  Jeanne
might be a bad woman of business, but, when all was said and done, at
thirty-five or so, with no money—with nothing, in short, except a local
reputation for holiness—she had succeeded in marrying a man who had been
able to give her a very substantial position in the world, and who had
had the tact to leave her a good many years in which to enjoy its full
advantages without the incubus of his company.

But it was more likely that Jeanne allowed herself to be swayed by the
counsels of the priest whom, according to her own account, she always
consulted.  It was conceivable, nay, it was even probable, that Monsieur
l’Abbé Roux might desire that Donna Bianca Acorari should remain as much
as possible secluded from the world for reasons of his own.  So long as
she remained unmarried, so long would she, no doubt, be content that the
Montefiano properties should be managed more or less as they had been
hitherto managed; and who could tell how much benefit the Abbé Roux
might not, directly or indirectly, gain from the present system of
management.

And Bianca Acorari?  Monsieur d’Antin allowed his thoughts to dwell upon
her dreamy face, with its eyes that seemed always to be looking into an
unexplored distance, upon the curved mouth and firm, rounded throat,
upon the graceful lines of the figure just melting into womanhood, and
came to the conclusion that Jeanne and her abbé were a couple of fools.
Why, the girl had something about her that stirred even his well-worn
passions—and how would it not be with a younger man?  She had some idea,
too, of her own power, of her own charm, unless he was very much
mistaken.  It was a vague, undefined consciousness, perhaps, but none
the less fascinating on that account.  A child?  Nonsense!  A peach
almost ripe for the plucking.




                                  *IX*


It was very still in the ilex grove of the Villa Acorari. The air was
sultry, and not a leaf stirred; yet angry-looking clouds occasionally
drifted across the sky from the sea, and cast moving patches of purple
shadow on the plain stretching away from below Velletri to the coast.

The sunbeams glanced here and there through the heavy foliage.  They
threw quaint, checkered patterns on the moss-grown flag-stones
surrounding a group of fountains, and flashed upon the spray falling
over sculptured nymphs and river-gods wantoning in cool green beds of
arum leaves and water-lilies.

A gentle, drowsy murmur of insects filled the air, and the splashing of
the fountains—otherwise deep silence reigned. Lizards, green and
golden-brown, darted out of the crevices in the old stone seats, paused
abruptly with little heads poised in a listening attitude, and darted
away again; while blue dragon-flies hawked over the waters of the
fountains, now giving mad chase to a fly, now resting—jewels set in
green enamel—on a lily leaf.

It was not to be wondered at if the gardens of the Villa Acorari were
reputed to be haunted by spirits of the old gods.  On this July
afternoon some mysterious influence, infinitely peaceful but infinitely
sad, seemed to brood over them.  All the glamour of a mighty past seemed
to enfold them—such a past as many an old villa in the neighborhood of
Rome has witnessed, in which every passion, good and bad, has played its
part; in which scenes of love and hate, of joy and sorrow, of highest
virtue and foulest crime have succeeded each other through the
centuries.

Tradition declared that a shrine sacred to the rites of the _Lupercalia_
once stood in the midst of this ilex grove, on the very spot where the
fountains now murmured and the water-lilies lifted their pure whiteness
to the hot caress of the sunbeams.

If this were so, it was certainly as well that times had changed; that
lizards and dragon-flies had usurped the place of the _Luperci_, and
that lascivious Pan slept with the rest of the joyous company of
Olympus; else had Bianca Acorari, quietly reading her book in the deep
shadows of the ilex-trees, run grievous risk of receiving the sacred
blow from the thong of some lustful votary of the god.

St. Peter’s festival had come and gone, and Bianca, to her great
satisfaction, had already been some days at the Villa Acorari.  It was
an untold relief to her to feel that for at least three months she was
free to wander about these old gardens instead of driving through the
hot, dusty streets of Rome.  This year, too, she would not be quite so
much alone as she had usually been.  The princess had consented to a
scheme whereby Mademoiselle Durand was to continue giving her lessons,
at any rate for another month; and it had been duly arranged that she
should come to the villa three times a week from Albano, where, it
appeared, she was going to pass the remainder of the summer.  The
proposition had come from Mademoiselle Durand herself.  She had other
pupils, she had informed the princess, who would be in _villeggiatura_
at Albano and Ariccia, and it would be very easy for her to come over to
the Villa Acorari if the princess wished it.

Somewhat to her step-mother’s surprise, Bianca jumped eagerly at the
idea.  There could be no objection, the princess thought, to the girl
pursuing her studies with Mademoiselle Durand for a few more weeks; and
she saw, moreover, that Bianca welcomed the thought of occasionally
having the governess as a companion.  She would not have wished Bianca
to walk with Mademoiselle Durand in Rome, certainly; but at the villa it
was a very different thing; and, after all, it was better for her than
being perpetually alone, or merely having Bettina’s society.

Mademoiselle Durand had already been over twice, and Bianca had shown
her all her favorite walks, and the places where she liked to sit and
read or work during the heat of the afternoons.

It had struck Bianca that the Frenchwoman displayed considerable
curiosity as to her movements.  Mademoiselle Durand insisted upon being
taken all over the grounds of the villa, and almost appeared as though
she were studying the topography of the spots which Bianca pointed out
as being her usual resorts.

They had talked of many things only a couple of days ago—things which,
it must be confessed, had nothing whatever to do with Bianca’s
education.  In the course of the last few weeks the girl had lost much
of the reserve she had formerly displayed towards her governess.  The
Rossano family had been, as it were, a sympathetic link between
Mademoiselle Durand and Bianca, a subject to which it was refreshing to
both to turn after wrestling with French history or German poetry.

Mademoiselle Durand had talked of Silvio on this very spot where Bianca
was now giving herself up to the pleasant feeling of drowsiness induced
by the murmur of the fountains and the fragrant warmth of the July
afternoon, and she had shaken her head sadly and significantly.

That young man, she assured Bianca, was breaking his heart and ruining
his health.  It did not at the moment strike either her or her listener
that Silvio could hardly do the one without doing the other.  It was
certainly very sad, and Bianca had confided to Mademoiselle Durand that
she wished she could do something to avert such a catastrophe.

"Perhaps," the Frenchwoman said, tentatively, "if you were to make his
acquaintance, he might become more reasonable," and Bianca had gazed at
her with a startled air.

"You know, mademoiselle," she said, a little impatiently, "that I can
never make his acquaintance."

"Never is a long time," returned Mademoiselle Durand, smiling.
"Supposing—I only say supposing—you met him somewhere, on one of your
walks, for instance, and that he spoke to you, would you not try
to—well, to give him some good advice—to be kind to him?"

"He probably would not ask me for my advice," replied Bianca, laughing.

Mademoiselle Durand looked at her and hesitated for a moment.

"I think he would," she said, slowly.  "You see, Donna Bianca, there is
such a close resemblance between your own position and that of the girl
with whom the poor boy is so madly in love."

Bianca was silent.

"I wonder," persisted Mademoiselle Durand, "what you would do.  It would
be very interesting to know."

"You mean—" began Bianca.

"I mean," interrupted Mademoiselle Durand, "if by any chance you
happened to meet Monsieur Silvio and he asked you for your advice, as,
_du reste_, he has asked me.  You would not run away—no?"

"No," said Bianca, thoughtfully, "I don’t think I should run away.  I
think I should try to help him if I could.  I am very sorry for him."

Mademoiselle Durand suddenly sprang up with a little scream.

"A scorpion!" she exclaimed.  "I am sure I saw a scorpion!  It ran in
there—into that hole close to my foot."

"I dare say," said Bianca, indifferently.  "It is the time of year when
one finds them, but I have never seen one just here.  It is too damp for
them, I think."

Mademoiselle Durand had made no further allusion after this either to
Silvio Rossano or to the scorpion.  Indeed, she turned the conversation
into professional channels with some abruptness, and shortly afterwards
she returned to the house preparatory to going back to Albano.

Mademoiselle’s question returned to Bianca’s mind as she sat under her
ilex-tree.  It was all nonsense, of course, for how could she meet
Silvio Rossano and talk to him about his love-affair?  Mademoiselle
Durand knew perfectly well that there could be no question of such a
thing.  But still it would be very interesting to hear all about this
mysterious girl with whom he was so hopelessly in love.  And, yes, she
would certainly like to meet him and talk to him. It was odd how well
she remembered his features, though she had never dared to look at him
very much.  Nevertheless, since that Christmas night in the Sudario they
had seemed to be impressed upon her mind.  And that other girl, the one
he was in love with, whose name Mademoiselle Durand declared she was
bound in honor not to mention, did she think much about him—remember the
look of his eyes and the expression of his mouth?  Perhaps she never
thought about him at all.

At this stage of her reflections Bianca suddenly found herself becoming
angry.  She had just paused to ask herself why this should be, when a
soft, pattering sound which was not that of the fountains fell upon her
ear.  Looking up, she became aware that the sunlight had faded, and that
the shade around her had grown suddenly deeper.  The air felt heavier
and more stifling, and the pattering noise that had at first attracted
her attention seemed to come nearer and nearer as the light grew more
dim.  From somewhere in the underwood a frog began to croak contentedly:

    "Or s’ode su tutta la fronda
    crosciare
    l’argentea pioggia
    che monda,
    il croscio che varia
    secondo la fronda
    più folta, men folta
    Ascolta.
    La figlia del aria
    è muta; ma la figlia
    del limo lontana,
    la rana,
    canta nell’ombra più fonda,
    chi sa dove, chi sa dove!"[#]

[#] _Le laudi; (Pioggia nel Pineto) Gabriele d’Annunzio._


Bianca rose hurriedly and looked at the sky.  The _campagna_ below, and
even the vineyards on the slopes of the hill immediately beneath the
park of the Villa Acorari, still lay bathed in sunshine.  The light rain
that was falling was evidently only a passing summer-shower, and not, as
she had for a moment feared, the immediate precursor of one of those
violent hail-storms that sometimes sweep over the Alban hills,
devastating in a few minutes the crops of a whole district, and turning
smiling vineyards, laden with fruit, into brown and barren wildernesses.

Bianca picked up her neglected book and made her way towards a little
casino which stood at the end of the ilex avenue, inside which she
proposed to shelter herself until the shower should have passed over.
She had scarcely taken a few steps under the sombre green branches when
she started back with a little cry.  A man stepped from behind one of
the gnarled trunks and stood before her, bare-headed.  In an instant she
recognized him.  He was not the god—no.  For a second she had almost
thought that he might be.  Then she looked at him again.  Not the
god—no; but surely the god could scarcely be fairer.

She turned aside hesitatingly.

"Donna Bianca!"

The low voice, very gentle, very pleading, seemed to mingle its tones
with the murmur of the fountains and the _croscio_ of the rain-drops
among the ilex-leaves.

Silvio Rossano stood and looked at her.  Bianca put her hand up to her
throat.  Something seemed to rise in it and choke back her words.

"You!" she exclaimed.

He smiled a little.  "I, Silvio," he said, simply.  "Donna Bianca," he
continued hurriedly, as though anxious not to give her time to say more,
"if you tell me to go, I will go, and you shall never see me again."

And then he waited.

A great silence seemed to follow his words, as though all the sylvan
deities in their lurking-places were listening for her answer.

Only the frog croaked:

    "Chi sa dove, chi sa dove!"


Presently Bianca Acorari spoke.

"I do not tell you to go," she said.

Then Silvio moved a few steps nearer to her.

Suddenly Bianca started, as though rousing herself from a dream.

"What am I saying?" she exclaimed.  "Of course you must go!  You should
never have come here.  If they were to find you—alone with me—"

Silvio’s eyes flashed.

"Yes," he said; "alone with you—at last!"

Bianca drew back from him.

"At last!" she repeated.  Then she smiled.  "Of course," she continued,
"you wished to talk to me.  Mademoiselle Durand told me—though I do not
understand what I can do."

Silvio looked at her in bewilderment.

"You knew!" he exclaimed; "and yet—you do not understand what you can
do?  Donna Bianca," he added, earnestly, "please do not laugh at me.
Surely you understand that you can do—everything—for me?"

Bianca shook her head.  "I do not laugh at you," she said slowly.  "I am
sorry for you.  I would help you if I could; but how can I?"

She moved towards the casino as she spoke.

"Listen!" she added, "the rain is coming on more heavily.  Do you not
hear it on the leaves?  And it grows darker again."

He followed her to the summer-house, but as she pushed open the door he
drew back, and glanced at her hesitatingly.

"I will remain here," he said.  "Afterwards, when the shower is over, if
you will let me speak to you—"

Bianca Acorari looked at him.  "Come," she said, briefly.

It was an unheard of proceeding.  Verily, as Monsieur d’Antin had said,
Bianca was no child—unless, indeed, she was more childish than her years
warranted.  Any behavior more diametrically opposed to all the rules and
customs that so strictly regulate the actions of a young girl in Italy
could scarcely be conceived.

Silvio Rossano himself was taken aback at her confidence in him.  Her
demeanor was so natural, however, and her manner, after the first
surprise of seeing him had passed, had become so self-possessed, that he
never for an instant misunderstood her.

Bianca seated herself upon a dilapidated chair—the only one, indeed,
having its full complement of legs that the casino contained.

"Mademoiselle Durand said that if I—if we ever met, you would perhaps
ask me for my advice," she said, gravely. "I cannot understand why you
should think any advice of mine could help you.  Perhaps she made a
mistake, and you are here by accident."

Silvio almost laughed at her gravity, but she spoke with a certain
dignity of manner which contrasted very charmingly with her fresh,
girlish beauty.

"No," he said quietly, "I am not here by accident, Donna Bianca.  I am
here to see you—to tell you—"

"Ah, yes, I know!" interposed Bianca, hurriedly.  "It is very sad, and,
believe me, I am very sorry for you—very sorry."

Silvio’s bronze face grew suddenly white.

"Sorry!" he exclaimed.  "That means you can give me no hope—that you
think me presumptuous—"

Bianca glanced at him.  "I can give no opinion," she replied; "but I
think—" and she paused, hesitatingly.

"Yes?" asked Silvio, eagerly.  "What do you think, Donna Bianca?"

"That if I were a man," returned Bianca, slowly, "I would marry whom I
chose, no matter how many difficulties stood in my way—that is to say,"
she added, "if I knew the woman whom I cared for cared for me."

"Ah," exclaimed Silvio, quickly, "but supposing you didn’t know?"

"Then I should ask her," said Bianca Acorari, bluntly.

Silvio started violently.  Then he came and stood beside her.

"Donna Bianca," he said, in a low, eager voice, "do you know what you
are saying?"

Bianca looked at him a little wonderingly.  She could not but notice his
agitation.  "Certainly I do," she replied. "You see, Monsieur Silvio,"
she added, and then stopped in confusion.  "I beg your pardon," she
said, blushing violently.  "I am very rude—but I have so often heard
Mademoiselle Durand speak of you as ’Monsieur Silvio,’ that I fear—I am
afraid—"

Silvio Rossano’s head began to swim.  He looked at her and said nothing.
Then he swore at himself for being a fool and losing his opportunities.

"You see," proceeded Bianca, picking up the train of her thoughts again,
"I am afraid I am not like other girls. I have lived most of my life
alone, and I suppose I have odd ideas.  When I am of age, I shall
certainly please myself—but until then, I have to please other people.
Of course, I know that a man is obliged to speak to a girl’s parents
before he can tell her that he loves her.  But I am quite sure that if I
were a man and wanted to know if my love were returned, I should ask the
person I loved."

Silvio looked at her curiously.

"And is that your advice to me, Donna Bianca?" he said.  "You advise me
to ask the girl I love—whom I have loved ever since I first saw her
seven months ago, though I have scarcely spoken to her in my
life—whether she returns my love?"

"If I were in your place—yes," returned Bianca.  "Why not, Mons—Signor
Rossano?"

Silvio drew a long breath.

"It is what I came here this afternoon to do," he said, quietly.

Bianca looked at him with a bewildered expression.  The blood left her
face and she became very pale.

"What—you came here to do?" she repeated, slowly—"here? I do not
understand."

"Ah, no?  You do not understand?  Then I will take your advice—I will
make you understand."  The words came to his lips fast enough now.

"Dear," he burst out, "you shall understand.  I love you!  Do you know
what it means—love?  I have loved you ever since that night—that
Christmas night—when you looked into my eyes with yours.  Do you
understand now?  I know I have no right to love you—no right to ask you
to be my wife—for you are Donna Bianca Acorari, Princess of Montefiano,
and I am—nobody.  But this is what I have come to ask you—only
this—whether you love me?  If you do, I swear by God and by the Son of
God that I will marry you, or I will marry no woman.  If you do not love
me, or will not love me, send me away from you—now, at once."

Bianca Acorari sprang up from her chair.

"Me?" she exclaimed.  "You love me?  Ah, but it is absurd—how can you
love me?  You are mad—or dreaming. You have forgotten.  It is she you
love—that other one—"

Silvio seized her hand almost roughly.

"Bianca!" he said, hoarsely, "what, in God’s name, do you mean?  I love
you—you only.  I have never looked at another woman—I never knew what
love meant till I saw you."

Suddenly Bianca began to tremble violently.  In a moment Silvio’s arms
were round her, and he was pressing hot, passionate kisses to her lips.

"Bianca!" he exclaimed.  "Tell me—for God’s sake, tell me—"

With a quick gesture she yielded herself wholly to him, drawing his face
to hers and running her hands through his close, curly hair.

"Silvio," she whispered, "ah, Silvio!  And it was I all the time!  I
thought—Mademoiselle Durand pretended that it was somebody else—some
girl like me—and all the time I wondered why I cared—why I was angry—"

His arms were round her again, and he crushed her to him, while his lips
blinded her eyes.

"Ah, Silvio _mio_," she sighed, "it is too much—you hurt me—ah, but it
is sweet to be hurt by you—"

Suddenly she wrenched herself from him, crimson and trembling.

"God!" she exclaimed.  "What have I done—what must you think of me?  I
did not know love was like that. It—hurts."

Silvio laughed aloud in the very intoxication of his joy.

"Beloved," he said, "that is only the beginning."

But Bianca shook her head.  "I must be very wicked," she said.  "I did
not know I was quite so wicked.  Silvio," she added, looking at him,
shyly, "for the love of God, go! It is getting late.  At any moment they
may be coming to look for me.  No—not again—"

"But I must speak with you here to-morrow—the day after," urged Silvio.

"Yes," said Bianca, hurriedly.  "I must think," she added.  "We must
confide everything now to Mademoiselle Durand.  Ah, Silvio, you should
not have loved me—I shall bring you unhappiness."

Silvio looked at her gravely.  "If we are true to each other," he said,
"everything must come right.  Even if we have to wait till you are of
age and free to do as you choose, that is not a very long time."

They had left the casino as Silvio was speaking, and Bianca glanced
uneasily down the avenue.  Not a soul was visible.  The rain had cleared
away, and the sun, sinking westward, was streaming into the darkest
recesses of the ilex grove.  No sound broke the stillness except the
splashing of the fountains, and now and again the notes of birds
announcing that the hot hours were passed and the cool of evening was
approaching.

Bianca turned and laid her hands on Silvio’s.  "Go, beloved," she said.
"We must not be seen together—yet."

Silvio drew her to him once more.  "Do you know," he said, "that you
have never told me whether you will marry me or not?"

Bianca Acorari looked at him for a moment.  Then she answered, simply:

"If I do not marry you, Silvio, I will marry no man.  I swear it!  Now
go," she added, hastily—"do not delay a moment longer.  I will
communicate with you through Mademoiselle Durand."

"After all," said Silvio, "even if we have to wait three years—"

Bianca stamped her foot on the turf.

"Silvio," she exclaimed, "if you do not go, now—at once—I will not marry
you for six years."

She turned away from him and sped down the avenue, while Silvio vanished
through the undergrowth.

And the ilex grove was left in possession of the spirits of Pan and his
_Luperci_; also in that of Monsieur d’Antin, who, with a little chuckle,
stepped from behind the casino and emerged into the sunlight.




                                  *X*


"You do not congratulate me, Giacinta."

Silvio and his sister were sitting alone together after a late dinner
which was practically merely a supper.  In the summer months in Rome, to
be compelled by fashion to sit down to a meal at the pleasantest hour in
all the twenty-four is a weariness to the flesh and a vexation to the
spirit. Entirely in opposition to all the orthodox ideas inculcated by
the guide-books and received by the British tourist, the Romans do not
labor under the delusion that death stalks abroad with the sunset, and
that deadly diseases dog the footsteps of those who wander through the
streets or gardens when the shadows of evening are beginning to fall.

Those whose duties or inclinations keep them in Rome during the summer
months do not, as a rule, complain of their lot, knowing full well that
of all the larger Italian cities, and, indeed, of all southern capitals,
it is on the whole by far the coolest and healthiest.

The Rossano family, like the majority of Romans, adapted their hours to
the various seasons, and dinner, which was at any time from half-past
seven to half-past eight in winter, became supper at nine or so in
summer.

This evening the professor, as was his usual habit on fine nights at
this season of the year, had gone out immediately after supper to smoke
his cigar and read his evening papers, seated outside one of the
_caffè’s_ in Piazza Colonna, where a band would be playing till between
ten and eleven o’clock.

He had never again alluded to the subject of Silvio having presumably
fallen in love.  Indeed, he had forgotten all about it immediately after
he had startled Silvio by accusing him of it.  Giacinta, however, had by
no means forgotten it.  Silvio’s silence, or rather his marked
disinclination to discuss either Bianca or anything to do with Casa
Acorari, only increased Giacinta’s suspicions that he was at work upon
his plans in his own way.  That he would abandon his determination to
make Bianca Acorari’s acquaintance she never for a moment contemplated,
knowing his strength of will.  It was, in Giacinta’s eyes, a most
unlucky infatuation.  In all probability, Donna Bianca Acorari’s future
husband had been chosen long ago, not by the girl herself, of course,
but by the princess and her friends.  Silvio’s appearance on the scene
as a suitor must infallibly lead to trouble, for the difference in their
social position was too great to be overcome, except by a very much
larger fortune than Silvio could ever hope to possess.

Giacinta Rossano’s pride was aroused.  It would be intolerable to feel
that her brother was regarded as not good enough to be the husband of an
Acorari, or of anybody else, for that matter.  Knowing Silvio’s
contemptuous indifference to merely hereditary rank, she wondered that
he did not realize the false position into which he was apparently doing
his best to put himself.  That Donna Bianca Acorari would fall in love
with Silvio, if any reasonable opportunity were given her, Giacinta had
very little doubt. Any woman might fall in love with him, if it were
only for his good looks.  But what would be gained if Donna Bianca did
fall in love with him?  There would be a great _disturbo_—a family
consultation—probably a dozen family consultations—a great many
disagreeable things said on all sides, and after the girl had had one or
two fits of crying, she would give up all thoughts of Silvio, and allow
herself to be engaged to some man of her own world.  And, in the mean
time, Silvio’s life would be wrecked, for he would never stand the
mortification of a refusal on the part of Princess Montefiano to regard
him as a suitable husband for her daughter.  He would probably become
soured and embittered, and as likely as not take to wild habits.
Altogether, Giacinta Rossano had a very unfavorable opinion of the whole
business.  She devoutly wished that the fates had led her father to
choose any other apartment than the second floor of Palazzo Acorari; for
in that case Silvio would certainly not have gone to mass at the Sudario
on Christmas Eve, and lost his heart and his common-sense when he got
there.

This process of reasoning was scarcely logical, perhaps—but Giacinta had
quite made up her mind that the midnight mass was responsible for the
whole affair.  She believed that if Silvio had happened to see Donna
Bianca Acorari for the first time under more ordinary circumstances, he
would not have thought twice about her.  Besides, to fall in love with a
person in church, she considered, was certainly improper, and very
likely unlucky.

Giacinta had listened to Silvio’s account of his meeting with Donna
Bianca in the grounds of the Villa Acorari, complete details of which,
it is hardly necessary to add, he did not give his sister, with
something approaching consternation.  She had never doubted that sooner
or later Silvio would succeed in obtaining some interview with the girl,
but she had certainly not expected to hear that Bianca Acorari was so
ready to give everything he asked of her. She had thought that at first
Bianca would be bewildered, and scarcely conscious of what love might
be, and that it would require more than one meeting before Silvio would
succeed in fully arousing a corresponding passion in her.

Evidently, however, from Silvio’s words, reticent though he was when he
touched upon Bianca’s avowed love for him, it had been a case of love at
first sight on both sides, and not only, as she had always hoped, on
that of Silvio only.  This, Giacinta felt, complicated matters
considerably; and it was natural, perhaps, if, at the conclusion of
Silvio’s confidences, she remained silent, engrossed in her own
reflections.

"You do not congratulate me," repeated Silvio, as her silence continued.

Giacinta hesitated.  "I would congratulate you," she replied, "if I were
sure that what you have done will be for your happiness.  But as yet,"
she added, "there is nothing to congratulate you upon."

"How do you mean—nothing to congratulate me upon," said Silvio, with an
unruffled good-humor that almost annoyed Giacinta, "when I tell you that
she loves me—that she has promised to be my wife?  Is not that reason
enough for you to congratulate me?  But, of course, I always told you I
was sure she returned my love."

"You never told me anything of the kind," said Giacinta curtly.  "Until
this evening, I do not think you have mentioned Donna Bianca Acorari’s
name to me for three months."

"Have I not?" asked Silvio, carelessly.  "Well, it was no good talking
about the matter until I was sure of my ground, you know."

"And you are sure of it now?"

"But of course I am sure of it!  Has she not promised to marry me?"

"Oh, that—yes," returned Giacinta; "but, Silvio, you know as well as I
do that in our country engagements are not made like that.  Bianca
Acorari is not an English miss. It all reminds me of English novels I
have read, in which young men always go for long walks with young girls,
and come back to the five-o’clock saying that they are going to be
married.  This is just what you have done; but, unluckily for you, we
are not in England."

Silvio laughed.  Nothing could shake his serenity, for had not Bianca
sworn that if she did not marry him, she would never marry?

"You forget," he said, "that Bianca and I can afford to wait.  Even if
Princess Montefiano makes difficulties, it is a mere question of time.
In three years Bianca will be her own mistress, accountable to nobody
for her actions."

Giacinta shook her head.  "That is all very well, Silvio," she replied,
"but a great many disagreeable things may happen in three years.  Do you
think that Donna Bianca loves you enough to keep her promise to you,
whatever opposition she may encounter?"

Silvio smiled.  "Yes," he said, simply, "I do."

Giacinta was silent for a moment.  Silvio was strangely confident, she
thought.  Perhaps she underrated Bianca Acorari’s strength of character.
It might be that this girl was really in love with Silvio, and that her
character and Silvio’s were alike in tenacity of purpose and loyalty.
At any rate, she had no right to judge Bianca until she knew her, or at
least had had some opportunity of observing how she behaved by Silvio
when the storm which they had brewed finally burst, which it certainly
must do very quickly.

"You are very sure of her, Silvio _mio_," she said, at length, with a
smile.

"Very sure," responded Silvio, tranquilly.  "After all, Giacinta," he
continued, "what can the princess or her advisers do?  They can but
refuse to allow the engagement, but Bianca and I shall not consider
ourselves the less engaged on that account.  And when they saw that
opposition was useless, that Bianca intended to marry me, and me only,
they would have to give way.  Otherwise, we should simply wait till
Bianca was of age."

"But pressure might be brought to bear upon her," objected Giacinta.

"Pressure!" exclaimed Silvio.

"Yes; there are many ways.  She might be placed in a convent, for
instance.  Such things have been done before now.  Or they might force
her to marry somebody else."

"Or kill me!  Go on, Giacinta," said Silvio, laughing. "We are not in
the Middle Ages, _cara mia sorellina_.  In these days, when people
disappear, inquiries are made by the police.  It is a prosaic system,
perhaps, but it has certain advantages."

"Silvio," exclaimed Giacinta, suddenly, "it is all very well for you to
laugh, but have you considered how isolated that girl is?  She has
absolutely no relations on her father’s side.  Babbo says there are no
Acorari left, and that the old prince quarrelled with his first wife’s
family—Donna Bianca’s mother’s people.  She is alone in the world with a
step-mother who is entirely under the thumb of her priest."

"And with me," interrupted Silvio.

Giacinta glanced at him.  "They will keep you at a safe distance," she
said, "if it does not suit the Abbé Roux that Donna Bianca should
marry."

"_Cristo!_" swore her brother, between his teeth.  "What do you mean,
Giacinta?  Do you know what you are implying?"

Giacinta Rossano’s eyes flashed.  She looked very like Silvio at that
moment.

"I know perfectly well what I am implying," she said, quickly.  "You
have not chosen to trust me, Silvio, and perhaps you were right.  After
all, I could not have done so much for you as that Frenchwoman has done.
God knows why she has done it!"

Silvio looked a little abashed.  "How did you know about the
Frenchwoman?" he asked.

Giacinta laughed dryly.  "Never mind how I know," she replied, "and do
not think I have been spying upon your actions.  I have been making a
few inquiries about the Montefiano _ménage_ on my own account—about
things that perhaps Mademoiselle Durand—is not that her name?—might
never be in a position to hear, as she does not live in the house."

"Ah!" exclaimed Silvio.  "Go on, Giacinta."

"The princess," proceeded Giacinta, "must be a strange woman.  From what
I can hear of her, I should doubt whether anybody knows her the least
intimately, except the Abbé Roux.  Oh no, Silvio, I do not mean to imply
any intimacy of that nature between them," she added, hastily, suddenly
becoming aware of the expression on her brother’s face.  "She is, I
imagine, a curious mixture of worldliness and piety, but not worldliness
in the sense of caring for society.  She would have made an excellent
abbess or mother-superior, I should think, for she loves power.  At the
same time, like many people who love to rule, she is weak, and allows
herself to be ruled, partly because she is a fanatic as far as her
religion is concerned, and partly—well, partly, I suppose, because she
has a weak side to her nature."

Silvio looked at his sister, curiously.

"How did you learn all this?" he asked.

Giacinta shrugged her shoulders.

"You might ask—Why did I learn it?" she said.  "I learned it because I
wished to analyze the kind of psychologic atmosphere into which you
might find yourself plunged!"

Silvio laughed.  Giacinta often amused him; she was so like the
professor in some ways.

"Perhaps," continued Giacinta, "had it not been that Prince Montefiano
developed a conscience late in life, the princess would have been ruling
nuns at this moment instead of managing the Montefiano estates."

A quick look of intelligence passed across Silvio Rossano’s face.  They
were Romans, these two, of the sixth generation and more, and were
accustomed to the Roman conversational habit of leaving _i_’s to be
dotted and _t_’s to be crossed at discretion.

"Of course, she would not be very ready to give up her interest in
them," he said.

"Of course not," returned Giacinta.  "Moreover," she added, "the priest
would do his best to prevent her from giving it up."

"_Si capisce_," said Silvio, briefly.  "But how in the world do you know
all this, Giacinta?"

"Oh," she replied, "I know a good deal more!  I know that the Abbé Roux
keeps his eye upon everything; that the princess does not spend a
thousand francs without consulting him.  She is tenacious of her rights
to administer the Montefiano fiefs during Donna Bianca’s minority, that
is true.  But the real administrator is the Abbé Roux. There is another
person, too, with whom you ought to be brought into contact, Silvio—and
that is the princess’s brother, Baron d’Antin.  He is _niente di buono_,
so my informant tells me.  But I do not imagine that Monsieur l’Abbé
allows him to have any great influence with his sister.  Apparently he
comes here but seldom, and then only when he wants something.  I do not
suppose that he would concern himself very much about you and Donna
Bianca."

"So you think all the opposition would come from the princess and that
infernal priest?" said Silvio.

"But naturally!  They do not want the girl to marry—at any rate, before
she is of age.  Why two or three years should make so much difference I
have no idea.  I should like to find out, but it would not be easy."

"I cannot imagine how you have found out so much," said Silvio.

Giacinta laughed.  "I have stooped to very low methods," she said, "but
it was for your sake, Silvio.  If you must know, my maid has chosen to
engage herself to one of the Acorari servants, and she tells me all
these little things.  Of course, she has told me considerably more than
I have told you, but, allowing for exaggerations and for all the
misconstructions that servants invariably place upon our actions, I
believe what I have told you is fairly correct. It is not very much,
certainly, but—rightly or wrongly—there appears to be an impression that
Donna Bianca is being purposely kept in the background, and that neither
the princess nor Monsieur Roux intends that she should marry.  Perhaps
it is all nonsense and merely gossip, but it is as well you should know
that such an impression exists.

"May one ask what you and Donna Bianca mean to do next, Silvio?"
concluded Giacinta, a little satirically. "The proceedings up to now
have been—well, a little _all’ Inglese_, as I think we agreed; and I do
not quite see how you propose to continue the affair."

A look half of amusement and half of perplexity came into Silvio’s eyes.

"To tell you the truth, Giacinta," he said, "neither do I. Of course, I
must see Bianca again, and then we must decide when and how I am to
approach the princess.  I shall have to tell my father, of course.  The
usual thing would be for him to speak to Princess Montefiano."

"Poor Babbo!" exclaimed Giacinta.  "It seems to me, Silvio," she added,
severely, "that you have landed us all in a _brutto impiccio_.  I
certainly wish that I had never thought it would be good for your soul
to go to mass last Christmas Eve!"




                                  *XI*


Monsieur d’Antin did not immediately return to the house after having
been an unobserved spectator of the parting scene between Bianca and her
lover.

His presence in the ilex groves of the Villa Acorari that afternoon had
been due to the merest chance—if, indeed, it were not one of those
malicious tricks so frequently performed by the power that we call Fate
or Providence, according to our own mood and the quality of the
practical jokes played upon us.

He had been spending the day at Genzano, where he had breakfasted with a
well-known Roman lady possessing an equally well-known villa lying
buried in its oak and chestnut woods.  The breakfast-party had been a
pleasant one, and Monsieur d’Antin had enjoyed himself so much that he
felt disinclined to return to Rome as early as he had at first intended.
It would be agreeable, he thought, to drive from Genzano to the Villa
Acorari, spend two or three hours there, and drive back to Rome, as he
had been invited to do late in the evening, instead of returning by
train.

Monsieur d’Antin had duly arrived at the Villa Acorari about four
o’clock, only to find that the princess had gone to Rome for the day on
business, and was not expected back until six.  Donna Bianca, the
servants told him, was at home, but she was in the gardens.  Monsieur
d’Antin was not so disappointed as he professed to be on hearing this
intelligence.  He would rest for a little while in the house, as it was
still very hot—and—yes, an iced-lemonade would be very refreshing after
his dusty drive from Genzano. Afterwards, perhaps, he would go into the
gardens and see if he could find Donna Bianca.

A stroll through the ilex walks with Bianca would not be an unpleasing
ending to his day among the Castelli Romani.  Hitherto he had never been
alone with her, and he was not sorry that chance had given him an
opportunity of being so.  The girl might be amusing when she was no
longer under supervision.  At any rate, she was attractive to look upon,
and—oh, decidedly she sometimes had made him feel almost as though he
were a young man again.  That was always a pleasurable sensation, even
if nothing could come of it.  It was certainly a pity that he was not
twenty years younger—nay, even ten years would be sufficient. Had he
been so—who knows?—things might have been arranged.  It would have been
very suitable—very convenient in every way, and would have kept the
Montefiano estates and titles in the family, so to speak.  And Bianca
was certainly a seductive child—there was no doubt about it.  That
mouth, that hair, and the lines of the figure just shaping themselves
into maturity—Bah! they would make an older man than he feel young when
he looked at them. Yes, it was certainly a pity.  Jeanne, no doubt,
would delay matters until—well, until those charms were too fully
developed.  That was the worst of these Italian girls—they were apt to
develop too fast—to become too massive.

Monsieur d’Antin leaned back in an arm-chair in the cool, darkened
_salone_ of the Villa Acorari, and abandoned himself to these and
various other reflections of a similar nature.  He found the mental
state a very pleasant one after his somewhat ample breakfast and hot
drive.  There was something, too, in the subdued light of the marble
saloon, with its statues and groups of palms, and in the soothing sound
of a fountain playing in the court-yard without, that gently stimulated
such reflections.

At length, however, a striking clock had roused Monsieur d’Antin, and he
sallied forth into the gardens, directed by a servant to the broad,
box-bordered walk that led up the hill to the ilex groves where, as the
man informed him, Donna Bianca usually went.

Probably, had it not been for that self-same shower of rain which had
disturbed Bianca’s meditations and caused her to seek the shelter of the
avenue and the casino, he would have found her sitting in the open space
near the fountains, where, as a matter of fact, Silvio Rossano had been
watching her for some little time, wondering how he should best accost
her.  Silvio, concealed behind his tree, would certainly have seen
Monsieur d’Antin approaching, and would have waited for another
opportunity to accomplish his object. But, as usual, Puck or Providence
must needs interfere and cause the rain to descend more heavily just as
Monsieur d’Antin arrived at the fountains.  Seeing that the avenue would
afford him shelter he had entered it, and, after waiting for a few
minutes, had bent his steps in the direction of the casino he observed
at the farther end of it.  The sound of voices coming from within the
summer-house had caused him to stop and listen; and what he overheard,
although he could not entirely follow the rapid Italian in which its
occupants were speaking, was enough to tell him that Bianca Acorari was
one of the speakers, that the other was a man, and that love was the
topic of the conversation.  Very quietly, and crouching down so as to be
invisible from the window of the casino, Monsieur d’Antin had stepped
past the half-closed door and concealed himself behind the little
building.  Through the open window he had been able from his
hiding-place to hear every word that was said, and also to hear the
sounds which certainly could not be called articulate.

Monsieur d’Antin’s face, during the quarter of an hour he spent behind
the casino, would have provided an interesting and instructive study to
anybody who had been there to see it; it would also have made the
fortune of any actor who could have reproduced its varied expressions.
Astonishment, envy, lust, and malicious amusement, all were depicted
upon his countenance in turn.

At last, when Bianca and her companion left the summer-house, Monsieur
d’Antin was able to see what manner of man he was who had had the good
fortune to arouse her passion.  A single glance at Silvio, as the boy
stood in the centre of the avenue with the sunlight falling on his
well-built figure and comely face, explained the whole matter. If Bianca
had such a lover as this, all that he had just overheard was fully
accounted for.  Nevertheless, a gust of envy, all the more bitter from
the consciousness of its impotence, swept through Monsieur d’Antin’s
middle-aged soul.

He wondered who this good-looking lover of Bianca’s might be.  The lad
was a gentleman, evidently; but Monsieur d’Antin could not remember ever
having seen him in society in Rome.  _Diable!_ but he had been right, as
usual. He, Philippe d’Antin, always was right about women.  And this was
Jeanne’s "child"—this girl who gave herself to be kissed, and told her
lover it was sweet to be hurt by him! Ah! he had heard that.  The words
had made the blood leap in his veins.

He watched Silvio disappear through the tangled brush-wood growing
between the avenue and the park-wall, and Bianca’s figure vanish in the
direction of the villa, before he finally emerged from his hiding-place.
Then he walked slowly several times up and down the avenue, thinking
about what might be the best use to make of his discovery. Should he
keep silence, and allow Bianca Acorari to compromise herself a little
more irrevocably, or should he speak to Jeanne at once?  He wished he
had some means of knowing whether the meeting he had witnessed was a
first interview, or only one of many.  Unluckily his knowledge of
Italian was not sufficient to enable him clearly to learn all he might
have learned from the lovers’ conversation. If it were a first meeting
only, the matter could be the more easily nipped in the bud—and then—
Here Monsieur d’Antin paused.  He hardly ventured, even to himself, to
cast the thoughts that were beginning to revolve in his mind into
concrete form.

The worst of it was that Jeanne must be utterly incompetent to deal with
anything of the nature of a love affair. He did not believe that in all
his sister’s life she had ever known what love was.  Certainly her
marriage with the Principe di Montefiano had not let her into the
mystery, for everybody knew that it was a marriage which had, so to say,
stopped short at the altar.

Who could tell, moreover, who this young fellow might be?  It was
certainly not likely that he was a suitable match for Bianca, or the two
would not behave in so absolutely _bourgeois_ a manner.  No; the boy was
much more probably some adventurer—some shopkeeper from Rome, with the
_faux airs_ of a gentleman about him.  In this case the matter would be
very simple.  It would not be a very easy thing to find a husband for a
girl who was known to have had a _liaison_ with a man out of her class;
and, this being so, Bianca Acorari would either have to remain single or
marry some man who would be willing to overlook such a scandal in her
past.

Thus reflecting, Monsieur d’Antin came to the conclusion that, for the
moment at all events, he would say nothing to his sister.  The first
thing to be done would be to find out who this young man was.
Afterwards, it would be easier to decide how long the little love-idyl
he had assisted at that afternoon should be allowed to continue.  If he
had to take anybody into his confidence before speaking to Jeanne, why
should the Abbé Roux not be that person?

That was a good idea—an excellent idea.  The priest could manage Jeanne,
and, perhaps, he, Philippe d’Antin, could manage the priest.  It was
possible, but he was not sure; for priests were—priests.  In any case,
it would be as well to have the abbé on his side if he found he was able
to derive any personal benefit out of the _bouleversement_ that must be
the immediate result of the discovery of Bianca’s conduct.

Yes, he would warn the Abbé Roux that it would be well to keep an eye on
Bianca’s movements, and how she passed her hours at the Villa Acorari.
Of course the boy would come again—and small blame to him!  And if
spying were to be done, it had better be done by the priest.  In that
case he, Monsieur d’Antin, would not incur Bianca’s odium as being the
destroyer of her romance.

Having arranged his programme to his satisfaction, Monsieur d’Antin
strolled back to the villa.  He found Bianca in the saloon, and greeted
her with an airy good-humor.

"I have been looking for you in the gardens," he said. "They said you
were walking there—but where you have been hiding yourself I do not
know!  Certainly I failed to discover the spot."

If Monsieur d’Antin had been so foolish as to allow himself to look at
the girl as he spoke, he would have seen the quick look of relief on her
face.  As it was, he looked at his watch.

"The servants told me you were here," she replied. "How you did not find
me in the gardens, I cannot think. Did you go up to the ilex grove—the
wood at the top of the hill?"

The keen note of anxiety in her voice was not lost upon Monsieur
d’Antin.

"Yes," he returned.  "I looked down the avenue, but I saw nobody.  Then
it began to rain heavily, and I tried to get back to the house.  But I
lost my way, and found myself—oh, close to the high road.  So I took
refuge under a tree, and—here I am!"

Bianca laughed nervously.  "What a dull way of spending the afternoon!"
she said.  "But mamma will be back presently—she had to go to Rome.  You
are going to stop for dinner, of course?  Perhaps to sleep here?"

"Impossible!" said Monsieur d’Antin, consulting his watch again.  "I
must drive back to Genzano.  I told the _vetturino_ to wait."

"But mamma," said Bianca, "she will be so disappointed to miss you!
Surely you can stay to dinner?"

"Impossible," repeated Monsieur d’Antin.  "I have promised to drive back
to Rome from Genzano with one of the secretaries of our legation, and we
were to start at seven o’clock.  Make my excuses to my sister, and tell
her that I shall be back again soon to pay her a visit—oh, very soon.
But, my dear child, you look pale—you have been too much in the sun,
perhaps—"

"Do I?" asked Bianca, hastily.  "It is nothing—my head aches a little.
Yes, I suppose it is the sun."

Monsieur d’Antin laughed merrily.

"No doubt!" he said.  "His kisses are too warm just now—decidedly too
warm.  You must beware of them, my dear child.  Do not let him kiss you
too often, or he will spoil that delicate skin."

And laughing always, he bade Bianca good-bye, and went to the
entrance-door where a servant was engaged in trying to rouse his
slumbering driver.




                                 *XII*


"The thing is absolutely incredible!"

It was the Abbé Roux who was speaking.  He sat with his hands folded on
his lap.  They were puffy hands, and looked unnaturally white against
the black background of his _soutane_.

Monsieur d’Antin sat a few paces away from him, smoking a cigarette.
The two had been in earnest conversation together in Monsieur d’Antin’s
little apartment in the Via Ludovisi, where the Abbé Roux had arrived
half an hour before very much exercised in his mind as to why the
princess’s brother should have made such a point of wishing to speak
with him in private.

Monsieur d’Antin looked at his visitor, and his face contracted with one
of his satirical little smiles.

"You think so, my dear abbé?" he said, dryly.  "That is because you are
so infinitely superior to the weaknesses of the flesh.  To me, on the
contrary, the thing is perfectly credible; it is even natural.  But we
must endeavor to save Donna Bianca Acorari from the consequences this
particular weakness would entail.  I am glad I decided to confide in you
before speaking to my sister.  Of course, had Bianca been her own child,
it would have simplified matters considerably; but as it is, I am sure
you will agree with me, my dear abbé, that we must help my sister in
this very difficult position."

The Abbé Roux unfolded his hands and began rubbing them gently together.

"Certainly, Monsieur le Baron, certainly," he replied. "It is, indeed, a
duty to assist the princess in this—this exceedingly painful affair."

He paused, and looked at Monsieur d’Antin inquiringly, as though to
intimate that he was only waiting to hear how the latter proposed to
act.

Monsieur d’Antin proceeded with some deliberation to light another
cigarette.

"I felt convinced that you would agree with me," he said, at length.  "I
am quite aware—my sister has often told me, indeed—what confidence she
has in your judgment. I regard it as very fortunate that she has so
reliable a counsellor.  A woman left in her position needs some man at
her side who will give her disinterested advice; and you, of course,
Monsieur l’Abbé, enjoy two great advantages. In the first place, you
have the influence of your sacred calling, which, as we both know, my
sister regards with extreme reverence; and, in the next place, though a
foreigner by birth, you are as much at home in Italy and with Italians
as though you were one of themselves."

The Abbé Roux bowed.  "Madame la Princesse has, indeed, chosen to honor
me by asking my advice occasionally on matters quite apart from my
profession," he replied.

Monsieur d’Antin blew a cloud of smoke into the air. There was, perhaps,
the faintest suspicion of impatience in the action.

"Precisely," he returned.  "Knowing this, I feel that we can discuss the
peculiar situation in which Donna Bianca has placed herself—or, I should
rather say, in which an unscrupulous young man has placed her—as two men
of the world.  Is it not so?  My sister," he continued, without giving
the priest time to reply, "would naturally merely look at the affair
from the moral point of view.  She would be deeply scandalized by it,
and shocked at what she would regard almost as depravity in one whom she
has hitherto considered to be still a child.  All that is very well—but
we men, my dear abbé, know that there are other things to be thought of
in these cases of indiscretion on the part of young girls."

"The deception," said the Abbé Roux, shaking his head; "the princess
will feel the deception practised by her step-daughter very acutely."

Monsieur d’Antin tapped a neatly shod foot on the floor.

"Dear Monsieur l’Abbé," he observed, gently, "let us ignore the
deception as being one of those moral points of the case which, I think,
we have agreed to leave out of our discussion.  The question is, does my
sister wish Donna Bianca to marry, or does she not?"

"Most decidedly not!" exclaimed the Abbé Roux, hastily, almost angrily.

Monsieur d’Antin glanced at him.  "I do not necessarily allude to Donna
Bianca’s marriage with this unknown lover," he returned, "but to her
marriage in the abstract."

The other hesitated.

"The princess, I believe, considers that it would be very unadvisable
for Donna Bianca to marry too young," he said.  "She has her good
reasons, no doubt," he added—"women’s reasons, Monsieur le Baron, with
which you and I need not concern ourselves."

Monsieur d’Antin laughed softly.

"It appears to me," he said, "that Donna Bianca has proved them to be
mere ideas, not reasons.  I do not think my sister need be uneasy on
that score.  I should say, on the contrary, that in this instance
marriage was advisable—very advisable indeed.  You have often, I have no
doubt, had to recommend it to your penitents, Monsieur l’Abbé."

The Abbé Roux spread out his hands with a deprecatory gesture.  "In the
present case," he said, "there are, I believe, other considerations
which madame your sister, as guardian to Donna Bianca Acorari, has to
take into account."

Monsieur d’Antin nodded his head.  "I understand," he observed.
"Pecuniary considerations."

The abbé looked at him.  "In a sense—yes," he said. "The prince," he
continued, "was not a man of business."

"So I have always heard," remarked Monsieur d’Antin.

"He left his affairs in a very involved state.  The princess, since she
has had the management of them, has been endeavoring to bring them into
better order during Donna Bianca’s minority."

"I understand," said Monsieur d’Antin again.  "So that," he added, "it
is, from a business point of view, very desirable that Donna Bianca
should not marry before she is twenty-one."

"Exactly!" assented the abbé.  "From a business point of view it is more
than desirable, it is important," he added. "In the event of Donna
Bianca’s marrying, even as a minor, she would bring to her husband the
Montefiano properties, and their administration by madame your sister
would cease. These were the terms of the prince’s will."

"It is perfectly clear," observed Monsieur d’Antin.  "My sister and I
have never discussed these matters," he continued.  "There would have
been no object in her talking to me about them, for I am absolutely
ignorant of Roman customs where landed property is concerned.  As I say,
it is fortunate that she has had you to advise her as to how to act for
the best in her step-daughter’s interest.  I fully understand the
situation, however; or, if I do not, you will correct me—is it not so?
_Bien_!  I will proceed to explain myself—with your permission."

The abbé bowed silently.

"For business reasons, into which it is unnecessary to enter in detail,
it is not convenient that Donna Bianca Acorari should marry for, at all
events, three years.  But surely, my dear Monsieur l’Abbé, it would very
much depend upon whom she married, whether these business calculations
were upset or not?  An accommodating husband—or one who was in a
position to be independent of any fortune his wife might bring him, need
not necessarily, so far as I can see, interfere with arrangements you
may have thought it wise to suggest to my sister for the better
administration of her step-daughter’s property."

Monsieur d’Antin looked penetratingly at his visitor as he said these
words, and the abbé returned his gaze.  Then something like a smile
crossed the faces of both men simultaneously.

"No doubt," the priest replied, tranquilly, "very much would depend upon
the husband.  But I do not see your argument, monsieur," he continued.
"You surely are not suggesting that Donna Bianca’s very deplorable
entanglement with a young man, whose identity, I must remind you, is as
yet unknown to us, should be permitted to go on?  The very fact of this
individual meeting your niece—"

"Not my niece, Monsieur l’Abbé—not my niece!" interrupted Monsieur
d’Antin.  "The accident of Donna Bianca Acorari’s father having married
my sister _en secondes noces_, does not make that young lady any
relation to me."

"Pardon!" said the abbé; "I forgot.  Of course, as you say, Donna Bianca
is absolutely no relation to you—not even a connection, indeed."

"Precisely—not even a connection," repeated Monsieur d’Antin.  "But pray
proceed—"

"I was about to say," resumed the abbé, "that no young man of good
family would place a young girl in such an unheard-of position as to
make love to her before speaking to her relations.  The man is no doubt
some adventurer."

"That," said Monsieur d’Antin, "I must leave to you to ascertain.  As I
have just observed, I am no relation of Donna Bianca Acorari.  I
therefore prefer not to interfere further than to utter a private
warning to those who have the right to move in the matter as to what has
accidentally come to my knowledge."

"It will not be difficult to identify the individual whom you saw in
Donna Bianca’s company," said the priest. "As you remarked, he is sure
to repeat his visit to the Villa Acorari.  For this reason I should be
inclined to say nothing to the princess until we have ascertained who it
is with whom we have to deal."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Monsieur d’Antin.  "I thoroughly agree with you.
You will admit, however, my dear abbé, that the matter is serious.  For
instance, what is to prevent the young couple from taking the law into
their own hands and running away?  If the young man is merely an
adventurer, he might persuade Donna Bianca to take such a step.  There
has been an example of the kind in Rome not so very long ago, if I am
not mistaken."

"There is nothing to prevent them from doing so, certainly," replied the
Abbé Roux.  "They could get themselves married ecclesiastically, no
doubt, but not legally. It would hardly be worth an adventurer’s while
to burden himself with a wife over whose fortune he would have no legal
rights."

"He might prefer to establish rights over her person," said Monsieur
d’Antin, dryly.  "Young men—are young men; and this one, unless I am
greatly mistaken, thinks more of Donna Bianca’s face than her fortune."

The Abbé Roux shrugged his shoulders.  "He seems to be on the high road
to establish those rights already," he observed, "if one is to judge by
what you overheard.  The blessing of the Church is not invariably sought
in cases of this kind," he added.

Monsieur d’Antin chuckled.  "True," he replied, "the girl is
inexperienced, and of a temperament—oh, but of a temperament—" He paused
abruptly.

The abbé looked at him quickly.  Then he smiled a curious little smile
not altogether in keeping with his clerical attire.

"Ah," he said, "I think, Monsieur le Baron, that you have had occasion
to remark on this—this delicate subject before, have you not?  The
princess mentioned to me some time ago that you had told her you thought
she was mistaken in believing her step-daughter to be still a child.
You have evidently been studying Donna Bianca attentively. After all,
she is a very attractive young lady, and is developing greater beauty
every few months.  But your warning to Madame la Princesse has turned
out to be singularly justified by subsequent events.  One sees that you
have an insight into female character, Monsieur le Baron."

Monsieur d’Antin looked at him suspiciously for a moment, and then he
laughed good-humoredly.

"What would you have, my dear abbé?" he asked. "I am not such an old
man—yet; and I am not a priest. I have my little experiences—yes—and I
am not often mistaken about a woman," and Monsieur d’Antin slapped
himself encouragingly on the breast.  "I will make you a little
confession, my friend," he continued, gayly.  "It is of no consequence
that I am smoking a cigarette, and that you do not happen to have your
stole on—you can give me absolution all the same.  I find my ’niece,’ as
you choose to call her, charming—absolutely charming.  It is a thousand
pities that she has so hopelessly compromised herself with this
mysterious young man, for if the story becomes known, when my sister
wants to find a husband for her it will not be such an easy matter to do
so.  Ah, my dear Monsieur l’Abbé, had I only been younger, a very few
years younger, I would have come forward and said: ’I, Philippe d’Antin,
will marry you, and protect you from the evil tongues of the world.  I
pardon your youthful indiscretion, and I make you the Baroness
d’Antin.’"

Monsieur d’Antin paused and looked at the Abbé Roux gravely.  He
appeared to be almost overcome by a sense of his own magnanimity.

The abbé was apparently engrossed in his own thoughts. He sat silently
rubbing his hands together, and it was some moments before he spoke.

"I agree with you, monsieur," he said, presently.  "It is not every man
who will marry a young lady who has placed herself in an equivocal
position.  You are very generous.  I offer you my congratulations on
your chivalrous spirit; and though, as you remark, I have not my stole
on, I shall respect your confidence.  All the same, _nous sommes
toujours là_!  Donna Bianca Acorari’s marriage would not be advisable
for the present.  The princess, I feel convinced, would not countenance
it."

"But, my dear abbé," exclaimed Monsieur d’Antin, "I assure you that I
thoroughly understand!  I was merely stating what I should have been
prepared to do had I only been a slightly younger man.  I do not conceal
the fact from you that I have a certain admiration for Donna Bianca,
which you, with your knowledge of frail human nature, will readily
pardon as a mere weakness of the flesh—is it not so?  At the same time,
I should have been prepared to sacrifice myself in order to prevent any
scandal; and, moreover, perhaps there would not be the same objections
to me as a husband for Donna Bianca as there might be in the case of a
stranger.  We should, so to speak, be keeping the Montefiano properties
in the family, should we not, Monsieur l’Abbé? and there would have been
no reason to fear that your and my sister’s excellent schemes for the
benefit of the estates would not have had ample time to be realized.
However, these are mere _châteaux en Espagne_.  We need not discuss so
unlikely a contingency any further.  I consider that I have done my duty
in warning you, as my sister’s confidential adviser and spiritual
director, as to what is taking place; and, as I have said, I must leave
it to you to take such steps as you think proper regarding when and how
the princess is to be made acquainted with the story.  After what I have
confided to you of my personal feelings, I am sure you will understand
my determination not to mix myself up in the matter—unless I am wanted.
If I can be of any use eventually, you know, my dear Monsieur l’Abbé,
what I am prepared to do in order to protect Donna Bianca from any
scandal."

The Abbé Roux rose from his chair.  "I think, Monsieur le Baron," he
said, "that you may safely leave this very delicate matter to me.  The
first thing to be done is to find out who this young man may be.  When I
have accomplished this, we can discuss what may be the best course to be
taken.  For the moment, I shall say nothing to the princess.  A day or
two’s delay can do no harm, and may do good."

Monsieur d’Antin accompanied his visitor to the door of the staircase,
where he took leave of him.  Then he returned to his sitting-room, and,
having closed the door, gave vent to quiet but genuine merriment.




                                 *XIII*


Silvio Rossano had quickly made up his mind that, as was only fitting
and proper, he would tell his father without further delay of the
situation in which he and Bianca found themselves.  It would be the
professor’s duty to call on Princess Montefiano and make a formal
proposal on the part of his son for Donna Bianca’s hand. That the
proposal would not be listened to by the princess, Silvio was convinced.
He had never attempted to deceive himself upon that subject, and less
than ever after hearing from Giacinta what she had learned.  But, at all
events, once having sent his father as his ambassador, he would have
conformed to the usages of society, and would afterwards be free to take
his own line.

Mademoiselle Durand, to whom he had of course confided the successful
result of his interview with Bianca in the grounds of the Villa Acorari,
had counselled patience.  There was no reason, she thought, why, with
the exercise of ordinary prudence, Silvio and the girl whom he now
looked upon as his betrothed wife should not repeatedly meet each other
in the same manner, and there was surely no necessity to be in a hurry
to explode the mine they had laid—more especially as it was not so easy
to calculate what the effects of the explosion might be.  But Silvio was
firm.  Had there been the slightest hope of being able to accomplish his
object in any other way, he would never, as he told Mademoiselle Durand,
have approached Bianca secretly, and already he blamed himself for
having placed the girl in so unusual a position.  Now, however, that he
had heard from her own lips that Bianca returned his love, and since
they had mutually vowed to marry each other, or not to marry at all, he
would have no more concealment.  If the princess refused to accept him
as a husband for her step-daughter, then he should feel that he and
Bianca were at liberty to carry out their future plans in their own way.

Mademoiselle Durand expostulated in vain.  Silvio begged her to deliver
a letter to Bianca when she next went to the Villa Acorari.  In this
letter he explained all his reasons for not risking another interview
with her until they should have learned the result of his father’s visit
to the princess, and these reasons he put before Bianca in the simple,
straightforward way which was part of his nature.  Mademoiselle Durand
promised to deliver the letter the very next day, and in the mean time
Silvio had carried his story to his father.

Professor Rossano had received his son’s intelligence with a blank
dismay which was almost ludicrous; for never, surely, had a task for
which he was so absolutely ill-fitted been thrust upon him.  At first he
had positively declined to interfere, or to be by way of knowing
anything at all about the matter.  Silvio had chosen to fall in love in
an impossible quarter, and the best thing he could do was to fall out of
love again as quickly as possible.  As to thinking that the Principessa
di Montefiano would allow her step-daughter and the last representative
of the Acorari to marry the son of the tenant of her second floor, that
was altogether an absurdity. Giacomelli had been quite right when he
said Silvio was in love, and would be taking false measurements in
consequence. He had taken them—deplorably false measurements.

"But," Silvio observed quietly, after the first stream of objection had
somewhat subsided, "I do not the least think the princess will consent
to our marriage."

"Then, may I ask, what is the use of sending me on a fool’s errand?" the
professor retorted, witheringly.

"Nevertheless, whether she consents or not, Bianca Acorari and I shall
marry each other.  All the same," continued Silvio, "if she gives her
consent, it will, of course, obviate a great many difficulties."

His father gazed at him with an expression half angry and half humorous.

"_Diamine!_" he observed, "I imagine that it would!  It appears to me,
Silvio, you forget that marrying an heiress is not the same thing as
building a bridge.  In the mean time, as I say, you wish to send me on a
fool’s errand.  Well, you may ’go out fishing!’  These people are noble,
and I am not going to expose myself and my son to certain prejudices
which an old-fashioned woman like Princess Montefiano probably
entertains.  Moreover, they are clericals—fervent Catholics—and when
people are fervent Catholics—_mah!_" and the professor shrugged his
shoulders.

Silvio laughed.  "It is a mere formality, Babbo," he said, "and it is
the only thing I shall ask you to do in the matter.  If you like, you
can go to the princess and say to her, ’My son has fallen in love with
your step-daughter, and means to marry her.  I have told him he is an
imbecile, and that I will not give my consent; but he declares he will
marry her all the same.’"

"Oh, oh!" exclaimed the professor, "so you would marry without my
consent, would you?  And pray, what would you live upon?"

"My wits."

"It seems to me that you are a pumpkin-head, and that you have lost
them," returned the professor.  "Does Giacinta know of this folly?"

"She knows that I am going to marry Donna Bianca Acorari."

"The devil she does!" observed Professor Rossano.  "Go and talk it over
with Giacinta, Silvio," he continued; "she is a sensible girl, and will
tell you that you are going to make a fool of yourself, and of your
family as well.  As for me, I will have nothing to do with it.  I have
no time to spend on such trifles."

"But if I have already talked it over with Giacinta?" said Silvio.  He
knew very well how to manage his father.  The professor would certainly
end by doing what either of his children asked him to do.  It was his
method of carrying out his sense of parental duty.  His children,
whenever he remembered to think about them, puzzled him considerably; or
rather, it puzzled him to know what was expected of him as a father.
Occasionally he would sit and look at Giacinta with much the same
expression on his face as may be seen on that of a retriever bitch whose
puppies are beginning to assert their independence.  He often felt that
it was probably incumbent upon him to do something on her behalf, but he
did not at all know what it might be, and still less how to do it.  In
Silvio’s case things had been different.  The boy had so early given
unmistakable proofs of having both the brains and the character to take
a line of his own in the world, that the professor had never had
seriously to think of possible responsibilities towards him.

This affair of Silvio’s, however, would, as Professor Rossano was quick
to realize, need some careful handling on a father’s part.  He was very
fond of his children, notwithstanding all his apparent absorption in his
scientific occupations, and he was proud as well as fond of his son. He
might laugh at Silvio, and call him an "imbecile," and he might pretend
to regard his love for this Acorari girl as a foolish fancy that need
not be seriously discussed.  But in his heart Professor Rossano was
uneasy.  He knew that Silvio was not a susceptible lad, and that he had
hitherto appeared to be remarkably indifferent to women.  But he knew,
too, his tenacity of character, and how when he had once fairly made up
his mind to attain some object he would pursue his purpose with an
energy that was almost dogged.

Added to these traits in Silvio’s character, the professor knew the
gentleness and loyalty of his nature and his simple, affectionate
disposition.  It would go very hard with the boy, he thought, if he were
deceived or played with by any woman upon whom he had really set his
affections. Notwithstanding his assertion that he would have nothing to
say or do in the matter, Professor Rossano had not the slightest
intention of allowing Silvio’s life to be made unhappy if he could
prevent it.  The boy had a career before him, and it should most
certainly not be wrecked by a priest-ridden woman and the daughter of so
poor a specimen of humanity as the late Principe di Montefiano was
reputed to have been. What Donna Bianca Acorari might be, the professor
neither knew nor cared.  Though they lived under the same roof, he had
never set eyes upon the girl.  She was probably bored to death with her
step-mother and her step-mother’s pious practices, and had encouraged
the first good-looking young man she saw to make love to her, which
young man had unfortunately happened to be Silvio.

Perhaps Silvio guessed something of what was passing in his father’s
mind.  "I have already talked it over with Giacinta," he repeated, as
the professor remained silent. "She does not think, any more than I
think, that there is the slightest chance of Princess Montefiano
listening to any proposal coming from us."

"And why not, I should like to know?" exclaimed the professor with
sublime inconsistency.

"For various reasons," returned Silvio, suppressing an inclination to
laugh.  "Giacinta knows more about Casa Montefiano than any of us," he
continued.  "I told her some time ago how it was with me, and she has
been making some inquiries.  It appears that there is a priest—the Abbé
Roux, they call him—"

"May the devil take him!" interrupted the professor. "He puts his nose
everywhere.  When we took this apartment the princess had agreed to make
certain alterations, but the porter told my lawyer that the Abbé
Roux—well, never mind!—what were you going to say about him, Silvio?"

"Only that, as you say, he puts his foot everywhere. Giacinta has heard
that neither the princess nor he really wish Donna Bianca to marry at
all."

"Which means to say that the priest does not wish it, for some reasons
of his own—money reasons, probably.  The princess will do what he tells
her to do, of course."

"Of course," repeated Silvio, dryly.

"And do you mean me to go and bribe the Abbé Roux?" asked the professor,
"for I shall most decidedly do nothing of the kind!"

"Oh, not at all!" returned Silvio, quietly; "I tell you, it does not
matter, Babbo.  Bianca and I shall wait three years, unless we get tired
of waiting and run away with each other before.  We could be married in
a church, you know, and the legal marriage might be postponed till she
was of age, but I think it would be better to wait the three years."

"_Diamine!_" ejaculated the professor, "but you seem to be very certain
of your arrangements, _figlio mio_, and of the girl."

Silvio nodded.  "You see," he said, "I don’t want to put her in any
false position, and if we ran away with each other before she is of age,
people would say I had done it in order eventually to get her money.
Besides, in the course of three years she will have ample time to be
quite sure that she has not made a mistake," added Silvio, with a smile.

The professor looked at him.  "Yes," he said, "you are quite right, but
not many young men would be so thoughtful or so confiding.  In the mean
time, you think—Giacinta thinks there is no chance of your being allowed
to pay your addresses to Donna Bianca Acorari, because, I suppose, you
would not be considered well-born enough nor rich enough. You might be a
contractor risen from nothing, or a _mercante di campagna_ whose father
had herded pigs, and, if you had money, no objections would be made to
your marrying into the Acorari or any other family.  _Figlio mio_, take
my advice.  Leave these people alone, and take your wife from a class
that has good brains and healthy blood, not from these worn-out families
of which the country has very little further need.  You are only
preparing for yourself trouble and disappointment."

Silvio shook his head.  "I will marry Bianca Acorari, or I will marry
nobody," he said.

The professor shrugged his shoulders.

"That being the case," he observed, mildly, "what is the use of
discussing the matter any further?  Why send me to the girl’s
step-mother?  It is a waste of time."

"You could write," suggested Silvio.

"Of course I should write!" returned his father testily. "You don’t
suppose I should spend a whole day in going to Velletri and back on such
an affair, do you?  All the same, I see why you think the formal
proposal should be made in the usual way.  If it is declined by the
princess—as, of course, it will be—you and the girl will consider
yourselves to be justified in taking the matter into your hands—is it
not true?"

"Exactly," answered Silvio.  "Moreover," he added, "I want to be certain
that Giacinta’s informant is right, and that there is some reason why
Donna Bianca will not be allowed to marry either me or anybody else, if
it can be prevented."

The professor nodded his head slowly.  "Depend upon it, the priest is at
the bottom of it," he said.  "He is probably feathering his nest, or
somebody else’s nest, well out of the Montefiano revenues, and does not
want any premature change in the situation.  And that reminds me," he
added, laughing, "that you had better have been anybody’s son than mine.
The priests—I mean those of the Abbé Roux type—regard me as a freemason,
a heretic, anything you please that is damnable, because—well, because I
believe Domeneddio to have given us minds in order that we should use
them.  I am afraid, Silvio _mio_, that Donna Bianca Acorari would never
be allowed to marry the son of a senator, who also happens to be a
scientist in a modest way."

"I tell you again, Babbo," said Silvio, "that it doesn’t matter.  All I
want is to be refused by the princess, after a formal proposal has been
made in the recognized manner. That will quite satisfy me.  Do you not
see, too, that we should be placing ourselves in a humiliating position
if we did not approach the Princess Montefiano?  She has the right to
expect it, and by not conforming to the usage it would appear as though
we knew ourselves to be in an entirely different class; whereas we are
not that.  We do not happen to possess a title, but for all that we can
show as good blood as the Acorari; while you are a senator, and your
name is known throughout Italy."

The professor passed his hand through his hair.  "Yes," he replied, "I
believe you are right, Silvio.  I imagine that you will very quickly be
satisfied if a refusal is all you want.  But remember, I will have
nothing more to do with the matter after I have informed Princess
Montefiano that you wish to marry her step-daughter, and have conveyed
her answer to you.  You are very obstinate, and I suppose you and this
girl are in love with each other.  That being the case, you must make
fools of yourselves in your own way.  Only, don’t expect me to help you.
I am going to the Lincei."

And without waiting for Silvio to reply, Professor Rossano took up his
soft felt hat and his walking-stick, which were lying on a table near
him, and walked out of his study, leaving Silvio satisfied that he would
do as he had asked him.




                                 *XIV*


Four days only had elapsed since the Abbé Roux’s interview with Monsieur
d’Antin in the Via Ludovisi, when he received a telegram from Princess
Montefiano, begging him to come to the Villa Acorari at once, as she
wished to consult him on urgent business.

The abbé had endeavored to find out, by judicious inquiries from the
porter at Palazzo Montefiano, and from one or two servants who were left
in charge of the princess’s apartments, whether any stranger who might
answer to Monsieur d’Antin’s description of the young man he had seen
with Donna Bianca had ever presented himself there. He had intended
going to the Villa Acorari himself under some excuse of business, and,
without saying anything for the moment to Princess Montefiano, to cause
the grounds to be watched, and the intrusion of any stranger duly
reported to him.  Indeed, he had determined, so far as time permitted,
to do a little watching on his own account.  It was clearly advisable,
as Monsieur d’Antin had said, to know with whom one was dealing.  It
might be, though it was not at all likely, that Bianca Acorari’s Romeo
was a son of some well-known Roman house, living in _villeggiatura_ at
his family palace or villa in the neighborhood; and that the scene at
which Monsieur d’Antin had assisted was merely the escapade of some
thoughtless youth at a loss how to pass his time in the country.

It was curious that, in turning over in his mind all the possible men
who could have had any opportunity of seeing enough of Donna Bianca to
fall in love with her, the Abbé Roux never thought of the son of the
obnoxious senator who lived in Palazzo Acorari.  As a matter of fact, he
had never seen Silvio Rossano, for he had never happened to encounter
him on the staircase or in the court-yard of Palazzo Acorari on the
occasion of his frequent visits there, though he was very well aware of
his existence.

It was, therefore, a pure coincidence that Silvio should happen to enter
the palace at the very moment when the abbé was in deep conversation
with the porter at the foot of the staircase.  Probably the priest would
scarcely have noticed him, had it not been that Silvio had looked at him
with, as he fancied, some curiosity.  Monsieur l’Abbé asked the porter
who Silvio was, and the man seemed surprised.

"That one?" he said.  "Why, that is the _signorino_ of the second floor,
a _bel ragazzo_—is it not true, _monsignore_?"

The Montefiano establishment always gave the Abbé Roux the title of
_monsignore_, not being quite clear as to what an abbé might be.

"Ah, of course," returned the abbé, "the _signorino_ of the second
floor"—and he followed Silvio’s retreating form with his eyes.

"_Un bel ragazzo davvero—proprio bello!_" he continued, giving Silvio a
prolonged look, as the latter turned the angle of the staircase, and
enabled the abbé to see his face distinctly.  "He is always in Rome?" he
inquired, carelessly.

"Yes, the Signorino Rossano was living at home now," the porter
declared.  "He was a very quiet young man—_molto serio_.  Indeed, he,
the porter, had never seen him engaged in any adventures, unless—"

"Unless—what?" asked the abbé, smiling.  "A young man cannot be expected
to be always _molto serio_," he added, leniently.

"_Sicuro!_ especially so handsome a lad as the _signorino_. Naturally
the women made up to him.  The French mademoiselle who came to the
_principessina_, for instance; he had met the _signorino_ and her
walking together—oh, more than once.  Not that there was anything in it,
probably—for it was in the daytime he had met them—in the morning,
indeed—and who wanted to make love on an empty stomach?"

The Abbé Roux checked the porter’s garrulity with a slight gesture, and
appeared to take but little interest in the matter.

Nevertheless, as he left Palazzo Acorari he wondered whether by any
chance this young Rossano could be the individual he was looking for.
His personal appearance answered to Monsieur d’Antin’s description of
Donna Bianca’s lover—and what more probable than that the two had met
repeatedly in this way in and out of the _palazzo_, and had managed to
communicate with each other?  The Frenchwoman, of course!  She had been
the channel of communication!  The abbé thought that he must have been
very dull not to think at once of so simple an explanation of the
affair.  But he had momentarily forgotten that Professor Rossano’s son
was living at home.  He had heard all about Silvio, and knew that he was
an engineer who was rapidly making a considerable reputation for himself
in his profession.

But the thing was absurd—preposterous!  There could be no difficulty in
at once putting a stop to this young man’s presumption.  Moreover, the
princess would be horrified at the bare idea of her step-daughter
marrying the son of an infidel scientist who had ventured to attack
certain dogmas of the Church.  At any rate, if the princess were not
properly horrified at the notion of such an alliance, he, the Abbé Roux,
would have little difficulty in making her so.

Altogether, it was perhaps very fortunate that Donna Bianca’s lover had
turned out to be young Rossano and not somebody of higher rank, whose
proposals might not be so easy to dismiss as unsuitable.  He must try to
get definite proof of Silvio Rossano being the suitor, however, and once
he had this proof in his hands, he could speak to the princess as
Monsieur d’Antin had proposed.  And Monsieur d’Antin? The Abbé Roux
laughed softly to himself as he thought of Monsieur d’Antin.  It was
certainly droll.  Monsieur le Baron was—well, it was very evident what
he was.  But he was shrewd, too!  He wished to gratify two passions at
once.  After all, his proposal was worthy of consideration; for if his
scheme were carried out, everybody’s little passions might be gratified
and nobody would be the worse—except, perhaps, Donna Bianca Acorari.
Yes, it was certainly worth thinking about—this self-sacrifice offered
by Monsieur d’Antin.  If the princess could be brought to see it, a
marriage between her step-daughter and her brother would, as Monsieur
d’Antin had frequently remarked, keep the Montefiano possessions in the
family, where it was very advisable from his—the abbé’s—point of view
that they should be kept.

The Abbé Roux had not been virtually the manager of Donna Bianca
Acorari’s future inheritance for nearly ten years without having
developed a very keen personal interest in it.  The princess, as she
said of herself, was not, and never had been, a woman of business.  If
she had displayed a certain amount of worldly acumen in inducing the
late Prince Montefiano to make her his wife, there had been, it is only
fair to say, no undue pecuniary motives in her manoeuvres.  Her life was
a lonely one, with absolutely no interests in it except those supplied
by her religion.  These, indeed, might have been wide enough—so wide as
to embrace all humanity, had Mademoiselle d’Antin’s religion been other
than a purely egoistical affair.  But, like many other ultra-pious
people of all creeds, she labored under a conviction that future
happiness was only to be purchased at the cost of much present
mortification.  Her own soul, consequently, was a perpetual burden to
her; and so, although in a very much less degree, were the souls of
others.  Hence, at one moment of Mademoiselle d’Antin’s life, a convent
had seemed to be the most fitting place in which to retire, and she had
come to Rome almost persuaded that she had a vocation to save herself
and others, by a life of seclusion and prayer, from the future evils
which she honestly imagined a Divine Creator petty and vindictive enough
to be capable of inflicting on His creatures.

It was at this period that she happened to be thrown in the society of
Prince Montefiano, who had taken to appearing in the _salons_ of the
"black" world, perhaps as a sincere though tardy means of mortifying
that flesh which he had invariably indulged so long as it had been able
to respond to the calls made upon it.

Very soon after her marriage with the reclaimed sheep, Mademoiselle
d’Antin, now Principessa di Montefiano, had made the acquaintance of her
compatriot, the Abbé Roux—at that time acting as secretary to a leading
cardinal of the Curia, well-known for his irreconcilable and
ultramontane principles.  It was, perhaps, an exaggeration to declare,
as did the gossips in the clubs, that the princess and the Abbé Roux
between them had wrestled so hard for the salvation of Prince
Montefiano’s soul as to cause him to yield it up from sheer _ennui_.  It
was certain, however, that he soon succumbed under the process, and that
the abbé became more than ever indispensable to his widow.

Prince Montefiano had, as the Abbé Roux soon found, left his affairs in
a very unsatisfactory state.  The lands remaining in his possession were
heavily mortgaged, and a large proportion of the income derived from the
fief of Montefiano—the only property of any importance left was
swallowed up in payment of interest on the mortgages.

Like many other landed proprietors in the Roman province, the prince
farmed out his rents to a middle-man, who paid him a fixed sum yearly,
and took what he might be able to make out of the estate over and above
this sum as his own profit.  An agent at Montefiano collected the rents,
in money or kind, from the tenants, and paid them over to this
middle-man, who was himself a well-to-do _mercante di campagna_ with a
fair amount of capital at his back, and this individual was bound to pay
in to the prince’s account the sum agreed upon, whether the season and
the crops were bad or good.  After Prince Montefiano’s death, this
system had been continued, by the advice of the Abbé Roux, to whom the
princess—feeling herself to be at a disadvantage in dealing with it—not
only as a foreigner, but also as merely the second wife of her husband
and not the mother of his only child and heiress had very soon confided
the superintendence of all the business connected with the estates.

The abbé, it is true, had, after the course of two or three years, made
a slight alteration in the system.  On the expiration of the contract
with the middle-man who had hitherto farmed the rents, his offer to
renew on similar terms for a further number of years was not accepted.
The abbé had assured Princess Montefiano that, if she would intrust the
matter fully to him, he would find her a middleman who would pay a
larger yearly sum than had hitherto been given for the rights.  The
princess had consented, and Monsieur l’Abbé had been as good as his
word.  He produced an individual who offered some ten thousand francs a
year more than the _mercante di campagna_ had offered; and, as the abbé
pointed out, though not a very large addition to income, it was not a
sum to be thrown away in such critical times.  This new arrangement had
worked so satisfactorily that, by degrees, the system was extended to
other portions of the Montefiano property, and not merely to the fief
which gave the princely title to its owners.

Abbé Roux had been perfectly frank with the princess when he proposed
this extension of the "farming" system to the whole of her
step-daughter’s property.  It would not, he declared, be possible,
unless it could be guaranteed, or, at any rate promised, that the
contracts should be renewable at the expiration of the legal period of
their validity.  It was, as he explained, an offer of a decidedly
speculative nature on the part of his friend the middle-man, and one
which could only be made on the understanding that its tenderer should
not be disturbed in his contract until Donna Bianca Acorari should come
of age, which would give him some ten years’ rights over the produce of
the estates in question.  This proviso, the abbé assured Princess
Montefiano, was, in his opinion, fair enough.  The risks of bad seasons
had to be taken into account; the inability of tenants to pay their
rents; the vicissitudes to which live stock was always liable; and many
other considerations of a similar nature.  Moreover, there was the risk
that Donna Bianca might die, or that the mortgagees might foreclose and
sell land—risks, in fact, of every kind.

The princess had hesitated.  The advantages of the proposal were obvious
if the few thousand francs’ addition to yearly income was the only point
to be looked at.  She did not, however, feel quite comfortable in her
mind as to whether she had any right to pledge Bianca not to interfere
or refuse to renew the contracts until she should be of age. Supposing
the girl were to marry before she was of age? In that case, according to
the prince’s will, the estates were to be considered as Bianca’s dowry,
and he had only added a stipulation (which, indeed, the Abbé Roux had
suggested), empowering his widow, Bianca’s step-mother, to give or
withhold her consent in the event of a proposal of marriage being made
to his daughter while she was still a minor.

The princess had put her scruples clearly before her adviser.  She meant
to do her duty by Bianca according to her lights, although these,
perhaps, were not very brilliant. The abbé, however, had pointed out
that Donna Bianca would be in an altogether unusual position for a young
girl when she was a few years older.  She would be an heiress, not
perhaps to a very large fortune, but, at all events, to one worth
bringing to any husband, and also to titles which would descend to her
children, certainly one of which, moreover, she would have the right of
bestowing upon the man she married.  It would be a mere question of
settling a certain ruined castle and village upon him which carried a
title with them, and of going through the necessary formalities required
by the Italian government before a title so acquired became legal and
valid.  This being the case, the danger of Donna Bianca Acorari becoming
the prey of some needy fortune-hunter, or even of some rich adventurer
who would marry her for the sake of her titles, was undoubtedly great.

The danger would be great even when she was twenty-one, and might be
supposed to have gained some knowledge of the world and to know her own
mind.  How much greater would it not be if she were to be allowed to
marry when she was seventeen or so?

The abbé reminded Princess Montefiano of the clause in her husband’s
will leaving it to her discretion to accept or refuse any proposal made
for Donna Bianca’s hand while the girl was a minor.  Surely, he argued,
it was wiser, under the circumstances, to take full advantage of the
powers given her.  So far as the guaranteeing of the contracts for the
farming of the rents until Donna Bianca was of age was concerned, this,
the abbé declared, was not only a safeguard and protection against Donna
Bianca making an undesirable marriage, but it should also, with good
management, enable the princess to spend more money on the improvement
of her step-daughter’s property while it was under her control.  Donna
Bianca would, therefore, be all the better off when she came of age—and
Madame la Princesse would feel, when that time arrived, that she had
been a faithful steward of her interests.

The princess was convinced, and more than convinced, by these arguments.
She had wondered how it was that she could even have entertained a doubt
as to the advisability of adopting Monsieur l’Abbé’s proposals.  It was
very true.  Bianca would be placed in a very unusual position when she
arrived at a marriageable age.  It could do no harm to delay her
marriage a year or two—and if, as Monsieur l’Abbé said, the scheme he
proposed would benefit the estates, she, the princess, should feel she
was not doing her duty by Bianca were she to oppose it.

All this had happened six or seven years ago, and Princess Montefiano
had not since had any reason to doubt the soundness of the advice she
then received.  The sums required by the terms of the contract were paid
in half yearly by the "farmer" of the rents with unfailing regularity,
and a great deal of trouble and responsibility was lifted from her own
shoulders.

As for the Abbé Roux, he also had every reason to be satisfied with the
arrangement.  It gave him no doubt a great deal of work to do which was
certainly not of a strictly professional character—but, as he told the
princess, having undertaken the supervision of her worldly affairs, and
having given her advice as to their conduct, he felt it to be his duty
personally to look into them.  The _fattori_ on the different properties
had to be interviewed, and their accounts checked at certain seasons of
the year; and though all these matters were regulated by the head-agent
and administrator to the "Eccellentissima Casa Acorari" in the estates
office in Rome, nothing was finally approved of until it had been
submitted to the Abbé Roux, as directly representing their excellencies
the Principessa and the Principessina Bianca.




                                  *XV*


On his arrival at the Villa Acorari, the Abbé Roux was at once ushered
into Princess Montefiano’s private sitting-room, where she was waiting
him with evident anxiety. It was clear that something had occurred to
upset and annoy her, and the abbé was at once convinced that, as he had
suspected when he received her telegram, she had by some means
discovered her step-daughter’s secret.

He was scarcely prepared, however, for what had really happened.

That morning’s post had brought the Princess Montefiano a letter from
the Senator Rossano.  To say that its contents had filled her with
amazement would be but a meagre description of her feelings.  It was a
very short letter, but, like the learned senator’s discourses, very much
to the point, and couched in a terseness of language very unusual in
Italian missives of so formal a character.

The professor briefly apologized for addressing the Princess Montefiano
personally, without having the honor of knowing her otherwise than as a
tenant in her house, but added that the personal nature of the matter he
had to lay before her must be his excuse.  He then proceeded, without
any further circumlocution, to inform the princess that his only son,
Silvio, had fallen desperately in love with her step-daughter, Donna
Bianca Acorari; that his son had some reason to believe Donna Bianca
might return his attachment were he permitted to address her; and
finally, that he, the Senator Rossano, at his son’s desire, begged to
make a formal request that the latter should be allowed to plead his own
cause with Donna Bianca.  The princess had, not unnaturally, been
petrified with astonishment on reading this letter, and her amazement
had quickly been succeeded by indignation.  The thing was absurd, and
more than absurd; it was impertinent.  Evidently this young man had seen
Bianca going in and out of the Palazzo Acorari, and had imagined himself
to have fallen in love with her—if, indeed, it was not simply a
barefaced attempt to secure her money without love entering at all into
the matter.

Her first impulse had been to send for Bianca and ask her what it all
meant.  On second thoughts, however, she decided not to mention the
subject to her until she had consulted the Abbé Roux.  If, as was
probable, Bianca knew nothing about it, and the whole affair were only
the silly action of a boy who had persuaded his father that he was
desperately in love with a young girl upon whom he believed himself to
have made an impression, it would be very imprudent to put any ideas of
the kind into her head. No, the only wise course, the princess
reflected, was to hear what Monsieur l’Abbé might advise, though
naturally there could be but one answer to the Senator Rossano’s letter.
Indeed, she would not reply to it in person.  Such an impertinence
should be treated with silent contempt; or, if some answer had to be
given, she would depute the abbé to interview these Rossanos.

The door had hardly closed behind the servant who showed him into the
room when Princess Montefiano put the letter into the abbé’s hands.

"Did you ever read anything so extraordinary in your life?" she asked
him.  "Yes, it was about this I telegraphed to beg you to come to me.
It is an unheard-of impertinence, and I think the professor, senator—or
whatever he might be—Rossano must be a fool, and not the clever man you
say he is, or he would never have listened to this ridiculous son of
his."

Princess Montefiano was evidently thoroughly angry, as, indeed, from her
point of view, she had every right to be. The Abbé Roux read the letter
through attentively. Then he coughed, arranged his _soutane_, and read
it through a second time.

"Well?" asked the princess, impatiently.  "Are you not as much amazed as
I am?"

The abbé hesitated for a moment.  Then he said, quietly: "No, madame, I
am not amazed at all."

The princess stared at him.  "Not amazed at all?" she re-echoed.  "But—"

"May I ask," he interrupted, "if you have spoken to Donna Bianca of
this—this offer?"

"Offer!" exclaimed the princess, scornfully.  "I do not call it an
offer; I call it an insult—at least, it would be an insult if it were
not a stupidity.  No, I have not as yet mentioned the subject to Bianca.
I thought I would wait until I had consulted with you.  You see,
Monsieur l’Abbé, it is a delicate matter to discuss with a young girl,
because, if there is any love at all in the matter, it can only be a
case of love at first sight on the part of this youth—and for love at
first sight there is another name—"

The abbé smiled.  "Exactly, madame," he said.  "You are very wise not to
mention the senator’s letter to Donna Bianca.  It would be better that
she should never know it had been written.  At the same time, if you
read the letter carefully, you will observe that the young man believes
his affection to be reciprocated."

The princess shrugged her shoulders.  "The vanity of a youth who no
doubt thinks himself irresistible," she observed.  "How could it be
reciprocated?  I dare say he has seen Bianca driving, or, at the most,
passed her on the staircase."

"I am inclined to think," said the abbé, "that he has more reason than
this to believe Donna Bianca to be not indifferent to him."

Princess Montefiano started visibly.

"_Mon Dieu_, monsieur, what do you mean?" she exclaimed.

The Abbé Roux carefully refolded the letter, and, placing it in the
envelope, returned it to her.

"Madame la Princesse," he said, after a pause, "the subject, as you
observed just now, is a delicate one.  I regret that I should be obliged
to give you pain.  Even had I not received your telegram, I should have
felt it to be my duty to come to see you on this matter."

"You knew it, then?" asked the princess, more bewildered than ever.

"Yes, I knew it," replied the priest.  "It came to my knowledge only
three or four days since.  I fear, madame, that Donna Bianca has given
this young man every reason to feel himself justified in persuading his
father to address this letter to you.  That does not excuse his
presumption—certainly not!  But, as I say, it makes it more reasonable."

Princess Montefiano turned to him with some dignity. "Monsieur l’Abbé,"
she said, "are you aware what your words imply?  You are speaking of my
step-daughter, of Donna Bianca Acorari."

The Abbé Roux spread out his hands apologetically. "Alas, madame!" he
replied, "I am fully aware of it.  But I consider it to be my duty to
speak to you of Donna Bianca.  I think," he added, "that you have never
had cause to complain of my failing in my duty towards Casa Acorari, or
of any lack of discretion on my part, since you honored me with your
confidence."

"That is true," said Princess Montefiano, hurriedly; "I ask your pardon,
Monsieur l’Abbé.  I am sure that whatever you may have to tell me is
prompted by your sense of the confidence I repose in you.  But, Bianca!
I do not understand—"

"It is a very simple matter," interrupted the abbé.  "A person of my
acquaintance was an accidental witness of an interview between Donna
Bianca and young Rossano—here in the grounds of the Villa Acorari—a few
days ago.  It appears that there can be no doubt it was a lover’s
interview, and probably not the first of its kind between these two
young people."

The princess turned a horrified gaze upon him.

"And you call that a simple matter!" she exclaimed, so soon as she could
find words.

The abbé shrugged his shoulders.

"Madame," he replied, "between two people who are young and
good-looking, love is always a simple matter! It is in its results that
complications arise."

"Monsieur l’Abbé!" exclaimed the princess.

"Precisely," he proceeded—"in its results.  It is from these results
that we must try to save Donna Bianca."

Princess Montefiano seemed as though she were about to give way to
uncontrollable agitation.

"But it is impossible!" she cried.  "Great God—it is impossible!  Bianca
is little more than a child still.  You do not mean to suggest—what can
I say?  The thought is too horrible!"

The Abbé Roux rubbed his hands gently together.  "We will trust things
are not quite so serious as that," he said, slowly.  "Indeed," he added,
"I do not for a moment believe that they are so.  Nevertheless, my
informant declares that the interview between the two lovers was—well,
of a very passionate nature.  I fear, madame, you have been mistaken in
looking upon Donna Bianca as merely a child."

The princess groaned.  "That is what my brother has told me more than
once of late," she said.

"He has said the same to me," remarked the abbé. "Monsieur your brother
is, as one may say, a keen observer," he added.

"But what can we do?" exclaimed Princess Montefiano, almost
hysterically.  "Good Heavens!" she continued; "how thankful I am that I
telegraphed to you!  I can rely on your discretion, monsieur, as a
friend—as a priest!"

"As both, madame," returned the abbé, bowing.  "The situation is
certainly a difficult one, and Donna Bianca, through her inexperience,
has no doubt placed herself in an equivocal position.  Unfortunately,
the world never forgets an indiscretion committed by a young girl; and,
as I have said, there was a witness to Donna Bianca’s last interview
with this young man.  That is to say, this individual could hear, though
he could not see, all that passed between them."

"Ah!  And who is this individual?" asked the princess, hastily.  "Is he
a person whose silence can be bought?"

The Abbé Roux shook his head.  "I am pledged not to reveal the name," he
replied.  "I must beg of you, madame, not to ask me to do so.  As
regards his silence, that is not to be bought—and even if it were, I
should not advise such a course.  It would be equivalent to
admitting—well, that the worst construction could be placed on Donna
Bianca’s unfortunate actions."

"Good Heavens!" repeated the princess.  "What can be done?  What course
can we pursue with that unhappy child?  Ah! it is the mother’s blood
coming out in her, Monsieur l’Abbé."

The abbé thought that the paternal strain might also be taken into
account; but he very naturally kept the reflection to himself.

"The responsibility is a terrible one for me," continued Princess
Montefiano.  "If anything happens to Bianca, if she were to make a bad
marriage—and, still more, if there were to be any scandal about her,
people would say I had neglected her because she was not my own child—"

"Yes, madame," interposed the abbé, quietly, "but there must be no bad
marriage, and there must be no scandal. It will be my task to assist you
in making both things impossible."

"Yes, but how?  She has put herself in the power of these Rossanos.
Probably the father is quite aware that the child has compromised
herself with his son by the very fact of meeting him alone and
secretly—otherwise he would not have ventured to write this letter.  And
then, there is this, other person—your informant.  Do you not see,
monsieur, that my step-daughter’s good name is seriously compromised by
being at the mercy of people like these Rossanos, who are not of our
world?  They would be quite capable of revenging themselves for my
treating their proposal with the contempt it deserves by spreading some
story about Bianca."

The abbé did not reply for a moment or two.  "I do not think they will
do that," he said, presently.  "The senator is too well-known a man to
care to place himself and his son in a false position.  Though the
story, if it became known, would certainly be injurious to Donna Bianca,
it would not redound to the credit of the Rossanos.  A young man with
any sense of honor does not place an inexperienced girl in such an
equivocal position.  No—I should be much more afraid that, unless Donna
Bianca is removed from all possibility of being again approached by the
young Rossano, he will acquire such an influence over her that sooner or
later he will oblige her to marry him."

"But it would be an absolute _mésalliance_!" exclaimed Princess
Montefiano.

"Of course it would be a _mésalliance_, from the worldly point of view,"
said the abbé.  "It would also be a crime," he added.

"A crime!"

"Yes, certainly, madame.  Would you give a young girl, for whose
spiritual welfare you are responsible, to the son of Professor Rossano—a
man whose blasphemous writings and discourses have perverted the minds
and ruined the faith of half the youth of Italy?  Why, Bruno was burned
for hazarding opinions which were orthodox in comparison with the
assertions made by Rossano on the authority of his miserable science!"

The princess shuddered.  "Of course!" she replied.  "I forgot for the
moment whom we were discussing.  No matter what might happen, I would
never give my consent to Bianca’s marriage with a free-thinker.  I would
rather see her dead, and a thousand times rather see her in a convent."

The Abbé Roux smiled.  "Fortunately," he said, "there are other
solutions.  Donna Bianca has shown very clearly that she has no vocation
for conventual life, and of the other we need not speak."

"I do not see the solutions you speak of," returned the princess, with a
sigh.

"There is only one which presents itself to my mind as being not only
simple, but absolutely necessary for the moment," said the abbé.  "Donna
Bianca," he continued, looking at the princess gravely, "must be removed
where there can be no danger of her again seeing this young Rossano.
She is young, and evidently impressionable, and in time she will forget
him.  It is to be hoped that he, too, will forget her.  Do you
recollect, madame, my telling you that for a young lady in Donna Bianca
Acorari’s position, anything that protected her against marrying before
she attained years of discretion was an advantage?"

The princess nodded.  "I do, indeed," she replied.  "I see now how right
you were.  A young girl with the prospects Bianca has is always in
danger of falling a prey to some fortune-hunter, such as, no doubt, this
Rossano is."

"I hope," continued the abbé, "that my present advice to you will prove
as sound as the advice I gave you then, and as advantageous to Donna
Bianca’s true interests.  I, personally, am convinced that it will prove
so—and I offer it as the only solution I can see to the problem with
which we have to deal—I mean, madame, the problem of how to extricate
Donna Bianca from the position in which she has been placed, without
further difficulties arising.  May I make my suggestion?" he added.

"Why, of course, Monsieur l’Abbé!" replied Princess Montefiano.  "It is
what I asked you here to do—to give me your assistance in this very
painful matter.

"You must take Donna Bianca away from here, madame."

"Of course," said the princess; "I had already thought of that.  But the
question is, where can I take her?  To return to Palazzo Acorari is
impossible.  She would be exposed to the probability of meeting this
young man every day.  I cannot turn the Rossanos out of their apartment,
for, so far as I recollect, the lease has still two years to run. And if
I take Bianca to some other town, or to some sea-side place, what is to
prevent the young man from following us?"

"Very true," assented the Abbé Roux.  "I also have thought of these
difficulties," he added.  "I have considered the matter well, and it
seems to me that there is only one place in which Donna Bianca could
satisfactorily be guarded from further annoyance."

"And where is that?"

"Her own castle at Montefiano."

"Montefiano?" the princess exclaimed.  "But, Monsieur l’Abbé,
Montefiano, as you well know, is practically deserted—abandoned.  There
is, I believe, no furniture in the house."

"The furniture could be sent there," said the abbé. "There could be no
better place for Donna Bianca to remain for a few months, or until she
has forgotten this youthful love-affair.  It would not be easy for a
stranger to obtain access to the castle at Montefiano without it being
known—and, as you are aware, madame, the domain is of considerable
extent.  It would not be an imprisonment."

"I have only once been at Montefiano," said the princess, "and then only
for the day.  It struck me as being a very dreary place, except,
perhaps, in the summer."

"The air is good," observed the abbé, a little dryly, "and, as I say, it
has the advantage of being out of the way.  My advice would be to take
Donna Bianca there as soon as possible.  In a week or ten days the rooms
could be made quite comfortable, and servants could be sent from Rome.
After all, there would be nothing strange in the fact of your having
decided to spend a few weeks at Montefiano, especially at this season of
the year."

"Perhaps you are right, monsieur," said the Princess Montefiano.  "At
any rate," she added, "I can think of no better plan for the moment.
What distresses me now is that I do not know what to say to Bianca, or
how to say it. I cannot let her think that I know nothing of what has
happened—and I am still in the dark, Monsieur l’Abbé, as to—well, as to
how much has happened."

The abbé pondered for a moment.  "I should be inclined, madame, not to
give Donna Bianca any definite reason for your visit to Montefiano.  You
can scarcely tell her your real object in taking her there without
letting her know that young Rossano has made you a formal proposal for
her hand.  You must remember she is quite unaware that her meeting with
him was observed, and she would, therefore, at once guess that you must
have had some communication from the Rossano family."

The princess looked doubtful.  From the Abbé Roux she would, to quote
Shakespeare, "take suggestion as a cat laps milk."  Nevertheless, to
pretend to Bianca that she was in complete ignorance of her conduct
seemed to be derogatory to her own position as the girl’s step-mother
and guardian.

"I must certainly speak to Bianca sooner or later," she began.

"Then, madame," said the abbé, "let it be later, I beg of you.  There
will be time enough when you are at Montefiano to explain to Donna
Bianca your reasons for your actions.  If you go into the subject with
her now she may communicate with her lover, and warn him that she is
being taken to Montefiano.  When she is once safely there, it will not
matter.  It will, of course, be known that you are residing at
Montefiano, but Montefiano is not Villa Acorari.  A convent itself could
not be a more secure retreat."

"Well," returned the princess, "perhaps you are right. But I must say I
do not like the idea of meeting Bianca as if nothing at all had
happened.  It appears to me to be scarcely—scarcely honorable on my
part, and to be encouraging her in maintaining a deception towards me."

"_Chère madame_," said the Abbé Roux, blandly, "I fully understand your
scruples, and they do you credit.  But we must remember the end we have
in view.  This absurd love-affair between a boy and a girl—for it is,
after all, nothing more serious—must be put an end to in such a way as
to preserve Donna Bianca Acorari’s name from any breath of scandal."

"Then," replied Princess Montefiano, "you advise me to say nothing to
Bianca at present."

"At present I should say nothing.  There is one thing, however, that you
should do, madame—a necessary precaution against any further
communication passing between Donna Bianca and young Rossano.  I believe
that Mademoiselle Durand continues giving Donna Bianca lessons, does she
not?  I think you told me that she was at Albano, and that you had
arranged for her to come here two or three days weekly."

"Ah!" exclaimed Princess Montefiano, "Mademoiselle Durand!  Do you mean
to say that she has been the go-between in this affair?"

"I know nothing for certain," replied the abbé, "but I have been told
that young Rossano and she are on intimate terms—that they walk together
in Rome—"

"A respectable company, truly, for my step-daughter to find herself in!"
said Princess Montefiano—"a professor’s son and a daily governess!"

The Abbé Roux sighed.  "I fear," he said, "that this woman has played a
very mischievous part, but I cannot be certain.  It would be as well,
perhaps, not to give her any explanations, but merely to inform her that
you no longer require her for Donna Bianca.  All these details, madame,"
he added, "you will learn later on, no doubt, from Donna Bianca herself.
But for the moment, believe me, the less said to any one on the subject,
the better."

"Yes, yes, I quite see that you are right, Monsieur l’Abbé," said the
princess, hurriedly.  "Your advice is always sound, and whenever I have
not taken it I have always regretted the fact.  There is one person,
however, to whom I must give some explanation of my sudden move to
Montefiano, and that is my brother.  He was coming to spend a fortnight
or so here."

"Ah, Monsieur le Baron," observed the Abbé Roux. "No, there would, of
course, be no objection in your confiding in Monsieur le Baron.  Indeed,
it would be but natural to do so."

"Exactly," returned Princess Montefiano.  "My brother is, after all, the
child’s uncle, so to speak."

The abbé smiled.  "Scarcely, madame," he replied; "there is not the
slightest connection between them."

"Of course not, really," the princess said, "but a kind of relationship
through me."

"I think," observed the abbé, hesitatingly—"it has seemed to me that
monsieur your brother takes a great interest in Donna Bianca.  He has
certainly been very quick to discern things in her which have escaped
the notice of others."

Princess Montefiano directed a quick glance at him, and then she looked
away.

"I am afraid," proceeded the priest, "that this affair will be quite a
blow to him; yes, indeed, quite a blow.  Monsieur le Baron, after all,
is a comparatively young man, and—"

He hesitated again, and then stopped abruptly.

The princess glanced at him nervously.

"It is strange that you should say this, Monsieur l’Abbé," she said.  "I
have, I confess, sometimes thought, sometimes wondered—  Ah, but certain
things cross one’s mind occasionally which are better left unspoken!"

The Abbé Roux looked at her.  "We may leave our present thoughts
unspoken, Madame la Princesse," he said, with a smile.  "I imagine," he
continued, "that the same idea has struck both of us.  Well, supposing
such a thing to be the case, what then?  There is nothing unnatural in
the situation—nothing at all.  A disparity of age, very likely; but,
again, what is disparity of age?  An idea—a sentiment. A man who has
arrived at the years of Monsieur le Baron may be said to have gained his
experience—to have had time _de se ranger_.  Such husbands are often
more satisfactory than younger men."

The princess checked him with a gesture.

"But it is an imagination!" she exclaimed—"a mere idea. I confess I have
once or twice thought that my brother looked at Bianca in—in rather a
peculiar way, you know—as if he admired her very much; and, yes, I have
even made an excuse sometimes to send Bianca out of the room when he was
calling on me.  I did not think she should be exposed to anything which
might put ideas into her head."

"It appears to me, madame, that your precautions were unnecessary," said
the Abbé Roux, dryly.  "The ideas, as we now know, were already there."

"Alas, yes!" sighed the princess.  "But," she added, "do you really
think that there can be anything in it, Monsieur l’Abbé?  It seems too
strange—too unnatural, I was about to say; but that would not be quite
true, as you pointed out just now."

The Abbé Roux made a gesture with outspread hands.

"Madame," he said, "I know as much as you do of what may be in monsieur
your brother’s mind.  It is probable, however, that he has some thoughts
of the kind concerning Donna Bianca, or we should not both have
suspected their existence.  Does the idea shock you so much?" he added,
suddenly.

"Yes—no," returned Princess Montefiano, confusedly. "I can hardly tell.
Do not let us talk any more about it, Monsieur l’Abbé—not, at all
events, at present.  We have so much else to occupy our thoughts.  Of
course, I must let my brother know what has happened, and explain to him
that I shall not be able to receive him here."

"Of course," assented the Abbé Roux.  "I have no doubt," he added, "that
Monsieur le Baron will be quite as pleased to pay his visit to you at
Montefiano."

The princess apparently did not hear him.  She stooped and picked up
Professor Rossano’s letter, which had fallen from her lap onto the
floor.

"And this?" she asked, holding the missive out to the abbé.  "What reply
am I to send to this—if, indeed, any reply is necessary?"

"There is only one reply to make; namely, that the proposal cannot be
entertained either now or at any future time," replied the abbé.  "It is
not necessary to enter into any explanations," he continued.

And, after discussing for some time longer with the princess the
necessary arrangements to be made for moving to Montefiano with as
little delay as possible, the Abbé Roux took his leave and returned by
an afternoon train to Rome.




                                 *XVI*


"I told you how it would be, Silvio," Giacinta Rossano said to her
brother.  "I don’t see what else you could have expected."

"I did not expect anything else," returned Silvio, placidly.  "At all
events," he added, "we now know where we are."

Giacinta laughed dryly.  "Do you?" she asked.  "It appears to me that
you are—nowhere!  Nothing could be more explicit than Princess
Montefiano’s reply to Babbo’s letter—and nothing could be more marked
than the brief way she dismisses your proposals.  I can assure you that
Babbo is very much annoyed.  I do not think I have ever seen him so
annoyed about anything—unless it was when a servant we had last season
lighted the fire with some proof-sheets he had left lying on the floor."

"It is not the slightest use his being annoyed," said Silvio.

"At least you must admit that it is not a pleasant position for a father
to be placed in," observed Giacinta.  "He told me this morning, Silvio,"
she added, "that nothing could induce him to do anything more in the
matter.  He says you have had your answer, and that the best thing you
can do is to try to forget all that has happened.  After all, there are
plenty of other girls to choose from.  Why need you make your life
unhappy because these Acorari will not have anything to say to you?"

"Princess Montefiano is not an Acorari," replied Silvio, obstinately.
"There is only one Acorari concerned in the matter, and she has
everything to say to me!"

Giacinta sighed.  She knew by experience that it was of no use to argue
with this headstrong brother of hers when once an idea was fixed in his
mind.

"May one ask what you propose to do next?" she inquired, after a pause.
"Your communications in the shape of Mademoiselle Durand having been
cut, and Villa Acorari no doubt probably watched and guarded, I do not
see how you are going to approach Donna Bianca in the future.  At any
rate, you mustn’t count upon Babbo doing anything, Silvio, for he told
me to-day he did not wish to hear the subject mentioned any more.  You
know what he is about anything disagreeable—how he simply ignores its
existence."

Silvio Rossano smiled.  "I know well," he replied. "It is not a bad
plan, that of simply brushing a disagreeable thing to one side.  But few
people are able to carry it out so consistently as Babbo does.  In this
case, Giacinta, it is the best thing he can do.  There is nothing to be
said or done, for the moment.  When there is, you will see that Bianca
and I will manage it.  It is certainly a bore about Mademoiselle Durand
having been told to discontinue giving her lessons at Villa Acorari."

Giacinta shrugged her shoulders.  "Considering the subject chosen for
instruction, it is not to be wondered at if the princess thought they
had better cease," she remarked, dryly.

Silvio smiled.  Knowing that Bianca Acorari loved him, nothing seemed to
matter very much.  It had been the uncertainty whether she had observed
and understood his passion for her, and the longing to be sure that, if
so, it had awakened in her some response, which had seemed so difficult
to insure.

"Luckily," he said, "the princess played her card a day or two too late.
Bianca had my letter, and Mademoiselle Durand brought me back her answer
to it."

"Ah!" exclaimed Giacinta, "you never told me that you had corresponded
with each other since you met."

"I don’t think you and I have discussed the subject since I told you of
our meeting," said Silvio.  "I told Babbo."

"What did he say?"

"He said I was an imbecile—no, a pumpkin-head," answered Silvio, his
eyes twinkling with mirth.  "Also, he said I was like a donkey in the
month of May, and that he did not wish to hear any more asinine
love-songs—and, oh, several other observations of the kind."

"His opinion is generally looked upon as being a very good one,"
observed Giacinta, tranquilly.

Silvio laughed outright.  Giacinta’s satirical remarks always amused
him, even when they were made at his expense.  "It is certainly a
misfortune that Mademoiselle Durand is no longer to go to Villa
Acorari," he said.  "I must say," he added, "she has proved herself to
be a most loyal friend—and an entirely disinterested one, too."

Giacinta glanced at him.  "I suppose," she said, "that Mademoiselle
Durand likes a little romance.  I believe most single women who are over
thirty and under fifty do."

"I suppose so," observed Silvio, carelessly.  "She seemed quite upset
when she told me of the note she had received from Princess Montefiano.
I thought, of course, that she felt she had lost an engagement."

"But did the princess give a reason for dispensing with her services?"
asked Giacinta.

"No.  The note merely said that as Donna Bianca’s studies would not be
continued, there was no necessity for Mademoiselle Durand to come any
more to Villa Acorari. The princess enclosed money for the lessons
given—and that was all.  But, of course, Giacinta," continued Silvio, "I
felt that Mademoiselle Durand had lost her engagement through
befriending me.  Though the princess for some reason did not allude to
anything of the kind, I am sure she must know, or suspect, the part
Mademoiselle Durand has played."

"I should think so, undoubtedly," remarked Giacinta.

"And naturally," Silvio proceeded, "I felt very uncomfortable about it.
I did not quite know what to do, and I offered—"

"Yes?" said his sister, as he paused, hesitatingly.

"Well, Giacinta, you see, she had probably lost money through me, so I
offered to—to make her loss good, so to say."

"And then?"

"Oh, and then she was very angry, and said that I insulted her.  After
that she cried.  One does not like to see grown-up people cry; it is
very unpleasant.  She said that I did not understand; that what she had
done was out of mere friendship and sympathy—for me and for Bianca. I
knew she had grown attached to Bianca, Giacinta; she had told me so once
before.  After all, nobody who saw much of Bianca could help being fond
of her."

Giacinta looked at him for a moment or two without speaking.

"I am not surprised that she was angry," she said, at length.  "As to
her being attached to Donna Bianca—well, it appears that even people who
have not seen much of her become attached to that girl.  It is a gift, I
suppose. But all this does not tell me what you mean to do, now you can
no longer employ Mademoiselle Durand to fetch and carry for you."

"We mean to wait," said Silvio, quietly.  "Bianca and I are quite agreed
as to that.  Three years are soon over, and then, if she still chooses
to marry me, neither the princess nor anybody else can prevent her.  It
is the best way, Giacinta, for it leaves her free, and then none can say
that I took advantage of her inexperience."

"And in the mean time, if they marry her to somebody else?"

"But they will not.  They cannot force her to marry. If they tried to do
so, then we would not wait three years, nor even three weeks."

"But you might know nothing about it, Silvio," said Giacinta.  "And they
might tell her you had given her up, or that you were in love with some
one else—anything, in fact, to make her think no more about you."

Silvio smiled.  "You are full of objections," he said; "but you need not
be uneasy.  It is true that we no longer have Mademoiselle Durand to
depend upon, but we shall find other means of communicating with each
other.  After all, shall we not be under the same roof here all the
winter and spring?  The princess will not remain at the Villa Acorari
forever.  No—if there should be any pressure put upon Bianca to make her
give me up against her will I shall very soon know it.  We are agreed on
all those points. If the princess keeps quiet, we shall keep quiet also.
She has a perfect right to refuse her consent to Bianca marrying me—for
the present.  But in course of time that right will no longer hold good.
While it does, however, Bianca and I have agreed to respect it, unless,
in order to protect ourselves, we are forced to set it at defiance, get
some priest to marry us, and delay the legal marriage till afterwards.
This is what I have explained to Babbo—and he calls it the braying of
donkeys in May.  Well, at least the donkeys know what one another mean,
which, after all, is something gained—from their point of view!"

Giacinta laughed, and then became suddenly grave again.

"Well, Silvio _mio_," she replied, "you seem to have settled everything
in your own mind, and I only hope it will all be as easy as you think.
So much depends on the girl herself.  If you are sure of her, then, as
you say, three years soon pass.  In the mean time, if I were you, I
would watch very carefully.  As I have told you before, for some reason
which we know nothing of, it is not intended that the girl should marry;
and when I say they might marry her to somebody else, I do not believe
it."

Silvio shrugged his shoulders.  "All the better for me," he observed;
and Giacinta, with a slight gesture of impatience, was about to reply,
when the professor entered the room.




                                 *XVII*


The _sollione_ had ran his course.  Already the vines on the slopes
below Montefiano were showing patches of ruddy gold among their foliage,
and the grapes were beginning to color, sometimes a glossy purple,
sometimes clearest amber.  Figs and peaches were ripe on the fruit trees
rising from among the vines, and here and there tall, yellow spikes of
Indian-corn rattled as the summer breeze passed over them.

Solitary figures prowled about the vineyard with guns—no brigands, but
merely local sportsmen lying in wait for the dainty _beccafichi_ which
visit the fig-trees at this season and slit open the ripest figs with
their bills.  In the evening a half-dozen of the plump little
brown-and-white birds will make a succulent addition to the dish of
_polenta_ on which they will repose.  Perhaps, if fortune favor, a
turtle-dove, or even a partridge, may find its way into the oven for the
sportsman’s evening meal.  In the mean time, a few purple figs, from
which the sun has scarcely kissed away the chill of the night dew, a
hunch of brown bread and a draught of white wine from a flask left in
the shade and covered with cool, green vine leaves, form a breakfast not
to be despised by one who has been out with his gun since the dawn was
spreading over the Sabine hills and the mists were rolling back before
it across the Roman Campagna to the sea.

Who that has not wandered through her vineyards and forests, among her
mountains and by the side of her waters in the early hours of a summer
dawn, or the late hours of a summer night, knows the beauty of Italy?
Then the old gods live again and walk the earth, and nature triumphs.
The air is alive with strange whisperings: the banks and the hedgerows
speak to those who have ears to hear—of things that lie hidden and
numbed during the hot glare of the day.

The gray shadows lying over the _campagna_ were fast dissolving before a
light that seemed to change almost imperceptibly from silver into gold,
as the first rays of the rising sun stole over the Sabine mountains.
Across the plain, the summit of Soracte was already bathed in light,
while its base yet lay invisible, wreathed in the retreating mists.  The
air was fresh with the scent of vines and fig-trees, and long threads of
gossamer, sparkling with a million dew-drops, hung from grassy banks
rising above a narrow pathway between the terraces of the vineyards.

A black figure suddenly appeared round an angle of the winding path.
Don Agostino Lelli, his cassock brushing the blossoms of wild geranium
and purple mallow as he passed, was making his way in the dawn of the
summer morning back to Montefiano.  He had been sitting through the
night with a dying man—a young fellow whom an accident with a loaded
wagon had mortally injured.  The end had come an hour or two before the
dawn, and Don Agostino had speeded the parting soul with simple human
words of hope and comfort, which had brought a peace and a trust that
all the rites enjoined by the Church had failed to do.  Perhaps he was
thinking of the failure, and wondering why sympathy and faith in the
goodness of God had seemed to be of more avail at the death-bed he had
just left than ceremonies and sacraments.

His refined, intellectual countenance wore a very thoughtful expression
as he walked leisurely through the vineyards. It was not an anxious nor
an unhappy expression, but rather that of a man trying to think out the
solution of an interesting problem.  As a matter of fact, he had been
brought face to face with a problem, and it was not the first time he
had been confronted by it.

He had, as in duty bound, administered the last sacrament of the Church
to a dying man who had made due confession to him.  But he had known
perfectly well in his own mind that those sacraments had been regarded
by his penitent as little else than a formality to be observed under the
circumstances.  He knew that if he had asked that lad when he was in
health whether he honestly believed the _santissimo_ to be what he had
been told it was, the answer would not have been satisfactory to a
priest to hear.  He had asked the question that night, and two words had
been whispered back to him in reply—"_Chi sa?_"

They were very simple words, but Don Agostino felt that they contained a
truth which could not be displeasing to the God of Truth.  Moreover, he
honored the courage of the lad more than he did that of many who dared
not confess inability to believe what reason refused to admit.

"Who knows?" he had said to himself, half-smiling, repeating the young
fellow’s answer.  And then he had added aloud, "You will know very
soon—better than any of us. Until then, only trust.  God will teach you
the rest."

Afterwards, answered by the look on the dying lad’s face, he had given
the sacrament.

And now Don Agostino was walking homeward in the peaceful summer dawn,
and if there was pity in his heart for the strong young life suddenly
taken away from the beautiful world around him, there was also some joy.
Even now the veil was lifted, and the boy—knew.  Perhaps the simple,
human understanding, which could have no place in theology, had not led
him so far astray, and had already found favor in the eyes of Him who
gave it.

And Don Agostino looked at the landscape around him, waking up to a new
day and laughing in the first rays of a risen sun.  As he looked he
crossed himself, and the lad who had been summoned from all this beauty
was followed to his new home by a prayer.

Suddenly Don Agostino’s meditations were interrupted by the report of a
gun fired some yards in front of him, immediately succeeded by a
pattering of spent shot among the leaves on the bank above him.  He
called out quickly, in order to warn the unseen _cacciatore_ of his
propinquity; for there was a sharp bend in the pathway immediately ahead
of him, and he by no means wished to receive the contents of a second
barrel as he turned it.  A reassuring shout answered him, and he
quickened his pace until, after turning the corner, a brown setter came
up and sniffed at him amicably, while its owner appeared among the vines
close by.

Don Agostino lifted his hat in response to the sportsman’s salutation
and regrets at having startled him.

"I was safe enough where I was, _signore_," he said, smiling; "but it
was as well to warn you that there was somebody on the path.  I did not
wish to be taken for a crow," he added, with a downward glance at his
_soutane_.

The _cacciatore_ laughed.  "Your reverence would have been even safer as
a crow," he replied; "but indeed there was no danger.  I was firing well
above the path at a turtledove, which I missed badly.  But it is better
to miss than to wound."

Don Agostino looked at the speaker, and there was approval in his
glance, either of the sentiment or of the appearance of the
sportsman—perhaps of both.

"_Sicuro_," he replied, "it is better to miss than to wound. For my
part, I should prefer always to miss; but then I am not a sportsman, as
you see.  All the same, I am glad you _cacciatori_ do not always
miss—from the point of view of the stomach, you know.  The _signore_ is
from Rome, I conclude?"

The other hesitated for a moment.

"From Rome—yes," he replied,

Don Agostino glanced at him again, and thought how good-looking the
young man was.  A gentleman, evidently, by his manner and bearing—but a
stranger, for he had certainly never seen him in Montefiano.

"I," he said, "am the _parroco_ of Montefiano—Agostino Lelli, _per
servirla_."

The young _cacciatore_ started slightly, and then he hesitated again.
Courtesy necessitated his giving his own name in return.

"And I, _reverendo_," he replied, after a slight pause, "am Silvio
Rossano, of Rome."

Don Agostino looked surprised.

"Rossano?" he said.  "A relative, perhaps, of the Senator Rossano?"

"My father," replied Silvio.  "Your reverence knows him?"

"_Altrocchè_!" exclaimed Don Agostino, holding out his hand.  "Your
father is an old friend—one of my oldest friends in days gone by.  But I
have not seen anything of him for years.  _Che vuole_!  When one lives
at Montefiano one does not see illustrious professors.  One sees
peasants—and pigs.  Not but what there are things to be learned from
both of them.  And so you are the son of Professor Rossano?  But you
have not come to Montefiano for sport—no?  There is not much game about
here, as no doubt you have already discovered."

He glanced at Silvio’s game-bag as he spoke.  Three or four _beccafichi_
and a turtle-dove seemed to be its entire contents.

Silvio looked embarrassed, though he had felt that the priest’s question
must come.  His embarrassment did not escape Don Agostino, who jumped at
the somewhat hasty conclusion that either this young man must be hiding
from creditors, or else that he must be wandering in unfrequented places
with a mistress.  In this latter case, however, Don Agostino thought it
improbable that he would be out so early in the morning.  It was, no
doubt, a question of creditors.  Young men went away from Montefiano
when they could scrape up enough money to emigrate, but he had never
known one to come there.

Silvio’s answer tended to confirm his suspicions concerning the
creditors.

"I did not come to Montefiano for the sport, certainly," he said; "and,
indeed, I am not living in Montefiano itself.  I am staying at
Civitacastellana for the moment."

"Civitacastellana!" exclaimed Don Agostino.  "Pardon my curiosity, my
dear Signor Rossano, but how in the world do you occupy yourself at
Civitacastellana—unless, indeed, you are an artist?  It is a beautiful
spot, certainly, with its neighboring ravines and its woods, but—well,
after Rome you must find it quiet, decidedly quiet.  And the inn—I know
that inn.  One feels older when one has passed a night there."

"I cannot call myself an artist," said Silvio, laughing, "though I
certainly draw a great deal.  I am an engineer by profession, and
Civitacastellana is—well, as you say, a very quiet place.  Sometimes one
likes a quiet place, after Rome."

"Ah, yes, that is true," returned Don Agostino, thoughtfully. "I, too,
have come to a quiet place after Rome, but then I have been in it more
than ten years.  I think the change loses its effect when one tries it
for so long a time."

Silvio glanced at him.  He had at once realized that this was no
ordinary village priest, scarcely, if at all removed from the peasant
class.  The quiet, educated voice, the polished Italian, the clear-cut,
intellectual features, all told their own tale quickly enough.  And this
Don Lelli was an old friend of his father.  Silvio was well aware that
his father did not number very many priests among his friends, and that
the few whom he did so number were distinguished for their wide learning
and liberal views.

"You know Rome, _reverendo_?" he inquired, with some curiosity, though
he knew well enough that he was talking to a Roman.

Don Agostino smiled.  "Yes," he replied, "I know Rome. That is to say,"
he added, "if anybody can assert that he knows Rome.  It is a
presumptuous assertion to make. Perhaps I should rather say that I know
one or two features of Rome."

"You no doubt studied there?"

"Yes, I studied there.  I was also born there—like yourself, no doubt.
We are both _Romani di Roma_—one cannot mistake the accent."

"And it was then you knew my father, of course," said Silvio.

"When I was a seminarist?  No, some years after that period of my life.
I knew your father when—well, when I was something more than I am now,"
concluded Don Agostino, with a slight smile.

"When you were a parish priest in the city?" asked Silvio.

"When I was at the Vatican," replied Don Agostino, quietly.

"At the Vatican!" Silvio exclaimed.

Don Agostino laughed quietly.  "Why not?" he returned. "You are thinking
to yourself that members of the pontifical court are not usually sent to
such places as Montefiano.  Well, it is a long story, but your father
will tell it you.  He will not have forgotten it—I am quite sure of
that."

They had walked on together while they were talking, and presently
emerged on the steep road leading up the hill to Montefiano.  From this
point Silvio could see the little town clustering against the face of
the rock some mile or so above them, and the great, square castle of the
Acorari dominating it.

"You have been to Montefiano?" Don Agostino asked his companion.

"Yes," answered Silvio, "several times.  But," he added, "the
Montefianesi do not seem very communicative to strangers."

Don Agostino laughed.  "They are unaccustomed to them," he said, dryly;
"but they are good folk when once you know them.  For the rest, there is
not much for them to be communicative about."

"Has the castle no history?"

"It has much the same history as all our mediæval and renaissance
strongholds—that is to say, a mixture of savagery, splendor, and crime.
But the Montefianesi would not be able to tell you much about it.  I
doubt if nine out of every ten of them have ever been inside it."

"But it is inhabited now," said Silvio, quickly.

Don Agostino glanced at him, struck by a sudden change in the tone of
his companion’s voice.

"Yes," he replied, "for the first time for many years. The princess and
her step-daughter, Donna Bianca Acorari, are there at present."

"You know them, of course, _reverendo_?"

"I have not that honor," replied Don Agostino.  "My professional duties
do not bring me into communication with them, except occasionally upon
paper.  But," he continued, "will you not come to my house?  You can see
it yonder—near the church, behind those chestnut-trees.  It is getting
late for your shooting, and I dare say you have walked enough.  I have
to say mass at six o’clock, but this morning I shall be late, for it is
that now. Afterwards we will have some coffee and some eggs.  We have
both been occupied for the last few hours, though in different ways; and
I, for one, need food."

Silvio accepted the invitation with alacrity, and they proceeded to
mount the long hill together.

"I thought," he observed, presently, "that you would certainly be
acquainted with Princess Montefiano."

"Are you acquainted with her?" asked Don Agostino, somewhat abruptly.

"No," replied Silvio, "except by sight.  My father lives in Palazzo
Acorari in Rome—we have the second floor."

Don Agostino said nothing, and they walked on for some minutes in
silence.  The heat of the sun was by this time becoming considerable,
and both of them felt that they would not be sorry to arrive at their
journey’s end.  Twenty minutes more brought them to the little piazza in
front of the church, and here Don Agostino paused.

"I must say the mass at once," he said; "the people will have been
waiting half an hour or more.  There," he added, "is the house.  You can
go through the garden and wait for me if you do not care to assist at
the mass."

Silvio, however, declared that he wished to be present, and Don Agostino
led the way into the church.  Half a dozen peasant women and one or two
old men formed the congregation, and Silvio sat down on a bench near the
altar, while Don Agostino disappeared into the sacristy to vest himself.

The mass did not take long, and at its conclusion Don Agostino beckoned
to his guest to follow him into the sacristy, whence a passage
communicated with the house. By this time Don Agostino was fairly
exhausted.  He had eaten nothing since the evening before, and his long
walk and sad vigil through the night had left him weary both in body and
mind.  His mass over, however, he was at liberty to eat and drink; and
the _caffè e latte_, fresh-laid eggs, and the rolls and butter his
housekeeper had prepared were most acceptable.  Even Silvio, who had
already breakfasted on figs and bread, needed no pressing to breakfast a
second time.

The food and rest quickly revived his host’s strength, and very soon
Silvio could hardly believe that he was sitting at the table of a parish
priest in the Sabina.  Don Agostino proved himself to be a courteous and
agreeable host.  He talked with the easy assurance of one who was not
only a man of God, but also a man of the world.  Silvio found himself
rapidly falling under the spell of an individuality which was evidently
strong and yet attractive.  As he sat listening to his host’s
conversation, he wondered ever more and more why such a man should have
been sent by the authorities of the Church to live, as he had himself
expressed it, among peasants and pigs in a Sabine town.  He was scarcely
conscious that Don Agostino, while talking pleasantly on all sorts of
topics, had succeeded in quietly eliciting from him a considerable
amount of information concerning himself, his profession, and, indeed,
his personality generally.  And yet, so it was.  Monsignor Lelli had not
occupied an official position in the Vatican for some years without
learning the art of being able to extract more information than he gave.

In this instance, however, Don Agostino’s curiosity concerning his guest
was largely due to the favorable impression Silvio’s good looks and
frank, straightforward manner had made upon him; as well as to the fact
that he was the son of a man for whose learning he had a deep
admiration, and with whom he had in former years been very intimate.

The more he talked to Silvio, the more he felt his first impressions had
not been wrong.  He would have liked very much to know, all the same,
why this handsome lad was wandering about the neighborhood of
Montefiano.  He shrewdly suspected that a few birds and a possible hare
were not the true inducement; and that, unless he were hiding himself,
this young Rossano must have some other game in view.

The expression which had passed over Silvio’s face on hearing that he
was not acquainted with the owners of Montefiano had not escaped Don
Agostino’s notice.  He had observed, moreover, that his young guest more
than once brought the conversation round to Princess Montefiano, but
that he never alluded to her step-daughter. Monsignor Lelli had been
young himself—it seemed to him sometimes that this had happened not so
very long ago—and he had not always been a priest.  As he talked to
Silvio Rossano, he thought of the days when he had been just such
another young fellow—strong, enthusiastic, and certainly not
ill-looking.  Meeting the frank glance of Silvio’s blue eyes, Don
Agostino did not believe that their owner was hiding from anything or
from anybody.  He felt strangely drawn towards this chance acquaintance,
the only educated human being, the only individual of his own class in
life with whom he had interchanged a word for months—nay, for more, for
it was now more than two years since some private business had taken him
to Rome, where he had seen one or two of his old friends.

Their light breakfast over, Silvio Rossano presently rose, and thanking
the priest for his hospitality, was about to depart.  Don Agostino,
however, pressed him to remain.

"I do not have so many visitors," he said, with a smile, "that I can
afford to lose one so quickly.  You will give me great pleasure by
staying as long as you can.  It is hot now for walking, and if you are
returning to Civitacastellana, you can do that just as well in the
evening.  I have a suggestion to make to you," he added, "which is, that
we should smoke a cigar now, and afterwards I will have a room prepared
for you, and you can rest till _mezzogiorno_, when we will dine.  When
one has walked since dawn, a little rest is good; and as for me, I have
been up all the night, so I have earned it."

Silvio hesitated.  "But I cannot inflict my company upon you for so
long," he said.  "You have been already too hospitable to me, Don
Agostino."

Don Agostino rose from the table, and, opening a drawer, produced some
cigars.  "I assure you," he replied, "that it is I who will be your
debtor if you will remain.  As I say, I seldom have a visitor, and it is
a great pleasure to me to have made your acquaintance.  I think,
perhaps," he continued, looking at Silvio with a smile, "that it is an
acquaintance which will become a friendship."

"I hope so, _monsignore_," replied Silvio, heartily, "and I accept your
invitation with pleasure."

"That is well," returned Don Agostino; "but," he added, laughing, "at
Montefiano there are no _monsignori_.  There is only the _parroco_—Don
Agostino."




                                *XVIII*


Don Agostino was quite right when he said that a little rest after
walking since daybreak would be a good thing.  Silvio, at any rate,
found it so, for he very soon fell fast asleep in the room that had been
prepared for him—so fast, indeed, that even the church-bells ringing
_mezzogiorno_ did not awaken him.

Don Agostino, fearing for the omelette his house-keeper had already
placed on the table as the first dish of the mid-day meal, had gone
up-stairs to rouse his guest, and, receiving no response to his knock,
had quietly entered the bedroom.

Silvio was lying as he had flung himself on the bed, after having
divested himself of most of his clothes.  He lay on his back, with one
arm under his head and the hand half-buried in the short, curly hair, in
face and form resembling some Greek statue of a sleeping god, his
well-made, graceful limbs relaxed, and his lips just parted in a slight
smile.

Don Agostino stood and watched him for a moment or two.  It seemed a
pity to rouse him—almost sacrilege to wake the statue into life.

"It is the Hermes of the Vatican," he said to himself, smiling—"the
Hermes reposing after taking a message from the gods.  Well, well, one
must be young to sleep like that! I would let him sleep on, but then
Ernana will say that the dinner is spoiled," and he laid his hand gently
on Silvio’s arm.

Apparently the sleeper was more sensitive to touch than to sound, for he
opened his eyes instantly, and then started up with a confused apology.

"It is I who should apologize for waking you," said Don Agostino; "but
it is past twelve o’clock, and my housekeeper is a tyrant.  She is
afraid her dishes will be spoiled!"

Silvio sprang from the bed.  "I will be ready in a few minutes," he
said; and before Don Agostino could beg him not to hurry himself, he had
filled a basin with cold water, into which he plunged his face as a
preliminary to further ablutions.

In ten minutes he had rejoined Don Agostino in the little dining-room,
and the two sat down to the dinner which Ernana had produced, not
without some grumbling at the delay, which, she declared, had turned the
omelette into a piece of donkey’s hide.

Silvio did ample justice to her cookery, however, and indeed Don
Agostino’s house-keeper looked with scarcely concealed admiration and
approval at him as she served the various dishes.  She also wondered
what this _bel giovanotto_ was doing at Montefiano, and several times
came very near to asking him the question, being only restrained
therefrom by the thought that she would learn all she wanted to know
from Don Agostino so soon as the visitor should have departed.

After dinner, Don Agostino produced a bottle of old wine—such wine as
seldom comes to the market in Italy, and which, could it only travel,
would put the best French vintages to shame.  Ernana served the coffee
and then departed to her kitchen, and Don Agostino proceeded to prepare
cigars by duly roasting the ends in the flame of a candle before handing
one of them to his guest to smoke.

"And so," he observed, presently, "you actually live in the Palazzo
Acorari at Rome.  Your father, no doubt, knows the princess and Donna
Bianca?"

Silvio shook his head.  "No," he replied.  "You must remember—" he
added, and then paused, abruptly.

Don Agostino blew a ring of smoke into the air.

"What must I remember?" he asked, smiling at Silvio’s obvious
embarrassment.

"You know my father’s opinions," continued Silvio, "and perhaps you have
read some of his works.  He is not—I speak with all respect—of the
_Neri_, and Princess Montefiano is, they say, a very good Catholic."

Don Agostino laughed.  "Ah, I forgot," he said.  "No, I never looked
upon your father as a good Catholic.  It really was never any business
of mine whether he was so or not.  But the princess—yes, I believe she
is very strict in her opinions, and your father is, very naturally, not
beloved by the Vatican party."

Silvio glanced at him.  "You have read his books, Don Agostino?" he
asked.

"Certainly I have read them—all of them."

"And yet you continue to regard him as a friend?"

Don Agostino smiled.  "Why not?" he asked.  "I do not always agree with
his conclusions on certain subjects. If I did, I should not wear this
dress; it would be to me as the shirt of Nessus.  But is it necessary
always to agree with one’s friends?  I think the best friends and the
best lovers are those who know how to disagree.  However, we were
talking of Princess Montefiano.  I can quite understand that she would
not desire to be on friendly terms with Professor Rossano."

"Or with any of his family," added Silvio, bluntly.

Don Agostino gave him a scrutinizing glance.

"Ah," he said, "you mean that she visits the sins of the father upon the
son."

Silvio hesitated.  There was something very sympathetic about this
priest—something that seemed to ask, almost to plead, for his trust and
confidence.  And yet could he, knowing so little of him, dare to confide
to him why he was in the neighborhood of Montefiano?  Certainly this Don
Agostino was a friend of his father, and, as such, might be disposed to
help him.  Moreover, Silvio could not help seeing that his host was
disposed to like him for his own sake, and that for some reason or other
there was a current of sympathy between them, though as yet they were
almost strangers to each other.

Perhaps Don Agostino observed his companion’s hesitation, for he spoke
again, and this time it was to ask a question which did not tend to
diminish it.

"I suppose," he said, "that you have seen Donna Bianca Acorari?  I do
not ask you if you know her personally, after what you have just told
me; but no doubt, as you live under the same roof, so to speak, you know
her by sight?"

Silvio felt the color rising in his face, and felt, too, that Don
Agostino’s eyes were fixed upon him with a strange intensity.  Could it
be, he wondered, that the priest suspected the truth, or had, perhaps,
been warned about him by the princess herself?  The thought was a
disagreeable one, for it made him mistrust his host’s good faith, as Don
Agostino had distinctly denied any acquaintance with Princess
Montefiano.  The expression of Don Agostino’s face puzzled him.  It
spoke of pain, as well as of curiosity, and he seemed to be anxiously
hanging upon the answer to his question.  That the priest should be
curious, Silvio could well understand, but there was no apparent reason
why Bianca Acorari’s name should call forth that look of pain on his
countenance.

"Yes," Silvio replied, guardedly.  "I know Donna Bianca Acorari by
sight, extremely well."

Don Agostino leaned forward in his chair.  "Ah," he exclaimed, eagerly,
"you know her by sight!  Tell me about her.  I saw her once—once
only—and then she was quite a little child.  It was in Rome—years ago.
She is, no doubt, grown into a beautiful girl by now."

Silvio looked at him with surprise.  The eagerness in his voice was
unmistakable, but there was the same strange expression of pain on his
face.

"But surely," he replied, "your reverence must have seen her here at
Montefiano, or, at least, others must have seen her who could tell you
about her?"

Don Agostino shook his head.  "Nobody has seen her since her arrival
here," he said.  "The castle is large, and the park behind it is very
extensive.  There is no reason why its inmates should ever come into the
_paese_, and they never do come into it."

"But the servants—the household?"

"The servants were all brought from Rome.  Most of the provisions also
are sent from Rome.  There is practically no communication with the town
of Montefiano, and, except the _fattore_, I have heard of nobody who has
been admitted inside the castle walls since the princess and Donna
Bianca arrived."

"It is very strange," said Silvio.

"Yes," returned Don Agostino, "it is certainly strange. But," he added,
"you do not tell me of Donna Bianca—what she is like; whether she is
beautiful, as beautiful as—" he stopped abruptly and passed his hand
almost impatiently across his eyes, as though to shut out some vision.

"Beautiful?" repeated Silvio, in a low voice.  "I do not know—yes, I
suppose that she is beautiful—and—and—  But why do you ask me?" he
suddenly burst out, impetuously, and the hot color again mounted to his
cheeks and brow.

Don Agostino suddenly turned and looked at him keenly.

"Why should I not ask you?" he replied, quietly.  "You have seen her,"
he added, "and I—I am interested in her. Oh, not because she is the
Princess of Montefiano—that does not concern me at all—but—well, for
other reasons."

Silvio was silent.  Indeed, he did not know how to answer.  What he had
just heard confirmed his suspicions that Bianca was practically isolated
from the world, as though she were within the walls of a convent.  He
had asked in Montefiano about the castle and its inmates, and had
learned absolutely nothing, save what might be implied by the shrugging
of shoulders.

Suddenly Don Agostino spoke again.

"And you?" he said, laying his hand for a moment on Silvio’s—"forgive me
if I am inquisitive—but you, also, are interested in Donna Bianca
Acorari—is it not true?"

Silvio started.  "I!" he exclaimed.

Don Agostino smiled.  His agitation seemed to have passed, and he looked
at the boy beside him searchingly, but very kindly.

"If I am mistaken," he repeated, "you must forgive me; but if I am not,
I think that you will not regret telling me the truth."

Silvio looked at him steadily.

"It is true," he said, slowly, "that I am interested in Donna
Bianca—very much interested.  You have been very good to me, Don
Agostino," he added, "and I will be quite open with you.  I feel that
you will not betray a confidence, even though it may not be told you in
the confessional."

Don Agostino made a slight gesture, whether of impatience Silvio could
not quite be sure.

"A confidence between gentlemen," he said, "and, I hope, between
friends."

"Then," returned Silvio, quietly, "I will confide to you that it is my
interest in Donna Bianca Acorari which brings me to Montefiano."

"And she?" asked Don Agostino, quickly.  "Is she—interested—in you,
Signor Rossano?"

Silvio blushed.  "Please," he said, "do not address me so formally.
Surely, as an old friend of my father, it is not necessary!  Yes," he
added, simply, "we are going to marry each other."

"_Diamine!_" ejaculated Don Agostino; and then he seemed to be studying
Silvio’s face attentively.

"But what made you suspect this?" asked Silvio, presently; "for it is
evident that you have suspected it."

Don Agostino smiled.  "I hardly know," he replied. "Your manner,
perhaps, when I mentioned Donna Bianca’s name, coupled with the fact
that, though you asked me many questions about Montefiano and the
princess, you studiously avoided any allusion to her step-daughter.  But
there was something besides this—some intuition that I cannot explain,
though I know the reason of it well enough. I am glad you have told me,
Silvio—I may call you Silvio, may I not?  And now, as you have told me
so much, you will tell me all your story; and afterwards, perhaps, I
will explain to you why you will not regret having done so."

In a very few words Silvio related all there was to tell. Don Agostino
listened attentively, and every now and then he sighed, and Silvio,
glancing at him, saw the pained look occasionally flit across his
countenance.

"Of course," he said, as Silvio finished his story, "they have brought
the girl here to be out of your way, and they will keep her here.  I
suspected something of the kind when I first heard that the princess was
coming to Montefiano. And when I saw you, an instinct seemed to tell me
that in some way you were connected with Bianca Acorari being here.
When you told me who you were, and that you lived in Palazzo Acorari, I
was certain, or nearly certain of it.  You wonder why I am interested in
Donna Bianca, as I have only once seen her as a child, and why I should
wish to know what she is like now, do you not?  Well, you have given me
your confidence, Silvio, and I will give you mine. Come with me into my
study," and Don Agostino led the way into a little room beyond the
dining-room, in which they were still sitting.

Silvio followed him in silence, greatly wondering what link there could
be between Bianca and this newly found friend who had so unexpectedly
risen up at Montefiano, where a friend was so badly needed.

Don Agostino went to the cabinet standing in the corner of his little
study, and, unlocking a drawer, took out the miniature, which he had not
again looked at since the day, now nearly two months ago, when he had
heard that the Princess Montefiano and her step-daughter were coming to
inhabit the castle.

"I asked you to tell me what Donna Bianca Acorari is like now," he said,
quietly.  "At least," he added, "you can tell me if there is a
resemblance between her and this miniature."  And, opening the case, he
placed it in Silvio’s hand.

Silvio uttered an exclamation of astonishment as he looked at the
portrait.

"But it is Bianca—Bianca herself!" he said, looking from the miniature
to Don Agostino in amazement.  "The same hair, the same eyes and mouth,
the same coloring. It is Bianca Acorari."

"No," interrupted Don Agostino, "she was Bianca Acorari afterwards.
Then, when the miniature was painted, she was Bianca Negroni."

"I do not understand," muttered Silvio, in bewilderment.

Don Agostino took the case from him.  "She was Bianca Negroni then," he
repeated, in a low voice, as though speaking to himself.  "She should
have been Bianca Lelli—my wife.  We were engaged.  Afterwards she was
called Bianca Acorari, Principessa di Montefiano."

Silvio looked at him in silence.  He understood now.

"We were engaged," continued Don Agostino, "as you and her child are
engaged, without the consent of her family.  They forced her to marry
Prince Montefiano.  It was an unhappy marriage, as, perhaps, you have
heard."

Then he turned away, and gently, reverently, as though replacing some
holy relic in its shrine, put the miniature back into the drawer of the
cabinet.

"You can understand now," he said, quietly, "why I wished to know what
her child is like.  As for you, Silvio—" he paused, and looked at Silvio
Rossano earnestly.  "Well," he continued, "I have had one intuition
to-day which did not mislead me, and I think my second intuition will
prove equally true.  I believe that you would make any woman a good
husband—that your character does not belie your face."

Silvio looked at him with a quick smile.

"I will make her a good husband," he said, simply.  The words were few,
but they appealed to Don Agostino more than any lover’s protestations
would have appealed to him.

"And she?" asked Don Agostino, suddenly.  "You are sure that she would
make you a good wife?  If her nature is like her mother’s she will be
faithful to you in her heart. I am sure of that.  But she is her
father’s daughter as well, and—well, he is dead, so I say no more.  And
no doubt the knowledge that he had married a woman whose love was given
elsewhere accounted for much of his conduct after his marriage.  We will
not speak of him, Silvio.  But you are sure that you have chosen
wisely?"

"Oh, very sure!" exclaimed Silvio.

Don Agostino smiled—a somewhat pathetic smile.  "I am very sure, also,"
he said.  "It is strange," he added, thoughtfully, "that your story
should be an exact repetition of my own.  Almost one would think that
she"—and he glanced towards the cabinet—"had sent me here to Montefiano
to help her child; that everything during these years had been
foreordained.  I wondered, when they sent me to Montefiano, whether it
were not for some purpose that would one day be made clear to me; for at
Montefiano her child was born, and at Montefiano she died, neglected,
and practically alone."

Don Agostino sat down at his writing-table.  He covered his eyes with
his hands for a moment or two, and above him the ivory Christ gleamed
white in the sunlight which filtered through the closed Venetian blinds.

"It is strange—yes," said Silvio, in a low voice; "and I, too," he
added—"I have felt some power urging me to tell you my story, and my
true reason for being here.  But," he continued, "our case—Bianca’s and
mine—is different from yours in one particular, Don Agostino."

Don Agostino looked up.  "Yes," he replied; "Donna Bianca Acorari’s
mother, though she had money, was not the heiress to estates and
titles."

"I did not mean that," returned Silvio.  "I forgot it," he added.  "I am
always forgetting it.  Perhaps you do not believe me, but when I do
remember it I wish that Bianca Acorari were penniless and not noble.
There would be nothing then to keep us apart.  No; I mean that, in her
case, there can be no forcing of another marriage upon her, because I am
very sure that Bianca would never submit."

Don Agostino glanced at him.  "Are you so sure?" he asked.  "That is
well.  But, Silvio, we can hardly realize the pressure that may be
placed upon a young girl by her family."

"She has no family," observed Silvio, tranquilly.  "It is true," he
continued, "that there is her step-mother, who is her guardian until she
is of age.  But Bianca is not a child, _reverendo_.  She will not allow
herself to be coerced."

Don Agostino looked at him for a moment and appeared to be considering
something in his mind.

"How come you to know her character so well?" he asked, presently.  "How
can you know it?  You guess at it, that is all."

Silvio shook his head.  "Her character is written on her face," he said.
"Besides, when one loves, one knows those things."

Don Agostino smiled.  "Yes," he observed, "or one thinks one knows them,
which does quite as well, so long as one is never undeceived.  So," he
continued, "you think that the girl has sufficient strength of will to
resist any pressure that might be brought to compel her to marry
somebody else.  That is well; for, unless I am mistaken, she has been
brought to Montefiano for no other purpose than to be exposed to
pressure of the kind."

Silvio started.  "What do you mean?" he exclaimed. "I thought you said
you knew nothing of the princess and Donna Bianca—that nobody went
inside the castle.  Do you mean to say that they are already trying to
coerce her in some way?  But not by forcing her into another marriage.
Giacinta declares they do not want her to marry, and she knows."

"Giacinta?" said Don Agostino, inquiringly.

"My sister.  Ah, I forgot; I have not spoken to you about her.  She is
sure that a priest whom the princess confides in does not wish Bianca to
marry at all, for some reason—"

"Yes," interrupted Don Agostino; "the Abbé Roux—a Belgian."

"You know him?" asked Silvio, surprised.

"Oh yes, I know him," replied Don Agostino, dryly.

"Therefore," Silvio continued, "you see that I have not to fear anything
of that kind, as—as you had."

Don Agostino was silent.

Silvio looked at him inquiringly.  "You think that I have?" he asked,
hastily.

"It is possible," returned Don Agostino.  "I do not know for certain.  I
have no means of knowing for certain," he added, "but I hear
rumors—suppositions.  Perhaps they are purely imaginary suppositions.
In a small place like Montefiano people like to gossip, especially about
what they do not understand.  Apparently the princess and her daughter
are not alone in the castle.  A brother of the princess, Baron d’Antin,
is staying with them, and also the Abbé Roux, who says mass in the
chapel every morning. So, you see, my services are not required."

"Her brother!" said Silvio.  "I did not know the Princess Montefiano had
a brother."

Don Agostino nodded.  "Yes," he returned, "and—well, it is precisely
about this brother that people talk."

Silvio looked at him with amazement.

"About him!" he exclaimed.  "What could there be to say about him and
Bianca?  It is too ridiculous—"

Don Agostino interrupted him.  "I should not call it ridiculous," he
said, "if the suppositions I have heard are true.  I should rather call
it revolting."

"But it would be an unheard-of thing—an impossibility!" said Silvio,
angrily, and his eyes flashed ominously.

"No," Don Agostino observed, quietly, "it would be neither the one nor
the other, Silvio.  Such alliances have been made before now—in Rome,
too.  There is no consanguinity, you must remember.  No dispensation
even would be required.  But if it is true that such a crime is in
contemplation, the child must be saved from it—ah, yes, she must be
saved from it at all costs!"

Silvio suddenly grasped the priest’s hand.  "You will help me to save
her, Don Agostino!" he exclaimed.  "For her own sake and for her
mother’s sake—who, as you said a few minutes ago, perhaps sent you here
to protect her—you will help me to save her!"

Don Agostino, still holding Silvio’s hand in his own, looked into his
eyes for a moment without speaking.

"I have seen you to-day," he said, at length, "for the first time, but I
trust you for your father’s sake and also for your own.  Yes, I will
help you, if I can help you, to save Bianca Acorari from being
sacrificed, for the sake of her mother, _anima benedetta_.  But we must
act prudently, and, first of all, I have a condition to make."

"Make any condition you please," said Silvio, eagerly, "so long as you
do what I ask of you."

"Is your father aware that you are here—I mean, that you are in the
neighborhood of Montefiano?" asked Don Agostino.

Silvio shrugged his shoulders.  "I cannot tell you," he replied.  "My
sister, Giacinta, knows it, and she may have told him.  My father, Don
Agostino, told me that he had done all he could in asking the consent of
the princess to an engagement between his son and her step-daughter, and
that, as this consent had been unconditionally refused, I must in future
manage my own affairs in my own way. This is what I am doing to the best
of my ability."

Don Agostino smiled slightly.  "I understand," he said. "Well, Silvio,
my condition is that I should see your father and discuss the matter
with him before doing anything here. He will give you a good character,
I have no doubt, and will assure me that you would make Bianca Acorari a
good husband.  I owe it to—well, you know now to whom, to make this
condition."

Silvio smiled.  "Is that all, _reverendo_?" he asked.  "It is a
condition very easily carried out," he added.

"We will go to Rome, you and I, to-morrow," said Don Agostino, "and for
to-night you will stop with me here.  In the evening, when it is cooler,
we will go to Civitacastellana, and we will bring your things back with
us.  No; I am doing you no kindness—I am doing a kindness to myself. As
I told you before, it is not often that I have a friend to talk to at
Montefiano, and in this case, well—"

Don Agostino did not complete his sentence.  His gaze fixed itself upon
the cabinet before him, and Silvio understood all that he had left
unsaid.




                                 *XIX*


Although Rome is supposed to be abandoned during the months of August
and September by all who can afford the time and the money to leave it,
there is always a certain number of people who from choice remain within
its walls throughout the summer, declaring, not without reason, that the
heat is felt far less in the vast, thick-walled palaces than in country
villas and jerry-built hotels.

Among this number was the Senator Rossano.  He had fitted up for himself
a library in Palazzo Acorari, a long, high room looking to the north,
which, if difficult to keep heated in winter, was always deliciously
cool even on the hottest of summer days.  Here he did the greater part
of his writing, and passed the weeks when Rome is deserted, both
pleasantly and profitably.  Usually he was quite alone during these
weeks, for Giacinta as a rule went with friends to one or another of the
summer resorts in the Apennines or the north of Italy, or perhaps
southward to the fresh sea-breezes of Sorrento.

This year, however, she had delayed her _villeggiatura_ later than
usual, and was still in Rome.  The professor was engaged upon a new
scientific work, dealing with no less complicated a theme than the moral
responsibility of criminals for the crimes they happened to have
committed. Giacinta had been busily engaged in making a clear copy of
her father’s manuscript.  The wealth of detail and example which the
professor had brought to bear in order to support certain of his
theories did not, it must be owned, always form suitable reading for
even the comparatively young, and certainly not for an unmarried woman
of Giacinta’s age.

But Professor Rossano did not trouble himself about such a trifle as
this.  He regarded his illustrations as illustrations, mere accidents
necessary to his arguments; and it would never have entered into his
head that his daughter might not look at them from the same detached
point of view.  As a matter of fact, Giacinta did so look at them;
consequently, no harm was done.

She was sitting with her father in his library, engaged in sorting some
papers.  It was nearly five o’clock and the great heat of the day was
nearly over; in another hour or so she would insist on dragging the
professor away from his work, and making him accompany her in a drive
outside one of the gates of the city.  She was contemplating some
suggestion of the kind when her father suddenly looked up from his
writing.

"I tell you what we will do this evening, Giacinta," he observed.  "We
will go and dine at the Castello di Costantino.  I have not been there
yet this summer.  Perhaps we shall find some friends there.  The
Countess Vitali—she often dines there at this time of year, and nobody
can be more amusing when she is in the vein.  Her dry humor is most
refreshing; it is like something that has been sealed up in an Etruscan
tomb and suddenly brought to light with all the colors fresh upon it.
Yes, we will go to the Castello di Costantino, and you can tell the
servants we shall not eat here."

Giacinta was more than ready to fall in with the idea. She was about to
ring the bell in order to tell the servants not to prepare dinner, when
the door opened and Silvio walked into the room.

The professor gazed at him placidly.

"I thought that you were at Terni," he said.

"So I was," replied Silvio, smiling, "a fortnight ago. But I completed
my business there, and placed the order for the steel girders.  Since
then I have been in the Sabina. I came from Montefiano this morning."

Giacinta started.  "From Montefiano?" she exclaimed.

"From Montefiano—yes," repeated Silvio.  "I have not been staying at the
castle there," he added, dryly.

"You have been committing some folly, I suppose," remarked the
professor, "and I do not wish to hear about it.  You will have the
goodness, Silvio, not to mention the subject."

"I have been staying with a friend of yours, Babbo," Silvio replied,
laughing.  "Don Agostino—"

"Don Agostino?" repeated his father.  "The devil take your Don Agostino!
I do not know whom you mean."

"Monsignor Lelli, then," returned Silvio.  "He has come to Rome with me,
and he is here—in the house.  I left him in the drawing-room.  I suppose
you will go there to see him; or shall I tell him that you hope the
devil may take him?"

The professor burst out laughing.  "Lelli!  Here?" he exclaimed.
"Certainly I will go.  I have not seen him for years.  I remember now,
of course—they sent him to Montefiano—those _imbroglioni_ at the
Vatican!  And so you have been staying with Lelli?  Well, at least you
have been in good company.  I hope he has succeeded in putting a little
common-sense into your head."

He hurried out of the room to greet his old friend, leaving Silvio and
Giacinta alone together.

"I suppose," said the latter, "that you have seen Donna Bianca
again—otherwise I cannot imagine what you have found to do at
Civitacastellana for nearly a fortnight?  I am told there is nothing to
see there."

"It is very picturesque," observed Silvio.  "The river, and the
situation—"

"No doubt; but I never supposed you went there to look at the river.
When I heard it was only four or five miles from Montefiano, then I
understood!  But who is this Monsignor Lelli, Silvio?  I think I have
heard Babbo tell some story about him, but I have forgotten what it
was."

"He is the _parroco_ of Montefiano," replied Silvio, "and he used to be
at the Vatican some years ago.  I do not know the story—he would not
tell it me; but Babbo knows it well, and we will ask him—the history of
his earlier life—that he did tell me.  Imagine, Giacinta, he was engaged
to Bianca Acorari’s mother.  They forced her to marry the Principe di
Montefiano, and then he became a priest.  But he never ceased to love
her, although he did become a priest; that I know."

Giacinta looked at him.

"And now?" she asked.

"Now he has come to ask Babbo for my character," answered Silvio,
smiling.  "If he gets a good one, he will help me to marry Bianca.  Do
you know, Giacinta, that they want to marry her to a brother of the
princess—a Baron d’Antin?  Did you ever hear of anything so outrageous?
As Don Agostino—he will not be called _monsignore_—says, such a thing
must be prevented, and, of course, I am the proper person to prevent
it."

"Of course!"

"You must admit that it is strange, Giacinta, that Don Agostino should
have been engaged to Bianca’s mother—and her name was Bianca also—just
as I am engaged to the daughter, and that he should be at Montefiano.
It seems like a destiny.  As for this Baron d’Antin—"

"I have seen him several times," observed Giacinta.  "He always stares
very hard.  I asked the porter who he was. He is not so very old,
Silvio; he looks younger than the princess."

"You had better marry him," returned Silvio; "then you will become my
step-aunt by marriage as well as being my sister."

Giacinta laughed.  "Don’t talk nonsense," she said; "but tell me what
you and Monsignor Lelli propose to do. I never expected that you would
confide your love affairs to a priest.  First of all a French governess,
and now a _monsignore_.  You are certainly an original person, Silvio."

"Ah, but Don Agostino is not like most priests—"

"Because he has been in love himself?" interrupted Giacinta, laughing.

"Oh, not at all!  There would be nothing unusual in that," answered
Silvio, dryly.  "Priests are no different from other people, I suppose,
although they may profess to be so.  No; Don Agostino is not like the
majority of his brethren, because he has the honesty to be a man first
and a priest afterwards.  He does not forget the priest, but one hears
and feels the man all the time he is talking to one.

"As to what I am going to do, Giacinta," Silvio continued, tranquilly,
"I am going to marry Bianca Acorari, as I have told you before—"

"Very often," added Giacinta.

"But how I am going to do it, is certainly not quite clear at present.
I would have waited, and so would she; but how can we wait now that they
are trying to force her to marry this old baron in order to prevent her
from marrying me?"

"It is very strange," said Giacinta, thoughtfully.  "I certainly
believed they did not intend her to marry at all—at any rate, for some
years."

"Ah, but that was before I appeared on the scene," observed Silvio.
"Now they are afraid of her marrying me, and so would marry her to
anybody who happened to be noble."

Giacinta shook her head.  "There is some other reason than that," she
replied.  "The princess could find scores of husbands for the girl
without being obliged to fall back on her own brother, who must be
nearly thirty years older than Donna Bianca.  A marriage between those
two would be a marriage only in name."

Silvio stared at her.  "What in the world do you mean, Giacinta?" he
exclaimed.

"Oh," she returned, hurriedly, "I don’t mean—well, what you think I
mean!  I meant to say that, supposing Bianca Acorari were married to
this old baron, everything would go on as before in Casa Acorari.  It
would be, so to speak, merely a family arrangement, which would,
perhaps, be very convenient."

"_Perbacco_!" exclaimed Silvio, "but you have your head upon your
shoulders, Giacinta!  I never thought of that. I thought it was simply a
scheme to marry Bianca as soon as possible, in order to get her away
from me.  But very likely you are quite right.  There is probably some
intrigue behind it all.  We will hear what Don Agostino thinks of your
supposition—ah, here they come!" he broke off suddenly as his father and
Don Agostino entered the library together.

Silvio made the priest acquainted with his sister, and then turned to
the professor.

"I hope, Babbo," he said, "that you have given me a fairly good
character."

"I have explained that you are as obstinate as a mule," replied his
father.

Don Agostino laughed.  "I have heard a few other things about you also,"
he said, laying his hand on Silvio’s shoulder.  "After all," he added,
"they were only things I expected to hear, so I might quite as well have
stopped at Montefiano instead of coming to Rome—except for the pleasure
of seeing an old friend again."

"Don Agostino will spend the evening with us," said Silvio to his
father, "and early to-morrow morning I am going back with him to
Montefiano."

Giacinta looked somewhat perplexed.  "Do you know," she said, "we had
settled to dine at the Castello di Costantino this evening?  You see,
Silvio, I had no idea you were coming back, and still less that we
should have a visitor—"

"But we will all go and dine at the Costantino," interposed the
professor, jovially.  "Why not?  We shall be a party of four—and four is
a very good number to sit at table, but not to drive in a _botte_—so we
will have two _botti_, and then nobody need sit on the back seat.  You
will go with Silvio, Giacinta, and _monsignore_ and I will go together."

Don Agostino hesitated for a moment.  "It is a place where one may meet
people," he said, "and nobody knows that I am in Rome—"

"No, no," returned the professor, hastily, "you are not likely to meet
any one you know at the Costantino, unless it be Countess Locatelli—and
you certainly would not mind meeting her?"

"On the contrary," said Don Agostino.  "It is always a pleasure to meet
her—and to talk to her.  Doubly so," he added, "after so long an exile
at Montefiano.  I do not find the female society of Montefiano very—what
shall I say? sharpening to the intellect.  My house-keeper is
occasionally amusing—but limited as to her subjects."

Silvio and his father both laughed.  "At any rate, she gives you a
better dinner than you will get to-night," said the former.

A quarter of an hour’s drive brought them to the Aventine, the most
unspoiled and picturesque of the seven hills of Rome, with its secluded
convent-gardens and ancient churches, its wealth of tradition and
legend.  In no other quarter of Rome—not even in the Forum, nor among
the imperial ruins of the Palatine—does the spirit of the past seem to
accompany one’s every step as on the almost deserted Aventine.
Especially as evening draws on, and the shadows begin to creep over the
vineyards and fruit-gardens beyond the city walls; as the scattered
ruins that have glowed rose-red in the rays of the setting sun now stand
out—purple masses against the green background of the _campagna_, and
Tiber reflects the orange and saffron tints of the sky, the dead present
seems to be enwrapped by the living past in these groves and gardens
hidden away on the Aventine and far removed from the turmoil and
vulgarity of modern Rome.

In those years the so-called Castello di Costantino was not the
well-known resort that it has recently become.  It was, indeed, little
more than a somewhat superior _trattoria_, where one ate a bad Roman
dinner and drank good Roman wine on a terrace commanding one of the most
picturesque, as it is assuredly one of the most interesting, views in
the world.  In those days it was not the scene of pompous gatherings in
honor of foreign or home celebrities, followed by wearisome speeches
breathing mutual admiration in hackneyed phrases.  A few artists, a few
secretaries of embassies left to conduct international affairs while
their chiefs were in cooler climates; a few ladies of the Roman world
who happened to be still left in the city, these, and a family party or
two of the Roman _mezzo-ceto_, were its occasional visitors in the hot
summer evenings when it is pleasant to get away from the baked pavements
and streets of the town, and to breathe the fresh, sweet air stealing in
from the open country and the sea.

The terrace behind the restaurant was almost deserted, and Professor
Rossano selected a table at one corner of it, whence an uninterrupted
view could be obtained over a part of the city, and across the
_campagna_ to the Sabine mountains in the nearer background; while
between these and the Alban Hills the higher summits of the Leonessa
range glowed red against the far horizon as they caught the last rays of
the setting sun.

Monsignor Lelli cast a rapid glance around him as he seated himself at
the little table, while the professor discussed the ordering of the
dinner with the waiter.  There was nobody, however, who would be likely
to know him by sight, and comment on his presence in Rome in quarters
where he would prefer it to remain unknown.  A few couples, already
half-way through their meal, or smoking their cigars over a measure of
white wine, were the only visitors to the Castello di Costantino that
evening besides Professor Rossano and his party, and these were
evidently students either of art or of love.

"And so," observed Professor Rossano to his guest, as the waiter retired
with his order, "you have come to Rome to tell me that you mean to help
my son to make an idiot of himself.  I suppose you are a little short of
something to occupy you at Montefiano?"

Don Agostino laughed.  "There was certainly more to occupy me when I
lived in Rome," he said, dryly.  "As for helping Silvio to make an idiot
of himself, I am inclined to think he would make a worse idiot of
himself without my assistance."

"_Grazie_, Don Agostino!" murmured Silvio, placidly.

"I wonder when they will call you back?" the professor said; "not," he
added, with a quick movement of the head towards the Vatican, "as long
as—"

"_Caro senatore!_" interrupted Don Agostino, deprecatingly.

"Of course—of course!" returned Professor Rossano, hastily.  "I forgot
your _soutane_—I always did, in the old days, if you recollect.  We will
talk of something else.  It is always like that—when a man insists upon
his right to use his own reason and to think for himself—"

"I thought you proposed to talk of something else," suggested Giacinta,
mildly, to her father.

Don Agostino looked at her and laughed.

"He is the same as he was twenty years ago—our dear professor," he said.

"You are quite right, Giacinta," returned Professor Rossano.  "When I
think of the intellects—God-given—that have been warped and crushed in
the name of God, it makes me fly into a rage.  Yes, it is certainly
better to talk of something else.  All the same, Monsignor Lelli
understands what I mean.  If he did not, he would still be at the
Vatican, and not at Montefiano."

"I am particularly glad that Don Agostino understands," interposed
Silvio.

"You!" exclaimed the professor, witheringly.  "I have told you more than
once that you are a pumpkin-head.  A fine thing, truly, to make my old
friend Monsignor Lelli a confidant of your love affairs!  Not but what
you appear to have confided them to him at a tolerably early stage.  It
is usually at a later stage that a priest hears of a love affair—is it
not so, _caro monsignore_?" he added, with a twinkle of amusement in his
brown eyes.

Don Agostino smiled.  "Yes," he replied, "at a much later stage;" and
then he paused and glanced across the table at Giacinta.

The professor saw the look and misinterpreted it.  "Oh," he observed,
carelessly, "my daughter knows all about Silvio’s folly.  But I do not
wish to hear anything more about that.  You have asked me certain
questions about Silvio, and I have answered them, and that is enough.
If you choose to help the boy in making an idiot of himself, my dear
friend, I suppose you must do so, but I do not wish to know anything of
the matter.  There will be disturbances, and I am too busy for
disturbances.  I am preparing my work on criminal responsibility.  It
will be followed by another volume on responsibility in mental diseases.
By-the-way, if I had the time I would study Silvio’s case. It might be
useful to me for my second volume.  No; Giacinta and I are decidedly too
busy to be troubled with Silvio’s love affairs.  Giacinta, you must
know, acts as my secretary and copies out my manuscripts."

Don Agostino raised his eyebrows slightly.

"All of them?" he asked.

"Certainly, all of them.  Her handwriting is exceedingly clear, whereas
mine is frequently almost illegible.  If it were not for Giacinta, I
should have to employ a typewriter."

Don Agostino said nothing, but he glanced again at the girl, and
wondered how much she understood of the professor’s physiological
arguments, and of the examples upon which many of them were based.  The
few minutes’ conversation he had had alone with Professor Rossano had
speedily convinced him that the professor was both proud and fond of his
son.  He had given Silvio the character which Don Agostino, a practised
reader of countenances and the natures those countenances reflected, had
felt sure would be given.  At the same time, the professor had expressed
his opinion of his son’s passion for Donna Bianca Acorari in very
decided terms, and had upbraided his old friend for encouraging the boy
in his folly.  Don Agostino had not explained his motives for espousing
Silvio’s cause.  He had learned all he wanted to know, and was satisfied
that he had gauged Silvio’s nature and character correctly.  He felt,
indeed, an unconquerable aversion from explaining the motives which
prompted him to interest himself in a love affair between two headstrong
young people.  Everybody knew why he had left the Vatican; but very few
people knew why, some four-and-twenty years ago, a good-looking young
fellow, by name Agostino Lelli, became a priest. Most of us have an
inner recess in our hearts—unless we are of that fortunate number who
have no hearts—a recess which we shrink from unlocking as we would
shrink from desecrating a tomb over which we are ever laying fresh
flowers.  Something which he could scarcely define had impelled Don
Agostino to allow Silvio Rossano to glance into his jealously guarded
shrine.  He felt as though he had received some message from his beloved
dead that the boy had a right to do so.  He was convinced, moreover, in
his own mind that the living spirit of the woman he had loved was urging
him to save her child from the unhappiness that had fallen upon herself.
Perhaps he had brooded too long and too deeply over the strange change
of coincidences which had brought him and Silvio together—at the strange
similarity between his own life’s story and that of his old friend
Professor Rossano’s son, between the dead Bianca, Princess of
Montefiano, and the child who bore her name and bodily likeness.  In any
case, it seemed to Don Agostino as though he were living over again
those far-off years in Venice; as though he saw in Silvio Rossano his
own youth, with all its hopes and all its joys, and yet with the same
dark shadows—shadows that only youth itself had prevented him from
realizing—threatening to overwhelm and destroy both.

"The boy is in earnest," he had said to Professor Rossano during their
conversation together before setting out for the Castello di Costantino.
"Cannot you see that he is in earnest?"

He spoke almost angrily, the more so, perhaps, on account of that
strange feeling which never left him—the feeling that he was pleading
his own cause and that of his dead.

"My dear friend," the professor had responded, with a slight shrug of
the shoulders, "when one is young and in love, one is always in
earnest—each time.  Are you so old that you cannot remember?  Ah, I
forgot, you had no experience of such things—at least, no official
experience."

Don Agostino smiled.  "No," he repeated, "no official experience."

The professor glanced at him with a gleam of satirical amusement.  He
fancied he had detected a note of irony in the other’s voice, but in his
interpretation of it he was very wide of the mark.

And Don Agostino had found that the result of his conversation with
Silvio’s father was exactly what Silvio himself had foretold.  The
professor had dismissed the whole affair with airy good-humor as a
_pazzia_, a folly in which he had so far participated as to have made
formal overtures on his son’s behalf for Donna Bianca Acorari’s hand,
and of which he did not wish to hear anything more.  If Silvio thought
the girl would make him a good wife, then by all means let him marry
her, if he could.  If he could not, there were plenty of other girls to
choose from, and any one of them who married Silvio would be a great
deal luckier than she most probably deserved to be.

Don Agostino had very soon come to the conclusion that the professor
would place no serious obstacles in the way to hinder his son from
marrying Donna Bianca Acorari, should Silvio find means to accomplish
that object.  During the remainder of their dinner at the Castello di
Costantino he threw himself, as it were, into Professor Rossano’s humor,
and it soon became evident to Silvio and Giacinta that their father and
his guest were mutually enjoying one another’s conversation.  Giacinta,
indeed, was not a little astonished at hearing the professor discourse
so readily with a priest.  But then, as she noted the facility with
which Monsignor Lelli met her father on his favorite ground, the
knowledge which he displayed of the scientific and political problems of
the day, the serene tolerance with which he would discuss questions
which she knew to be anathema to the ecclesiastical temperament, it was
at once revealed to her that this was no ordinary priest, whose mental
vision was limited by the outlook of the sacristy.  The professor, as
the evening wore on, seemed to be in his element.  From subject to
subject he flew with a rapidity which would have been bewildering had it
not been for the conciseness and pungency of the arguments he brought to
bear upon each of them.  But Monsignor Lelli met him at every turn,
agreeing with him often, but often parrying his thrusts with rapier-like
stabs of keenest satire.  The summer twilight was already fading into
dusk, and the moon was rising over the Aventine, casting long shadows
from the cypress-trees over the gardens and vineyards stretching away
beneath the terrace, and still the two continued their discussions.

People seated at little tables near them ceased from laughing and
talking, and turned round to listen, for the waiters had whispered that
the _signore_ with the beard was the famous Senator Rossano, and that
the priest was without doubt a cardinal who had dressed as an ordinary
priest lest he should be compromised by being seen in public in such
company.

Suddenly, in the midst of a more than usually brilliant sally, provoked
by some observation from his host, Monsignor Lelli stopped abruptly and
addressed an entirely irrelevant remark to Giacinta.  Silvio, who
happened to be looking at him, saw his face change slightly as he looked
beyond the professor towards the door leading from the restaurant on to
the terrace.  A small group of new arrivals was issuing from this door,
and its members began to make their way to a vacant table a short
distance from that occupied by the professor and his party.

Giacinta also had caught sight of the new-comers. "Look, Silvio!" she
exclaimed, in a low tone; "look, father, there is Princess Montefiano’s
brother, Monsieur d’Antin, with those people!"

"Very well, Giacinta," returned the professor, vexed at the
interruption; "he can go to the devil!  Go on with what you were
saying," he added to Don Agostino.  "It was well put—very well put,
indeed—but I think that I have an argument—"

"_Caro senatore_," observed Don Agostino, tranquilly, "are you aware
that it grows late?  We can continue our discussion as we return to the
city.  _Signorina_," he continued, turning to Giacinta, "you are sitting
with your back to the view.  Is it not beautiful, with the moonlight
falling on those ruins?"

He rose from his chair as he spoke, and motioned to Giacinta to
accompany him to the parapet of the terrace.

"Bring your father away," he said to her, in a low voice, "and Silvio.
It is as well for us not to be seen together."

"But Baron d’Antin does not know Silvio by sight," returned Giacinta,
"and I doubt if he knows either my father or me by sight.  Do you know
him, _monsignore_?" she added.

"I have never seen him," said Don Agostino, "and it is not of him I am
thinking—but of the other, the young man who is with him.  No, do not
look round, _signorina_!  At present I think that we are unobserved.  It
will be more prudent for me to leave you without any further ceremony.
We can meet again outside the restaurant."

"But who is he—that other one?" asked Giacinta, quickly.

"A person I would rather not meet," replied Don Agostino—"at least," he
added, "I would rather not be seen by him under the present
circumstances, _signorina_.  I beg of you to explain to your father that
he will find me waiting for him outside," and, turning from her, Don
Agostino walked rapidly towards the door, having satisfied himself that
the new-comers were occupied with the head-waiter in ordering their
dinner, and that he could probably leave the terrace unobserved by them.




                                  *XX*


On emerging from the restaurant, the Rossanos found Don Agostino
awaiting them.

"Giacinta told me I must pay the bill and come away," the professor said
to him.  "For myself," he added, "I should have preferred to remain
another half-hour.  That white wine is certainly good.  May one ask,
_monsignore_, what made you leave us so suddenly?  Did you discover a
cardinal of the holy office in disguise?"

Don Agostino laughed.  "Not quite a cardinal," he replied, "but somebody
very near to a cardinal."

"Do you mean the man who was with Baron d’Antin—the young man?" asked
Silvio.

"Precisely," returned Don Agostino.  "He is not quite so young as he
looks, however," he continued.  "In fact, he must be certainly ten or
twelve years older.  Do you know him, Silvio?"

"By sight, yes.  I do not know who he is, but one sees him in the world
here in Rome—sometimes with English people—old ladies with odd things on
their heads, and their daughters who walk like _carabinieri_ pushing
their way through a crowd.  _Diamine_, but how they walk, the English
girls!  Everything moves at once—arms, shoulders, hips—everything!  It
is certainly not graceful."

"Never mind the English girls, Silvio, since you are not going to marry
one," interrupted Giacinta.  "Who is Baron d’Antin’s friend,
_monsignore_?" she added.

Don Agostino hesitated.  "His name is Peretti," he replied, "the
Commendatore Peretti.  He is very intimate with the cardinal secretary
of state.  Some people say that he supplies his eminence with useful
information which he acquires in the world outside the Vatican.  He
gives Italian lessons, I am told, to Silvio’s English ladies; also to
members of the embassies to the king."

"A spy, in fact," observed Silvio.

Don Agostino shrugged his shoulders.  "_Mah!_" he ejaculated.  "In any
case," he continued, "I did not particularly wish to be seen by him, for
it would at once be known at the Vatican that I had been in Rome in your
and your father’s company, and—well, the less _quelli signori_ of the
Vatican interest themselves in your affairs, Silvio, the better for you.
For me it does not matter."

"It seems to me that it has mattered very much," growled the professor.

"And you think he did not see you?" said Silvio.  "Ah, but you are
mistaken, Don Agostino.  He did see you, and he pointed you out to Baron
d’Antin; and the baron saw me, too."

Don Agostino looked at him quickly.

"But you told me that Monsieur d’Antin did not know you by sight," he
exclaimed.

"I thought he did not know me, because I did not know him by sight,"
returned Silvio; "but I was mistaken," he added.  "It is true that I
never saw Monsieur d’Antin before to-night, to my knowledge, but he has
seen me.  I saw that he knew me by the expression in his eyes when he
looked at me, and I am quite sure that he whispered my name to his
friend—Peretti, is it?"

"Ah!" said Don Agostino, "it is certainly unfortunate that they should
have seen us together.  One never knows—"

"They looked at me in such a way that for two _soldi_ I would have gone
up to them and asked what they wanted of me—and then there would have
been a row.  Yes, Giacinta, for two _soldi_ I would have boxed both
their ears—a _soldo_ for each of them," and Silvio’s eyes began to flash
ominously.

"Less than a _soldo_," observed his father, quietly.  "They have four
ears, Silvio.  That would be at the rate of two _centesimi_ and a half
for each ear.  All the same, I am glad you did not do it."

"I thought he would have done it," said Giacinta, in an undertone to Don
Agostino, "but I made him come away at once."

Don Agostino looked grave.  "I do not understand," he said to Silvio.
"How could Monsieur d’Antin know you if you had never seen him before?"

"_Che ne so io?_" answered Silvio, carelessly—"and what does it matter?"
he added, with a laugh.  "He probably knows now that I should like to
break his head, just as I know that he would like to break mine."

"Not for anything that he would find inside it," interposed the
professor, dryly.  "_Via_, Silvio, what is there to wonder at if Baron
d’Antin looks at you with some curiosity? He has probably heard his
sister speak of you as a lunatic!"

Silvio and Don Agostino glanced at each other.  The latter laid his hand
on Professor Rossano’s arm.  "_Caro senatore_," he said, "we shall do
well not to discuss these things here.  Let us walk back to Palazzo
Acorari; or, still better, let us prolong our walk a little and go to
the Forum. I honestly admit that by daylight I detest the Forum—the
archæologists have turned it into a hideous affair.  But by moonlight it
is another matter.  I think Domeneddio must have made the moonlight in
order to allow the Romans to forget for a few hours that archæologists
exist."

Professor Rossano laughed.  "Let us go to the Forum, by all means," he
observed.  "There will be no archæologists at this hour.  They will all
be calling one another idiots and impostors elsewhere—perhaps in the
_salon_ of the Countess Vitali."

It was not to be supposed that the professor and Giacinta would walk
from the Castello di Costantino to the Foro Romano; although Don
Agostino, accustomed to long expeditions on foot in the Sabines, and
Silvio, who could walk the whole day provided that he were carrying a
gun, would have thought nothing of doing so.  Professor Rossano however,
seldom used his legs if he could avail himself of any other means of
locomotion, and on the first opportunity he stopped a passing _botte_
and directed the driver to set them down at the Colosseum.  Guttural
shouts from a party of German tourists about to enter the building
caused the professor to turn away from it with an impatient shrug of the
shoulders.  Much as he admired the scientific and philosophical
attainments of the Germans, in common with most Italians he disliked
them intensely as a nation.  The offending Teutons disappeared into the
Colosseum as Professor Rossano and his companions walked slowly towards
the arch of Titus.  The ruins in the Forum looked ghostly and unreal in
the moonlight.  In front, the great square mass of the Capitol loomed
grimly, while from the dark, cypress-crowned Palatine on their left came
the mournful cries of owls flitting to and fro in the roofless halls of
the palace of the Cæsars.

"You are sure that Baron d’Antin recognized you?" Don Agostino asked of
Silvio, who had stopped to light a cigar, while his sister and the
professor walked on a little ahead of them.

"As sure as I am that you were recognized by your little spy, Peretti,"
Silvio replied.  "What puzzles me," he added, "is how he could know me."

"It is not very strange, considering that you live in Palazzo Acorari."

"But I am sure that I have never seen him," insisted Silvio.  "After
all," he continued, "it does not matter very much; and I do not suppose
it matters if Peretti recognized you."

"Except that the accident of his having seen me in your company might
lead to my being moved from Montefiano to some other still more remote
place," said Don Agostino, quietly.

Silvio looked blank.  "Why should it do that?" he asked.

Don Agostino smiled.  "One never knows," he said. "The Princess
Montefiano has no doubt many friends at the Vatican.  If it were
suggested to her that I was on friendly terms with you and your family,
she might very easily bring about my removal from Montefiano.  I wish we
had not gone to the Costantino, Silvio.  I have a presentiment that our
encounter with Monsieur d’Antin and that little busybody, Peretti, may
add to our difficulties."

"At any rate," said Silvio, "we will return to Montefiano to-morrow, Don
Agostino, and I must find some means of communicating with Bianca.  We
know now that Baron d’Antin is in Rome and not at Montefiano.
Probably," he added, "he has understood by this time that Bianca would
not be induced to listen to him."

"If he has," observed Don Agostino, "the fact is not likely to make him
feel very friendly towards a more successful suitor.  No, Silvio, be
guided by me; and do not do anything in a hurry.  Remember that if it
were discovered that you are living with me at Montefiano, I should
certainly be removed from my duties there, of that I am quite sure; and
my removal would be a misfortune.  Perhaps I can do more for you at
Montefiano than you can do for yourself—yet."

"But if you never go to the castle," began Silvio.

"I have never been as yet," returned Don Agostino, "but that does not
mean to say that I am never going there. Besides, sooner or later what
happens in the castle will be talked about in the _paese_.  It is a mere
question of time. And what is talked about in the _paese_ sooner or
later is talked about to Ernana," he added, with a smile.  "How, for
instance, do you suppose I knew that Monsieur d’Antin proposed to marry
Donna Bianca Acorari?  I do not often listen to Ernana’s gossip, for if
she were encouraged she would doubtless tell a great deal, and some of
it would probably be true—not much, but some of it."

Silvio gave an impatient exclamation.

"How can the princess tolerate the idea of such a marriage?" he burst
out, angrily.  "I can understand her objecting to me—but surely it is
more natural that her step-daughter should marry a young man than that
old—"

"Precisely!" interrupted Don Agostino.  "You have exactly defined the
situation.  I, too, understand the objection to you—from a worldly point
of view—as a husband for Donna Bianca Acorari.  But you are not the only
young man in the world, my dear Silvio.  There are many others,
possessing better social qualifications, from whom the princess could
select a husband for her step-daughter. It was assuredly not necessary
to fall back upon Baron d’Antin, even in order to get rid of you!  No,
there must be some other reason for sacrificing the girl—for indeed I
call it a sacrifice.  It seems to me, Silvio, that we should discover
that reason before you attempt to communicate again with Donna Bianca.
Until we know it, we are working in the dark.  I have my suspicions what
the reasons may be; but they are at the best but vague suspicions, which
probably I have no right to entertain."

Silvio looked at him keenly.

"What are they?" he asked, briefly.

Don Agostino hesitated.  "I said that I had probably no right to
entertain them," he repeated.  "I do not wish to wrong anybody, but it
has sometimes struck me that possibly there may be money
difficulties—that it would not be convenient to the administrators of
the Montefiano estates were Donna Bianca to marry a stranger."

"Money difficulties!" repeated Silvio.  "You mean that perhaps Bianca’s
property has been interfered with—that she would not be as rich as she
was supposed to be when she comes of age?  Is that what you mean, Don
Agostino?"

"Partly—yes."

Silvio’s eyes gleamed blue in the moonlight.  "_Magari!_" he exclaimed,
simply.

Don Agostino looked at him for a moment, and then he smiled.

"You would be glad?" he asked.

"Of course I should be glad—I should be delighted," returned Silvio.
"If it were not for her money," he continued, "it would all have been so
simple—do you not see what I mean?  Of course there are the titles—but
anybody can have titles.  I know a cab-driver in Naples who is a
_marchese_, an absolutely genuine _marchese_, of Bourbon creation.  But
the money makes it another affair altogether."

"The money makes it another affair altogether," repeated Don Agostino;
"that is very true."  He spoke more as though talking to himself than to
Silvio.

"Perhaps," continued Silvio, "if the princess and her Belgian confessor
could be made to understand that I do not want Bianca’s money—that I
have enough of my own both for her and for myself—they would not be so
anxious to marry her to that old baron.  So you see, Don Agostino, my
reason for being glad if there has been some mismanagement of the
Montefiano properties."

Don Agostino looked at him with a smile.

"Yes, Silvio," he said, "I see your reason—it is one that I should have
expected from you.  But it is not a good reason."

Silvio glanced at him with surprise.

"Not a good reason!" he repeated.  "And why not?  It seems to me to be a
very natural reason.  I want Bianca Acorari herself.  I do not want her
money, and I would not accept one of her titles."

"It is a very natural reason, yes—for a _galantuomo_," returned Don
Agostino, "but it is not one that will appeal to those who are not
_galantuomini_.  You must remember that dishonest people do not easily
credit others with honesty.  In this case I cannot help suspecting—it is
a suspicion only—that Monsieur d’Antin has some hold over his sister,
and perhaps also over the Abbé Roux. Moreover, you must recollect that
Donna Bianca has evidently aroused—well, a certain passion in him; and
the passion of an elderly man for a young girl—"

Silvio Rossano muttered something under his breath.  It was not
complimentary to Baron d’Antin.

"It is no use to fly into a rage—none at all," proceeded Don Agostino,
tranquilly.  "We must look at things as they are, and human nature is a
complicated affair.  What we have to do is to find out, so to speak, all
the cards that Monsieur d’Antin holds in his hand.  I do not wish to be
uncharitable, but it is scarcely credible that the princess would
encourage, or even tolerate, her brother’s aspirations, were he not able
to bring some more convincing argument to bear upon her and the Abbé
Roux than the mere fact that he had conceived a sudden passion for her
step-daughter."

"Yes," said Silvio, thoughtfully; "I see what you mean. You are more
clever at reasoning than I am," he added.

Don Agostino smiled.  "I am considerably older than you are, _ragazzo
mio_," he replied; "and," he continued, "I am not in love with Bianca
Acorari, though her welfare is very dear to me, for—for her mother’s
sake."  He paused, and Silvio saw him make the sign of the cross almost
imperceptibly.

"I think," Don Agostino continued, "that you would do well not to return
with me to Montefiano to-morrow.  If Baron d’Antin knew that you were in
the neighborhood, and especially if he knew that you were in my house—it
would certainly not make things easier."

Silvio’s face fell.  "But what am I to do?" he exclaimed. "I had meant—"

"Yes," interrupted Don Agostino, "let us hear what you had meant to do
at Montefiano—or rather, I will tell you. You had meant by some means to
obtain another interview with Donna Bianca—to persuade her to escape
with you, perhaps—and that I should marry you.  In fact, you had a whole
romance in your head.  Is it not true?"

Silvio laughed.  "Something of the sort, I admit," he answered.

"Well," continued Don Agostino, decidedly, "it will not do; it will not
do at all.  We are not characters in a novel, and we can afford to act
like ordinary human beings who are face to face with a difficulty, but
who are also not quite sure of their ground.  In real life it is
wonderful how things settle themselves if we will only be patient and
allow them to do so.  No; you are not the hero in a romance, and it is
not necessary for you to bring about a situation lest the public should
become tired of you.  The situation will probably come of itself—_per
forza maggiore_."

"And am I to sit down and do nothing, and leave the field clear for
Baron d’Antin?" asked Silvio.

"For a short time—for a few days, perhaps—yes."

"But you forget," Silvio interrupted, quickly.  "Bianca is expecting to
hear from me in some way.  I promised her I would communicate with her.
That is now nearly a month ago, and as yet I have been unable to send
her a single word, for a letter would certainly never reach her—that is
to say, until I can find some trustworthy person who would give it to
her."

"Write your letter, and I will undertake that it reaches her," said Don
Agostino.

"You!" exclaimed Silvio.

"Yes; I will be your messenger.  Yesterday I would not have undertaken
to help you so far.  You can probably guess why, Silvio."

"Because you were not sure of me—that I was worthy of your help?"

"Oh, as to that, I was always sure from the first," said Don Agostino,
quietly.  "I am very seldom mistaken in my first impressions of people
whom I care to study, and I studied you.  But I was determined not to
act on my impressions until they should have been confirmed by your
father.  I always told you as much, if you remember."

"And now they are confirmed?  I am glad," said Silvio, simply.

Don Agostino smiled.  "Amply," he replied, laying his hand
affectionately on Silvio’s shoulder.  "Be guided by me, _figlio mio_,"
he continued.  "Remain quietly here in Rome until I tell you to come to
Montefiano.  In the mean time, I will do all I can for you.  It may be
very little, or it may be more than you think; I cannot tell as yet.
Write your letter to-night, and I will take it with me to-morrow
morning.  You quite understand, however, that it may be some days before
I have an opportunity of conveying it safely to its destination, so you
must not be impatient."

"You will see that I shall be patient," said Silvio.  "It was the
apparent impossibility of being able to communicate with Bianca that has
made me impatient.  It was natural, for the weeks were passing, and
after what you told me about Baron d’Antin, I dared not leave Bianca
much longer without fulfilling my promise that she should hear from me.
However, now that I know that our affairs are in your hands, I will be
as patient as you please."

"That is well," replied Don Agostino, briefly.  "And, above all,
Silvio," he added, "do not confide in anybody. Do not move from Rome
until you receive a letter from me bidding you come to Montefiano, or to
some other place in its neighborhood that I will name in the letter.
_Dunque, siamo intesi_?  Then let us catch up with the others.  It is
growing late, and I must return to my hotel.  You can bring me your
letter to-morrow morning.  I shall leave Rome by the eight-o’clock
train, and it will be wiser for you to come only to the hotel, and not
accompany me to the railway station.  The less we are seen together now
the better.  It is a strange thing, but the accident of having met those
two individuals to-night has made me feel uncomfortable."

"What harm can they do?" said Silvio, carelessly.  "If Monsieur d’Antin
had seen us together at Montefiano, then he might well have been
suspicious; but here, in Rome, we are—"

"In Rome," interrupted Don Agostino, dryly; and he said no more than
might be implied by a slight shrug of the shoulders and a quick gesture
with the hands.

The professor and Giacinta had halted at this moment. By this time they
had reached the upper end of the Forum, and a few paces more would bring
them out into the Via S. Teodoro, close to the narrow flight of steps
leading up to the piazza of the Capitol.

As soon as Don Agostino and Silvio joined them, Professor Rossano begged
the former to return with them to Palazzo Acorari, but Don Agostino
declined.  It was time for him to go back to his hotel, he declared, and
Silvio, rightly guessing that he did not wish to run any risks of again
being seen with them, forebore from seconding his father’s invitation.
After bidding the professor and Giacinta a cordial farewell, Don
Agostino stopped a passing cab, and directed the driver to the Albergo
Santa Chiara, a modest little hotel near the Minerva, largely frequented
by foreign priests and pilgrims.

"I will be with you at seven o’clock to-morrow morning," said Silvio to
him as he got into the cab.  Don Agostino nodded, and, raising his broad
beaver hat, drove away.

"There," said the professor, jerking his head in the direction of the
disappearing _botte_, "is another of them."

"Another of whom, Babbo?" asked Giacinta.

"Why, another honest man, with a head upon his shoulders, too, whom
those priests across the Tiber have driven away!" replied Professor
Rossano, angrily.

"Why did he leave the Vatican?" asked Silvio.  "He would never tell me
his story at Montefiano, but always said that you would remember it well
enough."

"Remember it?  Of course I remember it!" returned the professor.  "At
one time all Rome was talking of Monsignor Lelli.  They declared at the
Vatican that he had speculated and lent money on bad security from the
funds intrusted to him; accused him, in short, of a carelessness almost
equivalent to fraud.  But everybody knew that he had been forced to use
the money in the way it was used, and that he was afterwards disgraced
when things went contrary to expectations.  _Che vuoi?_"

Silvio said nothing.  His thoughts were occupied with the letter he
would write to Bianca Acorari that night, and he wondered how Don
Agostino would find the means of giving it, or causing it to be safely
delivered.  It was a disappointment to him not to return to Montefiano
on the morrow, but he could not but feel that Don Agostino was right in
advising him to remain quietly in Rome.  It would certainly not help
matters were his only friend at Montefiano to be suddenly transferred to
some other post; and Silvio knew enough of his world fully to realize
how important a part intrigue and personal animosities played, not only
at the Vatican, but also in every phase of Roman life.

The clocks were striking ten when they reached Palazzo Acorari, and
though nobody thinks of going home at ten o’clock on a summer night in
Rome, or anywhere else in Italy, Silvio Rossano accompanied his father
and sister up the dimly lighted staircase to their apartment.  The
professor was anxious to continue the correction of his proofs, and
Silvio was longing to begin his letter to Bianca Acorari.

Apparently, however, he had something else on his mind; for, after the
professor had retired to his library, he followed Giacinta into her
sitting-room, a little room opening off the drawing-room.  Giacinta, who
was tired after her walk, took off her hat and the light wrap she was
wearing, and settled herself comfortably in an arm-chair; while Silvio,
after lighting a cigarette, began to pace somewhat restlessly up and
down the room.  It was very evident that he had something to say, and
Giacinta, who knew her brother’s moods, sat waiting for it in silence.

"I am not going back to Montefiano with Don Agostino to-morrow," he
began, presently.

"I did not know that you intended to do so," observed Giacinta.

"Of course I intended to do so!" Silvio returned.  "However," he
continued, "Don Agostino thinks it wiser that I should not return just
yet, and I believe he is right.  He is going to take a letter from me to
Bianca."

Giacinta glanced at him with a smile.  "No doubt you think he is right
in that also," she observed.

Silvio laughed.  "How like you are to Babbo, sometimes!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, I think he is quite right. The only thing is, Giacinta—" and he
paused, hesitatingly.

"That you would not know what to say in the letter?"

"Ah, no!  Well, perhaps I do not know what to say.  If it amuses you to
think so, I am quite content.  The question is, that I want to send
something to Bianca—something that I value.  You understand?  I have
given her nothing as yet—I have not even written to her.  I want to send
her something—with my letter—something that belonged to our mother.  It
is so easy to walk into a shop and buy a bit of jewelry, but it is not
the same thing—"

"I understand," said Giacinta, quietly.

"And so," continued Silvio, a little hurriedly, "I thought that if I
sent her one of our mother’s rings—you have all her jewelry, Giacinta,
have you not?  You could spare me one of the rings, perhaps?"

"They are as much yours as mine," answered Giacinta. "Babbo gave the
jewelry into my charge; you know there are pearls and other things.
Wait, and I will bring you the case from my room, and then you can see
for yourself."

She got up from her chair and went into the next room, returning
presently with an old case covered with faded red velvet and fastened
with heavy clasps of gilded metal.

"Ecco!" she said, holding out to Silvio an elaborately ornamented key,
also heavily gilded.  "You must turn it three times in the lock before
it will open the box.  In the upper tray there are the rings, and below
are the pearls."

"The pearls can remain where they are," observed Silvio. "You will want
them when you marry," he added, as he unlocked and opened the case.  "I
will take this ring," he continued, pointing to an old "marquise" ring,
on which a sapphire was mounted in the centre of a cluster of white
Brazilian diamonds.  "The rest you will keep, but this one I will send
to Bianca and tell her that it belonged to my mother.  You do not mind,
Giacinta?"

With a sudden movement Giacinta turned and kissed him.  "Why should I
mind?" she exclaimed; "only—"

"Only what?" asked Silvio, as she paused.

"Only I wish you had sought for a wife elsewhere," she continued,
earnestly.  "Those people—they will despise you, because they are noble
and we are not.  You will never be allowed to marry Donna Bianca
Acorari, Silvio!  Never, I tell you!  That priest and Baron d’Antin,
they will never permit it.  The girl will not be allowed to marry
anybody, unless it be Monsieur d’Antin.  You will see."

"_Sciocchezze!_" exclaimed Silvio, contemptuously.  "What have I often
told you, Giacinta?" he continued.  "Bianca and I can afford to wait
until she is her own mistress.  If they were to attempt to force her to
marry Baron d’Antin or anybody else, then we would go away and get some
priest to marry us.  The civil marriage could wait.  I have told you so
a hundred times."

Giacinta was silent for a moment.  Then she said, suddenly:

"I am glad you are not going back to Montefiano.  It was wise of Don
Agostino, as you call him, to advise you to remain here."

"Oh, but I shall go back there very soon," returned Silvio.  "In a few
days Don Agostino will write to me to come.  You see, Bianca must be
protected from that old baron.  She will be glad to know that I am near
her, even if we cannot see each other."

"Do not go, Silvio!" Giacinta exclaimed, almost passionately.  "You will
be mad to go!  Ah, but I saw Baron d’Antin’s expression when he
recognized you!  I could see that he recognized you—and you, you looked
at him as if you would have struck him."

Silvio laughed.  "And I could have struck him—very hard," he replied,
"for he stared at me in an insolent manner.  Of course, I shall return
to Montefiano, Giacinta, whenever Don Agostino writes to me that I can
do so.  I cannot imagine what you are afraid of."

Giacinta smiled slightly.  "After all," she said, "I hardly know myself!
But there is some mystery—something I do not understand.  I am afraid
that it is money—that they want to keep Donna Bianca’s money.  Oh, not
the princess! She is only a fool.  But these others, the Abbé Roux and
Monsieur d’Antin, they are not fools.  And if it is money, and you stand
in their way—well, who knows what people will not do for money?  They
might murder you at Montefiano, and who would be the wiser?"

Silvio laughed again.  "Scarcely, Giacinta _mia_," he replied.  "If they
tried to put me out of the way, several people would be the wiser, and
some of them—Don Agostino, for instance—would make awkward inquiries.
_Via!_ we are not in the Middle Ages; and the son of the Senator Rossano
is not a completely obscure person who could be made away with with
impunity.  I assure you that you need not be alarmed.  Now I must go and
write my letter, for at seven o’clock to-morrow morning I have to be at
the Albergo Santa Chiara, for Don Agostino leaves Rome at eight.  _Buona
notte_, Giacinta, _e buon riposo_, and do not get foolish ideas into
your head, or you will lie awake."

And so saying, Silvio went off to his own room, taking with him the ring
he had selected from his mother’s jewel-case.




                                 *XXI*


Bianca was walking slowly up and down the terrace beneath the castle of
Montefiano.  Every now and then she would pause and lean over the low
stone parapet, gazing thoughtfully into the deep ravine below, or across
the ridges of the Sabines to the towns and villages perched upon their
rocky eminences commanding the upper valley of the Tiber.  It was late
in the afternoon, and cool enough upon the terrace, which was sheltered
from the westering sun by the shadow of the mass of building above it.

More than a month had passed since she had been brought to Montefiano,
and no word had come to her from Silvio. That a letter should not have
reached her in the ordinary way, did not surprise her.  She had very
rarely received a letter in her life, save, perhaps, some words of
greeting at Easter or at the New Year; and under the circumstances it
was not very likely that any missive could arrive for her by the post
without being intercepted and confiscated by those who were so evidently
determined to guard against any renewal of communication between her and
her lover.

The days had passed slowly enough at Montefiano.  The great suite of
rooms on the _piano nobile_ of the palace had been put into a certain
order, as the princess had directed; but the furniture sent from Palazzo
Acorari at Rome made a sorry show of comfort in the huge rooms of the
Montefiano fortress.  Indeed, it was only the corners of the living-room
which could be made habitable—little oases, as it were, in a desert of
marble floors, of walls from which faded damask was hanging in tattered
strips, and upon which hung mirrors that had long ago ceased to reflect,
or such pictures as the late prince had left as not being worth the
trouble and expense of being moved to Rome to be sold to foreign
collectors.

An indescribable atmosphere of dreariness seemed to pervade the interior
of Montefiano, that dreariness which is produced by the sense of
departed strength and grandeur. The apartments occupied by the princess
and Bianca were entirely on one floor.  A large vestibule formed the
centre of the suite, approached by a double flight of stone steps
leading up from the quadrangle or inner court of the palace. On one side
of this hall were high double doors opening into an immense
drawing-room, and opposite to them similar doors led into a gallery, at
the farther extremity of which were two other sitting-rooms.  Beyond
these, again, was the princess’s bedroom, and a smaller room beyond it,
and at the end of the suite was Bianca’s room, which could only be
reached by passing through her step-mother’s sleeping apartment.  There
were other rooms on the opposite side of the court-yard, which were
occupied by the Abbé Roux and Monsieur d’Antin; while the servants
inhabited a part of the house to get to which endless corridors and
unused chambers had to be traversed.  If life at the Palazzo Acorari and
at the villa near Velletri had been quiet, it was amusing compared with
that led by the princess and her step-daughter at Montefiano.  Even the
horses and the carriage had been left behind at Rome.  Except a daily
walk about a few acres of brushwood and coppices behind the castle—an
enclosed piece of ground dignified by the name of a park, access to
which was only possible by descending a damp, moss-grown flight of steps
at the end of the terrace—Bianca never left the immediate precincts of
the old dwelling, half palace and half mediæval fortress, of which she
was nominally the mistress.

The Abbé Roux had been quite right when he had declared that no convent
could afford a more secure retreat from the world than the castle of
Montefiano.  The little town, nestling beneath the grim, battlemented
walls and flanking round towers on the southern side of the building,
might have been a hundred miles away, for not a sound from it ever
penetrated to that part of the castle in which the princess and Bianca
lived, nor was so much as a roof-top visible.  The cries of the
jackdaws, or the scream of a hawk during the daytime, or, after dusk,
the melancholy note of the little gray owls haunting the _macchia_, the
monotonous croaking of the frogs in a swampy piece of ground in its
recesses, were the only sounds audible, except that of the bell of
Cardinal Acorari’s clock over the Renaissance façade, tolling the
passage of the hours and half-hours, as it had tolled them for over two
centuries.

They had been some weeks at Montefiano, and the princess had never
spoken to Bianca on the subject of what she termed the imprudent attempt
of an adventurer to lead her into an entanglement in which she might
have seriously compromised herself.  Perhaps Princess Montefiano had
never before felt how far removed from Bianca she was, how little
sympathy and confidence existed between her and her step-daughter, as
during the period immediately following the discovery of what, in her
conversations with the Abbé Roux and with her brother, she called
Bianca’s indiscretion. She felt that she did not understand the girl;
and, more keenly than she had ever done before, she felt conscious that
Bianca regarded her as a foreigner.  Had it been consistent with her
sense of duty, Princess Montefiano would very readily have relegated the
office of explaining to her step-daughter the gravity of her offence
against all the rules that should guide the conduct of a young girl, and
the utter impossibility of any alliance being tolerated between the
heiress and representative of Casa Acorari and the son of a professor,
however illustrious that professor might be.  But to whom could she
relegate the task?  Certainly not to the Abbé Roux, although the subject
was one in which fatherly advice from a priest would surely be better
than any advice, save that of a mother, and she was not the girl’s
mother—all the difficulty lay in that point.  But to expect Bianca to
open her heart to the Abbé Roux, or to tolerate any open interference
from him in her actions, was, as the princess had learned from
experience, an altogether hopeless idea.  The situation was certainly
embarrassing, all the more so because Bianca shut herself up in an
impenetrable reserve.  She had accepted the sudden move to Montefiano
without making any comment, or uttering any protest.  Under any other
circumstances, Princess Montefiano would have attributed this attitude
to that apathy which she had until lately honestly believed to be one of
Bianca’s characteristics.  Unluckily, recent events had conclusively
proved this belief to be an illusion.  As Monsieur d’Antin had pointed
out to his sister, in language admitting of no misconstruction, young
girls who were apathetic did not allow young men to make love to them in
a manner that had—well, certainly nothing of apathy about it.  And the
princess had sighed and shaken her head.  She felt herself to be out of
her depth.  Her experiences of love had been limited to the short period
of married life passed with the Principe di Montefiano, experiences
which of necessity were very limited indeed.  As was her invariable
practice when confronted by any difficulty, she had sought counsel of
the Abbé Roux, and the abbé had readily understood and sympathized with
her in her embarrassment.  He could not offer to speak to Donna Bianca
and point out to her the grave dangers, both worldly and spiritual, to
which she had exposed herself, and the still greater unhappiness which
was certainly in store for her were she to continue in her present
unfortunate state of mind.  Donna Bianca, he reminded the princess, had
shown too plainly her want of confidence in him, both as a priest and as
an individual, to allow of his making any attempt to force that
confidence.  But there was another person to whom, perhaps, she would be
more communicative, and who might possibly succeed in distracting her
thoughts from their present object.  Donna Bianca had, at all events,
shown symptoms of being more at her ease with Monsieur le Baron than she
had with himself, or even—madame must pardon his frankness—with her
step-mother. Why not, the Abbé Roux had concluded, refrain from pointing
out to Donna Bianca the impossibility of the situation into which she
had drifted until Monsieur d’Antin had endeavored to make her see
matters in a different light?  It might well be, considering the obvious
sympathy which had existed between Monsieur le Baron and Donna Bianca,
that the former might succeed where he himself would certainly, and
Madame la Princesse possibly, fail.  In the mean time, a rigorous
seclusion at Montefiano would not cease to be advisable.  The very
dulness of this seclusion, the gradual certainty that no communication
with young Rossano would ever be permitted, would doubtless soon break
down Donna Bianca’s obstinacy; while very probably the young man himself
would realize the hopelessness of his suit and turn his attentions
elsewhere.

Princess Montefiano had not received this suggestion without
considerable misgivings.  Her brother’s interest in Bianca had certainly
not diminished since the day when she had discovered that the Abbé Roux
shared her suspicions that this interest was not altogether platonic.
She was in some ways a sensitive woman, always thinking what people
might or might not say of her and her actions.  Ever since her marriage
to the late Prince Montefiano, she had been haunted by a nervous dread
lest she should be supposed to neglect his daughter; and though she
scarcely realized it herself, it had been this feeling, rather than any
affection for Bianca, that had made her almost timidly anxious not to
fail in anything which she might conceive to be her duty towards the
girl.  Bianca, however, had realized when quite a child, with all that
quick intuition which children share with other animals, that however
kind her step-mother might be to her, it was a kindness certainly not
born of love.  Strangely enough, it would never have entered Princess
Montefiano’s head that her step-daughter was capable of detecting the
difference.  Like many conscientious people, she was quite satisfied by
the constant reflection that she was doing her duty.  That Bianca was
not equally satisfied with and duly appreciative of the fact, she had
long ago accustomed herself to attribute to the girl being possessed of
a cold and indifferent nature.

After duly considering the abbé’s advice, Princess Montefiano had
decided to act upon it.  It was true that, should he be correct in his
calculations that a policy of seclusion and of a quiet but determined
ignoring of the pretensions of the Rossano family would result in
Bianca’s submission, everything would be gained.  At the same time, the
world would think it strange, and not altogether seemly, that the girl
should marry a man old enough to be her father, and who was also the
brother of her father’s second wife.  But, as the abbé had pointed out,
similar marriages, though possibly unusual, were not unheard of; and in
Rome there had certainly been instances in which they had turned out
satisfactorily to all parties.  Moreover, even were the world to
criticise her for allowing Bianca to contract such an alliance,
criticism, as the Abbé Roux rightly insisted, would instantly cease were
it suspected that the affair had been arranged in order to prevent the
heiress of the Acorari from marrying a man who was not of her own social
condition, but who had presumed to ask for her hand.

Altogether it had seemed better to the princess to take the unbiased
advice of a man of the world, who was at the same time a priest, and to
wait patiently to see whether Bianca would not in time come to her
senses, and be glad to accept the devotion of a man of her own order,
even if there was some disparity of age between him and her.

Matters had not, however, gone quite so smoothly as Monsieur l’Abbé had
anticipated.  For the first few days after his arrival at Montefiano it
had appeared as if Bianca rather welcomed Baron d’Antin’s attentions to
her than otherwise.  The princess even began to ask herself whether,
after all, the Abbé Roux had not been right when he had hinted that her
step-daughter’s clandestine love-affair with a young man must not be
taken too seriously—that Donna Bianca was of a temperament which
demanded certain things—oh, but certain things that one husband could
supply as well as another.  Princess Montefiano had felt somewhat
shocked at the idea.  Nevertheless, when she observed that Bianca seemed
to take pleasure in her brother Philippe’s society, and that she was
less silent and reserved when talking to him than she was at other
times, she wondered whether the Abbé Roux had not read the girl’s nature
accurately, and she began to congratulate herself on having listened to
his advice.

It was with not a little anxiety and disappointment, therefore, that
Princess Montefiano noticed a sudden but unmistakeable change in
Bianca’s demeanor towards Monsieur d’Antin.  Whereas she had always been
ready to talk to him, she now seemed anxious to avoid him.  If he
addressed her at meals, she would answer in monosyllables, or perhaps
not at all.  Her manner betrayed an uneasiness and suspicion whenever
she was in company, and at times would become almost sullen.  If he
proposed to walk with her on the terrace, or in the park, instead of
consenting almost with alacrity, as she had usually done, she would
answer coldly that she was not going out.

This state of things had lasted some days, and one evening at dinner
Monsieur d’Antin suddenly announced his intention of going to Rome the
following morning, as he had some business to do there.

The princess, who happened to glance at Bianca, saw an expression of
intense relief pass over her countenance.  The look surprised and then
shocked her.  It was the look that some trapped animal might give when
just set at liberty.

Nothing more was said at that moment, however, and very soon after
dinner Bianca went to her own room.  The next morning Monsieur d’Antin
left early, in order to catch a train which would enable him to reach
Rome by twelve o’clock.

At the mid-day breakfast Bianca and her step-mother were alone together,
for the Abbé Roux, as the princess explained, was occupied with the
_fattore_ on business.

"It is very annoying," she observed, presently, to Bianca, when the
servants had brought in the coffee and left the room.  "I have had to
discharge Fontana—the agent, you know."

Bianca looked up from a fig she was peeling.  "Ah," she said, quickly,
"what has he done?"

"It is rather a case of what he has not done," replied Princess
Montefiano.  "Monsieur l’Abbé," she continued, "has been occupying
himself with going about the estate since we have come here.  He finds
everything in a very unsatisfactory condition, I am sorry to say.
Apparently the _fattore_, this Fontana, has resented any inquiries being
made into his management.  Monsieur l’Abbé is quite sure Fontana has
ruled here too long, and that it will be better to make a change.  He
knows of a man—"

"Of course!" interposed Bianca, dryly.

The princess glanced at her.  "It is very fortunate for you," she
observed, "and for me, that we have a shrewd man of business like
Monsieur l’Abbé to advise us.  That is what you will never understand,
Bianca."

Bianca Acorari pushed her plate from her impatiently. "No," she said,
abruptly, "I shall never understand it.  I think I should prefer priests
who were not shrewd men of business, and men of business who were not
priests."

The princess sighed.  "When you are older, _figlia mia_," she remarked,
"you will understand many things better than you do at present.  I am
sorry that you are vexed about Fontana.  I am annoyed also, for I do not
like turning off an old servant who has been here many years.  But we,
Monsieur l’Abbé and I, have to think of your interests."

Bianca raised her eyebrows.  "Monsieur l’Abbé is, no doubt, very
disinterested," she observed; and then she relapsed into silence, idly
stirring her little cup of black coffee. Suddenly she rose from her
chair, and, crossing to the opposite side of the table, stood beside her
step-mother.

"How long do you—you and Monsieur l’Abbé—propose to keep me imprisoned
here at Montefiano?" she asked, abruptly.

The princess set down her coffee-cup hastily—so hastily, indeed, that
she spilled some of its contents.

"Bianca!" she exclaimed.  "What do you mean? Imprisonment?  That is an
altogether absurd expression to use.  You are here because—well, because
I think it for your good that you should be here; and you must remember
that, until you are of age, I am your guardian."

"Until I am of age, or marry," interrupted Bianca.

"You cannot marry without my consent before you are of age," the
princess returned, quickly.

Bianca laughed—a hard little laugh.

"Without your consent, and that of Monsieur l’Abbé Roux," she replied.
"Oh, but I understand that very well.  It is the reason why I am here.
No?  A proposal of marriage was made to you for me, and you—you and
Monsieur l’Abbé—refused your consent.  Why?"

Princess Montefiano gazed at her step-daughter with an amazement nearly
amounting to stupefaction.  She had thought Bianca apathetic, perhaps
even sullen, and had believed that she would probably never speak of her
own accord about her love for Silvio Rossano.  She had certainly not
calculated upon her suddenly assuming an aggressive attitude, and that
it was an aggressive attitude a glance at the girl’s face, and the
quiet, determined tone of her voice, showed clearly enough.

For a moment or two the princess remained silent, astonishment and
indignation striving for mastery in her mind.  It was not long before
indignation triumphed.  The absolute disregard which Bianca had shown
for all the convenances had been bad enough; the manner in which she had
allowed herself to become entangled in a love-affair, to have words of
love spoken to her—and more than words, if Philippe was to be
believed—by the son of an infidel professor, as though she had been some
girl of the _borghesia_, was a horrible and an unheard-of thing.
Nevertheless, nothing, at least in Princess Montefiano’s eyes, was so
culpable as want of submission to authority.  All that intolerance of
disobedience and defiance, which would have made the princess so
admirable a mother-superior, arose within her at Bianca’s words.

"I refused it—yes," she said, curtly.  "We need not discuss the matter,
Bianca.  I do not intend to reprove you for your want of confidence in
me, nor for your conduct. Your conscience should tell you how wrong,
how—I must use the term—immodest that conduct has been.  Yes; the
proposal which the Professor Rossano had the insolence to make on behalf
of his son was refused by me, and that is enough.  In the mean time, you
wish to know how long we remain here at Montefiano.  The question is
easily answered.  You will remain here as long as I consider it fit that
you should do so.  You must learn to submit your will to those whom God
has placed in authority over you.  I shall certainly not shrink from
doing what I know to be my duty towards you, although you have shown me
very plainly that it is likely to be a thankless task.  You have never
given me your confidence, Bianca, never—not even when you were a child."

The defiant look on Bianca’s face melted suddenly.

"It was not my fault," she said, slowly; "at least, I do not think it
was my fault.  I wanted to give it to you so often; but you did not love
me, even when I was a child. You did your duty by me, but duty is not
love; I understood that."

The princess knitted her brows, as though she were considering the
point.

"That is nonsense," she said, presently.  "The duty of a parent to a
child, and of a child to a parent, is the same as love; and though I am
not your mother, I have always tried to behave towards you as though you
were my own child."

Bianca did not answer, but a little smile stole over her face and played
about her lips.  The hardness was all gone now, and there was only
tenderness in her expression. Perhaps she was thinking that within the
last few weeks she had learned the difference between love and duty.

"No, Bianca," continued Princess Montefiano, "if you had wanted to give
me your confidence—if you had ever felt enough affection for me to make
you wish to give it me—there could be no reason why you should
persistently have withheld it.  Nevertheless," she added, "your
ingratitude towards me will not deter me from doing my duty. You must be
protected against your own inexperience of the world, and against those
who would take advantage of that inexperience."

Bianca looked at her almost wistfully.  "You think me ungrateful," she
said.  "I am not that.  But to confide in you meant confiding in
Monsieur l’Abbé.  He has always come between you and me—oh, ever since I
was a child."

Princess Montefiano made a gesture of impatience.  "If I have found
Monsieur l’Abbé worthy of my confidence and my esteem, it should be a
proof that he is also worthy of yours," she said.  "You have a
rebellious nature, Bianca, and God will punish you for it, both in this
world and in the next."

A quick gleam of amusement flashed from Bianca’s eyes. "How do you
know?" she asked.

The princess stared at her.  Assuredly, she thought, Bianca became every
day more difficult to deal with.

"As to Monsieur l’Abbé," she said, preferring to leave her
step-daughter’s question unanswered, "your dislike to him is
unreasonable—it is unreasonable and wrong.  Setting aside his devotion
to your worldly interests, which, when you are of an age to understand,
you will appreciate better than you are able to do now, you owe him
respect as a priest, the respect due to his sacred calling.  I am deeply
grieved at your attitude towards him; but there again your rebellious
nature is at fault.  As to saying that he comes between you and me, that
is absurd.  What does come between us is your own self-will—your own
arrogance."

Bianca looked at her step-mother steadily for a moment, and the hard
expression on her face returned.

"_E sia!_" she replied.  "Do not let us discuss Monsieur l’Abbé Roux; it
is a waste of time.  As you say, when I am of an age to understand his
devotion to my worldly interests I shall be able to appreciate them.  I
am sorry that Fontana is dismissed," she continued.  "To be sure, I have
only seen him a few times, but he appears an honest man."

The princess glanced at her, and her countenance displayed more
displeasure than ever.  "These business matters need not concern you for
nearly three years to come," she said, coldly.  "Your interests are in
my hands, Bianca, as you very well know.  Luckily for you, you have no
voice in the management of your affairs.  If you had, I fear you would
very soon fall a prey to some adventurer like this—"

She stopped abruptly, a look on Bianca’s face warning her that it would
be more prudent not to complete her sentence.  Nevertheless, Princess
Montefiano was angry—seriously angry—and, though perhaps she scarcely
realized it, alarmed.  Her authority was very dear to her, and she clung
to it more than she knew.  She had always known there must come a time
when that authority must cease; but she had certainly no intention of
yielding it up before she was legally obliged to do so.  Moreover, she
felt perfectly assured that she divined the motives which lay behind
Bianca’s remark.  Had she any doubts upon the point, they were speedily
removed by her step-daughter’s next words.

Whereas the princess was both angry and alarmed, Bianca Acorari showed
no symptoms of being either the one or the other.  She raised her head
proudly, and a look came into her eyes that Princess Montefiano had seen
on other occasions—a quiet, resolute look, which had generally preluded
her own discomfiture when she had attempted to exercise her authority
over her step-daughter beyond its justifiable limits.

"That is what I wanted to say to you," Bianca observed, calmly.  "It is
much better that you should understand. In three years’ time I shall
have the management of my own affairs.  Well, three years is not a very
long time.  We, Silvio and I, can afford to wait; and at the end of
three years, when I am of age, I shall marry him.  But I will not marry
Monsieur d’Antin—my uncle."

"Bianca!" exclaimed the princess, "you are either mad, or you are a
wicked girl!  For the sake of a disgraceful passion for a man in an
inferior position of life to your own you rebel against those whom God
has placed in authority over you.  Yes, it is quite true, my brother
loves you.  I have suspected it for some time.  And why should he not?
At least, in marrying him you would be marrying a man of your own order,
and not—  But what is the use of discussing the matter?  You shall never
marry this young Rossano with my consent—never, never, I tell you! and
without my consent you cannot marry anybody."

Bianca smiled.  "Never is a long time," she observed, tranquilly;
"whereas, three years—  You quite understand," she added, after a pause,
"I will marry Silvio Rossano, or I will marry nobody.  You have chosen
to refuse his offer, and you have a perfect right to do so.  I, too,
shall have my rights some day.  But in the mean time you will tell my
uncle that I do not wish for his society any more.  I do not want his
love.  It—it disgusts me. Besides, he has deceived me."

The princess stared at her in dismay.

"Deceived you?" she repeated.

"He pretended to be my friend," answered Bianca, bitterly, "and, like an
imbecile, I confided in him.  Who else was there for me to confide in?
He pretended to know Silvio, and that he would be able by degrees to
remove your objections to our marriage.  Well, it was all a lie.  At
first I did not understand; but now—" and Bianca gave a shudder which
told, better than any words could have done, all that was passing in her
mind of physical repulsion and disgust.

Princess Montefiano looked, as indeed she felt, sorely perplexed.  A
certain sense of justice made her sympathize with the girl.  Although
love was to her an unknown and unexplored element in life, she could not
but recollect that when first she had suspected her brother’s interest
in Bianca not to be of a purely Platonic nature, the idea had shocked
her as being almost an unnatural one.

At the same time, the Abbé Roux had never ceased to remind her of the
gravity of the position in which Bianca had placed herself, of the
hopeless manner in which her step-daughter would be compromised in the
eyes of the world should it ever be known that she had formed an
attachment for a man in whose company she had been alone and
unprotected.  By degrees Princess Montefiano had come to regard her
brother’s passion for Bianca as a possible safeguard, not only against
the presumption of the Rossano family, but also against a scandal, for
which she herself would certainly be blamed by the world, as being the
result of a lack of proper supervision on her part towards her
step-daughter.  Not once, but many times, had the Abbé Roux descanted
upon the generosity of Baron d’Antin in being ready to shield Bianca
from any troubles which her folly might bring upon her in the future.
Princess Montefiano had not stopped to reason that her brother’s
generosity might be exaggerated by the priest, and that he would receive
a good return for it.  There were certain things beyond her
comprehension, mentally as well as physically, and passion was one of
those things.  People fell in love, of course; but, in Princess
Montefiano’s eyes, falling in love was a mere accident, necessary to the
carrying-on of human society.  She quite believed that she had loved the
late Principe di Montefiano, and that he had loved her; and, in itself,
this belief was harmless enough.  The pity of it was that she was unable
to realize any variations in the human temperament, or to understand
that what had satisfied her, when at the mature age of five-and-thirty
or so she had married a man considerably older than his years, would not
be likely to satisfy Bianca.  As to her brother’s love for the girl,
after the first impression caused by its discovery had passed, Princess
Montefiano had been only too ready to accept the view of it that the
Abbé Roux had more than once delicately hinted to her—namely, that it
was a love similar to that of Bianca’s father for herself—a placid,
protective love, altogether disinterested, and admirable both from a
worldly and a spiritual stand-point.

It is possible that the late Principe di Montefiano’s point of view
would have been different.  But, fortunately, perhaps, for herself,
Mademoiselle Jeanne d’Antin had not made the acquaintance of her husband
until he had already, like King David and King Solomon, experienced
misgivings of a religious character, and hence the Abbé Roux’s
_apologia_ for her brother’s state of mind seemed to her to be perfectly
reasonable and satisfactory.

So Bianca’s abrupt pause and little shiver of disgust passed unobserved
by the princess.  It was evident to her that the girl did not realize
the generosity of Philippe’s affection.  Bianca was, no doubt,
contrasting him with that insolent young Rossano, and the thought added
to her irritation and displeasure.

"I do not think you understand, Bianca," she began, after hesitating for
a moment or two.

"I assure you that I understand well—perfectly well," returned Bianca,
dryly.  "I am not a child any longer: for the matter of that, I do not
recollect ever having been a child, and it is useless to treat me as
though I were one. You may keep me here at Montefiano three years, if
you wish.  It will be the same thing in the end.  But I will not be made
love to by my uncle."

The princess rose from the table and began to walk rapidly up and down
the room.

"Bianca," she cried, "your language is disgraceful, indelicate!
Besides," she added, weakly, "he is not your uncle.  It is absurd, and,
as usual, you are ungrateful.  He wished to save you from the
consequences of your conduct. Oh, you need not think that he has said
anything to me of his motives.  He is too much of a gentleman to do so.
But he has confided them to Monsieur l’Abbé, and Monsieur l’Abbé has
been profoundly touched.  A disinterested affection is not such an easy
thing to find, _figlia mia_," she added, more gently.  "Take care that,
in despising it, you do not throw away a great blessing."

Bianca did not reply.  She seemed to be thinking over her step-mother’s
last words.  A note of kindness found an instant response in her.
Princess Montefiano noticed her hesitation, and decided that the moment
was opportune for pressing her point.  It might quite well be, she
thought, that Bianca was really unconscious of the equivocal position in
which she might find herself placed before the world.

"You see, Bianca," she continued, gravely, "a young girl cannot act as
you have done without laying herself open to very disagreeable things
being said of her.  Do you suppose that any man would wish to marry you
were it to be known that—well, that any such episode as has occurred had
happened to you?  Most decidedly he would not. Nevertheless, my brother
is ready to overlook what another would not overlook, on account of the
affection he entertains for you.  He knows that you were not to blame so
much as that thoughtless young man who ventured to—to persuade you to
give him an interview."

"He was not to blame," interrupted Bianca, quickly. "He would have gone
away if I had told him to do so, but I did not tell him."

"It does not matter," continued the princess, hurriedly, anxious to
avoid a discussion on the subject at that particular moment.  "You may
be sure that it was only an impudent attempt to compromise you.  But the
world would never take that into consideration.  With my brother,
however, it is different."

Unluckily, Princess Montefiano had struck a wrong chord.

"It was nothing of the sort," Bianca exclaimed, indignantly. "It is
perfectly true that we met, there in the ilex grove at the Villa
Acorari, and I suppose our meeting was seen, and that you were told of
it."

"Of course," interrupted the princess.  "My brother saw you.  Did you
not know it was he who heard voices in the casino, and then saw you
and—and that young man emerge from it?"

Bianca started violently.  "Liar!" she exclaimed, under her breath.

"It seems to me that it is a further proof of my brother’s generosity,"
continued Princess Montefiano.  "Knowing all the circumstances, he has
from the first endeavored to shield you."

Bianca laughed a quiet but not very pleasant laugh.

"_Sicuro!_" she said.  "It is a further proof of Monsieur d’Antin’s
generosity.  It appears that everybody at Montefiano is disinterested—my
uncle, Monsieur l’Abbé, everybody!  But you will explain to them that I
need no sacrifices.  Ah, it is of no use to interrupt me now!  I have
learned all I wanted to know, and you—you will learn something from
me—something final, definite.  It is this: I will marry Silvio Rossano
when I am Principessa di Montefiano and my own mistress, and until that
time I will wait, unless—"

Princess Montefiano turned towards her, her face quivering with anger.

"Unless—what?" she asked.

"Unless he wishes me to marry him before," answered Bianca, quietly.

"You will not dare—"

Bianca laughed again, and threw her head up like a young horse.

"Dare!" she said, scornfully.  "When I have given my word, I do not
break it—and do you suppose that I shall break my word when I have given
my love?  Ah, no, _per esempio_!  I am not so vile as that."

"Oh, but the girl is mad, possessed!" ejaculated Princess Montefiano.

Bianca looked at her almost indifferently.

"I think not!" she said, quietly—and then her eyes flashed with sudden
contempt, as she added: "And as for Monsieur d’Antin, you will tell him
from me that I have no need of the generosity of a coward and a liar."

And turning on her heel, Bianca walked slowly from the room without
another word, leaving Princess Montefiano in a condition of speechless
astonishment and dismay.




                                 *XXII*


After leaving her step-mother, Bianca went to her own room, where she
shut herself up in order to be able to think quietly.  Although she felt
that she had been by no means the vanquished party in the unexpected
skirmish which had just taken place, she was far more ill at ease in her
own mind than she had allowed herself to show to the princess.  Whatever
might be Bianca Acorari’s faults, lack of courage, moral or physical,
was certainly not among them; and during the time she had been at
Montefiano, her courage and her pride combined had forbidden her to show
any external sign of the doubt and uncertainty ever increasing in her
heart as the days lengthened into weeks, and yet no word from Silvio
Rossano had reached her.

That Silvio’s father had written to her step-mother making a formal
proposal of marriage on his son’s behalf, and that this proposal had
been indignantly rejected by the princess, Bianca was already well
aware.  Monsieur d’Antin had informed her of the fact a very few days
after his arrival at Montefiano.  It had been this information, indeed,
and the kindly and sympathetic manner of its conveyance, that had caused
Bianca to regard Monsieur d’Antin as the one person about her to whom
she might venture to confide her hopes and difficulties.  It had not
been long, however, before vague and fleeting suspicions, which she had
at first dismissed from her mind as not only absurd, but almost wrong to
entertain, as to Monsieur d’Antin’s motives for seeking her society,
developed into certainties, before which she had recoiled with fear and
disgust.  Her instinct had very soon told her that there was more in her
uncle’s—for she had begun to regard him in that relationship—manner
towards her than was justified by his professed compassion and sympathy.
Sometimes, when alone with her, he had made certain observations which,
although apparently in connection with her and Silvio’s love for each
other, had offended her sense, if not of modesty, at least of propriety
and good taste.  She could hardly explain to herself why they should
have done so, but she was conscious that they did do so.  Sometimes,
too, she had surprised an expression on Monsieur d’Antin’s countenance
as he looked at her which had made her shrink from him, as she might
have shrunk from some evil thing that meant to harm her.  Her suspicions
once aroused, Bianca had been quick to perceive that the more she was
alone with Monsieur d’Antin, the more apt he became to assume a manner
towards her which caused her no little embarrassment as well as
distaste.  The result had been an ever-growing feeling of distrust,
which soon made her regret bitterly that she had ever allowed herself to
talk to her uncle about Silvio, and latterly she had sought every
pretext to avoid being alone with him.  Sometimes, too, she reproached
herself deeply for having disregarded her promise to Silvio that she
would confide in nobody until he had an opportunity of again
communicating with her.  This promise, however, as she repeatedly told
herself, had been given when they had still a channel of communication
in the person of Mademoiselle Durand, and before she had become, to all
intents and purposes, a prisoner at Montefiano. But now Mademoiselle
Durand had utterly vanished from the scene—gone, as Monsieur d’Antin
informed her, to Paris with the wife and children of a secretary of the
French embassy in Rome, and Bianca had quickly realized that no
communication, direct or indirect, from her lover would be allowed to
reach her as long as she was within the walls of Montefiano.

Monsieur d’Antin, moreover, had certainly played the opening moves of
his game very well, and a more experienced person than Bianca might have
been deceived by them.  He had extracted her confidence by impressing
upon Bianca that he, and he alone, could by degrees overcome the
objections that his sister entertained to an alliance with the Rossano
family.  He had explained to her how these objections came in reality
much more from the Abbé Roux than from the princess, and that the latter
would infallibly relent if the abbé’s good-will could be secured. It had
been Monsieur d’Antin, too, who had warned Bianca that her step-mother
had decided, always by the Abbé Roux’s advice, absolutely to ignore, at
any rate for the present, the fact of her having met Silvio and allowed
him to propose to her.  He had carefully impressed upon her that any
attempt on her part to overcome the princess’s objections, any allusion,
indeed, to the subject, would only result in failure; and that Bianca’s
best plan, in her own and her lover’s interests, would be to maintain an
absolute silence, except, of course, to himself.  No questions, he told
her, would be asked her by her step-mother, and no lectures on her
conduct given to her.  Therefore, there would be no need for her to give
her confidence in a quarter where it was not demanded, and where the
giving of it could only prejudice her cause.  And everything had
happened as Monsieur d’Antin had foretold.  The princess had not made
the slightest allusion to her step-daughter regarding the meeting in the
grounds of the Villa Acorari, and, save for the sense of being
continually guarded and watched, Bianca could not truthfully say to
herself that her life at Montefiano differed in any particular degree
from the life she had been accustomed from childhood to lead.

At first, when Bianca had finally decided to yield to her uncle’s
suggestions and confide in him, she had more than once asked him to
assist her in sending or in receiving some communication from Silvio.
But Monsieur d’Antin had always declared this to be impossible.  He had
explained plausibly enough that if his sister and the Abbé Roux were
once to suspect him of such a course, all the influence he might be able
to use with them in order to overcome their objections would be
hopelessly destroyed.  Moreover, his sister would certainly ask him to
leave Montefiano, and then Bianca would be left without her only friend
and sympathizer.

And so long as Monsieur d’Antin, counselling patience, had himself been
patient, matters had progressed fairly well for the furtherance of the
object he and the Abbé Roux had in view.  Bianca was, if not easy in her
mind, at least satisfied that there was no other course open to her but
to keep silence and wait for her uncle’s influence to do its work.

But Monsieur d’Antin had not had patience.  The success attending his
first efforts to gain Bianca’s confidence had been his undoing.  The
constant companionship of the young girl, whose very youth and
inexperience had kindled afresh his well-worn passions, had brought
about its almost inevitable psychological result.  Monsieur d’Antin
began to lose his head, and to be unable, or at any rate unwilling, to
place the restraint upon himself that a younger man would probably have
done.  He believed that Bianca would certainly in the end be compelled
by force of circumstances to see that a marriage with Silvio Rossano was
impossible for the heiress of the Acorari.  It was true that she might
come to realize this, and yet make up her mind to marry some other young
man who might present himself—some flaccid, Roman youth with empty
pockets, but the possessor of a spurious title which would render him,
in the eyes of the little, but strangely snobbish Roman world, an
eligible husband for Donna Bianca Acorari.  But Baron d’Antin felt
comfortably convinced that even should this contingency arise, he still
held in his hand the trump-card which would win him the game.  If such a
young man were to present himself—well, a few words spoken in a few
Roman drawing-rooms, a hint or two dropped at the clubs of what had
recently occurred at the Villa Acorari, a suggestion that the Princess
Montefiano was anxious to marry her step-daughter in order to prevent
her making a _mésalliance_ in a quarter in which she had already
compromised herself—and the young man’s family would at once break off
negotiations.

But there had come a day when Monsieur d’Antin, in the course of a walk
with Bianca in the parco at Montefiano, had allowed his passion
momentarily to get the better of him, and in that moment Bianca had
understood all.  She had entertained no suspicions since that
instant—only the certainty that she was the object of Monsieur d’Antin’s
desires.  Indignation rather than fear, or even aversion, had been her
first sensation—indignation at the cowardice of this elderly hypocrite
who had tricked her into giving him her confidence.  Monsieur d’Antin
probably never knew how near he had been to receiving a blow in the face
from Bianca’s clinched fist, as, with a few scathing words of anger and
disgust, she had left him and almost run back to the terrace, where
Princess Montefiano was sitting reading in the shade under the castle.

Nor had this episode been all that had occurred during the last few days
to confirm Bianca Acorari’s suspicions and make her doubly uneasy in her
mind.

It so happened that, while wandering through some of the disused
apartments of the castle, in the wing opposite to that occupied by the
princess and herself, she had overheard a portion of a conversation
between domestics, certainly not intended for her ears.  Her attention
was arrested by the mention of her own name in a loud and rather excited
female voice; and approaching nearer to the room whence the voices
proceeded, she saw her own maid, Bettina, and a girl whom she recognized
as the _fattore_ Fontana’s daughter, engaged in mending some linen.
They were also, apparently, occupied in a discussion of which she
herself was the object, and the agent’s daughter appeared to be taking
her part with some vigor.

"It was a shame," Bianca heard the girl exclaim, "that the
_principessina_ should be forced to marry an old man like the baron,
when there was a _bel giovanotto_ who loved her and whom she loved.  For
her part, if she were the Principessina Bianca she would box the baron’s
ears—_uno, due_—so! and marry the lad she loved.  What was the use of
being a princess if one could not do as one chose?"

Then had followed some words in a lower tone from Bettina, the sense of
which Bianca could not catch, but which appeared to have the effect of
still further arousing Concetta Fontana’s indignation.

"Ah, the poor girl!" Bianca heard her reply.  "They shut her up here in
this dreary place, and they will keep her here until she lets that old
he-goat have his own way.  And the priest is at the bottom of it—oh,
certainly, the priest is at the bottom of it!  It is useless to tell me.
I have heard him and the Signor Barone talking together—and I know.  If
one could ever approach the _principessina_ to get a word with her, I
would warn her that it is a trap they are laying for her—just as though
she were a bird, the poor child!"

Bianca Acorari turned away, sick at heart.  The servants, then, and the
people about Montefiano, knew for a fact what she had never even
suspected.  She had regarded Monsieur d’Antin’s attempt to make love to
her as odious and cowardly, and also, perhaps, as ludicrous—but she had
not until then suspected that others were aware of his passion for her,
and still less that her having been brought to Montefiano was part of a
deliberately laid plan to force her to yield to that passion.

Concetta Fontana’s words seemed suddenly to make everything clear to
her, and to reveal Monsieur d’Antin’s treachery in its full light.  She
understood now, or she thought that she understood.  She had been
purposely allowed to confide in her uncle, purposely thrown in his
company, in the hope that she might in time consent to relinquish her
love for Silvio as a thing out of the question.

And her step-mother?  Of course her step-mother would do what the Abbé
Roux counselled.  She had always done so ever since Bianca could
remember, and she always would do so.  What the priest’s motives might
be for desiring that she should marry Baron d’Antin, Bianca did not stop
to consider.  Monsieur l’Abbé had always tried to interfere in her life;
and the fact that he knew she wished to marry Silvio Rossano was quite
sufficient to account for his determination to marry her to somebody
else.

Well, they should see that she, Bianca Acorari, was not to be forced to
marry anybody against her will.  She was not a foreigner, not a Belgian,
thank Heaven—but an Italian—a Roman, the head of an ancient Roman house.
And so her pride came to her rescue, as, indeed, it had often done
before.  And with it had come the courage to face her new difficulties.
She could give her step-mother plainly to understand that she knew what
steps had been taken and what plans had been made to compel her to
abandon all idea of marrying the man she intended to marry.  After that,
the abbé and Monsieur d’Antin might do their worst.  She had only to be
firm and patient for three years, and then they could have no more power
to interfere with her.

It had been a certain comfort to her to discover that there was one
person at Montefiano, however humbly placed, who was her friend.
Bettina, she knew well, had an eye only to her own interests, and would
not hesitate to betray any confidences Bianca might be tempted to make
to her, were she to consider it to her advantage to do so.  She had
several times noticed Concetta Fontana since her arrival at Montefiano,
and had been struck by the honest and straightforward bearing both of
the girl and of her father.  Fontana himself, indeed, had been very
marked in the deference and attention he paid to his young mistress. As
a matter of fact, he regarded both the princess and Monsieur d’Antin in
the light of foreign intruders, while for the Abbé Roux he felt nothing
but the suspicion and dislike with which priests, as a general rule, Don
Agostino always excepted, inspired him.  The Principessina Bianca, on
the contrary, he regarded as his liege lady, the daughter and
representative of the princes of Montefiano whom he and his forefathers
had served for several generations in one capacity or another.

Bianca Acorari could not have explained why the thought that the agent’s
daughter took a friendly interest in her was a consolation, but it
certainly was so.  She had scarcely spoken to the girl beyond wishing
her "Good-morning" or "Good-evening" if they met in the passages or the
courtyard of the castle.

As she sat alone in her room after the stormy scene with her
step-mother, Bianca thought long and calmly over the situation in which
that scene must inevitably have placed her.  On the whole, she felt
rather relieved than otherwise that it had taken place.  The keeping up
for so many weeks of a pretence that there was nothing unusual in the
position between the princess and herself had become more than irksome;
and Bianca would certainly not have submitted to Silvio’s proposal being
passed over in silence by her step-mother, had it not been for Monsieur
d’Antin’s assurances that nothing but harm would result were she to
insist on discussing it.

Her amazement and indignation had been great, however, at hearing from
her that it had been no other than Monsieur d’Antin himself who had been
a witness to her interview with Silvio in the ilex grove of the Villa
Acorari.  She had always concluded that one of the servants of the place
had been her step-mother’s informant, and Monsieur d’Antin had never
said anything to lead her to suppose the contrary.  It was, of course,
but another instance of his treachery and double-dealing towards her;
but all the same, Bianca was glad to know the truth.  She could
understand the course of events more clearly now, and the last
discovery, immediately following the remarks she had overheard from
Concetta Fontana, pointed without doubt to the existence of some
intrigue between her uncle and the Abbé Roux of which she was to be the
victim.  It was certainly as well that she had that day spoken plainly
to her step-mother. In a day or two Monsieur d’Antin would return from
Rome, and then she supposed there would be war to the knife.

Well, they should see that she would not give way—not one centimetre.
Better to have open war to the knife than to continue to be surrounded
by an atmosphere of intrigue and deception.

Ah, but if she could only have one line from Silvio, one word to assure
her that he was faithful to her as she was to him!  She could afford to
wait patiently then—to wait, if need be, till three years were over and
she was accountable to nobody for her actions.  She could not doubt
Silvio—not for one moment; but it was strange that he had not as yet
discovered some means of communicating with her.  Sometimes a deadly
fear struck her that he had believed her step-mother’s rejection of his
offer to have been written with her knowledge and consent.  It was more
than likely that an attempt would have been made to induce him to
believe this.  But she put the thought away from her persistently.
Silvio and she had known from the first that his offer would be
declined—it had only been made, indeed, as a formality, and as being in
accordance with the usages of society.

Nevertheless, she longed for some message, some word to comfort her and
give her courage to face the weary months in front of her.  Surely he
would find some means of sending her this word!  It seemed so long ago
since his arms were round her and his lips lay upon hers—so long ago and
yet she felt their pressure still.  What had he said to her "I will
marry no woman if I do not marry you."  Ah, but she was sure of
that—very sure.  And so it was ridiculous to be afraid—cowardly to be
afraid and not to trust in his word, that as soon as he could possibly
do so with the certainty that his message would reach her, he would
communicate with her as to what their next step should be.




                                *XXIII*


Don Agostino was sitting in his study the evening after his return to
Montefiano from Rome.  His housekeeper, Ernana, had waited upon him
during his supper, and in the interval of carrying in the dishes from
the kitchen had entertained him with all that had occurred in the
_paese_ during his absence.  Not very much had occurred; but then
occurrences of any import at Montefiano were apt to be few and far
between.  The wife of the baker who supplied the house with bread had
had a baby; and Ernana, counting up upon her fingers the number of
months that had elapsed since the baker’s marriage, could only get as
far as the little finger of one hand, and shook her head accordingly.
There had been a dispute in the _osteria_ kept by Stefano Mazza, and
Stefano’s son, while attempting to put an end to it, had been stabbed.
But it was _una cosa di niente_; and it served Stefano’s son right, and
would teach him that no good ever came of trying to interfere in other
folks’ quarrels. Nothing else had happened—at any rate, nothing that had
reached Ernana’s ears.  But it certainly was very unfortunate about the
baby, and a great pity that the baker had delayed his marriage so long;
though, after all, he might have delayed it altogether, which would have
been worse.

Don Agostino listened in silence as he ate his _frittura_ and salad.  He
rather agreed with Ernana as to the futility in this world of trying to
play the part of a peacemaker, however advantageous having done so might
prove to be in the world to come.  As to the baby, he had heard about it
before, at a very early stage of its creation; and he had nothing
further to say regarding it than he had already had occasion to whisper
from behind the grille of his confessional.

His supper over, and Ernana having retired into the kitchen to wash up,
Don Agostino had betaken himself to his favorite arm-chair in his study,
after carefully roasting the end of a Virginia cigar in the flame of a
candle on his writing-table, and ascertaining that it drew
satisfactorily. On that same writing-table lay the little packet
containing the ring and letter which Silvio had intrusted to him, and
which he had undertaken should, by one means or another, be conveyed
safely into Bianca Acorari’s own hands.

Don Agostino glanced at the packet more than once as he sat and smoked
his cigar.  A work by Professor Rossano was lying on his lap.  He had
taken the volume from his bookshelves in order to refresh his memory as
to certain arguments propounded in it which had especially roused the
indignation of the Sacred Congregation of the Index, some months after
the work had appeared.  As a matter of fact, however, he was thinking
far more of how he should fulfil his promise to Professor Rossano’s son,
than of the learned senator’s unorthodox propositions in print.

The more he thought over the strange combination of circumstances which
had led him to interest himself in Silvio’s case, the more he became
convinced that he had been called upon to save the only child of the
woman he had loved from unhappiness, and perhaps from worse.  It was
scarcely conceivable, he argued to himself, that the similarity between
his own youthful love affair and that of Silvio should be a mere
coincidence.  Indeed, he had long ago rejected the idea as impossible,
and to one of his nature, partly philosophical but also largely
mystical, there was nothing incongruous or improbable in the thought
that his departed love remembered his devotion to her, and was calling
upon him from her place in the world beyond the veil to shield her child
from evil, and bidding him labor to procure her the happiness which had
been denied to her mother.

And Don Agostino did not doubt that a woman who loved Silvio Rossano,
and could call him her husband, would be happy.  He had never doubted it
from the first day that he had talked with Silvio, when the boy had
been, as it were, but a chance acquaintance.  Much knowledge of human
nature had made Don Agostino singularly quick at reading both
countenances and character, and experience had taught him that his first
impressions, especially of a man, were very seldom wrong impressions.

He had not been satisfied, however, until he had learned from Silvio’s
father all that the professor had to tell him concerning his son.  As
Don Agostino had said to Silvio, that "all" was only what he had felt
convinced that he should hear.  It had told him that the lad was a good
son and a good brother, that he had proved himself to be worthy of
trust, as well as clever and hard-working, and Don Agostino knew enough
of matrimony to realize that such men, when they loved, and if they were
loved, made good husbands.

He could not doubt Silvio’s love for Bianca Acorari; nor had he any
reason to think that Silvio was deceiving himself as to its depth and
sincerity.  The professor, to be sure, had declared that it was a case
of love at first sight—only he had defined it more cynically, if
somewhat less gracefully—and had argued that similar affections were not
apt to be of very long duration.  This argument, however, had not
appealed to Don Agostino as being by any means conclusive.  When he had
first met Bianca Negroni, Bianca Acorari’s mother, he had fallen in love
with her there and then, and that love had dominated his whole life.  It
had not, it was true, been realized, but had it been realized he knew
that it would have endured the test of supreme satisfaction—that test
which, in love, is the severest of any.  He would not have been what he
was—the _parroco_ of Montefiano!  Nor was there anything unnatural or
improbable in Bianca Acorari having fallen in love at first sight with
Silvio.  Such things might not occur with the colder natures of the
north, perhaps, or they might occur but rarely.  But in the south, among
the Latin races, Don Agostino knew very well that such a thing was very
far from being uncommon.  All the same, however desirable it may be that
Bianca Acorari and Silvio should find happiness in living their lives
together, Don Agostino did not see how the affair could be managed. None
knew better than he how hard a thing to break down, especially among the
Roman "nobility," was the prejudice of caste.  Money, indeed, provided
there was enough of it, could always break it down; but otherwise the
line between the so-called aristocracy and the _bourgeoisie_ was
irremediably fixed.

Don Agostino was revolving all these thoughts in his mind, when he was
suddenly disturbed by the sound of the bell at the entrance-door.
Somebody, no doubt, was ill, and had sent to summon him, for it was
nearly nine o’clock, and no one would be likely to wish to see him on
any other business at so late an hour.  A moment or two passed, and then
Ernana hurried into the room.  It was Sor Beppe, she explained, Signor
Fontana, who wished to speak with Don Agostino—if the hour was not too
inconvenient.

"Fontana!" exclaimed Don Agostino.  "Of course, Ernana; bring Signor
Fontana in here.  And bring some wine, too, and glasses," and he rose
from his chair to greet his visitor.

Sor Beppe entered the room hastily, and Don Agostino could see at a
glance that he had not come at that hour, uninvited, merely to discuss
the affairs of Montefiano.  It was evident that Fontana was considerably
upset in his mind, or else extremely angry.  Don Agostino was not sure
whether it was the one or the other, or perhaps both.

He quickly came to the conclusion, however, that it was both.  Sor
Beppe, indeed, was trembling with ill-suppressed excitement.  He
scarcely waited to return Don Agostino’s greeting; but, after a hasty
apology for disturbing him at such an hour, seemed at a loss for words
to explain the object of his visit.

"You have heard?" he burst out at length.

Don Agostino motioned to him to sit down.

"I have heard nothing," he replied, quietly.  "I only returned from Rome
this morning—or, rather, early this afternoon.  Is there anything wrong,
Signor Fontana? You look disturbed."

"Anything wrong!" exclaimed Fontana.  "There is this that is wrong.  I
am dismissed!"

Don Agostino started.  "Dismissed?" he repeated.  "Dismissed from what?
I do not understand."

"_Perbacco_, it is very simple!" returned Sor Beppe, sullenly.  "I am
dismissed from my office.  I am no longer _fattore_ to the
Eccellentissima Casa Acorari at Montefiano.  I have said it."

Don Agostino looked at him.  "When, and why?" he asked, abruptly.

"When?  Two days ago.  The day your reverence went to Rome.  Why?
Because I am an honest man, and because I and my people have been
faithful servants to Casa Acorari for a hundred years and more.  Is it
not reason enough?" and Sor Beppe laughed bitterly.

Don Agostino poured out a glass of wine and pushed it towards him.
"Tell me how it has come about," he said.  "If I am not mistaken," he
added, looking at the agent keenly, "Casa Acorari has too much need of
honest men just now to be able to spare one."

"Ah!" exclaimed Fontana, quickly, "you know that, too? You have heard it
in Rome, perhaps?"

"I know nothing," replied Don Agostino.  "I only guess. And I have heard
nothing in Rome concerning the affairs of Casa Acorari—nothing, that is,
connected with the estates.  May I ask," he added, "apart from the
reason you have just given, on what grounds you have been dismissed?"

Sor Beppe drank off his glass of wine.

"I will tell you, _reverendo_," he replied.  "Some days ago I received
instructions from the estate office in Rome that the rents of certain
small holdings here at Montefiano were to be raised five per cent.  I
represented to the administration that the rents were already high
enough, and that to increase them would certainly create much
ill-feeling.  The people can barely live like Christians and pay the
rents they are paying, _reverendo_; and who should know it better than
I, who have lived on the land for fifty years?"

Don Agostino nodded.  "I know it, too," he observed. "Go on, Signor
Fontana."

"I thought my protest had been accepted," continued Fontana, "as I heard
no more from Rome.  But four or five days ago that foreign priest, the
Abbé Roux, as they call him, came into my office and asked what I meant
by refusing to obey the instructions I had received from the
administration.  I replied that I had sent my reasons to the
administration; and, moreover, that however many instructions to raise
the rents in question might be sent to me from Rome, I should not obey
them until I had explained the truth of the matter to the princess in
person, and had received her orders as the Principessina Bianca’s
representative.  Was I right, _reverendo_, or wrong?"

Don Agostino shrugged his shoulders.  "You were right, decidedly, I
should say," he replied; "but whether you were wise in your own
interests is another matter."

"My interests have always been those of Casa Acorari," returned Sor
Beppe, simply, "and it certainly is not to the interest of Casa Acorari
to arouse ill-feeling among the tenants at Montefiano for the sake of a
few hundred francs a year.  That is what I intended to have explained to
her excellency the princess."

"And why did you not explain it to her?"

"Because I was dismissed by that _mascalzone_ of a priest!" exclaimed
Fontana, angrily.  "I beg your pardon, Don Agostino, I should have
remembered that there are priests and priests."

Don Agostino smiled.  "Yes," he observed, "for precisely the same reason
that there are men—and men!  So the Abbé Roux dismissed you in the
princess’s name, I conclude?"

"In her excellency’s name—yes.  Everything is done by the Abbé Roux in
her name.  For some time past I have been _fattore_ at Montefiano only
nominally.  It is no longer any secret that the Abbé Roux is the chief
administrator of the estate.  Two years ago, as your reverence probably
knows, the lease of the rents at Montefiano expired, and the holder of
it offered to renew on the same terms.  His offer was declined because
the Abbé Roux had a friend, a _mercante di campagna_, who offered to pay
a rather larger annual sum.  Since this man has farmed the rents they
have been gradually increased, and now the people cannot pay and make
enough out of their _tenute_ to live decently."

Don Agostino leaned forward in his chair.  "I did not know," he said.
"I thought the same individual held the contract.  To be sure, I did
know that the rents have, in many cases, been raised of late.  The
peasants have grumbled, and I have heard you blamed for it."

"It was not generally known that there had been any change," said
Fontana.  "I had my instructions not to talk about the matter, and I
obeyed them.  It was no affair of mine who farmed the rents; that is the
business of the administration at Palazzo Acorari in Rome.  My duty was
to see that they were paid, and that the tenants cultivated the land
properly.  It is quite true—I have been called a hard man, especially
lately.  But there were very few complaints of any kind, and I think
still fewer reasonable ones, before this change took place."

"And who is this friend of the Abbé Roux, who has taken over the lease
of the rents?" asked Don Agostino.

Sor Beppe hesitated; then, looking round the room as though afraid of
being overheard, he leaned forward and whispered:

"I do not know; I only suspect.  But my belief is that the Abbé Roux’s
friend is—himself."

"_Accidente!_" ejaculated Don Agostino.

"_Sicuro!_" continued Sor Beppe.  "I suspect it, but I have no means of
proving it.  One thing is certain, and that is, that the individual who
received the rents has never presented himself in the flesh at
Montefiano; whereas the Abbé Roux has presented himself very frequently.
There is not a metre of land that he has not been over—not a farm or a
cottage that he has not visited, inside and out—and always in the name
of their excellencies, _si capisce_—so what could anybody say?"

Don Agostino remained silent for a moment.

"But you have appealed to the princess," he asked, presently, "and
perhaps to Donna Bianca?  It is true that she has no voice in the
management of her affairs as yet, but she is the _padrona_, when all is
said and done."

"Of course I have appealed to the princess," replied Fontana.  "I saw
her personally, but the priest was always with her, listening to every
word I said.  She was very affable, very sympathetic; but, as she
explained, the business matters of the administration lay in other hands
than her own.  She was merely acting in the interests of the
Principessina Bianca, and could only take the advice of those who
understood business matters better than she did herself.  She regretted
the present affair, oh, very much; but it was evident that I was not in
accord with the administration of Casa Acorari, and therefore she could
not do otherwise than confirm my dismissal from the post of _fattore_ at
Montefiano."

"And the _principessina_, Donna Bianca?" said Don Agostino, quickly.

Sor Beppe made an expressive gesture with both hands. "The
_principessina_," he repeated; "_ma che vuole_?  The _principessina_,
_poveretta_, is like a fly in a spider’s web.  I have seen her half a
dozen times, but never to speak to, except a few words of respect.  The
_principessina_?  Ah, no!  As your reverence says, she has no voice in
the management of her own affairs, none at all.  And she never will have
any, for before she is of age they will marry her to her uncle!  Of
course he is not her uncle really, but it is much the same."

Don Agostino drew his chair closer to the other, and at the same time
poured out another glass of wine.

"Ah," he said, "so you believe that gossip?  I had heard it, but it
seemed incredible that it should be anything else but gossip."

"Do I believe it!" exclaimed Fontana.  "Of course I believe it!  My
daughter Concetta works at the castle, and they all—all the
household—talk of it.  It seems that there is somebody else whom the
poor child wants to marry—the son of some professor in Rome; but she
will never be allowed to marry him.  She will marry the _principessa’s_
brother; you will see."

"That she will not!" exclaimed Don Agostino, emphatically.

Sor Beppe drank half of his glass of wine.

"They have brought her here to Montefiano," he said, "and they will keep
her here till she gives way.  For the rest, the baron, as they call him,
is madly in love with the girl—at least, he is—"

"I understand," Don Agostino, interrupted.  "It is monstrous," he
added—"a crime!"

"_Altrocchè_!  Who knows what may be the motives?"

Don Agostino glanced at Sor Beppe quickly.

"The motives?" he repeated.

"_Sicuro_!  Concetta has heard things—oh, but very strange things.  _Sa,
reverendo_, the castle is a curious building, and especially that part
of it in which the family resides.  There is not one of them who knows
it; but we know it—I and Concetta.  _Diamine_!  We have lived in it for
more than twenty years, so how should we not know it?  _Ebbene_!
Concetta has overheard things—conversations between the baron and that
cursed priest, carried on when they thought themselves secure.  At first
she could not understand very clearly, for they talked in French; and
Concetta understands a little French, but not much. She learned all she
knows when she went to a family in Rome.  Occasionally, however, the
Abbé Roux and the princess spoke in Italian, and by degrees she has been
able to learn a great deal of what is going on.  The baron and the Abbé
Roux are working together, I tell you; the one for lust, the other for
money—or both for money.  _Che ne so io_?"

Don Agostino looked at him steadily.

"_Adagio_, Signor Fontana!" he said, quietly.  "These are very serious
allegations to make.  Are you sure that in your very natural indignation
at being dismissed for no offence but that of doing what your conscience
told you was just, you are not exaggerating?  Your daughter may have
been mistaken, and the things she overheard may not have applied to
Donna Bianca at all.  As to the Baron d’Antin, it is possible that he
may have conceived a passion for Donna Bianca, who is, I believe, a very
beautiful girl. After all, the fact, although perhaps somewhat
repugnant, would not be unprecedented."

Sor Beppe shook his head.  "Concetta made no mistake," he replied,
doggedly.  "What she heard, she heard not once only, but many times.
Donna Bianca is to marry the baron; and the princess believes by
consenting to the marriage she will prevent the _principessina_ from
marrying the other—the son of the Roman professor.  But in the mean
time, Concetta tells me that the _principessina_ has found out the
intrigue, and has realized that her uncle wants to make love to her.
How Concetta has learned that, I do not know.  Perhaps from the
Principessina Bianca’s maid—or perhaps she has heard Donna Bianca
talking to herself in her own room."

Don Agostino turned his head with a movement of impatience. "One would
imagine," he said, "that the walls of the castle had ears."

Sor Beppe glanced at him with a curious expression in his eyes.  "The
castle was not built yesterday," he observed, enigmatically.

Don Agostino looked round.  "What do you mean to imply?" he asked,
quickly.

The other laughed.  "Only this," he replied; "that there are those who
know their way about the castle of Montefiano better than its
owners—better than its present owners, at all events.  The late prince
knew—oh, very well, if all the stories are true!  But nobody in the
castle now has an idea—except myself and my children—"

"An idea of what?" asked Don Agostino.  "_Andiamo_, Signor Fontana, do
not let us play at mysteries!  It seems that your castle is a dangerous
place for confidential conversations."

"And a convenient place for clandestine meetings," added Fontana.  "It
used to be said that the late prince found it so—blessed soul!"

The suspicion of a smile played round Don Agostino’s lips.  Then he
seemed as though a sudden thought struck him, and he looked at his
visitor inquiringly.

"What do you mean?" he exclaimed, almost sharply. "You need not be
afraid that anything you say to me will be repeated in the _paese_."

Sor Beppe got up from his chair.  "Of course you do not understand," he
said.  "How should you?  Well, I will tell you how it is that it is not
always safe to talk secrets in the castle.  One should know where one
is—oh, decidedly!  I will tell you something, _reverendo_, and then,
perhaps, you will understand better.  If I chose, this very night I
could enter the sleeping apartment of the _principessina_ without a soul
being any the wiser—yes, even if all the doors of the rooms on the
_piano nobile_ were locked. No one would see me enter that wing of the
castle or leave it.  Concetta could do the same."

Don Agostino looked at him in amazement.

"Are you joking, my friend?" he exclaimed.

"_Niente affatto_!  It is as I say.  There is a secret passage in the
inside wall, dividing the whole length of the _piano nobile_ which their
excellencies occupy from the outer gallery.  It is in the thickness of
the wall itself, so nobody suspects its existence."

"_Perbacco_!" ejaculated Don Agostino.  "And the entrance to the
passage?"

"It is by a trap-door in the floor of a room in the basement—a little
room close to the outer gateway, which has long been uninhabited.  My
own apartment opens out of it on one side, but the door of communication
was blocked up years ago—before I can remember.  _Sicuro!_ the entrance
to the passage is there, and a narrow staircase leads up to the _piano
nobile_ above."

"And the egress," asked Don Agostino, eagerly; "where is that, Signor
Fontana?"

Sor Beppe’s white teeth gleamed from behind his dark beard.  "That is
the strange part of it," he replied.  "The passage leads directly into
the room at the extreme end of the _piano nobile_, the room in which the
_principessina_ sleeps. The princess’s room is next to it, and there is
no other means of entry visible, except by passing through this.  No
doubt the princess chose it for Donna Bianca’s sleeping apartment as
being more secure.  But, as I say, anybody acquainted with the passage
could enter it."

"By a trap-door in the floor?" Don Agostino asked.

Sor Beppe shook his head.  "By a much more artistic contrivance," he
replied—"absolutely artistic, you understand.  On pressing a spring in
the passage a door slides back noiselessly into a groove in the wall of
the bedroom. Ah, but those who made it were artists!  The door is
covered by a picture, the frame of which is so contrived as completely
to conceal the groove into which it slides.  A person might inhabit the
room for a lifetime and not be aware that there was any means of
entering or leaving it, except through the adjoining apartment."

Don Agostino leaned back in his chair and gazed at Fontana in silence.
What he had just heard did not very much surprise him.  He knew an old
Medicean villa in Tuscany in which a secret entrance existed almost
similar to that described by Sor Beppe, although it was not in so
serviceable a state as its counterpart at Montefiano appeared to be.
Perhaps the late Prince Montefiano had restored and repaired this one
for purposes of his own. However that might be, the main point was that
here, under his hand, if Sor Beppe was not romancing, was the very
opportunity he had been searching for, to convey Silvio’s packet to
Bianca Acorari.  Don Agostino felt almost bewildered at the way in which
difficulties, which appeared at one moment to be insurmountable, were
removed.  No doubt, he argued to himself, this fresh situation was
nothing but a coincidence.  There was no reason why a mediæval fortress
such as Montefiano, to which a Renaissance palace has been attached,
should not have a dozen secret passages concealed in its walls.  But it
was, at any rate, a very fortunate circumstance, and one which,
cautiously made use of, might considerably assist the ends he had in
view.

He looked at Fontana silently for a few moments as though trying to read
the man’s thoughts.

"What you have told me is very interesting," he observed, presently;
"but I do not understand how your daughter comes to overhear what may be
said while in the secret passage.  She does not, I conclude, spend all
her time in the vicinity of Donna Bianca’s room; and even if she did,
how could she hear through a stone wall?"

"_Altro_!  Your reverence is quite right," returned Sor Beppe.  "But
that is easily explained, only I forgot to explain it.  Every word
spoken in certain of the apartments on the _piano nobile_ can be
distinctly heard by any one standing in the secret passage if, _ben
inteso_, that person is in that part of it immediately outside the room
in which the conversation takes place.  It is managed very cleverly. One
has only to know where to stand.  For example, the passage runs the
whole length of the dining-room.  That was a wise thought of those who
made it, for who knows what secrets the spies of the old Acorari may not
have learned?  Food and wine open men’s mouths.  And the room next to
the dining-room, _reverendo_, is occupied by the Abbé Roux as his study.
It is there that he and the baron sit and smoke at nights when their
excellencies have retired to their rooms."

Don Agostino nodded.  "As you say," he observed, "the castle of
Montefiano is not a safe place for confidences."

"Or for rogues," added Sor Beppe.

"That depends," returned Don Agostino, dryly.  "But why," he added, "did
you not warn the princess of the existence of this secret entrance?
Surely it is scarcely safe if people are aware of it."

"But nobody knows of it," replied Fontana.  "All that the people know is
that once upon a time there was supposed to be a secret communication
between the castle and the town; and when I was a lad, it used to be
said that the prince had availed himself of it for certain adventures,
for everybody knew that he had an eye for every good-looking woman
except his own wife."

"Never mind the prince," interrupted Don Agostino, abruptly.  "Nobody
else knows of the passage, you say?"

"They think it no longer exists," continued Sor Beppe. "I have always
said that it was built up years ago.  It was a lie, of course; but it
was not necessary to let people think they could get into the castle
unobserved.  I forbade Concetta ever to mention it.  As to naming the
matter to the princess, I saw no necessity to do that.  I would have
told the _principessina_ of it if I had ever had the chance of speaking
with her alone.  But Concetta implored me not to mention it even to the
_principessina_.  It would make her nervous, she said, to sleep in a
room with a sliding-door in the wall."

"Ah," remarked Don Agostino, "you would have mentioned it to Donna
Bianca; then why not to the princess?"

Sor Beppe shrugged his shoulders.  "She is not the _padrona_—that other
one," he said; "and, besides, she is only a foreigner, and a second
wife.  I would do anything to serve the Principessina
Bianca—anything!—for she is an Acorari and Principessa di Montefiano.
Who knows," he continued, angrily, "whether it is not because I am loyal
to the _principessina_ that I am dismissed?  I have only seen her a few
times, _reverendo_, but I give you my word that I would rather have a
smile and a _buon giorno_, from Donna Bianca than—well, I do not know
what to say."

Don Agostino smiled.  "I am glad to hear it," he said. "After all, it is
very natural that you should feel so.  Donna Bianca is your _padrona_."

"Was!" interrupted Sor Beppe, swallowing a curse in his beard at the
same time.

"Ah! but let us wait, my friend," proceeded Don Agostino. "Perhaps the
princess will discover that she has been ill-advised, and then you will
be reinstated.  In the mean time, you will not be doing either yourself
or Donna Bianca Acorari any harm by continuing to be loyal to her.  You
may, perhaps, be able to serve her, to have an opportunity of showing
your loyalty—who knows?"

Sor Beppe passed the back of his brown hand across his eyes.
"_Magari!_" he said, warmly; "_magari!_ if I could serve her!
_Poveretta_, I fear she needs friends badly enough. It is all very fine
of the Abbé Roux to talk about Donna Bianca being in _villeggiatura_ at
Montefiano.  _Ma che villeggiatura_!  It is an imprisonment, pure and
simple.  Do I not know it—I?  The poor child!  She is shut up here to
keep her away from her lover in Rome; the maid, Bettina, has said as
much to Concetta.  And there are strict orders that no one is to enter
the castle—no stranger, that is. All the letters are taken to the
princess, both the post that arrives and that which goes out.  It would
have been more humane to have put the girl into a convent.  At any rate,
she would have had companions, and there would presumably be no old
he-goat to make love to her."

Don Agostino listened to Sor Beppe’s flow of language with a certain
amount of satisfaction.  The man was evidently sincere in his devotion
to Bianca Acorari, and it was pleasant to him, moreover, to hear that
Bianca was one of those who were able to inspire personal devotion.
That Fontana knew, or at least suspected, more than he divulged of the
state of affairs at the castle, and of the intrigues of which Bianca
formed the central figure, he had not the slightest doubt.  Many
whispers had already reached his ears as to the close watch which was
being kept over the young princess, how she was always accompanied by
either her step-mother or the Baron d’Antin, and how the baron was
evidently deeply in love with her.  He had often wondered how these
rumors were spread, for he happened to know that there was little or no
communication between the small household the princess had brought with
her and the town of Montefiano.  There were no young men-servants,
indeed, to go out and gossip in the _osteria_; for Princess Montefiano
had only brought her _maggior-domo_ from Palazzo Acorari, a venerable
person of sedate habits, and one scarcely less venerable man in livery;
and neither of these had ever been known to leave the castle walls or to
exchange a word with the Montefianesi.

No doubt the rumors in question, and more particularly the rumors
concerning Baron d’Antin, had been circulated by Concetta Fontana, and
Don Agostino was not altogether sorry if this were really the case.  It
would be no bad thing were public opinion at Montefiano to be aroused to
sympathy with Bianca Acorari and distrust of the princess’s advisers.
It was more than probable that Monsieur l’Abbé Roux, in bringing about
Fontana’s dismissal, had committed an impolitic act.  Although the
_fattore_ might have lost some of his popularity owing to recent events,
he was, nevertheless, a native of the district, and well known
throughout the Sabina.

"Does your reverence really think that the princess will reconsider my
dismissal?" asked Sor Beppe, as Don Agostino did not speak.  "You can
understand," he continued, "that it is a hard thing for me.  I am not an
old man, that is true; but I am too old to be transplanted.  Besides, we
Fontana have served Casa Acorari for four generations or more, and it is
a bitter thing to be turned away by a foreign woman and an _imbroglione_
of a priest."

Don Agostino nodded sympathetically.  "It is a hard thing, certainly,"
he replied, "and it is also, so far as I can see, an unjust thing.  As
to whether the princess will reconsider the matter, that I cannot tell
you.  You must remember that, as I think I have told you before, I have
never seen the princess.  But her rule will not last forever; and when
Donna Bianca has the management of her own affairs, things may be very
different.  She is not a foreigner, and is not at all likely to be
influenced by priests, I should say.  Probably she will reward those who
have been loyal to her, and her own people will come before strangers,
unless I am very much mistaken."

Sor Beppe looked at him shrewdly.  "I thought you said you did not know
the _principessina_?" he said.

"Neither do I," answered Don Agostino, "but I know something about her."

"Perhaps you know her lover—oh, I do not mean that Belgian goat, but the
other one?"

"Yes—I know him."

"Ah!  And he is worthy of the _principessina_?"

"I feel convinced that he is thoroughly worthy."

"Then what is the objection?  He has no money, perhaps?"

"He is not noble."

"_Diamine!_ and what does that matter if he is worthy in other ways?  I
do not suppose he is a _contadino_."

"No," replied Don Agostino, smiling, "he is an engineer, and some day he
will be a great man, I believe.  His father is a great man already, the
famous Senator Rossano.  You have perhaps heard of him?"

"_Altro_!  So it is he whom the _principessina_ is in love with!  Well,
_reverendo_, is it not better than marrying that old baron with ink-pots
under his eyes?"

Don Agostino laughed.  "Certainly!" he replied.  "But the baron and the
Abbé Roux think otherwise.  That is the difficulty; and what they think,
the princess thinks."

"_Si capisce!_"

"Signor Fontana," said Don Agostino, suddenly, "you said just now that
you would do anything for Donna Bianca.  Were you in earnest?"

"And why not, _reverendo_?"

"_Bene_!  You have the opportunity of proving your loyalty."

He rose from his chair, and, taking Silvio’s packet from the
writing-table, placed it in Sor Beppe’s hands.  "I have promised Signor
Rossano, Donna Bianca’s affianced husband, that this should reach her
without delay.  She has been waiting for it for weeks.  Will you
undertake that it shall be given into her hands, and into her hands
only?"

Sor Beppe’s eyes flashed.  "I swear it!" he said. "Concetta shall give
it to her this very night."

"Concetta?  But is she to be trusted?"

"As much as I am to be trusted, _reverendo_.  Concetta would do anything
to serve the _principessina_.  You need not be afraid.  Donna Bianca
shall have her lover’s letter this very night.  You can guess how?"

"Of course.  But will she not be terrified at seeing your daughter enter
her room in such a manner?  Remember that the princess sleeps next door
to her."

"Concetta will know what to do," returned Sor Beppe.

"Good.  But there must be no failure—no risk of the packet falling into
other hands, or its delivery being suspected."

"There will be none."

Don Agostino held out his hand.  "You will not regret what you have
undertaken," he said, "and you may be sure that the _principessina_ will
not forget it, either.  We must save her from a great unhappiness, my
friend, and perhaps from, worse than that.  Now, I must be inhospitable
and ask you to go; for it is late, and you have to arrange matters with
Concetta, who by this time is probably asleep.  Who knows what led you
to visit me this evening?  I had been turning over in my mind every
means I could imagine to insure that packet reaching Donna Bianca
safely.  It is certainly very strange."

Sor Beppe buttoned up the little parcel securely in the corner pocket of
his coat.  "To-morrow I will come again," he said, "and who knows that I
shall not bring with me an acknowledgment from the _principessina_ that
she has received the packet safely?  Then you can write to her lover and
tell him so.  All the same, if I were that young man, I would come to
Montefiano and take Donna Bianca away with me—even if I had to slit the
throats of the baron and the Abbé Roux in the doing of it."  And
muttering a string of expletives under his breath, Sor Beppe passed out
into the garden.  Don Agostino let him out through the door, opening to
the piazza in front of the church; and then, after standing for a few
moments to watch his tall figure striding away down the white road
towards the castle, he went slowly back into his house, bidding Ernana,
whose curiosity as to Sor Beppe’s visit had brought her out to the
threshold, lock up the door and go to bed.




                                 *XXIV*


Monsieur d’Antin’s visit to Rome was not of long duration.  He returned
to Montefiano two days after the evening when he had dined at the
Castello di Costantino, in close proximity to Professor Rossano and his
little party.  That evening had certainly been an entertaining one to
him, for many reasons.  He had, of course, instantly recognized Silvio
and Giacinta Rossano, while his host and companion, Peretti, had as
quickly identified the professor.  Except for the brief glimpse Monsieur
d’Antin had caught of Silvio on the staircase of Palazzo Acorari, he had
never had an opportunity of watching him with any attention; yet the
boy’s form and features were well impressed on his memory, and he would
in any case have known he must be Giacinta Rossano’s brother by the
strong likeness existing between the two.

It had been his ill-disguised interest in him, and the marked manner in
which he stared, that had nearly provoked Silvio into openly resenting
this liberty on the part of a stranger; and probably Monsieur d’Antin
had very little idea that he had narrowly escaped bringing about a scene
which he might afterwards have had cause to regret. His glance and
attitude had been so insolent, indeed, that for a moment or two Silvio
had wondered whether he did not intend to provoke a public quarrel,
which could have had but one result—a meeting with pistols or swords in
some secluded villa garden, where the police were not likely to
interfere.  Had Giacinta, confident from her brother’s face that a storm
was brewing, and knowing that though storms were rare with Silvio they
were apt to be violent if they burst, not taken Monsieur Lelli’s advice
and hurried him and her father away from the terrace, there was no
saying what complication might not have arisen still further to increase
the difficulties of the general situation.

As a matter of fact, Monsieur d’Antin’s vanity had received a violent
shock.  He had known that Silvio Rossano was extremely good-looking, for
he had gathered as much when he had seen him ascending the staircase at
Palazzo Acorari.  But he had not realized it as fully as he did that
evening at the Castello di Costantino.  The discovery annoyed him
exceedingly, for obvious reasons.  He had, up to that moment, felt no
particular personal antipathy towards a presumptuous young man of the
_bourgeois_ class, who had ventured to consider himself a fitting
husband for Bianca Acorari.  On the contrary, Monsieur d’Antin had felt
most grateful to him for having, by his presumption and want of
knowledge of the ways of good society, placed Bianca in an equivocal
position, and at the mercy of anybody who might choose to set a scandal
abroad concerning her.

But that night, as he looked across the restaurant at the table where
Silvio was sitting, he hated him for his youth, for his tall, well-knit
form, for his good-looking face; and perhaps, more than all, for a
certain indefinable air of high-breeding and easy grace, which Monsieur
d’Antin angrily told himself a person of the middle class had no right
to possess.  Nothing escaped him.  He watched Silvio’s manner, his mode
of eating and drinking, his dress, everything, in short, which could
betray the cloven hoof he was longing to discover.  He could overhear,
too, snatches of the conversation from Professor Rossano’s table, and he
was disagreeably surprised by what he heard.  There was none of the
loud, vulgar intonation of the voices usually the accompaniment of any
gathering together of Romans of the middle and lower orders, and none of
the two eternal topics of conversation—food and money—from which the
Roman of the middle classes can with difficulty be persuaded to tear
himself away.

Monsieur d’Antin could not but confess that, so far, at any rate, as
appearance and manner were concerned, Silvio was a great deal more of a
gentleman than very many of the young men of rank and fashion he was
accustomed to meet in the drawing-rooms of _la haute societé_ in Rome;
and that he had another advantage that these, as a rule, did not
possess—he looked intelligent and manly.

The reflection was not pleasing.  He would have far preferred to be able
to detect some trace of vulgarity in Bianca’s presumptuous lover, and he
could discover none. He was disagreeably conscious, too, of his own
disadvantages as he looked at Silvio—of his years, of his figure, and of
other details beside these.

But if the Rossano family, and especially Silvio, had occupied his
attention and interest that evening, Monsieur d’Antin had been hardly
less concerned with the personality of Monsignor Lelli.  His companion
had immediately detected the latter’s presence and had pointed him out,
at the same time rapidly explaining who he was and his past history at
the Vatican.

The _commendatore_—he was _commendatore_ of the papal Order of St.
Gregory—made it his business to know as much as he could find out about
everybody in Rome, and his information—when it happened to be of
sufficient interest, personal, political, or religious—having been for
some time placed at the disposal of his patron at the Vatican, the
cardinal secretary of state, had been duly paid for by the bestowal of a
clerical order of chivalry.  It was rumored that he had been the
instrument of making more than one wealthy English and American convert
to Catholicism among the fair sex; which, as he was not ill-looking, and
occupied some of his spare time by giving Italian lessons in eligible
quarters, was not improbable.  At any rate, the _commendatore_ knew all
about Monsignor Lelli and the history of his falling into disgrace at
the Vatican, though he was very careful only to give Monsieur d’Antin
the official version of the affair.  The story did not interest Monsieur
d’Antin very much.  Moreover, as it turned upon political and financial
matters, in which clerics and their money were concerned, he did not
believe more than a very small proportion of what he was told.  What
interested him far more, was the fact that Monsignor Lelli had been sent
to work out his repentance at Montefiano; and that he was undoubtedly on
intimate terms with the Rossano family.

The departure from the restaurant of the Rossanos and the priest had not
escaped the quick eye of the _commendatore_.

"He does not want it known that he is in Rome," he had whispered to
Monsieur d’Antin, as Don Agostino disappeared from the terrace.

Monsieur d’Antin did not reply.  He thought it far more probable that
Monsignor Lelli did not wish to be seen in Silvio’s society by anybody
connected with the Montefiano household.  He kept his own counsel,
however, and allowed his companion to think that it was his appearance
on the scene that had frightened the priest away.  The time had not yet
arrived for letting the outside world into the secret of Bianca
Acorari’s indiscretion.

"I shall certainly let them know at the Vatican that Lelli is in Rome,"
Peretti said to Monsieur d’Antin.  "Who knows why he is here, instead of
attending to his duties at Montefiano?  I am almost sure it was to
Montefiano he was sent, but I will make certain to-morrow, when I shall
see the cardinal."

"Why did they choose Montefiano?" asked Monsieur d’Antin.  "It is a
dreary place; and whenever I have driven through the town, I have seen
nothing but pigs and old women—very ugly old women."

Peretti laughed.  "That is why he was sent there," he replied.  "The
Holy Father concluded that he was better fitted to deal with pigs and
old women than with finance."

"How long will he be kept there?"

The other lifted his eyebrows.  "_Mah!_" he said.  "Who knows?"

It had not suited Monsieur d’Antin’s purpose to discuss Monsignor Lelli
any further with the host that evening. He reflected that whatever
Peretti might know about him, the Abbé Roux would know also, and
possibly considerably more.  He wondered that the abbé had never
mentioned the fact that the parish priest at Montefiano had once been a
member of the papal court, or alluded to him in any way. It did not
surprise him that Monsignor Lelli should never have presented himself at
the castle, for he quite understood that the Abbé Roux would not allow
any opportunity of poaching over his ground on the part of a brother
cleric.  Besides, there was a chapel in the castle, and mass, and the
Abbé Roux said the mass; at which latter thought Monsieur d’Antin
smiled, as if it afforded him some amusement.

And so he returned, the next day but one, to Montefiano, resolved to
lose no time in acquainting the Abbé Roux with the news that he had seen
Monsignor Lelli dining at a Roman restaurant in the company of the
Rossano family, and apparently on terms of intimate friendship both with
the Senator Rossano and with his son.  There could be no kind of doubt
that this intimacy, so providentially discovered, might seriously
compromise the ultimate success of the scheme which had been so
carefully devised for compelling Bianca to give up all thoughts of young
Rossano, and accept what was offered to her in the place of his
presumptuous attachment.  Nothing but a separation from her lover, which
should be complete in every detail, could accomplish this object; and if
Silvio Rossano had a friend at Montefiano, and that friend the
_parroco_, there could be no saying what means might not be resorted to
for the purpose of establishing the very communications between him and
Bianca which it was so imperative to render absolutely impracticable.

It was nearly mid-day before Monsieur d’Antin, who had taken the early
morning train from Rome to Attigliano, arrived at Montefiano, and he had
barely time to wash, and change his dusty clothes, before joining his
sister at breakfast.  A glance at the princess’s face showed him that
something had certainly occurred during his absence to upset her.  The
Abbé Roux, who was also at the table, looked both preoccupied and cross.
Only Bianca appeared serene, and, to Monsieur d’Antin’s surprise,
altogether contented.  There was a light in her eyes and an expression
of scarcely suppressed happiness on her face that he never remembered to
have seen there, certainly not since he had been at Montefiano.  It
reminded him of the look she had worn on the afternoon of his visit to
the Villa Acorari, when he had found her alone in the Marble Hall, fresh
from her stolen interview with her lover.

Expression and demeanor changed, however, as Monsieur d’Antin greeted
Bianca with an airy compliment on her appearance.  His salutation was
scarcely replied to, and every subsequent attempt to draw her into
conversation failed ignominiously.  The meal was decidedly not a
cheerful one, and it had scarcely concluded when Bianca got up from her
chair, and, making a slight courtesy to her step-mother, left the room
without a word.  The Abbé Roux lifted his eyes to the ceiling with a
sigh, and the princess looked pained and uncomfortable.  The
men-servants were already bringing in the coffee, and Monsieur d’Antin
was constrained to wait until they had served and retired before seeking
for an explanation of the state of the social atmosphere in which he
found himself.

The princess drank a few mouthfuls of her coffee, and left the table
almost as soon as the door had closed upon the servants.

"If you will excuse me, Philippe," she said to her brother, "I am going
to my room.  I am nervous—unwell. That unhappy child—"  Her voice
trembled, and it was evident that Princess Montefiano was very near to
tears. "Monsieur l’Abbé will explain to you," she continued; "he is
entirely in my confidence.  You can talk together over your cigars, and
we will meet afterwards, when I am calmer."

She left the room hastily, and Monsieur d’Antin looked across the table
to the abbé.

"_Que diable!_" he exclaimed.  "Might one ask what has happened?"

The Abbé Roux cleared his throat.  "Let us go into the next room," he
said.  "We can talk quietly there without being overheard by the
servants"—and he led the way into the apartment specially devoted to his
use.

"Ah, my dear monsieur," he said, as soon as they had shut the double
doors behind them, "it is not to be wondered at if Madame la Princesse
is upset!  Since you have been away, Donna Bianca has made a scene—a
veritable scene, you understand.  It appears that she has asserted her
fixed determination to marry this impossible young man, and has
announced that she will wait till she is her own mistress, if—"

"If what?" asked Monsieur d’Antin, as he paused.

"_Parbleu_!  If her lover does not choose that she should marry him
before—the religious marriage, of course."

Monsieur d’Antin lit a cigarette.

"A girl’s enthusiasm," he observed.  "It will pass."

The abbé glanced at him.  "I think not," he replied.  "I have known
Donna Bianca since she was a child.  When she has made up her mind to do
or not to do a thing, it is not easy to make her alter it.  She is
undisciplined—completely undisciplined," he added, almost angrily.

"No doubt.  It is all the more reason that she should learn what
discipline means.  She will make a better wife for knowing it," and
Monsieur d’Antin chuckled softly.

"Ah, as to that, monsieur, there can be, I suppose, no question.  But
what I have already told you is not all. The princess, perhaps, would
not have taken Donna Bianca’s refusal to submit her will to the
direction of those who are her lawful guardians so deeply to heart, if
that had been all.  She would have trusted to time and—and to Donna
Bianca’s conscience, to make her step-daughter see reason and realize
that obedience is the first of all duties."

Monsieur d’Antin fidgeted uneasily in his chair.  "I think, Monsieur
l’Abbé," he said, dryly, "that you and I can afford to dispense with
moralities, can we not?"

The abbé looked angry for an instant.  Then he smiled. "Perhaps," he
replied.  "After all, we have to regard Donna Bianca’s position from a
business point of view."

"Precisely, my dear friend, from a business point of view. Let us
confine it to that, if you please.  Let us assume, for example, that you
are—a layman.  It will simplify matters very much."

The abbé looked at him suspiciously, and his black eyebrows contracted
disagreeably.  He was never quite sure whether he were managing Monsieur
d’Antin or whether Monsieur d’Antin were managing him.

"It would appear," he observed, presently, "from what Donna Bianca has
said to Madame la Princesse, that you have introduced—what shall I
say!—a little too much sentiment into your business point of view."

Monsieur d’Antin smiled complacently.

"What would you have, my dear abbé?" he replied. "You know my little
secret.  If I remember rightly, I confessed to you, and you gave me
absolution—is it not so? Yes.  I admit that I have perhaps been a little
indiscreet, a little premature.  But one cannot always control one’s
feelings.  The _soutane_ is one thing, and the pantalons are another.
You must make allowance for those who do not wear the _soutane_."

"The question is," said the Abbé Roux, a little irritably, "that Donna
Bianca will have none of it."

"None of which, my dear friend?" asked Monsieur d’Antin, imperturbably.
"Of the _soutane_, or—"

The abbé laughed in spite of himself.  "You have frightened her," he
said.  "She understands; and she has told the princess—oh, told her very
plainly!  It was a mistake.  You should have waited—a month—six months.
Moreover, she has found out that it was you who saw her and young
Rossano together at the Villa Acorari; and now she feels that you have
deceived her throughout the whole business.  She will never forgive
that.  It would have been better to have told her that it was through
you the affair became known, that you had felt bound to warn Madame la
Princesse of what you believed to be a great peril threatening her
step-daughter.  Now, Donna Bianca has said that even if she is kept here
for three years it will make no difference; that she will not be made
love to by you; and that you are a liar and a coward."

Monsieur d’Antin started up from his chair.

"Monsieur l’Abbé!" he exclaimed, furiously.

"Oh, I am quoting Donna Bianca’s words.  You cannot be surprised that
madame your sister should be upset.  It is now three days ago—that
little scene—and the girl has scarcely spoken a word to the princess
since.  She is hard—hard as a piece of stone when she chooses to be so.
Now, I ask you, what is to be done?  She will wait three years, six
years, if necessary, or she will find some means of running away with
her lover—who knows?  But she will never allow you to approach her,
Monsieur le Baron; of that I am convinced."

Monsieur d’Antin swore, softly.  "She must give way!" he exclaimed.  "It
is a mere question of time.  The girl has a spirit, that I do not deny,
but it can be broken. Bah! it is not worth while _de se faire de la
bîle_ about a girl’s sentimental passion for a good-looking young man
who has once kissed her, and whom she will never see again. We have only
to remain firm, and all will turn out as we propose.  It will take time,
perhaps, but from a business point of view—always from a business point
of view, my dear Monsieur l’Abbé—time is exactly what we wish to gain,
is it not?  I admit that, from the other point of view—mine, you
understand—delay is not so satisfactory."

The abbé looked up quickly.  "Ah, certainly," he said, eagerly, "you are
perfectly right; to gain time is everything! And if Donna Bianca does
not mind waiting for her lover, well, from a business point of view,
delay will be very advantageous."

Monsieur d’Antin lit another cigarette.

"To you," he said, quietly.  "To you, dear Monsieur l’Abbé; but, as I
said before, to me not quite so much so. There is my part of the bargain
to be considered, is there not?  And if I am not to marry Donna Bianca
Acorari, I confess that I do not particularly care whether she marries
young Rossano or goes into a convent.  All the same, I do not imagine
that she will go into a convent."

Monsieur d’Antin paused, and looked steadily at his companion.  His
voice and manner were suaveness itself; nevertheless, the abbé was
conscious that his words implied something very like a threat.

"Of course," he replied, "there is your part of the question to be
considered.  I do not forget it.  But what you want is not so easy to
obtain.  I fear that Donna Bianca, even were she finally to renounce all
hopes of Rossano, would never be induced to listen to your proposal to
take his place.  Besides, I very much doubt if Madame la Princesse would
go so far as to attempt to force upon her step-daughter an alliance
apparently so distasteful to her. No, Monsieur le Baron, I speak
frankly.  Donna Bianca’s sudden assertion of the course she intends to
adopt has materially altered the situation.  Who has any influence over
her?  Certainly not the princess, certainly not myself, to whom she
never addresses a word if she can avoid doing so.  The only person who,
until recently, seemed to have gained her confidence, was yourself.
What has caused her to declare, as she has declared, that she will not
allow you to approach her, you must know better than I.  In the mean
time, the field is as clear to you as it was before, and we will hope
that this little outburst on the part of Donna Bianca may not be of much
importance.  At least, you must admit that I have done my best to
further your object. You owe it entirely to me if the princess, against
her own inclinations, was persuaded to countenance that object."

"But, my dear Monsieur l’Abbé," returned Monsieur d’Antin, airily, "I
fully realize the efforts you have made on my behalf.  Why not?  As to
Donna Bianca having taken me _en grippe_, well, I assure you that I
rather enjoy it.  I like a woman to show some fight.  I shall do my best
to remove the bad impression I have made.  Apparently, she enjoys it
also.  I never saw her look so animated as she did to-day.  The little
scene with my sister, that you tell me of, must have acted as a
tonic—and no doubt she will be the better for it, and more amenable to
reason.  Do not let us talk any more about it for the present.  Apropos,
how do your little matters of business progress?  I think you told me
before I left that my sister had some trouble with the agent here, and
that you had advised her to dismiss him?"

The abbé frowned.  "Yes," he said, curtly, "the man is dismissed, and I
have another _fattore_ ready to take his place.  But there is some
little difficulty.  It appears that the people are angry at his
dismissal.  I am told it has created great ill-feeling in Montefiano.
There is a meddlesome _parroco_ here—"

"_Diable!_" exclaimed Monsieur d’Antin; "I had quite forgotten about
him."

"What?  You know him?"

"No, my dear friend, no.  But I happened to see him two or three
evenings ago in Rome, and in whose company do you suppose he was?  You
will never guess.  Well, he was dining at a restaurant with Professor
Rossano and his son and daughter."

The Abbé Roux gave an exclamation of surprise.

"_Lelli_!  Dining with the Rossanos?  Are you sure that it was he?"

"Absolutely sure.  I was dining with Peretti—you know whom I mean?—and
Peretti knew Monsignor Lelli perfectly well.  He left the restaurant
very soon after he saw us."

"Lelli!" repeated the Abbé Roux, with a scowl.  "Yes, he is the priest
at Montefiano.  Peretti will have told you his story.  He fell into
disgrace at the Vatican—in fact, he embezzled money, and rather than
have a public scandal, he was sent here to get him out of the way.  What
was he doing with the Rossanos?"

"Eating his dinner," replied Monsieur d’Antin, tranquilly; "at least, if
you call such a thing a dinner.  _Ciel!_ what filth one eats in a Roman
restaurant, even in the best of them.  Oh, la, la!  Yes, your _parroco_
was dining with the Rossano family.  It would appear that he is an
intimate friend."

"No doubt," observed the abbé, with a sneer.  "Lelli was always hand and
glove with all the _canaille_ in Rome of the literary and scientific
world.  He is simply a free-thinker—nothing more nor less. It does not
at all surprise me that he should be a friend of Professor Rossano."

"But it is a little unfortunate that a friend of the Rossanos should be
curé at Montefiano, is it not?" asked Monsieur d’Antin.

The abbé started.  "Assuredly," he said.  "You are right.  It is a
danger.  For the moment I did not think of it.  Yes, it might be a grave
danger.  Moreover, the man is mischievous.  He is always siding with the
peasants. Only yesterday I heard that he had declared Fontana’s—the
agent’s—dismissal to be an injustice.  We do not want men of that sort.
They spoil the people and make them discontented."

"It is clear that he is very intimate with Professor Rossano and his
son," returned Monsieur d’Antin, "and in his position here at Montefiano
as parish priest, what is to prevent him from inducing one of the people
about to deliver some letter or some message to Donna Bianca?  And once
she realizes that she can receive communications from the outside world,
all our precautions will be useless.  The knowledge that she could do so
would make her more obstinate than ever in her determination not to give
up young Rossano."

The abbé frowned.  "Leave it to me, monsieur," he replied.  "Lelli will
not succeed in entering the castle of Montefiano, however much he may be
the village priest. I put a stop to any idea of the kind long ago.
Indeed, it was necessary to warn the princess against him.  She had
never heard his history, and I discovered—oh, two or three years
ago—that he was getting money out of her for the poor; and, moreover,
that he was always urging Fontana to appeal for a reduction in the
rents.  Of course, directly the princess realized that he had been sent
to Montefiano in disgrace, and heard all the scandal concerning his
removal from the Vatican, she ceased to allow him to interfere between
the people and the administration of the estates. No, I do not think we
need fear Monsignor Lelli."

"At least it will do no harm to be on our guard," insisted Monsieur
d’Antin.

"Oh, as to that, of course!  Moreover, should there be any cause to
suspect that he was helping young Rossano, it would not be difficult to
obtain his removal.  There are many hill villages which are even more
isolated than Montefiano—in the Abruzzi, for instance.  And I do not
imagine that the Holy Father cares where Lelli is, so long as he is
safely out of the way until it pleases Providence to remove him
altogether."  And the Abbé Roux laughed harshly.

Monsieur d’Antin yawned.  "I shall go to my room," he said, throwing
away his cigarette and rising from his chair.  "Travelling on one of
these horrible Italian railways is bad enough at any time, with the dirt
and the unpunctuality, but in hot weather it is doubly fatiguing. Then
it appears to me, my dear friend," he added, "that notwithstanding Donna
Bianca’s charming display of petulancy, we remain as before.  A little
stricter discipline, perhaps—a little more precaution against any
possible interference on the part of this _monsignore_, is it not so?"

"Precisely, monsieur—and patience, always patience!"

"Ah!" observed Monsieur d’Antin.  "It is an admirable quality—but the
exercising of it is apt to become monotonous."




                                 *XXV*


The evening before Monsieur d’Antin’s return to Montefiano from Rome,
Bianca Acorari had dined alone.  The princess had been invisible most of
the day.  Although she appeared at breakfast, she had retired to her
room later on in the afternoon, a victim to a violent nervous headache,
the result, as Bianca was only too well aware, of the agitation she had
been in ever since the scene on the previous day. The Abbé Roux had
announced at breakfast that he should be away until late that evening,
having, as he explained, to go to Orvieto to visit a friend who lived
near that city.  As Bianca sat alone at dinner, she felt grateful to the
abbé for having had the tact to absent himself.  She did not feel
inclined for a _tête-à-tête_ meal with anybody, and certainly not with
the Abbé Roux.

To say the truth, her step-mother’s evident distress had made Bianca
almost regret that she had allowed herself to speak so plainly as she
had done the day before.  Resolute and strong-willed as she could be
when she chose, her nature was both sensitive and warm-hearted; and
although she would not have retracted one word that she had said, or
retreated one inch from the attitude she had taken up, she felt sorry
and disturbed in her mind at the pain she had evidently occasioned the
princess.  After all, it was not unnatural that her step-mother should
consider it to be her duty to impede by every means in her power a
marriage of which she disapproved.  It was not unnatural, either, that
she should disapprove.  Bianca, whose sense of justice was unusually
strong, would have scorned to be unjust to any individual simply because
she happened not to be in agreement with that individual.  She was quite
aware, too, that her conduct had been certainly not in accordance with
that which was considered fitting to a young girl in any position.  She
should, of course, have refused to allow Silvio to speak a word of love
to her until he should first have gained the consent of her step-mother.
No doubt she had been wrong—immodest, perhaps, as her step-mother had
said—but all the same, she was glad she had not repulsed Silvio that day
in the ilex grove.  Glad, did she say? But that was an untruth.  She had
never thought of repulsing him, could not have done so, for she wanted
love. She had wanted it for so long, and she had understood that Silvio
had it to give her.  And she wanted somebody whom she could love, not
merely some one towards whom she was perpetually being told she should
be dutiful.  No, it was absurd to say she was glad she had listened to
him, and had let him tell her his love in his own way.  It was worse
than absurd—it was a lie told to herself.  Ever since that Christmas
night when she had seen him in the church of the Sudario, she had
understood that she loved, and that he loved her.  And she had never
thought of repulsing him. She had thought only of the moment when she
should hear him tell her of his love; when she should feel his arms
around her and his lips on hers; when she could show him that she, too,
knew what love was.

From which reflections it was evident that Monsieur d’Antin had been
right in his diagnosis of Bianca Acorari’s temperament, and in coming to
the conclusion that his sister and the Abbé Roux would be preparing for
themselves a disillusion if they continued to regard her as little more
than a child.

Bianca retired to her room early that night.  It was certainly not
cheerful to sit alone in the drawing-room after dinner, trying to read a
book by the light of one or two old-fashioned moderator lamps, which
only served to cast gloomy shadows into the corners of the vast
apartment. The princess had caused a pianoforte to be sent from Rome;
for the Érard which stood at one end of the drawing-room was reduced by
age and damp to a compass of some two octaves of notes which, when
played upon, produced sounds that were strange but scarcely musical;
while the upper and lower octaves of the key-board had ceased to produce
any sound whatever, save a spasmodic, metallic tapping as the hammer
struck the broken wires.  Bianca used to touch the instrument sometimes,
and wonder whether it had belonged to her mother, and if her hands had
pressed the yellow keys. She knew that her mother had passed the last
year or two of her life at Montefiano, and that she herself had first
seen the light there.

But to-night she was not in the humor for either reading or playing the
piano.  She felt weary, mentally and bodily; for, after the excitement
of the discussion the previous day with her step-mother, reaction had
set in.  She was depressed, and, a thing very unusual to her, nervous.
An almost intolerable sensation of loneliness haunted her.  It seemed
strange to think that a few hundred metres away, down in the _paese_,
people were talking and laughing and living their lives.  She was not
living hers; life was going on all around her, but she had no part or
share in it.  Ah, if only she could hear something from Silvio!—hear of
him, even—she would not feel quite so lonely.  She would feel sure then,
though they were separated, though probably they would be divided for
months and years to come, that they were together in their thoughts;
that he was faithful and true to her, as she was struggling with all her
force to be faithful and true to the promise she had made him there,
under the ilex-trees at the Villa Acorari.

Passing quietly through her step-mother’s apartment, lest she should be
perhaps already asleep, Bianca was about to enter her own room, when the
princess called to her.

"Come here, _figlia mia_," she said, gently, "I am not asleep."

Bianca approached the bed and remained standing by it.  Princess
Montefiano took her hand and held it in hers for a moment.

"You think me very cruel, do you not, Bianca?" she said; "like the cruel
step-mothers in the fairy-tales," she added, with a little attempt at a
laugh.  "Well, some day you will understand that if I am unkind, it is
for your good. But there is something else I want to say to you.  I do
not intend to discuss the other matter—the Rossano matter. I shall never
change my opinion on that point—never! And so long as you are under my
authority, so long shall I absolutely forbid any question of a marriage
between you and a son of Professor Rossano, and communication of any
sort to pass between you.  What I wish to say to you is this.  Because I
will not consent to your marriage with this young Rossano, you must not
think that I wish to influence you or compel you to listen to my
brother.  That would not be my idea of what is my duty towards you as my
husband’s child, for whose happiness I am responsible, both before God
and before the world.  You must understand that you are free, Bianca,
absolutely free to do as you choose as regards accepting or not the
affection my brother offers you.  It may be, perhaps, that when you are
in a more reasonable frame of mind, and have realized that under no
circumstances would you be allowed to marry out of your own sphere in
life—and certainly not the son of an infidel professor, who, no doubt,
shares his father’s abominable principles and ideas—you will hesitate
before throwing away my brother’s love."

Bianca shook her head.  "It is useless to think of that," she said, "and
it is useless to tell me that under no circumstances shall I marry
Silvio Rossano.  Unless one of us dies, I shall marry him.  I have
nothing more to say than what I said yesterday, and nothing to unsay.
You ask me if I think you unkind.  No; I do not think that."

"Surely," exclaimed the princesse, almost wistfully—"surely you can
understand that in all this miserable business I am only doing what my
conscience tells me to be my duty towards you!"

Bianca withdrew her hand.  "Yes," she said; "I quite understand.  I have
always understood."  Then, wishing her step-mother good-night, she bent
down and kissed her, and passed into her own room, gently closing both
of the double set of doors which separated the two apartments.

She had not been in bed long before sleep came to her, for she was, in
fact, more weary in body and mind than she had realized.  For four or
five hours she slept soundly enough, but after that her slumbers became
disturbed by dreams. She dreamed that Silvio was near her, that she
could see him but could not speak to him, and that he had some message
for her, some letter which the Abbé Roux was trying to take from him.
In her sleep she seemed to hear strange noises and her own name called
softly at intervals. Suddenly she awoke with a start.  A gleam of
moonlight was shining through the window-curtains and half-closed
_persiennes_.  It made a broad track across the floor to the wall
opposite her bed, and fell on the face of a picture hanging near the
corner of the room—a portrait of that very Cardinal Acorari who had
caused the Renaissance palace to be added to the Montefiano fortress, in
order that he might have a villa in the Sabine Mountains in which to
pass the hot summer months away from Rome.  The moonlight glanced upon
his scarlet robes and skull-cap and on his heavy countenance.  Time had
caused the flesh colors to fade, and the full mouth, with the sensual
lips, looked unnaturally red against the waxy whiteness of the rest of
the face.

Bianca lay and looked at the streak of moonlight on the floor.
Presently her gaze followed the track until it rested on the picture.
For some moments she looked at the portrait with a certain fascination.
She had never seen it in the moonlight before; it looked ghostly.  She
had once seen a cardinal lying in state when she was a child, and the
sight had frightened her.  She was not at all frightened now, for she
was no longer a child; but all the same, she could not take her eyes off
the picture.  She found herself wondering what relation she was to that
old Cardinal Acorari—great-great-what?  Granddaughter would not do, for
cardinals, of course, never had children; certainly not
cardinal-priests; and Cardinal Acorari had been bishop of Ostia and
cardinal vicar of Rome.

Suddenly she sat up in her bed.  Surely she had seen the face move?
Yes; it had certainly moved; it was quite ten centimetres more to the
right of the moonlight than it had been a moment ago.  Now half the
features were in shadow, and the cardinal’s _biretta_ was half red and
half black. _Sciocchezze_!  Of course, it was the moon that had moved,
not the picture; or, rather, she supposed it was the earth that had
moved, or the sun!  Something had moved, at any rate, but not the
cardinal.  And smiling at her own stupidity, Bianca withdrew her gaze
from the picture, and, turning on her side, tried to compose herself to
sleep once more.  But it soon became evident that sleep would not return
to her. She felt restless, and the night, too, was hot.  Rising from her
bed, she threw a light wrap over her shoulders and went to one of the
windows, the curtains of which she drew gently aside; and then, taking
care not to make any noise that could be heard in the room beyond, she
opened the green _persiennes_ outside the window and leaned out.  Not a
breath of air was stirring, and the September night was oppressively
warm.  A silvery haze hung over the _macchia_ below the terrace, and far
away, under the encircling mountains, Bianca could see the wreaths of
mist rising in the valley of the Tiber.  The two flanking wings of the
palace stood out cold and white in the moonlight, while the double
avenue of lofty cypresses on each side of the great night of stone steps
leading down from the terrace into the park looked black and sombre in
the nearer foreground.

The splashing of a fountain in the centre of the avenue, and the
occasional cry of some bird, alone broke the intense stillness.  Bianca
rested her arms on the ledge of the window, gazing out upon the scene
below her.  The moonlight fell full upon her and glanced upon the tawny
gold of her hair.  For some moments she remained immovable.  Then, with
a gesture of passionate abandonment, she flung her white arms out into
the silver night.  "Silvio!" she whispered; "Silvio, not one word?  Ah,
my beloved, if you knew how I want you, if you knew the loneliness!  Ah,
but I will be patient, I will be brave, for your sake and for my
own—only—_Dio!_—"  She turned suddenly with a little cry.  Surely she
had heard her own name again, spoken very softly from somewhere within
the room behind her. She looked hastily round, but could see nobody.
Only her own shadow fell across the floor in the moonlight.

"_Eccellenza_!  Donna Bianca!"

Ah, this time she was not mistaken!  It was her name she had heard
whispered, and the voice came from the cardinal’s portrait.  Bianca
started back.  For a second or two she felt fear.  If she could only see
the person who had called her, she would not be frightened, she was
certain of that.  Gathering her wrap round her she came forward into the
room.

"I am Bianca Acorari," she said, in a low, clear voice. "What do you
want with me, and how have you ventured to come here?  Speak, or I will
call for help."

"Ah, _per carità_! do not call—do not be afraid."

"I am not afraid," interrupted Bianca Acorari, quietly. "Why should I be
afraid?  Besides, it—you are a woman, are you not?"

"_Eccellenza_—yes!  It is I, Concetta Fontana, and I bring a message—a
letter.  Ah, but I have been waiting for an hour before I dared speak.
I called you, but you were sleeping, and then, when I saw you at the
window, I was frightened—"

The white face of Cardinal Acorari disappeared noiselessly into the
wall, and Concetta’s form occupied its place.  She carried in her hand a
small oil-lamp; and, balancing herself for an instant, she dropped
lightly down the three or four feet from where the picture had hung, to
the floor.

Bianca rushed towards her.  "Concetta!" she exclaimed. Then she tottered
a little, and, dropping into a chair, began to sob convulsively.

In a moment Concetta was by her side and had thrown her arms round her.

"For the love of God, _eccellenza_, do not cry!" she exclaimed.  "Do not
make a sound—the princess—she might hear.  Yes, it is Concetta—Concetta
who has brought you this—who will do anything for you," and she thrust
Silvio’s packet into Bianca’s hand.

Bianca looked at it for a moment as if she scarcely understood her.
Then she tore it open eagerly.  A smaller packet fell from it to the
floor, but Bianca let it lie there. Her eyes had caught sight of the
letter in which it was enclosed, and she wanted that and nothing else.
Hurriedly unfolding it, she darted to the window again and held the
closely written sheets to the moonlight.  "Ah, Silvio!" she exclaimed,
"I knew, I knew!"

Concetta, practically, lighted a candle, and waited in silence while
Bianca devoured the contents of her lover’s letter.  Every now and then
she cast anxious glances towards the princess’s apartment.  Then, when
Bianca had finished feverishly reading through the letter for the first
time and was about to begin it again, she stooped, and picking up the
packet from the floor, gave it to her.

Bianca undid the paper, and, opening the little box inside, took out the
ring.

"Ah, look!" she said.  "Look what he sends me—his mother’s ring!  Look
how the diamonds sparkle in the moonlight, Concetta—and the sapphire—how
blue the sapphire is!  Blue, like—"

She stopped suddenly, and a hot wave of color mounted to her face.
Replacing the ring in its case, she thrust it and the letter into her
bosom.

Then she turned to Concetta quickly.

"How did you come here, and why should you do this thing for me?" she
asked, almost fiercely.  "Are you sent to lay a trap for me?  Speak!"

Concetta Fontana flung herself upon her knees, and taking Bianca’s hand,
covered it with kisses.  "No, no," she exclaimed.  "I have come because
my father sent me—my father and Don Agostino—because you are the
_padrona_—not—not that other one—the foreigner.  _Eccellenza_, you have
no right to mistrust me.  I swear to God that there is no deceit, no
trap.  Nobody knows of the secret passage—only my father and I.  My
father could not come here—in the dead of night—so I came."

"The secret passage!" repeated Bianca, wonderingly.

Concetta pointed to the hole in the wall where the cardinal’s portrait
had been.  "It is there," she said, "and it runs the whole length of the
_piano nobile_ and down into the entrance-court.  See!"  Going to the
aperture, she pressed a spring concealed in the groove, and slowly,
noiselessly, the picture of Cardinal Acorari glided back into its
original position.

"I can come and go when I please," said Concetta, with a smile, "so the
_principessina_ is no longer a prisoner who cannot communicate with the
world outside.  Oh, and there are those outside who mean to help her—Don
Agostino, and my father, and others besides.  We will not have our
_padrona_ shut up in the castle of Montefiano to please a foreign
priest.  _Sicuro!_ very soon—in a few days perhaps—the _principessina_
will understand that she is at Montefiano—among her own people."

Bianca scarcely heard Concetta Fontana’s latter words.

"Who is Don Agostino?" she asked, suddenly.  "Silvio—this letter—says
that the packet will be brought or conveyed to me by Monsignor Lelli."

"Don Agostino—Lelli—it is all one," replied Concetta. "He is our
_parroco_, _eccellenza_; and he is good, oh, he is good!  If all priests
were like Don Agostino—_mah_!"

Bianca took out her letter again.  As yet she could hardly realize her
happiness.  A few minutes ago she had felt utterly alone, almost without
hope, save the hope that her own courage and her trust in Silvio gave
her.  Now the world seemed different.  She had got her message from that
great world outside, which until just now had seemed so far away from
her own—that world where life and love were waiting for her.

Suddenly she turned to Concetta and took both the girl’s hands in hers.
"Forgive me," she said, softly; "I was wrong to doubt you, but I think I
have begun to suspect everybody lately.  When one has once been
deceived, it is not easy to trust again."

Concetta’s eyes flashed.  "Who has dared to deceive you, _signorina_?"
she asked, hastily.  "Not—" she pointed to the letter Bianca was still
holding against her heart.

Bianca smiled.  "No, Concetta; ah, no, not he!  How could he deceive me?
I was thinking of somebody else—somebody here at Montefiano.  But it
does not matter.  I do not care at all now.  Indeed, I do not think that
I shall care about anything again.  Ah, Concetta, some day you will know
that I am grateful for what you have done to-night.  I shall not forget.
I shall ask you what I can do for you in return, when I am really
Principessina di Montefiano."

Concetta looked at her quickly.  "It will not be difficult to repay me,"
she said; "but I don’t want repayment, _eccellenza_; it is not for
repayment I mention it.  But, some day, if you will remember that my
father has been dismissed from your service because he would not consent
to an injustice being done in your name to the people, that will be
repayment enough."

Bianca started.  "Of course!" she exclaimed.  "I recollect. Your father
has been dismissed from his post, has he not?  Well, when I have power
to recall him, he shall be recalled.  It is enough for me to know that
he has been dismissed by Monsieur l’Abbé Roux to suspect that he has
been unjustly treated.  But what do you mean by injustice to the people
done in my name, Concetta?  I do not understand."

Concetta hesitated.  "You will understand very soon, perhaps," she
replied, mysteriously.  "But do not be alarmed, _eccellenza_, it is not
you with whom the people are angry.  They know you cannot help what is
being done, although it may be done in your name.  _Basta!_ if you have
no further orders for me, I will go.  It is nearly morning, and I have
been here too long.  If the princess were to awake and think of coming
into your room—"

"She never comes into my room after I have wished her good-night," said
Bianca, "and you must not go yet, Concetta—at least, not before I have
given you a letter which you will take back to Monsignor Lelli—Don
Agostino—for me.  You will do that, will you not?"

"_Altro_!  But, _eccellenza_, do not be long writing your letter.  If I
were to be found here—well—" and Concetta shrugged her shoulders
significantly.

Bianca suddenly looked round the room in despair. "_Madonna mia!_" she
exclaimed, "I have nothing to write with—no ink or paper—only a little
pencil."

"The pencil must serve for this time, _signorina_," said Concetta.
"To-morrow you can bring some writing-materials here and hide them in
the passage outside, for I will show you how to work the spring.
Anything you place in the passage is as if Domeneddio had it in his own
pocket.  But for to-night write a few words on the blank half-sheet of
that letter you have, and early to-morrow morning I will give it myself
to Don Agostino."

Bianca looked at her doubtfully.  She was loath to part with even a
scrap of paper that had come from Silvio. But time pressed, and if she
did not return an immediate reply to his missive, Silvio would think it
had been intercepted.  She sat down and wrote a few lines hurriedly,
and, folding up her half-sheet of paper, confided it to Concetta’s
keeping.

"You will tell Don Agostino that I shall send another letter to-morrow
by you," she said, "and you will thank him for all he is doing,
Concetta, from me.  And tell him also that I shall write to him myself,
because—"

She hesitated for a moment, then, drawing herself up, she looked
Concetta full in the face.  "Because my future husband wishes me to do
so," she concluded, quietly.

Concetta Fontana took her hand, and, raising it to her lips, kissed it.
"I will go to Don Agostino at seven o’clock this morning, before he says
his mass, and I will give him the letter.  Ah, _signorina_, if the
Signorino Rossano is Don Agostino’s friend, it is proof enough that,
speaking with respect, you have chosen your husband wisely.  _Sicuro_!
Don Agostino is a good man.  There are many at Montefiano who distrust
the priests; but there is nobody who does not trust Don Agostino.  It is
I, Concetta, who say it to you—and I know.  But look, _signorina_, the
dawn will soon be here.  Let me go now—for who knows that her excellency
might not awake.  You will not be frightened if you see the picture move
again?  It will only be Concetta looking into the room to make sure that
you are alone."

Bianca turned to her quickly.  "Ah, Concetta," she exclaimed, "I am so
happy—you do not know how happy! And I shall not forget what you have
done for me—you will see that I shall not forget.  Yes—go—go!  I am not
alone any longer now."

Concetta lifted up a chair and placed it under the picture. Then,
standing upon it, she pressed the spring concealed behind the heavy,
carved frame, and slowly, noiselessly, the portrait of Cardinal Acorari
slid back into the wall. Another moment, and Concetta was standing in
the aperture where the painted panel had been.  "Sleep well now,
_signorina_," she whispered to Bianca, "and do not be afraid. There are
those watching that no harm shall come to you at Montefiano."

She drew back into the passage as she spoke, pressing the corresponding
spring on the other side of the wall as she did so; and once more the
cardinal looked down on Bianca from the spot where Concetta had been
standing but an instant before.

Bianca gazed at the picture for a few moments, and listened for any
faint echo of Concetta’s footsteps.  Not the slightest sound was audible
from the passage.  Only the twittering of waking birds came through the
open window; and Bianca, turning away, went again to it and leaned out.
A faint breeze was stirring the trees in the macchia below the terrace,
and the drooping tops of the cypresses were swaying softly.  The moon
was sinking behind the lofty ridges of Soracte, and away in the east the
violet sky of night was already streaked with the first pale messengers
heralding the coming of the dawn.

And Bianca leaned from the window and watched till the pearly whiteness
in the eastern sky deepened into rose red; till the wreaths of mist
floating away from the valley of the Tiber rose, and, clinging to the
mountain-sides, glided slowly upward till they caught the first golden
rays of the yet hidden sun.

From the woodland below came the distant notes of a reed-pipe, and then
a boy’s voice singing one of the strange minor cadences learned,
probably, centuries ago of slaves from the East, and sung still by the
peasants and shepherds of the Latin province.  In the present instance,
Bianca knew that the lad was no shepherd—for the sheep had not yet been
brought down from the higher pastures—but that he was engaged in the
less poetical occupation of tending pigs.

As she watched, a wave of golden light seemed to spread over the face of
the landscape below her, and the sun rose. And Bianca Acorari flung out
her arms once more; this time not in doubt and almost in despair, but in
a passion of joy, thankfulness, and love.




                                 *XXVI*


The Caffè Garibaldi, which was situated in the main street of
Montefiano—a street that bore, as a matter of course, the name of Corso
Vittorio Emanuele—was doing an unusually brisk business.  At each little
marble-topped table a group of excited men was sitting, each member of
which was talking at the top of his voice.  Nobody was listening to his
neighbor; but then, as all the world knows, there are occasions when no
Italian ever does listen to his neighbor during a discussion; the whole
aim and object of each speaker being to talk the other down.  A
considerable amount of wine was being drunk, and some of it was new
wine, the process of fermentation being scarcely over.  No doubt this
fact accounted for much of the heat with which the sole topic of
conversation in the Caffè Garibaldi that evening was being discussed.
There was an argument, indeed, and, taking into consideration the number
of half-litres consumed and the quality of at any rate a large
proportion of the wine, it was perhaps as well that everybody was of the
same opinion, though each strove to express that opinion more forcibly
than his companion.  A difference on the main issue in question would
have certainly led to quarrels, and quarrels would as likely as not have
resulted in the flow of other liquid than Stefano Mazza’s red wine at
eight _soldi_ the litre.

In a room at the back of the _caffè_—a room wherein was to be found the
solitary billiard-table in Montefiano, and where the choicer and more
exclusive elements of Montefianese society were wont to gather—the
conversation was as animated and scarcely less noisy than in the portion
communicating directly with the street bearing the name of the Re
Galantuomo.

Stefano Mazza, the host, was himself attending to the wants of his
clients in this more select part of his premises; and Stefano Mazza was
a person of considerable weight in Montefiano, not only bodily but, what
was far more important, socially.  The _sindaco_ of Montefiano himself,
with all the importance of bureaucracy at his back, was not so
influential a man as Stefano Mazza; for Mazza, so to speak, held the
_sindaco_ in the hollow of his hand, as he did a very considerable
proportion of the _sindaco’s_ municipal councillors and of the
inhabitants of Montefiano generally. There were few, very few of the
Montefianesi, from officials to peasants, whose signatures to certain
pieces of paper bearing the government stamp and setting forth that the
signatories were in his debt to amounts ranging from thousands to tens
of _lire_, Stefano did not possess.  He was, in short, the money-lender,
not only to Montefiano, but to a considerable portion of the
agricultural district surrounding it, and, as such, his opinion on most
questions was listened to with unfailing respect by all members of the
community.

On the whole, _strozzino_ though he was, Stefano was neither an unjust
nor a hard man.  To be sure, he charged a six-per-cent. interest for the
money he loaned; but he was content with getting this interest and never
departed from his conditions.  He had been known to wait for his money,
too, when, owing to bad seasons, some of his poorer clients were unable
to pay their interest at the proper dates.  The consequence was that Sor
Stefano was regarded by his neighbors of all degrees as a personage with
whom it was to their advantage to stand well; the more so as even the
most prosperous among them could never tell when they might not want to
borrow his money, or renew a bill for money already advanced by him.

A sudden hail-storm which would devastate the crops or the vineyards in
the space of a few minutes; an unfortunate season with the lambs or the
pigs; a failure with the maize or the grain—and it was as likely as not
that Sor Stefano’s assistance would have to be sought in order to tide
over the winter months; and often, too, in order to have the rent ready
for Sor Beppe, the _fattore_, when he should come to collect it.

It was certain, therefore, that nobody, not excepting Sor Beppe himself,
was so thoroughly acquainted with the financial conditions of the
tenants on the Montefiano estates as Stefano Mazza, the proprietor of
the Caffè Garibaldi.  Moreover, Sor Stefano and Sor Beppe were good and
intimate friends, as their fathers had been before them.  Sor Stefano,
indeed, had recently stood by the _fattore_ on more than one occasion,
when, after the rents had been farmed out to the new lessee, Sor Beppe
had been compelled to obey instructions from Rome and increase them,
thereby incurring the dislike of the small holders, who not unnaturally
regarded him as the primary cause of the extra burden laid upon them.

The news of Sor Beppe’s dismissal from the office of _fattore_ had
stirred public opinion in and around Montefiano to its depths.
Notwithstanding its Corso Vittorio Emanuele, its Via Giordano Bruno, and
other outward and visible signs of a desire to tread the path of
independence and liberty, Montefiano was conservative enough in
maintaining its own traditions, and in not welcoming any changes in the
order of things to which it had become accustomed. For five-and-twenty
years Sor Beppe had been _fattore_ at Montefiano to Casa Acorari; while,
for fifty years before he succeeded to the post, it had been occupied by
Sor Pompilio, his father.  This fact was in itself sufficient to cause
the news that another _fattore_ was to be appointed in the place of
Giuseppe Fontana to be received with astonishment and not a little
indignation.

When it became known, however, that Sor Beppe had been dismissed because
he had flatly declined to obey instructions of the administration in
Rome to raise the rents of certain small holdings without laying the
matter personally before the princess, popular indignation had increased
until it became a deep and bitter anger.  As Sor Beppe had pointed out
to Don Agostino, it had been generally known in Montefiano for some time
that the _principessa’s_ foreign priest was practically the head of the
administration to the Eccellentissima Casa Acorari; and during the last
few weeks, since the sudden arrival at the castle of the princess and
the Principessina Bianca, rumor had insisted that the new _affittuario_
of the Montefiano estate was no other than the priest himself.  If this
were not so, it was argued, why did the new _affittuario_ never show
himself in the flesh, and why did the foreign _monsignore_ make a point
of personally examining every holding on the property?  But that Sor
Beppe should be dismissed from a post that he had honorably filled for
five-and-twenty years because he would not lend himself to furthering
this interloper’s schemes for enriching himself at the expense of the
poor, and of the good name of Casa Acorari, was an abominable thing.
Men and women had talked of nothing else in the streets of the _paese_
during the day, and at night the men flocked to the Caffè Garibaldi to
hear what Sor Stefano and the more influential members of the community
might have to say on the subject.

It was evident that these worthies had much to say; and, like their
inferiors in the social scale of Montefiano, they said it loudly and
decidedly.  Such a thing could not be tolerated; and the voice of the
majority was in favor of forming a deputation that should wait upon
their excellencies at the castle and point out to them the injustice of
Sor Beppe’s dismissal, and the ill-feeling among the peasants that
insistence on the raising of their rents would infallibly produce.
There was, indeed, a secondary motive in the minds of those who, headed
by Sor Stefano, had suggested the expediency of a deputation.  For some
little time mysterious rumors had circulated in Montefiano—rumors of
which the Principessina Bianca was the central object. It was whispered,
especially among the women, that there was something going on in the
castle that was not satisfactory; that the _principessina_ had been
brought to Montefiano because she wanted to marry a _bel giovane_ in
Rome, whose only fault was that he had not a title; that instead of
being allowed to marry the man she loved she was being forced to receive
the attentions of the princess’s brother—a worn-out foreign baron, old
enough to be the poor child’s father.  It was insisted that the
Principessina Bianca was unhappy, that she was practically a prisoner,
and that the priest was at the bottom of it all.  Who circulated these
stories among the women, Sor Stefano knew perfectly well. It was certain
that they became more definite from day to day, and that by degrees a
very wide-spread feeling of suspicion had been aroused among all classes
at Montefiano that the Principessina Bianca was being made the victim of
an intrigue on the part of her step-mother’s foreign advisers to possess
themselves both of her person and her estates.

Why, it was asked, was the _principessina_ never seen? The very few
people who had happened to see her at the castle had come away full of
enthusiasm concerning her beauty and her kindness of manner.  When it
became known that Sor Beppe had been dismissed, these stories had been
repeated with greater insistence than ever. Probably the women had
determined to excite the compassion and indignation of their menkind on
the _principessina’s_ behalf; for several of the leading peasants and
small farmers in and around Montefiano had openly talked of going to the
castle and demanding an interview with the Principessina Donna Bianca,
in order to see for themselves whether their young _padrona_ were in
reality exposed to the treatment they suspected.

It was in order to consult together concerning the suggested deputation
that the leading spirits of Montefiano had assembled at the Caffè
Garibaldi that evening. Notwithstanding the noise, and the totally
irrelevant side issues raised by many of his customers, it was clear to
Stefano Mazza that the general consensus of public opinion was on his
side.  The dismissal of Sor Beppe should not be allowed to pass without
a protest being made to the _principessa_ in person; and at the same
time it should be clearly conveyed to her that any _fattore_ who should
be appointed to succeed Sor Beppe would find his task by no means easy,
inasmuch as the people would with truth conclude that he had been sent
to Montefiano to carry out changes which were obnoxious and unjust.  Sor
Stefano, anxious to please all parties, had further suggested that the
deputation in question should insist upon the Principessina Bianca being
present when its members were received by her step-mother.  Her
presence, he pointed out, would enable the representatives of the
Montefiano people to ascertain whether Donna Bianca was or was not aware
of what was being done in her name, whether it was true that she was
merely a victim of the unscrupulous designs of this Belgian priest, and
of another stranger who was, to all intents and purposes, her uncle.
Donna Bianca Acorari was their legitimate _padrona_, the daughter and
heiress of the princes of Montefiano; and as such her own people at
Montefiano had a right to approach her and hear from her own lips
whether all that was said concerning her was truth or fiction.

It was late that night when the Caffè Garibaldi put out its lights and
barred its doors after the last of Sor Stefano’s clients had left the
premises.  The chief point under discussion during the evening had been
settled, however, and it was unanimously decided that a deputation,
headed by the _sindaco_ and Sor Stefano, should send a letter to the
castle requesting to be received by the princess and the Principessina
Donna Bianca.  Perhaps the _sindaco_ of Montefiano was the only one to
display some hesitation as to the advisability of the course determined
upon.  He had no desire to compromise himself by lending his official
sanction to any movement which might end in disturbance and in possible
collision with the civil authorities.  It was impossible to foretell
what might take place were the princess and her adviser to oppose the
wishes of the already suspicious and excited peasants, and refuse to
entertain the objections of the deputation to the dismissal of the
_fattore_, Giuseppe Fontana.  The _avvocato_ Ricci, _syndic_ of
Montefiano, like many other petty Italian lawyers, nourished an ambition
to enter political life as a means whereby to fill his empty pockets at
the expense of those who might send him to join the large number of his
fellow-lawyers in the Chamber of Deputies.  It was a somewhat exalted
ambition, no doubt; but the _avvocato_ Ricci, after all, was in no more
obscure a position than many another local attorney now calling himself
_onorevole_ and making the best of his opportunities as a deputy to rob
with both hands, until such time as he should either be made a minister
of state or fail to be re-elected by a disillusioned constituency.

It would certainly not add to his prospects were he, as _sindaco_ of
Montefiano, to compromise himself with the authorities of the Home
Office in Rome for the sake of some discontented peasants in his
commune, and he had already done his best that evening to throw cold
water on Sor Stefano’s suggestions, and to dissociate himself from any
part in the movement in question.  A few words, however, spoken in his
ear by Stefano Mazza, conveying a gentle but pointed allusion to certain
bills, more than once renewed which Sor Stefano happened to have in his
keeping, had effectually silenced the _sindaco_ Ricci’s official
objections to making one of the proposed deputation to the castle.

The gathering at the Caffè Garibaldi had taken place on the very evening
of Concetta Fontana’s delivery to Bianca Acorari of her lover’s missive.
Concetta, indeed, knew well enough that the meeting was to take place,
and also what its object was.  As a matter of fact, it was largely, if
not entirely, owing to her that public interest in Montefiano had been
aroused concerning the motives for the Principessina Bianca’s
confinement—for so Concetta had not hesitated to qualify it—in the
castle and the park behind the castle.  She had let fall mysterious
hints as to what she had seen and heard during the hours she was
employed in helping the _principessina’s_ maid in mending the linen and
in other household duties; and her tales had certainly not lost in the
telling during the long summer evenings when the women of the _paese_
had little to do but to sit and gossip outside their doors.

Doubtless, like most gossip, the stories woven round Concetta Fontana’s
suggestion would soon have been replaced by others of closer interest.
The premature appearance of the baker’s baby, which had upset the ideas
of Don Agostino’s house-keeper as to the fitness of things, had been for
some days relegated to an altogether secondary place; nor would the men
have paid much attention to the tales told them by their womenkind of
the treatment to which the Principessina Bianca was being subjected, had
it not been for Sor Beppe’s sudden dismissal from office. It needed very
little to impress upon the farmers and peasantry on the _latifondo_
belonging to Casa Acorari that the latter circumstance was in direct
connection with the former; and that it had evidently been found
necessary to get rid of Giuseppe Fontana and replace him by another
agent who would be nothing more nor less than a tool in the hands of the
foreign priest who had already persuaded the princess to consent to
their rents being materially increased.  It must be confessed that
Concetta Fontana had lost no opportunity of duly impressing her friends
and acquaintances with this plausible explanation of the reasons which
had led to her father’s dismissal.  She had conceived an enthusiastic
devotion to the Principessina Bianca almost from the first moment she
had seen her and Bianca had spoken a few kindly words to her.  This
devotion had been further increased by realizing the loneliness of the
girl’s position, by sympathy with her for her enforced separation from
the man she wished to marry, as well as by the discovery that Bianca was
being exposed to the joint intrigues of Monsieur d’Antin and the Abbé
Roux.  The thought that her young _padrona_ had need of her devotion had
kindled Concetta’s sense of loyalty, in which, as in that of her father,
there was much that was nothing short of feudal feeling for the young
head of the house of the Acorari of Montefiano.

Concetta, however, could hardly be blamed if, in addition to her genuine
desire to rescue Bianca Acorari from the fate into which she felt
convinced that Baron d’Antin and the Abbé Roux were trying to force her,
she hoped at the same time to benefit her father and bring about his
reinstatement. Sor Beppe had been, as it were, stunned by the suddenness
of the blow which had fallen upon him.  As he had said to Don Agostino,
he was too old for transplantation. The interests of Casa Acorari had
been his interests ever since he could remember.  However unsatisfactory
the late Principe di Montefiano might have been in other relations of
life—however neglectful he might have been of the fact that he was
taking all he could get out of his properties and was putting nothing
into them again—he had always been a just and considerate landlord
towards the people of the place from which he took his principal title,
and which had been the cradle of his race.

It was the thought of how the late Prince Montefiano would have
disapproved of the course taken by the Abbé Roux, and by the so-called
administration of the affairs of Casa Acorari, that made the injustice
of his dismissal all the harder for Sor Beppe to bear.  If he had
received his dismissal at the hands of the Principessina Bianca, it
would have been bad enough; but to receive it from foreigners who, as he
more than suspected, were only bent upon filling their own pockets
during the _principessina’s_ minority, was altogether intolerable.  The
sympathy which had been shown him in the _paese_, and the general
indignation aroused by the facts which had led to his dismissal had
certainly been very pleasant to Sor Beppe’s wounded feelings.  He had
made no secret of his conviction that so soon as the Principessina
Bianca had the control of her affairs he would be reinstated, and public
opinion in Montefiano quickly exonerated Donna Bianca Acorari from all
responsibility in the matter.  That such a thing had happened was, in
the eyes of the Montefianesi, only a further proof of the bad foreign
influence by which their young princess was surrounded.

Sor Beppe had carefully abstained from going to the Caffè Garibaldi that
evening.  It was his custom to spend an hour or two there on most
nights, taking a hand at _tresette_ or playing a game of billiards.  He
was aware, of course, of the discussion that was to take place on that
particular evening, and it certainly would not have been seemly for him
to be present.  Moreover, there was no reason to suppose that his cause
would suffer by his absence from the gathering.  He knew that his
friend, Stefano Mazza, would take care that this was not the case.

So, Sor Beppe had taken the opportunity of paying an evening visit to
Don Agostino.  He had attempted to see him immediately after his
interview with the princess, when he had learned that she declined to
interfere in his dismissal, but Don Agostino had already departed for
Rome.  After leaving Don Agostino, Sor Beppe had returned to his own set
of rooms in the castle—the home of so many years, which he would now
have to leave—and he had found Concetta awaiting him.  The girl had
required no pressing to deliver the packet Don Agostino had intrusted to
her father.  She had many times, she told him, wished to go to the
_principessina_ and offer to take some message for her to her lover—oh,
many times, if only to spite the baron and Monsieur l’Abbé, who thought
they had laid their plans so well.  But she had not dared to take the
liberty.  Now, of course, she had an excuse; and if Don Agostino was
interesting himself in the _principessina’s_ love-affairs, it was
certainly a proof that the young man was worthy of her.

And Sor Beppe had accompanied Concetta to the disused room next to the
entrance-gate of the castle, where he kept his firewood and his coke,
and had seen her pass through the trap-door and mount the narrow stone
steps leading into the secret passage above.  Then he had awaited her
return, not without some misgivings at the length of time which elapsed
before he saw her reappear.

Concetta returned from her expedition flushed and excited, and, indeed,
very nearly weeping.  Her voice trembled as she recounted all that had
passed between the _principessina_ and herself; how she had watched the
_principessina_ standing at the window of her room, and had heard her
cry to her absent lover; and how the poor child had seemed almost dazed
when she gave her the packet, and had then broken down and cried in her,
Concetta’s, arms.

She told her father how the _principessina_ was aware of his dismissal,
but evidently knew nothing of the raising of the rents and his refusal
to further acts of injustice, committed nominally in her interests; and
how she had declared that, when she had the power to do so, she would
reinstate him.

Sor Beppe listened attentively.  "She is her father’s daughter," he
said, when Concetta had concluded, "and she will not allow her people to
be wronged."

Concetta’s eyes flashed.  "And we," she exclaimed—"we will not allow her
to be wronged!  _Vedete_, it is not the princess, she wants to do her
duty by the _principessina_—oh, I have heard that a hundred times from
the maid, Bettina.  It is the Abbé Roux.  He makes the princess believe
that her duty is to force the poor girl to do what he wants.  But he
will go too far, and then we shall see is it not true, Babbo?"

Sor Beppe nodded.  "He has gone too far already," he said.  "Listen,
Concetta: the peasants are angry—very angry; and not the peasants only,
but also those who are more highly placed than they.  There will
certainly be trouble if the increase in the rents is insisted upon.
Moreover, they suspect something, some foul play towards the
_principessina_, and it is as likely as not that there will be a
demonstration.  Well, if there is, and the Abbé Roux, as you call him,
attempts to carry out his plans, I would not answer for the
consequences.  They are patient, our people—very patient; but when their
patience is exhausted, they are not easy to manage.  Why, in the
Castelli Romani, a few years ago, at Genzano and Ariccia, the peasants
held their own against the soldiers, and got what they wanted, too—but
there was blood spilled in the getting of it."

Concetta Fontana glanced at her father quickly.

"Do I not know it?" she replied.  "Yes, the people are angry.  Well, let
them be angry.  Perhaps, if there is a demonstration, the princess will
understand that there is something wrong, and Monsieur l’Abbé will be
frightened. But the _principessina_ will not be frightened, I am sure of
that.  She will know that it is only her own people, who will not be
ruled by strangers.  To-day we shall know what has happened at the Caffè
Garibaldi," and Concetta smiled with a satisfied air.  "As to the Abbé
Roux—" she added.

"Curse the _pretaccio_!" growled Sor Beppe, under his breath.

"He would be wiser to return to Rome," concluded Concetta, "if he does
not want to take _delle belle bastonate_ some fine day!"




                                *XXVII*


Punctually at half-past seven on the morning after Sor Beppe’s nocturnal
visit to him, Don Agostino, robed in his vestments and accompanied by a
small but sturdy acolyte, who was to act as server at the low mass he
was about to celebrate, emerged from the sacristy of his church and
ascended the steps of one of the side altars. The attendance was not
large, the congregation consisting of a few peasant women and two old
men; for the day was not a _festa_, and, consequently, the population of
Montefiano was pursuing its usual occupations in the _paese_, or in the
fields and vineyards beyond it.

As Don Agostino, after having arranged the sacred vessels and adjusted
the markers in the missal to the proper pages, turned from the altar to
commence the opening portion of the mass, his quick eyes fell upon
Concetta Fontana, who was kneeling in the body of the church some little
way behind the group of women gathered round the marble balustrade in
front of the altar.  It could not be said that Concetta was a frequent
attendant at the half-past seven o’clock mass, and her presence had
already excited whispered comments among the rest of the congregation,
who had at once recognized Sor Beppe’s daughter.

The mass over, Don Agostino retired to the sacristy again to disrobe,
and thither, after a few minutes had elapsed, Concetta Fontana followed
him.  Don Agostino was not surprised to see her.  Indeed, he had risen
earlier than usual that morning in expectation of a visit either from
Fontana or his daughter.  He had spent an hour or two in his garden
tying up refractory branches of his rose-trees and generally attending
to the needs of his fellow-beings of the vegetable world—for it was one
of Agostino’s theories that any form of life was an attribute of the God
whom he worshipped as a God of sympathy and of love, and he regarded his
trees and his flowers as sentient beings who had a right to his
tenderness and care.  It was certainly not a theory of which he spoke in
the world; but then most of us who are not content with looking only at
the binding of God’s book of life probably have our little intimate
thoughts and theories which, knowing our world, we are prudent enough to
keep for our own use and enjoyment, and, perhaps, as stepping-stones on
the path we have to tread.

Concetta waited until she and Don Agostino were alone in the sacristy,
and then she gave him the folded sheet of paper that Bianca Acorari had
intrusted to her.

"To-morrow," she said, "the _principessina_ will send another letter by
me.  There were no writing-materials in her room, so she could only send
a few lines, which your reverence will no doubt forward to their
destination."

Don Agostino took the paper and placed it carefully in his pocket-book.
"I shall send it to the Signorino Rossano to-day," he replied.  "Donna
Bianca need have no fear of its not reaching him safely.  So you took
the packet to her last night?" he continued.  "You had no difficulty in
giving it into Donna Bianca’s own hands?"

Concetta quickly related to him all that had passed between Bianca and
her the night before.  "And I was to tell your reverence," she
concluded, "from the _principessina_, that she would write to you
herself, because her _fidanzato_ wished her to do so.  Ah, but you
should have seen the proud way the _principessina_ drew herself up and
looked—a look that a queen might give—when she spoke of her
_fidanzato_!"

Don Agostino glanced at her with a smile.  "You will be faithful to the
_principessina_, _figlia mia_?" he asked.  "She needs friends, the poor
child."

"Faithful to her!" exclaimed Concetta.  "I would do anything—anything,
for the _principessina_.  Imagine if I was glad when my father came home
last night and told me I must take her the packet you had given him.  I
had wanted to go to her, and to tell her that I would do anything she
bade me—oh, so often!  But how could I venture?  Besides, I was afraid
of frightening her if I appeared in her room from the cardinal’s
portrait."

"But she was not frightened?" Don Agostino asked.

"_Niente affatto!_" returned Concetta, emphatically.  "It was I who was
frightened when I saw her leaning out of the window in the moonlight and
calling to her lover.  I feared she might be walking in her sleep, and
that she might throw herself down on the terrace.  Ah, but she knows now
that there are those who are ready to help her—and she will know it
better in a few days’ time."

Don Agostino looked at her.  "How do you mean? Why should she know it
better in a few days than she does now?" he asked.

Concetta pursed up her lips.  "She will know it," she repeated, "and so
will the principessa and the Abbé Roux. I am nothing—only a woman—but
there are men who will help her—all Montefiano, if it comes to that."

Don Agostino looked at her with greater attention.  He had already heard
through Ernana something concerning the ill-feeling the dismissal of Sor
Beppe had aroused in Montefiano; and something, too, of the part the
Abbé Roux was supposed to have played in bringing about the _fattore’s_
dismissal.

"What do you mean?" he repeated.  "You may speak openly to me, _figlia
mia_," he continued, "for I also would do all I could to help Donna
Bianca Acorari and to protect her from any evil designs against her.
Moreover, Donna Bianca’s _fidanzato_ is my friend, and his father and I
have been friends for many years.  After all, it is I, is it not, who
have asked your father to convey that packet to the _principessina_?
And he told me of the means whereby it might be conveyed."

Concetta started.  "Ah! he told you of the passage?" she exclaimed.

"Certainly," replied Don Agostino.  "So you see," he added, "I am aware
that it is possible to communicate with Donna Bianca without the fact
being known to those who are trying to isolate her from the outer world.
If you have the _principessina’s_ welfare at heart, as I am sure that
you have, you will take me entirely into your confidence, will you not?"

Concetta nodded.  "I know nothing for certain as yet," she said, after
hesitating for a moment, "but the people are angry, _reverendo_, very
angry."

"Yes, I have heard something of that," said Don Agostino, as Concetta
paused.  "They are angry at the rents having been raised, and at your
father’s having been dismissed for his opposition to the increase.  But
his dismissal has nothing to do with Donna Bianca’s position, and the
people’s anger will not help her, so far as I can see."

"Ah, but it will help her," replied Concetta, eagerly. "They are angry
about the rents and about my father, that is true; but they are also
indignant at the way in which the _principessina_ is shut up and not
allowed to see anybody. They have heard that she is in love with
somebody whom she is forbidden to see any more, and that the princess’s
brother wants to force her to marry him instead.  And they have put the
dots upon the i’s, and believe that the foreign priest is at the bottom
of the whole affair.  You must remember, _reverendo_, that we
Montefianesi look upon the _principessina_ as our _padrona_.  We do not
want foreigners to interfere between us and the Principessina Bianca."

"I understand that perfectly well," Don Agostino observed, quietly.
"But how do the Montefianesi propose to remedy matters?  After all,
Donna Bianca is a minor, and as such she is not yet her own mistress;
nor," he added, "can her people here, however devoted to her they may
be, make her so."

"But they can make the _principessa_ get rid of those who are advising
her badly," said Concetta.  "I do not know what has been decided," she
continued, lowering her voice, "but last night there was a meeting at
the Caffè Garibaldi. Of course, my father would not be present, for it
was his dismissal that they were by way of discussing—that and the
raising of the rents.  But I am certain that they will have talked about
other things besides these; and I know that Sor Stefano meant to propose
that a deputation should go to the princess and insist on the rents
being lowered to their original amount, and on my father being retained
as _fattore_."

"Precisely," interrupted Don Agostino.  "But in what way will Donna
Bianca be helped by all this talk?  That is what I do not understand,
_figlia mia_."

Concetta directed a shrewd glance at him.  "In this way," she replied,
"Sor Stefano—oh, and many others, too—intend to see the Principessina
Bianca herself, and to explain to her that she and nobody else is
_padrona_ at Montefiano, and that they will hear from her own lips, when
they have explained matters to her, whether what has been done in her
name has her approval or not.  This they will do, _reverendo_, not
because they do not understand that the _principessina_ is still a
child, so to speak, but because they intend Monsieur l’Abbé and the
baron to understand that their schemes are known and will not be
tolerated.  _Mi spiego reverendo_?"

Don Agostino’s face flushed and his eyes sparkled with an unusual
excitement.

"Do you explain yourself?" he said, repeating Concetta’s last words.
"Certainly, you explain yourself very well. Ah, if your Montefianesi do
that, they will, indeed, be helping their _padrona_."

He paused suddenly, and his countenance became grave and preoccupied.

"And this deputation to the princess," he said, presently—"does your
father know of the proposal?"

"Certainly he knows of it," answered Concetta; "but naturally," she
added, "he can take no part in it.  It is Sor Stefano who will be at the
head of it, or perhaps the _sindaco_—oh, and representatives chosen by
the _contadini_. And you, _reverendo_, you will surely be asked to join
it as the _parroco_.  _Sicuro!_ it will all have been settled last
night; but as yet I have seen nobody, for until I had delivered the
_principessina’s_ letter, as I promised her I would do, I could not be
easy in my mind."

Don Agostino’s expression remained grave and thoughtful. That the people
of Montefiano should resent the interference of the Abbé Roux in their
relations with Casa Acorari was certainly natural, and might in the end
turn out to be a good thing for both Donna Bianca and Silvio.  But Don
Agostino well knew the danger that must attend any demonstration of
hostility towards the princess and her advisers on the part of the
peasants.  Such demonstrations were apt unexpectedly to assume serious
proportions.  If the enraged _contadini_ felt that they had the moral
support of men like Sor Stefano, they might easily lose their heads,
and, should their demands be refused, attempt to enforce them by
measures which would necessitate the intervention of the civil
authorities, if not of the military. What military intervention too
frequently ended in, Don Agostino was fully aware, and he felt every
effort should be made to prevent the threatened demonstration assuming
any attitude that might furnish an excuse for obtaining it.

The question was, whether Princess Montefiano would consent to receive
this deputation, and to hear what its members had to say.  Her decision
would evidently be inspired by the Abbé Roux, and the abbé’s recent
action in causing the rents to be increased, and in the dismissal of an
old, popular official for venturing to oppose that increase, convinced
Don Agostino that the foreign priest, as the Abbé Roux was called, did
not understand the character of the people he was attempting to rule.

Don Agostino’s experience of human nature made him at once realize the
danger of a misunderstanding on either side, in the present condition of
public opinion in Montefiano.  The abbé might easily underrate the force
of that opinion and persuade the princess to decline to listen to, or
even to receive a deputation formed to protest against his policy.  If
he were so to persuade Princess Montefiano, the situation would
infallibly become critical, and very likely perilous.  All would then
depend on whether the Abbé Roux had the nerve and the tact to deal with
it, or whether he would oblige the princess to appeal to the authorities
to suppress the demonstration.  In this latter case a collision would
become inevitable; and it was this collision between his people—for was
he not their _parroco_?—and the authorities, that Don Agostino was
determined to use all his influence to avert.

Concetta Fontana watched his countenance, as for a few moments Don
Agostino stood, apparently deep in thought.

"You would join the deputation, _reverendo_, would you not?" she asked
him, presently.

Don Agostino hesitated.

"It depends," he replied.  "You see, _figlia mia_," he continued, "we
must be careful that in trying to do good we do not bring about a great
deal of harm and unhappiness. I should like to talk with your father,
and to-day I will go to see Stefano Mazza.  The _contadini_ are within
their rights—I do not deny that—and a grave injustice has been done,
both to them and to your father.  _Sicuro!_ they are in the right, but
it should be the duty of those who have influence to prevent them from
doing anything to put themselves in the wrong.  Yes, tell your father
that I should like to see him to-day.  At _mezzogiorno_ he will find a
place ready for him if he likes to come to breakfast.  We could talk
afterwards—while Ernana is washing the dishes.  You will go to see Donna
Bianca again—as you did last night, will you not? You will tell her that
her letter goes to-day to her _fidanzato_, and that he will receive it
to-morrow morning in Rome. And you will tell her, also, that I am
awaiting the letter she is going to write to me; and when I have it, I
will answer her.  In the mean time, _figlia mia_, be prudent—if you wish
to serve the Principessina Bianca.  You and your father have influence
with the people—they wish you well.  Talk to the women.  It is the women
who can often lead the men—is it not?  Anything that is done must be
done cautiously, moderately.  There must be no folly—no threats employed
in order to enforce demands that in themselves are just. You must tell
the women that I, Don Agostino, will support all that is done to obtain
justice in a just way—but I will not countenance any measures that may
provoke disorder, and perhaps violence.  Now go, _figlia mia_, and give
my message to your father this morning—and to the Principessina Bianca
when you think it safe to go again to her apartment."

And Don Agostino, opening the door of the sacristy, accompanied Concetta
through the empty church, and then returned to his own house, and to his
morning coffee which Ernana always prepared for him after he had said
his early mass.




                                *XXVIII*


Silvio Rossano had quite made up his mind that some days must in all
probability elapse before Don Agostino might be able to find a safe
opportunity of conveying the letter and ring he had intrusted to him to
Bianca. When, therefore, he found on his table, on returning to Palazzo
Acorari as usual for breakfast, a notice from the post-office informing
him that a registered packet addressed to him was lying at the central
office, he did not suppose for a moment that the said packet had come
from Montefiano.  Indeed, it was not until late in the afternoon that he
went to San Silvestro in order to get the packet, as he had some work to
do at home which he was anxious to complete.  His heart gave a sudden
leap when he recognized Don Agostino’s handwriting on the registered
envelope.  The arcade running round the court-yard and garden of palms
at San Silvestro, thronged as it was with people asking for their
correspondence at the _poste-restante_, with soldiers and men of
business, priests and peasants, was certainly not the place to
investigate the contents of Don Agostino’s missive, which would scarcely
have been registered had the contents not been important.

Silvio hurried out of the building, and, crossing the Corso, plunged
into the comparative quiet of the little side streets behind
Montecitorio, where he eagerly tore open the sealed envelope.  There
were only a few lines written by Don Agostino himself, and Silvio,
hastily glancing at them, gathered that he had had an opportunity of
sending the letter and ring to Bianca Acorari by a safe hand, and that
her reply was enclosed.  He added that he should write more fully in a
day or two, by which time he believed he should have something of
importance to communicate.

Bianca’s letter, too, was short and hastily written in pencil on a
half-sheet of paper that Silvio recognized as having been torn from his
own lengthy epistle to her. Brief as this letter was, however, it told
him much that he was longing to know, and, indeed, repeated Bianca’s
words to him in the garden of the Villa Acorari, with which she had
vowed that she would marry nobody if she did not marry him.  But what
set his mind at ease more than anything else was her assurance that
means of communication were open to them.  Bianca did not explain what
these means were, but told him that she would write him a long letter
the following day, and that he also could continue to write to her under
cover to Monsignor Lelli, as there was now no danger of his letters
being intercepted.  This, at least, was a comforting piece of news, and
Silvio wondered how it had come about that Don Agostino had been able to
so quickly find the necessary channel of communication.  It was scarcely
likely, he reflected, that Don Agostino would venture to go himself to
the castle at Montefiano after having been seen by Monsieur d’Antin in
his company.

He returned to Palazzo Acorari full of hope, and in better spirits than
he had been for many a day.  The uncertainty of the last few weeks had
begun to tell upon him; and at the same time his complete separation
from Bianca Acorari had only increased his love, and had made him more
determined than ever to defeat the machinations of those who were trying
to break down Bianca’s love for him.  The first thing to be done was to
write to Bianca.  She would be expecting to hear from him again, and to
know that he had received her pencilled note safely.  Silvio shut
himself in his room and proceeded to write an epistle longer, if
anything, than that he had confided to Don Agostino. The contents were
much the same as the contents of other love-letters, and scarcely likely
to be of interest to any one except himself and the person to whom they
were addressed.  Of course, he longed to see her again; and he implored
her not to lose any opportunity of allowing him to do so that could be
seized upon without risk to herself. He could always, he explained to
her, come to Montefiano at any moment, and Monsignor Lelli doubtless
would arrange that his presence in the place should be unsuspected.

It was useless, he felt, to attempt to form a plan, until he should have
heard again from her and from Don Agostino. He read the latter’s note
again and again with great attention.  It was evident that Don Agostino
had something more to communicate than he was able at that moment to
write.  No doubt he was making sure of his ground before summoning
Silvio to Montefiano.  In any case, there was nothing to do but to wait
patiently for further light upon the situation; and in the mean time he
might do more harm than good by suggesting any one of the expedients for
obtaining another meeting with Bianca that came into his head.

His letter written, he sought Giacinta’s counsel as usual, and told her
of what that day’s post had brought to him. Giacinta was duly
sympathetic.  She had, indeed, long ago recognized that Silvio’s passion
for Bianca Acorari was not to be diminished by any amount of practical
reasoning as to its folly.  Perhaps the discovery that Monsignor Lelli,
whom her father held in such high esteem, not only approved of Silvio’s
love for Donna Bianca, but had also undertaken to help him, so far as he
might be able, to remove the difficulties that stood in the way of his
marrying her, had caused Giacinta to take a less pessimistic view of her
brother’s infatuation; at any rate, since Monsignor Lelli’s visit she
had regarded the matter as one which must take its course, for better or
for worse, since not only was there no apparent likelihood of Silvio
being disheartened by the obstacles in his way, but it seemed that Donna
Bianca Acorari also knew her own mind, and had no intention of allowing
others to alter it for her.

The professor, too, had become decidedly less cynical on the subject of
his son’s matrimonial aspirations since his conversation with Monsignor
Lelli.  To be sure, he did not encourage Giacinta to talk about it; and
when she attempted to do so, he put the whole question quietly but
decidedly away from him, as he did any question threatening to lead to
social unpleasantness in private life.  But Giacinta realized that her
father also had modified his views as to the folly of Silvio’s devotion
to a girl whom he had seen only a few times in his life; and that,
though he did not intend to move any further in the affair than he had
already done, he was not so actively opposed to it as he had at first
shown himself to be.

Giacinta had always been doubtful as to whether Bianca Acorari would
have sufficient force of character to hold out against the pressure that
would certainly be brought to bear upon her in order to make her
relinquish all idea of becoming Silvio’s wife.  It was quite natural
that Silvio himself should entertain no doubts on the subject; but then
he was in love with Bianca, and she, Giacinta, was not so. But such
passages as Silvio chose to read to her from the brief note he had that
day received from Bianca finally removed all fears from her mind lest
her brother might be exposed to the disappointment and mortification of
finding that Donna Bianca had yielded to the influences by which she was
surrounded.

"You see, Giacinta," Silvio said, triumphantly, "I was right.  I have
always told you that Bianca would never give way.  And now, after being
shut up in that dreary hole for nearly six weeks, she takes the first
opportunity of repeating the promises she made to me at the Villa
Acorari. If she has to wait three years to marry me, _ebbene_, she will
wait three years—and nothing that they can say or do to her in the mean
time will make the slightest difference.  Oh, I know what you will
say—that it is impossible to know what a person’s character may be whom
one has only seen a few times, and only talked to once.  But sometimes
two people know each other’s character by instinct, by—by—oh, well, by
something or other, though God knows what the something is."

Giacinta laughed.  "There may be a scientific explanation of the
phenomenon," she remarked; "perhaps Babbo will find one.  No, Silvio,"
she continued, more gravely, "I confess I seem to have underrated Donna
Bianca’s character.  She is apparently as much in earnest as you are,
and I am glad she is so.  It is at least a sign that, if you both
succeed in attaining your object, you should be happy together, and your
happiness is all that concerns me, Silvio _mio_."

"And Bianca’s happiness," added Silvio, "that should concern you, too."

"It will concern me henceforth," returned Giacinta, "because, though I
do not know Donna Bianca, I understand now that her happiness and yours
is the same thing."

Silvio looked at her with a quick smile.  "You will know Bianca some
day," he said, "and then you will see how right I was."

Two mornings afterwards, Silvio received a second letter from Bianca,
and from it he learned how it had happened that Don Agostino had so
quickly been able to communicate with her.  Bianca told him many other
things as well; and among them was a piece of information which, while
it gave him a considerable amount of satisfaction, at the same time made
him uneasy and restless in his mind.

There was, she wrote, a threatening of disturbances among the people at
Montefiano in consequence of the Abbé Roux having persuaded her
step-mother to dismiss the _fattore_ and to consent to the rents being
raised.  Bianca did not understand very well what was the matter, but it
was evident that the Abbé Roux and her step-mother feared that things
might become serious, for they had discussed in her presence the
advisability of asking for soldiers to be sent to Montefiano if there
was any more trouble with the _contadini_.  Moreover, Concetta Fontana,
the _fattore’s_ daughter, to whom Bianca had already alluded as being
her and Silvio’s friend and channel of communication, had told her that
the people were angry because they suspected she was being kept as a
kind of prisoner at Montefiano until she should consent to marry Baron
d’Antin, and that her engagement to Silvio was perfectly well known in
the _paese_. The peasants were going to send a deputation to the castle,
and to insist not only on the increase in the rents being abandoned and
the agent, Fontana, reinstated in his post, but also, according to
Concetta, on seeing her, Bianca, and speaking with her as their
_padrona_.

The intelligence certainly carried with it food for reflection.
Silvio’s first feeling on reading Bianca’s words was one of
satisfaction.  If it were known or suspected at Montefiano that Donna
Bianca Acorari was being kept in seclusion in order to force her to
marry a foreigner old enough to be her father; if it were supposed that
her property and interests were being tampered with by strangers for
their own benefit, at the expense of her own people, a situation might
easily develop which would compel Princess Montefiano to allow her
step-daughter to marry the man she wished to marry.  It was certainly no
bad thing if Bianca were rescued from her present position by the force
of public opinion; and if her own people gathered round her, Monsieur
l’Abbé Roux and Monsieur le Baron d’Antin might very possibly find
themselves obliged to retire from the scene.  If this occurred, it might
reasonably be hoped that the princess would listen to other counsels
than those by which she had hitherto been influenced.

So far, Silvio felt he had no cause to be otherwise than pleased at the
thought that Bianca’s own people at Montefiano were likely to interfere
with the plans of the Abbé Roux and Monsieur d’Antin.  His sense of
satisfaction, however, was quickly succeeded by a feeling of uneasiness.
Young as he was, he had some experience of what an uneducated mob, with
grievances real or fancied, might be capable of doing.  He had witnessed
strikes in more than one part of Italy; and though it was true that, at
Montefiano, disturbances which might occur would be made by peasants and
not artisans, he knew how frequently it happened that the uneducated of
all classes and occupations lost their heads and went to lengths which
neither they nor their leaders perhaps ever contemplated.  If Bianca
were right, and the rents at Montefiano had been raised through the
abbé’s instrumentality, and a popular agent dismissed for venturing to
oppose the increase, then much would depend on the princess’s attitude
towards the suggested deputation from her step-daughter’s tenants.
Should her attitude be unconciliatory, who could tell whether the anger
and discontent of the peasantry might not be wreaked on Bianca herself,
in whose name these grievances had been inflicted?

Silvio remembered having seen the agent, Fontana, on one occasion during
the few days he had spent in the neighborhood of Montefiano; and he had
likewise heard Don Agostino mention him as a _fattore_ who was just
towards the people as well as honest to his employers.  At a crisis such
as Bianca’s letter pointed to as being imminent, the advice and services
of a man like Fontana would have been invaluable to Princess Montefiano;
for if the peasants were clamoring for his reinstatement, they certainly
would have been more likely to be influenced by him than by strangers.

The idea that Bianca Acorari might be exposed to any danger, however
problematical, was quite sufficient to render Silvio restless and
uneasy.  He wondered whether Don Agostino had been thinking of possible
disturbances on the part of the peasants of Montefiano when he had
written that in a few days he might have something of importance to
communicate.  To be sure, Don Agostino had not written again, and now
nearly three days had passed since Silvio had received his first letter,
enclosing the few lines Bianca had sent him by Concetta Fontana.  He
would certainly, Silvio told himself, have written, or even perhaps
telegraphed, had anything alarming occurred at Montefiano. There was, it
would appear, nothing to be done except to wait for Don Agostino’s
promised letter, or at least until Bianca herself should write again and
give him further particulars of how matters were going.

That evening the spell of damp, hot weather, which so often makes Rome
almost intolerable in the middle of September, broke.  A heavy
thunder-storm passed over the city, accompanied by torrents of rain,
which descended in white sheets as if in the tropics.  A steamy fog rose
from the ground, parched by the long summer drought.  Masses of
inky-black clouds began to drift up from the sea; and at nightfall, long
after the storm had rolled away to the mountains, a continuous flicker
of lightning illumined the entire sky.  In the caffès, or safely in the
shelter of their own houses, people congratulated one another that the
end of the heat had come, and that when the weather should mend again
the first breath of autumn would be felt in the lighter, crisper air.

Silvio dined at home that night with his father and Giacinta, and
afterwards, contrary to his usual custom, Professor Rossano did not go
to the Piazza Colonna for his cup of coffee and to read his evening
paper.  The Piazza Colonna, indeed, would have been nothing but an
exaggerated puddle, with streams of muddy water running through it from
the higher level of Montecitorio; and, besides, it would have been
unwise to be abroad in the streets while the first rains after the
summer were falling—the only time during the whole year when a genuine
malarial fever, and not the "Roman fever" of the overfed and overtired
tourist, might possibly be picked up within the walls of Rome.

Dinner had been over some time, and they were smoking and talking
together in the drawing-room, when the hoarse cries of the news-venders
calling the evening papers came from the street without, and a few
minutes later a servant entered the room with copies of the newspapers,
which he gave to the professor.  Giacinta took up a book and began to
read, while Silvio walked restlessly up and down the room, every now and
then going to the window to see if the rain had stopped.

The professor turned over the pages of his newspapers in a vain endeavor
to extract some news from them.  There might be, and no doubt there
were, important events happening in the world, even in the month of
September—events more important, for instance, than the fall from his
bicycle of a student, or the drinking by a servant-girl of a solution of
corrosive sublimate in mistake for water.  If there were more noteworthy
matters to chronicle, however, they had escaped the notice of the press
that evening. Professor Rossano was about to betake himself to other and
more profitable reading, when a paragraph containing a telegram dated
from Montefiano caught his eye and arrested his attention.

"So," he observed, suddenly, "it seems that our _padrona di casa_ has
got herself into trouble with the people at Montefiano, or, rather, I
suppose that meddlesome abbé has got her into trouble with them.  Look,
Silvio," he added, pointing to the paragraph in question, "read this,"
and he handed the newspaper to his son.

Silvio took the paper quickly, and eagerly read the telegram.  It was
very short, and merely stated that in consequence of disorder among the
peasantry on the estates belonging to Casa Acorari at Montefiano, and
the fear of these disorders assuming more serious proportions, military
assistance has been requested by the civil authorities; and that a
detachment of infantry would in all probability be despatched from
Civitacastellana if the situation did not become more satisfactory.

Silvio uttered an exclamation of dismay.

"What did I tell you, Giacinta?" he said.  "I was certain from Bianca’s
last letter that some mischief was brewing. Now there will probably be a
collision with the military authorities; and we all know what that
means."

"Well," observed the professor placidly, "it is no affair of yours,
Silvio, so far as I can see, if there are disturbances at Montefiano.
Not but what you have done your best to add to their number!  All the
same," he continued, "it is a foolish thing, and a wrong thing, to drag
the soldiery into these disputes if their intervention can possibly be
avoided. I suppose the princess and the Abbé Roux are frightened. But
surely there must be a _fattore_ at Montefiano who can manage the
people?"

"That is the point," returned Silvio.  "The princess has dismissed the
_fattore_ because he objected to the raising of the rents; and the
peasants are insisting on his being recalled."

The professor glanced at him.  "It seems," he remarked, dryly, "that you
know all about it."

"No, I don’t," answered Silvio, bluntly.  "But I want to know all about
it," he added.  "To-morrow I shall take the first train to Attigliano,
and I shall drive from there to Montefiano.  Don Agostino will tell me
what it all means, and perhaps I shall see for myself what is going on."

"_Sciocchezze!_" exclaimed the professor.  "Why the devil should you go
and interfere in the matter?  It is no concern of yours, and you will
only get a bullet put into you by a soldier, or a knife by a peasant.
You are an imbecile, Silvio."

"But it does concern me," Silvio replied, obstinately, "and, imbecile or
not, by twelve o’clock to-morrow I will be at Montefiano.  Who knows?
Perhaps I might be of use.  In any case, I go there to-morrow.  No,
Giacinta, it is perfectly useless to argue about it.  I wish I had gone
at once, when I received Bianca’s last letter.  I can guess what has
happened.  The princess has been advised not to receive the deputation
from the peasants, or she has received it and refused to grant what was
asked, and now the people are exasperated."

The professor shrugged his shoulders.  "Of course you will go," he said.
"When people are in love they cease to be reasonable human beings, and
you have not been a reasonable human being—oh, not since Easter.  It is
useless to talk to you, as useless as it would be to talk to a donkey in
spring," and Professor Rossano got up from his chair and walked off to
his library.

Giacinta looked at her brother as the door closed behind the professor.

"Do you suppose the disturbances at Montefiano are serious?" she asked.

"Who can tell?" responded Silvio.  "Those things are apt to become
serious at a moment’s notice.  Anyhow," he continued, "I wish to be near
Bianca, in case of any danger threatening her.  The people might think
she was responsible for the troops being summoned, and then, if any
casualty were to happen, they might turn upon her as well as upon others
at the castle.  Of course I must go, Giacinta! Besides, who knows what
this business may not lead to? Of one thing you may be certain.  If
Bianca is in any danger, I shall save her from it—I shall take her away
from Montefiano."

Giacinta stared at him.  "You mean that you will make her run away with
you?" she asked.

Silvio shook his head.  "I do not know," he replied. "It will all depend
upon circumstances.  But if I asked her to come with me, she would come.
And there are those at Montefiano, Giacinta, who would help her to do
so."

Giacinta did not reply for a moment.  Then she said again, quietly: "Of
course you will go, Silvio.  After all," she added, "if I were a man,
and in your place, I should do the same."




                                 *XXIX*


It was Sunday; and on Sunday and other feasts Don Agostino celebrated an
additional mass at the principal altar in the parish church of
Montefiano at half-past seven o’clock. This function was neither a high
mass nor a _messa cantata_, for, except on very special occasions, when
extraneous talent from Civitacastellana, or from some other larger
ecclesiastical centre in the neighborhood, was forthcoming, the
difficulties both musical and ceremonial of either form would have been
beyond the powers of the faithful at Montefiano satisfactorily to
surmount.  The _funzione_, as it was generally called, at half-past nine
on a _festa_ was doubtless an inartistic and even an irreligious affair,
if regarded from the point of view of the purist in piety or musical
art.  At intervals during the celebration of the mass, the organist
would rattle out from the wheezy pipes such stirring airs from popular
operas, comic and otherwise, as might seem to him likely to please the
saint to whom the day was dedicated.

This particular Sunday happened to fall within the octave of the 8th of
September, the day on which the Church commemorates the Nativity of the
Madonna, and, during the consecration and elevation of the sacred
elements at the mass, strains from "La Traviata" assisted the spiritual
aspirations of the kneeling worshippers.  The remarkable infelicity,
under the circumstances, of the selection, certainly never suggested
itself either to the organist or to the congregation, and Don Agostino,
remembering that "to the pure all things are pure," was far too wise to
think of pointing it out afterwards in the sacristy.  Nevertheless, his
sense of humor was acute, and not entirely to be suppressed, even when
he was ministering at the altar.

But to-day the organist’s doubtful compliment to the Madonna passed
almost unnoticed by Don Agostino.  He knew that his people gave of their
best to their religion; and, if that best were not of a standard to
satisfy more artistic or more pious conceptions, the fact did not
greatly concern him.  The truth was that it was not the first time by
many that Don Agostino had heard selections from "La Traviata" at the
half-past nine o’clock mass, and on this occasion he had more important
matters to occupy his mind than the lack both of perception of the
fitness of things and of a sense of humor on the part of the organist.

A glance round the church as he had entered it and made his way to the
altar, showed him that there was scarcely a man, and certainly none of
the younger men, among the congregation.  The fact was all the more
noticeable because Don Agostino invariably had a good attendance of men
at that mass.  They did not, to be sure, penetrate very far into the
church, and the majority showed a determination to stand as near the
door as possible.  But the great point was that they came; and they
came, moreover, not only to attend mass, but also to listen to the
short, practical address—it was certainly not a sermon, for Don Agostino
never built imaginary edifices on the foundation of a passage from
Scripture—to which they knew that ten minutes were sometimes devoted by
their _parroco_ before the canon of the mass was begun.

To-day, however, the male element was conspicuous by its absence, and
Don Agostino said mass in the presence of women and children only.  That
very morning an answer had been sent by Princess Montefiano to the
request made by its leading members that she would receive a deputation
from the tenants on the Montefiano lands to protest against the raising
of their rents and the dismissal of Giuseppe Fontana, the _fattore_.
The answer had been brief and decided.  The princess caused it to be
conveyed to the tenants and peasants that she would do nothing of the
kind. Any reasonable complaints would be received by the _ex-fattore_
Fontana’s successor, and would be forwarded by him to the
administration, to the Eccellentissima Casa Acorari, for consideration.

Montefiano was in no mood for a mass that morning, even though it was a
Sunday and within the octave of the _Madonna di Settembre_.  Don
Agostino had heard the news as he was vesting himself in the sacristy,
and had heard it with no little dismay.  He had watched the storm
brewing, and though he felt that a storm was much needed to clear the
air, he did not wish it to burst with too great a fury.  He had, indeed,
prepared a discourse which he had intended to deliver at mass that
morning, counselling obedience to all lawful authority, and pointing out
that any attempt to redress grievances by unlawful means was not only
wrong, but impolitic.  The discourse remained undelivered; and when Don
Agostino had read the Gospel for the day, he proceeded to recite the
_Credo_ and passed on to the canon of the mass.  Those for whom his
words had been specially prepared were thronging the Corso Vittorio
Emanuele, eagerly debating as to what steps they should take to show the
princess and her foreign advisers that they intended to persist in their
determination to place their grievances before her and the
_principessina_ in person.

The curt refusal to receive the proposed deputation had, as was but
natural, provoked intense indignation in and about Montefiano.  Had it
been a working-day, the news that the princess, as acting for Donna
Bianca, had declined to listen to the representatives of the peasants
would have circulated more slowly, for there were _tenute_ belonging to
the estate, some of which were several miles distant from Montefiano.
But on a _festa_ everybody who could walk, or who had a beast to carry
him, came into the _paese_; and after being present, at any rate, during
a portion of Don Agostino’s half-past-nine o’clock mass, the remainder
of the day was spent in gossiping with friends and acquaintances and
putting hardly earned money into the pockets of the keepers of the
_trattorie_ and the wine-shops.

The error in judgment committed by Princess Montefiano in allowing her
decision not to receive the deputation which had asked permission to
wait upon her to be publicly known in the morning of a _festa_ was
already bearing fruit. Don Agostino, indeed, had uttered an exclamation
of surprise and annoyance when he was told the news, and heard of the
excitement and ill-feeling that was being already shown in the _paese_.
He had always thought that Princess Montefiano would decline to see the
deputation, for it would most probably not suit the Abbé Roux that she
and Bianca Acorari should receive it.  The abbé, no doubt, had
counselled the showing of a firm front and an unconditional refusal to
admit that the tenants had any right to interfere with the
administration of the estates of the Casa Acorari. But why, in the name
of common-sense and prudence, had not the Abbé Roux so arranged that the
princess’s reply should not be known till Monday?  Don Agostino asked
himself the question impatiently, and the only reply he could find to it
was that the abbé, being a foreigner, had not sufficient knowledge of
the customs of the people; and that he probably understood neither the
character nor the temper of the Montefianesi.

The mass was scarcely concluded when, after unrobing himself of his
vestments, Don Agostino hurried down the flight of steps which formed a
short cut from the piazza where the church stood to the main street of
the town.  As he expected, he found the Corso Vittorio Emanuele thronged
by an excited crowd of peasants and farmers.  Among them were not a few
women.  Little groups were angrily discussing the event of the day, and
the countenances of many of those composing them wore an expression not
very pleasant to look upon.

Don Agostino noted every little detail as he passed down the street,
returning salutations made to him.  He intended to see Stefano Mazza,
and learn from him what steps the people proposed to take now that their
deputation had been refused audience.  He knew the man’s influence in
the district, and also the strong foundations on which that influence
had been built up.  Casa Acorari might raise its tenants’ rents, and the
fact would doubtless mean a harder struggle than ever to make two ends
come within reasonable distance of meeting.  But if Sor Stefano called
in his mortgages and refused to renew his _cambiali_, the fact would
spell ruin not only to the poorer among the peasantry, but also to many
in the district who were regarded by their neighbors as well-to-do men,
farming their hundreds of acres.  Don Agostino knew this very well.
Confidences were occasionally made to him which were outside the
confessional—confidences made to a friend by men who would never dream
of confessing to a priest; or who, if they did so in order to please
their women, would certainly not tell that priest more than a fraction
of the truth.

As he knew would be the case, Don Agostino found Sor Stefano busily
occupied in attending to his customers at the Caffè Garibaldi.  A sudden
silence, succeeded by a murmur of surprise, greeted the priest’s
appearance at the entrance to the _caffè_.  Every man there, from Sor
Stefano downward, knew what had caused Don Agostino to make his
appearance in such a quarter.  It was but another proof of the
importance and gravity of the situation.

Sor Stefano came forward and greeted his unusual customer. It was
certainly suffocatingly hot—dogs’ weather, in fact—he observed airily,
as if the _parroco_ were a daily visitor to his establishment.  No doubt
Don Agostino would drink a quarter of white wine?—and he escorted him to
a little table in the centre of the _caffè_.

No, Don Agostino would not have wine.  A little vermouth and seltzer—he
had not yet dined.

_Sicuro_!  The weather was hot, and the heat was much more trying than
in the middle of summer.  But there were signs of a change.  The rain
must come soon, and then—Don Agostino was as airy and indifferent in his
manner as was his host.  Nevertheless, he knew, and Sor Stefano knew,
and all the other occupants of the _caffè_ knew, that these were mere
empty phrases demanded by the exigencies of the situation.

Sor Stefano brought a bottle of vermouth and a siphon, and set them down
before Don Agostino.

"Your reverence has heard the news?" he asked.  "The princess refuses to
receive our deputation.  It is an incredible thing, but it is true.
Well, the deputation will go to the castle all the same.  Only it will
be a larger deputation—is it not so?"  He turned and appealed to the
groups sitting around, as he spoke the last words, and immediately a
babel of voices arose within the _caffè_.

"Yes, yes, we will all go to the castle, and then we will see if these
cursed foreigners will dare to prevent us from seeing and speaking with
the _principessina_!  It is the _principessina_ we mean to see, not the
foreigners!"

Sor Stefano nodded.  "_Sicuro_, we will all go!" he repeated, and then
he looked at Don Agostino.  The rest paused and looked at the _parroco_
also.

Don Agostino poured a small quantity of vermouth into his glass.  Then
he added some seltzer-water to it, and drank it off slowly and
deliberately.

"_Benissimo!_" he observed, quietly.  "But how will you get to the
castle?"

The remark was received with a burst of laughter.  How would they get
there?  Oh, _bello!_ on their feet, of course—how else?

Don Agostino looked at Sor Stefano gravely.

"Signor Mazza," he said, "if somebody tried to force their way into your
house against your will, what would you do?"

"_Perbacco!_ lock the door and close the shutters, I suppose," replied
Sor Stefano, staring at him.

"Precisely," returned Don Agostino, dryly.  "That is what I imagine the
princess will do.  And then?" he added, abruptly.

A shout, almost a howl, of indignation greeted his words. In a moment
every man in the _caffè_ had started to his feet, and each one was
trying to make his voice heard above that of his neighbors.

"If they lock us out, we will break the doors down!" shouted a tall,
well-made young peasant, with a chest and a pair of arms evidently
capable of affording valuable assistance towards the carrying out of his
suggestion.

A round of applause greeted his words, followed by cries of "Abbasso gli
stranieri!  _Abbas so gli sfruttatori_! _Evviva la Principessina
Bianca_!"—cries which were taken up by those outside the _caffè_ till
presently the whole street rang with them.

Don Agostino waited for a lull in the excitement raging around him.
Then, seizing his opportunity, he got up from his seat and looked round
the room calmly and composedly.

"Yes, my friends," he said, in clear, penetrating tones, which could be
heard by the crowd gathered outside the _caffè_, "yes, _Evviva la
Principessina Bianca_!  You are her people, and you wish her well—is it
not so?"

"We wish ourselves well also!" shouted a voice from without; and another
round of applause, mingled with laughter, burst from the audience.

Sor Stefano came forward and placed himself at Don Agostino’s side.

"Your reverence is right," he said, "and the _signore_ who just spoke is
right also.  _Sicuro_!  It is because we wish the Principessina Bianca
well that we mean to see her and speak with her; because, too, we
believe that she wishes her people well.  Do I speak truly?"

"_Bene! bene!  Evviva Casa Acorari—non vogliamo gli stranieri!_"

"Your reverence," Sor Stefano continued, as soon as there was silence
again, "you come among us no doubt to hear our intentions.  It is right.
You have our confidence and our esteem."

"_Evviva il parroco!  Evviva Don Agostino!_"

Don Agostino smiled.

"I come among you as one of yourselves," he said, "as one of the
deputation to which an audience has been refused. You invited me to join
the deputation, and I did so gladly, knowing that its object was a just
object.  You, Signor Mazza, are perfectly right.  I have come here this
morning to hear what my fellow-members propose to do next."

Sor Stefano shrugged his shoulders.

"_Diavolo!_" he exclaimed.  "It seems to me that your reverence has
already heard the intentions of these _signori_."

"I have heard them, yes," returned Don Agostino, "but I do not think
that they are wise intentions.  Let us reflect a little.  These things
need consideration, and a little patience does no harm.  You say that
you wish well to Donna Bianca Acorari, and to yourselves?  Perhaps it
would be more accurate to say that you wish well to yourselves, and to
Donna Bianca Acorari; more accurate, and more natural. The question is,
however, whether the course you propose to adopt will result in any
good, either to you or to her. You tell me that I possess your
confidence and your esteem. Believe me, I value both the one and the
other; and I think the fact that during the years I have been your
_parroco_ I have succeeded in gaining this esteem and confidence should
be a proof that I am not likely to betray either."

Don Agostino paused for a moment, as a murmur of approval ran round the
room.

"If you had come to mass this morning," he proceeded, not without a
touch of humor in his voice, "I should have told you in a church what I
now tell you in a caffè.  Oh, do not be alarmed, my friends, you are not
going to hear a sermon.  I quite understand that if you had wanted
anything of that nature you would have come to mass.  _Ebbene!_ one is
not always in the mood to go to church.  And when one is not in the
mood, who knows whether it is not better to stay away than to go, and to
pay Domeneddio the bad compliment of being bored with him when one gets
there? No, I am not going to preach you a sermon; but I am going to make
one or two suggestions to you, with your permission, and that of our
worthy host," and Don Agostino turned with a smile to Sor Stefano.

"_Evviva Don Agostino_!  Speak, speak!" resounded from all parts of the
room, and from the street without people pressed nearer to the open
doors of the caffè in order to hear more distinctly what the _parroco_
had to say.

"My first suggestion," proceeded Don Agostino, "is, that we should not
act hastily—that we should stop to think. To-day we are unquestionably
in the right; to-morrow, by ill-considered action, we may place
ourselves in the wrong. The princess has refused to receive our
deputation, and, consequently, she has refused to you, the people of
Montefiano, your legitimate request to explain your grievances in the
presence of Donna Bianca Acorari, who is the legal owner of these lands,
although as yet the law does not permit her the full privileges of her
position.  Well, so far, the princess is unquestionably in the wrong.
That is to say, her excellency has no doubt acted by the advice of those
who are not, perhaps, competent to advise her.  But we must remember
that the princess is placed in a difficult position.  She cannot help
being a foreigner, nor the fact that Donna Bianca is not her own child."

"She can help bringing foreigners here to interfere in our affairs!"
interrupted Sor Stefano.  "Why cannot she trust those who have always
been loyal to Casa Acorari? And why must she dismiss an old official
like Fontana, a man who had the full confidence of the late prince?"

"Bravo—Benissimo!" applauded Sor Stefano’s customers and clients, and
they looked at Don Agostino curiously, as though anxious to see how he
would reply to so crushing an argument.

He hesitated for a moment.  Sor Stefano’s remark was, in truth,
sufficiently to the point.

"But, Signor Mazza," he said, at length, "we must remember that these
affairs also concern the princess.  She is responsible for the
administration of the property until Donna Bianca attains her majority.
I do not doubt, indeed, I am convinced, that her excellency is badly
advised.  But if this is the case, she is not likely to listen to wiser
counsels at a moment’s notice.  It must be proved to her absolutely, and
beyond a possibility of doubt, that those whom she trusts are not
competent to advise her.  You, my friends, declare that you wish well to
the Principessina Bianca and to Casa Acorari.  If that is the case, do
not let us forget that though the princess is a foreigner, she is,
nevertheless, in a sense, the _principessa madre_, and as such is
entitled to respect and consideration.  It will be a strange method of
showing your loyalty to Casa Acorari if you present yourselves with
threats and violence at the gates of the castle of Montefiano.  Nor,
believe me, will you be doing yourselves any good by such a proceeding.
If the princess is a woman of any spirit, and if those who have advised
her are not cowards, she will only persist the more firmly in the course
she has adopted.  The increase in the rents will be enforced, and our
friend Signor Fontana’s dismissal will certainly not be recalled.
Moreover, it is scarcely likely that her excellency would be disposed to
allow Donna Bianca to be interviewed by those who had threatened to
dispute the authority of Donna Bianca’s guardian."

As Don Agostino proceeded with his arguments, the faces of his audience
gradually became more lowering, and more than once murmurs of
disapproval and impatience were audible.  Sor Stefano himself looked at
first disconcerted, and then suspicious.

"Your reverence appears to be very anxious to defend the princess," he
said, "but we Montefianesi want no foreigners.  If her excellency has
evil counsellors round her, it is because she listens to strangers in
preference to trusting her husband’s people.  No, _reverendo_, we do not
forget that she is, as you say, the late prince’s wife—but she is not
the _principessina’s_ mother.  And by all accounts she is not acting by
the _principessina_ as a mother would act by her child.  We have
approached her excellency with fair words, and in a respectful and
legitimate manner.  She has thought fit to answer us—in the way she has
answered us."

Sor Stefano stopped abruptly; then, turning from Don Agostino to the
crowd, ever growing more and more dense in the street, he raised his
voice yet louder.

"His reverence," he exclaimed, "does not quite understand us, my
friends!  Oh, it is natural; for, after all, he is a priest, and it is a
priest who is at the bottom of the whole business!  _Si capisce!_ the
Church must support the Church.  But Don Agostino does not understand
us.  He thinks that we are considering our interests only—that our only
object in going to the castle is to insist on the rents remaining as
they were, and on Sor Beppe being recalled to his post.  If that were
all, _reverendo_, we should not take the trouble to go to the
castle—_niente affato_!  The rents would not be paid—and as to the new
_fattore_ whom the foreign priest has appointed—well, he would be a
brave man to remain long in Montefiano.  He would receive hints—oh, that
the air of Montefiano was unhealthy for strangers.  And if he did not
take the hints and remove himself, the air would no doubt prove fatal.
No, we go to the castle because we wish to see and to speak with the
_principessina_—because we wish to know what truth there is in certain
stories we have heard—that the _principessina_ is, as it were, a
prisoner here at Montefiano until she gives herself up to the lust of an
old foreigner instead of to the love of a Roman youth she wants to
marry.  We wish to learn if it is true that the Abbé Roux is in reality
the lessee of the rents on the Montefiano _latifondo_, and that he means
to force the _principessina_ to marry her uncle for reasons of his own.
These are our reasons, _reverendo_, for insisting on seeing the
_principessina_ herself, and for being determined to force our way into
the castle, if we are compelled to do so.  Have I spoken well, or ill?"

A shout from the crowd answered Sor Stefano’s speech.

"_Al castello—andiamo al castello!  Fuori gli stranieri—evviva la
Principessina Bianca!_"

Sor Stefano looked at Don Agostino.  "You hear, _reverendo_?" he asked.

"I hear," Don Agostino replied, quietly, and then, drawing himself up to
his full height, he added, "And I repeat, with you, ’_Evviva la
Principessina Donna Bianca Acorari!_’ You, Signor Mazza, have spoken,
and much that you have said is just.  But you have also said what is not
just.  If I defend the princess, it is because I believe that lady to be
innocent of the conduct towards her step-daughter which you impute to
her.  I believe her to be influenced by dishonest persons who have
succeeded in gaining her entire confidence, and in persuading her that
she is doing her duty by Donna Bianca.  It makes no difference to me
that one of these dishonest persons—the chief among them—happens to be a
priest.  I have not defended his conduct, but merely that of the
princess, who has, I believe, been deceived by his advice.  It is true,
Signor Mazza, that the Church must support the Church; and concerning
the Abbé Roux as a priest, I have nothing to say.  It is with the Abbé
Roux as a man of business that I am concerned—and I have already
expressed my opinion of him in that respect. But these things are beside
the point.  I came here to learn your intentions, my friends, as regards
the action of the deputation of which I consented to be a member.  I
speak frankly.  If that action is to be such as you seem to be bent
upon, I will not be a party to it.  To give my approval to a course
which must almost inevitably lead to disorder, if not to worse, would
not be consistent with my duty either to you as my parishioners or to
myself as a priest.  I tell you that you will gain nothing by threats
and demonstrations, and the position of the _principessina_ will
certainly not be improved by any interference of such a character.  All
that will happen will be that the princess—who, remember, is within her
rights and has the law behind her—will call upon the authorities to
assist her and to maintain order at Montefiano.  You, Signor Mazza, know
as well as I do what would be the result of continued resistance under
such circumstances.  They are not results which any one who wishes well
to Montefiano cares to contemplate, and certainly not results which I, a
priest, can assist in bringing about.  No, my friends, let us be
reasonable!  You have done me the honor to say that you trust me.  Well,
I am going to ask you to trust me a little longer—for a few hours
longer.  I told you that I had one or two suggestions to make to you,
and I should like to make my second suggestion."

Don Agostino’s audience was apparently undecided.  The younger and more
excited among the crowd seemed eager for instant action, but the older
heads were evidently ready to listen to the _parroco’s_ advice.

At this juncture no less a person than the _sindaco_ intervened.  The
_avvocato_ Ricci had taken no part in the proceedings, though he had
been present when Don Agostino entered the _caffè_.  He was, indeed, in
a lamentable position of embarrassment and difficulty, what with his
fear of offending Sor Stefano on the one hand, and his anxiety lest he
should be compromised in the eyes of the authorities on the other.  Don
Agostino’s last sentences, however, had given him the courage to open
his lips and to join the _parroco_ in dissociating himself from a
movement which threatened to become prolific of disorder.  Don
Agostino’s allusion to the danger of so acting as to oblige the princess
and her advisers to seek the aid of the authorities had finally decided
the _sindaco_ of Montefiano to brave the resentment of the man who held
so much of his paper locked away in his strong-box.

"In my opinion," he said, "his reverence is right.  If it is
inconsistent with his duty as _parroco_ of Montefiano to associate
himself with a movement which tends to create disorder, it is equally
inconsistent that I who, as _sindaco_, am responsible to the civil
authorities for the maintenance of law and order in the commune should
in any way countenance a course which, as Don Agostino justly says,
might lead to very deplorable consequences.  His reverence, however, has
some other suggestion to offer.  Is it not so?" he added, turning to Don
Agostino.

The intervention was opportune, and Don Agostino felt it to be so.  He
was determined to prevent, if possible, the proposed march upon the
castle by an angry and excited crowd of uneducated peasants and petty
farmers.  It was not that he feared any violence or excesses on their
part, beyond that of perhaps forcing an entrance into the courtyard of
the castle, if they found the gates barred against them.  He dreaded
lest a further blunder should be committed by the Princess Montefiano
and those who were advising her.  The refusal to receive the deputation
and the manner of that refusal were blunders enough; but a still graver
error in judgment would be committed were the princess to allow the
matter to pass out of her own hands into those of the authorities, civil
or military.  Don Agostino was determined that if more blunders were
committed, he would at all events do all that lay in his power to
prevent the people themselves from furnishing any excuse for these
blunders.

"Yes, my friends," he said, after considering for a few moments, "I have
another suggestion to make to you.  It is this.  It is possible that the
princess, although unwilling to receive a deputation, would consent to
receive your _sindaco_ and myself, and listen to our representations on
your behalf.  I think, indeed, that her excellency could scarcely
decline to receive us under the circumstances; and we could request that
the Principessina Donna Bianca should be present at the interview and
hear what we have to say on behalf of her people.  At least, no
reasonable objection could be taken to this step by her excellency’s
advisers, and it is possible that we might succeed in demonstrating to
the princess that these advisers have misled her. I am ready to go to
the castle this afternoon," he continued. "and ask to see her excellency
and Donna Bianca.  Doubtless, Signor Sindaco, you will accompany me," he
added.

The _avvocato_ Ricci glanced nervously at Sor Stefano, then he shook his
head.  "I think not, Don Agostino," he said.  "That you should go and
attempt to arrange matters with her excellency is very right and proper.
But I am not inclined to interfere unless I should be called upon to do
so in my official capacity—a thing which I trust may not happen.  No,
_signori_," he added, turning to the listening crowd, "I feel sure that
your interests are safe in Don Agostino’s hands, and his advice is good.
Let him go this afternoon to the castle as your representative.  The
princess has the reputation of being a very devout lady.  She will
doubtless, therefore, be pleased to receive a visit from the _parroco_
of Montefiano.  In the mean time, my friends, let us be calm and
patient, and await the result of his reverence’s interview with the
princess and Donna Bianca."

It was evident that Don Agostino’s suggestion, seconded as it was by the
official influence of the _sindaco_, found favor with the majority of
the assembly both within and outside the Caffè Garibaldi.  There were a
few dissentient voices, and Sor Stefano himself seemed to sympathize
with those who were clamoring for more immediate and united action.

Don Agostino took Stefano Mazza aside for a minute or two and spoke
earnestly with him.  He pointed out how imprudent it would be to
encourage the people to go to the castle in their present excited frame
of mind.  Delay, he argued, was everything, for it would also afford
those at the castle time to realize their mistake; and very likely he,
Don Agostino, would be able to bring matters at any rate to a
compromise, which should satisfy both parties.

To his great relief, Sor Stefano yielded to his persuasions, although he
did so with a bad grace.  For some reason or other it was clear that Sor
Stefano was anxious that matters should come to a crisis; and Don
Agostino had throughout wondered what his object might be in so openly
supporting the peasants and the more violent faction of the community in
their desire to present themselves in person at the castle and force the
princess to give way.

A few words from Sor Stefano were sufficient to silence the objections
of the minority to the _parroco’s_ proposal, and after promising that he
would go that very afternoon to the castle, Don Agostino left the
_caffè_, saluted as he made his way through the crowd by friendly cheers
from his parishioners.




                                 *XXX*


It was not to be expected that the excitement and ill-feeling produced
by Princess Montefiano’s curt refusal to receive the deputation which
had been formed to wait upon her should be unknown in the castle.  The
Abbé Roux, indeed, was not without his means of information as to what
was going on in the _paese_; but it so happened that the intelligence
supplied to him was not infrequently both inaccurate and misleading.  As
he had said to Monsieur d’Antin, he was aware that the dismissal of the
agent Fontana had aroused a certain amount of opposition and even of
indignation; but he was certainly ignorant of the extent and depth of
the feeling his action had excited in the commune.  In his opinion, the
ill-feeling that he had been told was being manifested by the peasants
was merely the result of an attempt on the part of the dismissed
_fattore_ and his friends to frighten the princess and lead her to
recall Fontana to his post and to give way on the question of the
raising of the rents.  He was persuaded that it was only necessary to be
firm, and not to listen to any attempt on the part of the _contadini_ to
discuss the matter with the administration of Casa Acorari, and in a few
days things would quiet down.  He had not, therefore, thought fit to
tell Princess Montefiano more than was absolutely necessary of the state
of affairs prevailing in the _paese_, and he had represented the whole
matter as a trifle which was not worthy of her consideration.  It is
possible that had the abbé been better informed he would have regarded
the situation in a different light.  If he had known, for instance, of
the stories assiduously circulated throughout the district during the
last few weeks concerning Donna Bianca Acorari, and the treatment to
which she was being subjected—stories which certainly had lost nothing
in the process of diffusion—if he had suspected that it was being openly
asserted that he and none other was the new lessee of the Montefiano
rents, that mysterious _affittuario_, who had never hitherto been seen
in the flesh, he would doubtless have proceeded more cautiously.  But
the Abbé Roux was not well informed.  Indeed, could he but have known
it, he was being wilfully misled by those whom he believed to be his
friends, not only at Montefiano, but also at Palazzo Acorari in Rome,
where the business of Casa Acorari was transacted.  Long as he had lived
in Italy, he had got to learn that he was no match for a certain class
of Italians, and more especially of Romans, at petty intrigue.  Not a
syllable had reached his ears which could lead him to suspect that not
only was his actual position with regard to the Acorari estates known,
but that the entire scheme by which he hoped to retain that position for
a period long enough to enable him to make a considerable sum of money
out of it was known also.

It was natural, therefore, that the letter announcing to Princess
Montefiano that a deputation from the peasantry proposed to wait upon
her, and stating that its members were commissioned particularly to
request a personal interview with the Principessina Donna Bianca, should
have caused both its recipient and the Abbé Roux considerable surprise.
It had been surprise only, however, and that feeling had been quickly
followed by one of contemptuous indifference.  The princess, indeed, was
not a little indignant.  The pointed request that her step-daughter
should be personally approached by the tenantry of Montefiano seemed to
her to be a reflection upon herself and her position; a stone, as it
were, cast against her authority. The Abbé Roux had certainly not
attempted to soothe her ruffled feelings.  He had, on the contrary,
inveighed against the insolence of the peasantry in venturing to send
such a document to her excellency, and against the obvious disrespect
towards her rule conveyed in the request that the deputation should
speak with Donna Bianca in person. He had assured the princess and
Monsieur d’Antin, to whom she had shown the letter, that the whole
affair was a trifle—a mere _ballon d’essai_ on the part of Fontana and
his friends to intimidate her excellency with a view to regaining his
post.  As to the grievance about the rents, that was nonsense.  The
holdings in question had been for many years under-rented; and the
tenants could perfectly well afford to pay the trifling addition
imposed. Had he, the abbé, not gone thoroughly into the question, he
would not have counselled any increase, but Fontana had been very lax,
very behind the times, and he had evidently thought more of keeping on
good terms with the _contadini_ than of the legitimate interests of his
employers.

Monsieur d’Antin had shrugged his shoulders and declined to give an
opinion.  He did not understand Italian peasants, and he did not want to
understand them.  He was quite convinced in his own mind that the abbé
was making a purse for himself, but doubtless the abbé knew what he was
about, and it was no part of Baron d’Antin’s programme to interfere in
the priest’s little arrangements. His sister’s indignation at the
allusion to Bianca rather amused him.  Jeanne was certainly tenacious of
her rights. She would have made an admirable mother-superior—yes,
admirable.

The princess, who did not lack spirit, had required no advice as to the
manner in which she should reply to the letter in question.  To do her
justice, she was not a woman to be intimidated by what she fully
believed to be a blow levelled at her authority by a body of uneducated
peasants, instigated to disaffection by a dismissed servant.

The Abbé Roux had scornfully pointed out to her the name of Don Agostino
Lelli as being one of the proposed deputation.  It was quite sufficient,
he declared, that such an individual should be one of its leaders to
prove the real character of the movement.  The _parroco_ of Montefiano
had persistently interfered, as Madame la Princesse well knew, in
affairs that were quite outside his province, and no doubt he and the
dismissed agent were acting in concert. Besides, a priest who had so
notoriously fallen into disgrace at Rome was certainly not a fitting
person to be received by the princess at the bidding of a few peasants.

In this latter sentiment Monsieur d’Antin had heartily supported the
abbé.  It was decidedly not advisable that Monsignor Lelli should
succeed in obtaining even a single interview with Bianca Acorari.
Monsieur d’Antin and the abbé had exchanged a rapid but significant
glance when they observed that among those whom the peasants had
designated to represent their cause was the name of Don Agostino Lelli;
and both of them had resolved that Monsignor Lelli should have no
opportunity of even seeing Bianca.

Princess Montefiano had wished to despatch her reply at once to the
signatories of the letter she had received, but the abbé counselled
delay.  Although he affected to regard the whole matter with contempt,
he was not quite easy in his mind as to what the effects of so curt a
refusal to receive the peasants’ deputation might be.  He had persuaded
the princess, therefore, to keep back her answer until the following
morning.  He wished to ascertain the exact state of public opinion in
Montefiano, and also to prepare for possible emergencies.  It had not
been without some difficulty that he had succeeded in persuading the
princess not at once to send her reply, and it was only when her brother
added his representations to those of the abbé that Princess Montefiano
had finally consented to any delay.  In the mean time, all knowledge of
what was happening was carefully kept from Bianca Acorari.  The Abbé
Roux found it easy enough to point out the advisability of not allowing
the fact of there being any difficulty with the people to transpire to
Donna Bianca, and more especially that a personal interview with her had
been sought by their representatives. The princess had no desire to
bring her step-daughter forwards, since by so doing, she would only
diminish her own authority to which she was legally entitled.  It was
absurd to suppose that Bianca could possibly understand business
matters; and, as the abbé pointed out, the endeavor to drag an
inexperienced girl into such questions was only another proof that the
whole agitation had been formed with a view to intimidation.  It would
be wiser, Monsieur l’Abbé argued, to leave Donna Bianca in complete
ignorance of the situation; and so, by common consent, not a word was
said in her presence that could lead her to suspect that anything
unusual was taking place.

In the mean time, the Abbé Roux sent a private note to the _sindaco_ of
Montefiano, begging that official to come to see him that evening after
dusk at the castle, and enjoining him to keep his visit a secret, as,
for obvious reasons, it would not be advisable that it should be known
in the _paese_ that they had conferred together.

The _sindaco’s_ report had certainly not diminished the Abbé Roux’s
growing apprehensions.  It was evident that the _avvocato_ Ricci
regarded the agitation as wide-spread and likely to assume serious
proportions.  It was headed, as he assured the abbé, by influential
members of the community, whose support would undoubtedly encourage the
_contadini_ to persist in their attitude.  He himself had been
approached, and it was true that he had consented to join the proposed
deputation to the princess; but he had done so in the hope of exerting
his official influence to keep the agitation within legitimate bounds.
Among the chief supporters of the peasantry he could assure the abbé
that the _parroco_, Don Agostino Lelli, was one of the most active, and,
by virtue of his position, perhaps the most influential.  It was, of
course, well known that the _parroco_ was taking this part out of
friendship for and sympathy with the _fattore_, Giuseppe Fontana.  The
Abbé Roux made a gesture of impatience and anger.

"Don Agostino Lelli had better confine himself to his duties," he
exclaimed, "otherwise he will find himself removed from Montefiano, as,
years ago, he was removed from his post in Rome.  You are of opinion,
then," he continued, "that this affair is likely to become serious; that
disorders, in short, might break out if her excellency the princess
refuses to receive this deputation?"

The _sindaco_ hesitated.  "It depends," he replied.

"And upon what?" asked the abbé, sharply.

"Upon—well, upon whether her excellency is prepared to stand firm, and
to take the possible consequences of her refusal.  After all, she has
the force of the law on her side—"

"And the force of public opinion on the other side," interrupted the
abbé.

The mayor of Montefiano shrugged his shoulders.  "_Caro signore_," he
observed, "the sight of a few bayonets soon changes public opinion.  I
believe that the peasants will very quickly turn round and disown their
own supporters, if they once realize that her excellency will not give
way to their demands.  In any case, you can rely upon my doing my duty
in safeguarding the public order in this commune. Her excellency has
only to request the aid of the authorities in the event of the
_contadini_ proceeding to any excesses, and a telegram to the military
authorities at Civitacastellana will do the rest.  In the space of three
or four hours troops could be on the spot."

"Ah!" repeated the Abbé Roux, thoughtfully; "in the space of three or
four hours, you say?"

"_Sicuro!_ perhaps less.  In my opinion there would be nothing to fear.
The sight of the soldiers would soon reduce the peasants to reason."

The abbé looked at him quickly.  "The princess has already decided to
refuse to receive this deputation," he said.  "She has written a very
abrupt refusal.  I have persuaded her to delay its despatch for a few
hours.  It appears, however, that there is no reason why it should not
be sent to-morrow."

"It will increase the ill-feeling, no doubt," said the _sindaco_—"very
seriously increase it, I fear.  Still, if her excellency has the courage
to stand firm, there can be but one issue.  In the end the _contadini_
will have to give way, and then they will infallibly turn against those
who have encouraged them to create disturbances.  It is always like
that."

The Abbé Roux did not reply for a moment or two.  Then he said,
suddenly: "There is one thing I do not quite understand, Signor Ricci.
Why does this deputation insist upon seeing Donna Bianca Acorari?  The
people must surely know that Donna Bianca, being a minor, has no voice
in matters connected with the administration of her property. This
insistence on speaking with her is scarcely respectful to the princess,
who alone has any authority in the matter.  As you were to be a member
of the deputation, no doubt you can explain the meaning of this request
to interview Donna Bianca?"

The _sindaco_ hesitated.  Then, having made up his mind to lie, he lied
soundly but plausibly, as only an Italian official of the bureaucracy
can lie.

"It is very simple," he said, with a laugh.  "The peasants have got an
idea into their heads that Donna Bianca would take their part and
intercede for them, because—well, because she is an Acorari, and her
excellency the princess is, after all, a stranger.  It is mere
sentiment, of course, with a certain amount of shrewdness at the back of
it.  No doubt the _parroco_, Don Agostino, has put the idea into their
heads. But there is nothing in it but sentiment—nothing at all, Signor
Abate, I can assure you.  I objected to the introduction of Donna
Bianca’s name into the business, but it was better to let the
_contadini_ have their own way about what is, after all, a mere trifle.
They do not realize that the _principessina_ has, as you say, no voice
in such matters, being a minor."

The abbé nodded.  "I quite understand," he said, pleasantly. "No doubt
it has been part of the scheme of these agitators to work upon the
sentiment of the peasantry for Donna Bianca, as being their future
_padrona_.  But, luckily for her, she has those about her who know how
to protect her interests and to guard her against being imposed upon.
Well, Signor Sindaco, to-morrow morning the princess will send her
answer.  It is, as I have already told you, a refusal to receive the
deputation, or to discuss its objects.  You may be sure that her
excellency will not give way, no matter what attitude the people may
assume.  If that attitude should become threatening, we may have to seek
the aid of the authorities through you.  _A proposito_, would it not be
as well to warn the military authorities that a handful of soldiers
might be required to keep order at Montefiano?  On the receipt of a
telegram they could then be despatched without delay.  You can doubtless
arrange to do this without the matter becoming known; and then, should
it be necessary, we would request you to send the telegram regarding the
immediate presence of the troops.  By these means we could give the
idiots the unpleasant surprise of finding that we were prepared for any
folly they might attempt to commit.  At least the display of a little
force could do no harm, and would probably have an excellent moral
effect. But not a word, _caro signore_, of our conference to-night.  I
trust that your visit to the castle will not have been observed by any
of the people.  By-the-way, should there be any fresh development in the
situation to-morrow morning, after the tenor of the princess’s reply has
become known, I must beg that you will communicate with me."

The _sindaco_ of Montefiano took his leave, assuring the Abbé Roux that
all should be done as he had suggested. The evening was dark and rainy,
and he encountered nobody on the steep road leading up to the castle
from the town below.  At any rate, the _avvocato_ Ricci thought to
himself, he had secured himself against any misrepresentation at Rome of
his conduct.  If Sor Stefano and the peasantry insisted upon continuing
the agitation, there would infallibly be mischief, and in that case it
was as well to be on the winning side, which side must inevitably be
supported by the authorities.  It was certainly no affair of his to
enlighten the _abate_ as to the real object of the deputation in having
insisted upon seeing Donna Bianca Acorari.  His affair was to avoid
compromising himself in the eyes of the authorities in Rome, and the
Abate Roux would have to weather the storm he had created as best he
could.  The lawyer was not a little struck by the Abbé Roux’s caution in
providing for a speedy and unexpected appearance on the scene of
military force, should its presence be desirable.  "Even Sor Stefano,"
he said to himself, with a chuckle, "would talk less loudly if he were
suddenly to find himself confronted by a company of infantry with fixed
bayonets, and he, Augusto Ricci, might earn the approval of the minister
of the interior and head of the government in Rome for his promptitude
in suppressing threatened disorder in the commune of which he was
_sindaco_."




                                 *XXXI*


After leaving the Caffè Garibaldi, Don Agostino returned to his house in
a very thoughtful frame of mind. He had promised to go himself to
Princess Montefiano and put the peasants’ case before her.  He had
promised, also, that he would speak with Donna Bianca Acorari
personally. The question now arose how he was to accomplish what he had
undertaken.  The princess, it was true, could scarcely refuse to receive
him without that refusal being a marked rudeness to him as _parroco_ of
Montefiano; at the same time, Don Agostino was perfectly aware that she
had certainly not displayed any desire to make his personal
acquaintance. He had duly left his card, as politeness required, after
her arrival at the castle, and had received no invitation to repeat his
visit.  The fact had not surprised or annoyed him.  He had been
tolerably well acquainted with the Abbé Roux in the days when that
ecclesiastic was the secretary to a cardinal who had always been his
bitter enemy, and who, he well knew, had been more active than any one
else at the Vatican in clamoring for his removal and disgrace.  The
acquaintance had not been a pleasant one, and certain details in the
abbé’s career which happened to have come to his knowledge had not made
Don Agostino desirous of improving it.

It was not likely, therefore, that the Abbé Roux would welcome his
presence at the castle of Montefiano, and he would doubtless have used
his influence with the princess to prevent her from knowing him in any
way than as a priest on Acorari property, who might sometimes have
occasion to address a letter to her concerning the needs of his
parishioners.

It was certainly from no personal motives that Don Agostino, as he
walked back to his house that morning, felt almost nervously anxious
lest he should be refused admittance to Princess Montefiano’s presence.
When he had sought to defend her against the accusations which he was
well aware had been made against her of unmotherly conduct towards her
step-daughter, he had done so because he believed these accusations to
be, if not altogether unfounded, at least erroneous.  He had always felt
confident that the princess was a victim to her own religious
enthusiasm; she had fallen an easy prey to a type of ecclesiastic with
which his experience in Rome had brought him into contact on several
occasions, and of which the Abbé Roux was no uncommon example.  He was
convinced that the moment had arrived when the Princess Montefiano’s
eyes might be opened, and when it might be demonstrated to her, beyond
any possibility of doubt, that the counsellor in whom she had trusted
had never been worthy of her confidence.

At the same time it was clear that the Abbé Roux was master of the
actual situation, and that, having succeeded in getting rid of the one
official at Montefiano who for thirty years had had the true interests
of his employers at heart, it was not likely he would permit the
princess to be approached by the _parroco_ of Montefiano, who was known
to regard the agent’s dismissal as both a mistake and an injustice.  The
position, however, was serious; and all the more so because it was quite
evident that neither the princess nor the abbé realized its gravity.
Any rebellious attitude that the peasants might be driven by
exasperation to assume could, it was true, be ultimately suppressed by
the intervention of the military at the instance of the civil
authorities of the commune.  But Don Agostino well knew the legacy of
hatred and smouldering resentment which such intervention almost
invariably left behind it.  If he could save his lost Bianca’s child
from the enduring unpopularity which her step-mother and the Abbé Roux
were certainly doing their best to bring upon her by their mistaken
policy regarding the administration of her property, he would certainly
do so, at whatever cost to himself.  Yes, at four o’clock that afternoon
he would go to the castle.  By that hour the princess would certainly be
visible, if she chose to be visible.  He would send up his card to her
with an urgent request that she would see him on a matter of grave
importance.  If she refused to do so, he would write to her—but such a
letter as would leave her no possibility of mistaking his meaning.

The afternoon’s task was certainly neither an easy nor an agreeable one;
but it must in some way or another be accomplished.  At least, Don
Agostino reflected, he would have done his duty to his people at
Montefiano, to Bianca Acorari, and to that absent Bianca who had
assuredly willed that he should strive to protect her child.

Don Agostino entered his garden through the little gate by the side of
the church.  As he approached the house, he was surprised to hear,
through the open window of his study, Ernana talking in earnest tones
inside the room. His surprise was still greater, however, when at the
sound of his footsteps on the gravel-path, Silvio Rossano’s form
appeared at the window.  For a moment, indeed, Don Agostino felt
something very like dismay.  There were complications enough and to
spare without fresh material being added to increase their number.  He
had purposely delayed writing again to Silvio, thinking that in a day or
two the threatened disturbances would have either subsided or assumed
proportions which might make his presence at Montefiano desirable in his
own and Bianca Acorari’s interest.  Don Agostino doubted very much,
however, whether this was the moment for Silvio to be seen at
Montefiano.  If his presence became known at the castle, it would
probably be regarded by the princess as a proof that the agitation among
the peasants had a further scope than merely to obtain the redress of
their own and Fontana’s grievances.  She would not unreasonably suspect
that he, Don Agostino, was using the agitation as a means whereby to
help Silvio Rossano in renewing his endeavors to marry her
step-daughter.  As a matter of fact, Don Agostino was quite prepared so
to use it, if its results were such as to encourage him to do so.  But
it would most certainly not further Bianca’s or Silvio’s interests were
it to be supposed that these interests were in any way connected with
the business that would take Don Agostino to the castle that afternoon.

He hurried into the house and met Silvio in the little passage outside
his study.

"Am I an unwelcome guest?" Silvio said to him, quickly. "I hope not,
because—"

"You are always welcome," interrupted Don Agostino, "but—well, to tell
you the truth, Silvio, I am not sure that I am very pleased to see you.
But if I am not pleased, it is on your own account, not on mine.  May
one ask what has brought you here so unexpectedly, _ragazzo mio_?"

Silvio took a crumpled newspaper out of his pocket—the number of the
_Tribuna_ that his father had shown him the night before.

"That," he replied, briefly, handing the paper to Don Agostino, and
pointing to the telegram dated from Montefiano.

Don Agostino read it.  Then he uttered an exclamation of anger.

"Idiots!" he exclaimed; "idiots, and cowards, too!  This is the Abbé
Roux’s doing, of course.  Well, it is another blunder, an irremediable
blunder.  In two or three hours’ time the report will be all over
Montefiano that troops have been sent for.  The afternoon post will
bring the _Tribuna_—"  He paused in evident agitation.

"I could not remain quietly in Rome after reading that," said Silvio.
"So I took the morning train, and here I am. At first I could not
understand what it all meant; for Bianca, though she mentioned that
there was some trouble with the people because the Abbé Roux had
persuaded her step-mother to dismiss the _fattore_, certainly did not
write as if it was anything serious.  All the same, I was uneasy, for
one never knows what a small matter of this kind may not develop into.
But Ernana, to whom I have been talking while waiting for you, has given
me to understand that it is by no means a small matter, but that the
people are really angry and threatening to force their way into the
castle."

Don Agostino nodded.  "Ernana is right," he said; "it is not a small
thing.  I fear, directly this telegram in the _Tribuna_ becomes known,
that it will speedily become a very much bigger thing."

"Then I am doubly glad that I am here," observed Silvio, quietly.

Don Agostino glanced at him.  "A moment ago," he said, "I wished that
you had not appeared upon the scene. I did not think the time had
arrived for you to do so.  It was for this reason I delayed writing to
you.  I had hoped that, whatever might occur, no military aid would be
asked for in order to settle a question which only needed to be handled
with a little tact and in a conciliatory spirit. This telegram, however,
alters the aspect of affairs considerably, and, on the whole, yes,
Silvio, I think I am glad you have come.  But for the next few hours, at
any rate, you must not show yourself.  Do you think your arrival here
has been observed?" he added.

Silvio shook his head.  "I think not," he replied.  "Indeed, I hardly
met a soul on my way here from Attigliano."

"The people are all in the _paese_," said Don Agostino. "The peasants
have come in from miles around.  No, you must certainly not be seen—at
all events, till I have been to the castle."

"You are going to the castle?" Silvio asked, in some surprise.

Don Agostino briefly related to him the events of the morning, and
explained how, as a last hope of bringing about a pacific solution of
the situation, and of making the princess realize the danger of the
policy the Abbé Roux had made her adopt, he had volunteered to ask to
see her and Bianca Acorari personally.

"It was by no means easy," he said, "to persuade the more excited among
the people to consent to my going to the princess.  They suspected me of
being in sympathy with the Abbé Roux," he added, with a smile.
"Fortunately, however, the _sindaco_ supported me, and I persuaded a
certain Mazza, who is practically the money-lender to all this district,
and who for some reasons of his own is backing up the peasants, to
advise the people to refrain from any further action until I had
communicated to them the results of my interview with the princess.  One
thing is very certain," he continued, "I must, if possible, see Princess
Montefiano before the news that troops have been asked for is known in
the place.  There is no saying what may not happen, in the mood the
peasants are now in, should it be known that the princess has sought the
intervention of the authorities rather than consent to receive a
deputation."

"The telegram does not say that troops have actually been
requisitioned," said Silvio; "it alludes to the probability of their
being so, if the situation at Montefiano should not improve.  It appears
to me," he continued, "that the communication is something in the nature
of a warning, or a threat, whichever you like to call it."

Don Agostino read the paragraph in the _Tribuna_ again.

"That is true," he said, "and you are right, Silvio. Whoever
communicated the intelligence to the _Tribuna_ probably intended it both
as a warning and as a threat. Well, as the former, it will have very
little effect.  As the latter, it will have a very bad effect, for it
will be bitterly resented, unless I am much mistaken.  In the mean time,
there is no time to be lost.  We must trust to the people keeping quiet
for another few hours, until I have been to the castle.  But you, my
friend, must remain quietly here, unseen by anybody.  I shall tell
Ernana she must hold her tongue about your arrival.  For you have become
a celebrity in Montefiano, Silvio," he added, with a smile, "and
everybody would know what had brought you here."

"Ah," exclaimed Silvio, "that is a thing I do not understand!  How in
the world have the people here got to know about Bianca and myself?
Certainly the princess would not allow it to be talked about by anybody
belonging to her household; and who else, except yourself, knows of it?"

Don Agostino shrugged his shoulders.  "It is known by everybody that
Donna Bianca has declared that she will marry nobody if she does not
marry you," he replied. "Indeed," he continued, "I believe it is this
love-affair of the _principessina_, as they call her, that has done more
than anything else to arouse the indignation of the people against the
princess and her brother and against the Abbé Roux. As yet they have not
seen the young Roman whom their _padrona_ wishes for a husband instead
of Baron d’Antin. When they do see him—  But do not let us waste any
more time in talking, Silvio.  Before we do anything else, let us have
breakfast.  You must be quite ready for it after your journey, and it is
nearly one o’clock."

A couple of hours later Don Agostino left his house, and, choosing a
lane leading through the outskirts of the town, in order to avoid the
groups of peasants which would still be thronging the main street, made
his way to the castle, having extracted a promise from Silvio that the
latter would not go into the _paese_ until he had returned from his
visit to the princess.

He could not help suspecting that his appearance at the entrance-gate of
the castle was not altogether unexpected; for the two servants who, in
response to his ringing the bell, drew back a lattice and surveyed him
from the inside, promptly closed it, and threw open the great wooden
doors studded with heavy iron nails, and as promptly closed and bolted
them again as soon as he had passed into the court-yard.

Don Agostino informed them that he had come to see her excellency the
princess on important business, and producing his card, asked that it
might be taken to her at once, with the urgent request that she would
receive him.

He was conducted across the court and up a flight of steps leading into
a large hall on the first floor of the building, where he was left while
the domestics went to execute their commission.  In a few minutes one of
the men returned.  He was desired by her excellency to tell his
reverence that she regretted being unable to receive him in person, but
her brother, Baron d’Antin, and the Abbé Roux would be happy to see him
in her place.

Don Agostino attempted to demur.  It was of the greatest importance, he
said, that he should see her excellency personally.

The venerable _maggior-domo_ spread out his hands with an apologetic
gesture.  He was grieved, he declared, to be obliged to disappoint his
reverence, but her excellency had given strict orders that she was not
to be disturbed—that she could receive no one.  The Signor Barone and
the Abbé Roux were ready to receive his reverence, if he would be
pleased to follow him.

Don Agostino hesitated for a moment.  Then he came to the conclusion
that he had better accept the compromise that had evidently been made.
Perhaps, indeed, the princess’s absence might be an advantage.  He could
speak very plainly to Monsieur d’Antin and to the Abbé Roux if it became
necessary to do so—more plainly, perhaps, than he could have done had
Princess Montefiano been present.  At any rate, he was inside the
castle, and had been offered an opportunity of discussing the situation
with those who were chiefly responsible for its existence, and this was
something gained.

He had thought it more than likely that he would not be admitted within
the castle walls, and that he would have to return to the _paese_ with
the intelligence that he had failed in his mission.

He followed the _maggior-domo_ through the long gallery, with which the
hall where he had waited communicated, and was ushered into the room
used by the Abbé Roux as his study.  The abbé, however, was not present,
and Monsieur d’Antin came forward and introduced himself.  His sister,
he assured Don Agostino, much regretted her inability to receive him,
but the events of the last day or two had somewhat upset her—and, after
all, if he were not mistaken, Monsignor Lelli’s business was more
suitable for discussion by himself and Monsieur l’Abbé Roux than by
ladies—was it not so?  Monsieur l’Abbé would join them in a few minutes.
In the mean time, anything that Monsignor Lelli might wish to say, he,
Baron d’Antin, would faithfully refer to the princess.  _Monsignore_
spoke French, of course?  That was well, for Monsieur d’Antin’s Italian
was not sufficiently fluent to embark upon a business conversation.  A
cigarette?  No?  Well, if it was permitted, he would smoke one himself,
and he was all attention, if _monsignore_ would proceed.

Don Agostino sat and watched the baron quietly.  Monsieur d’Antin was
very suave—very polite, and nothing could be more conciliatory than his
attitude.  It seemed, indeed, as though he were tacitly apologizing for
his sister’s refusal to receive the _parroco_, and that he was only
anxious to do his best to remove all misunderstandings.  Don Agostino
recognized the diplomatic manner, and, so to speak, took Baron d’Antin’s
measure before he had uttered a dozen words.

"Doubtless, monsieur," he said, "you are aware of the object of my
visit.  The importance of that object must be my excuse for seeking to
intrude myself upon Madame la Princesse.  I regret that she is unable to
receive me, because it is to her and to Donna Bianca Acorari that I am,
as it were, accredited by the people of Montefiano. However, one cannot
question a lady’s right to receive or to refuse to receive a visitor,
especially if that visitor comes on an unpleasant errand.

"Monsieur le Baron, I think there is no necessity to waste words, and
this is not the moment to discuss the rights and the wrongs of the
questions which are agitating the minds of the people here at
Montefiano.  I have come to ask—nay, to implore the princess to
reconsider her refusal to receive the deputation suggested by the
peasants, and to allow me to tell the people that she and Donna Bianca
will listen to their representatives.  The people are within their
rights, monsieur, and it is I, their priest, who tell you so.  They have
been treated unjustly in the name of Casa Acorari, and they appeal to
the princess and to Donna Bianca Acorari for permission personally to
represent their grievances."

Monsieur d’Antin nodded gravely.  "I quite understand your view of the
matter, Monsieur le Curé," he said.  "It is natural that the sympathies
of a priest should be with his people; but you must remember that my
sister has to regard the question from a business, and not from the
sentimental, point of view.  Her position obliges her to think, first of
all, of her step-daughter, Donna Bianca’s, interests. Those in whom my
sister confides to advise her in business matters connected with the
Montefiano property, do not share your view as to any injustice having
been committed."

"Because, monsieur," returned Don Agostino, bluntly, "Madame la
Princesse confides in individuals who are ignorant as to the condition
in which the people live, and who are, therefore, incompetent to advise
her—"

At this moment the door opened, and the Abbé Roux entered the room.  The
greeting between him and Monsignor Lelli, if courteous, was certainly
not cordial.  It was some years since they had last beheld each other,
but no allusion was made by either to their past acquaintance.

Monsieur d’Antin looked quickly at the abbé as he came into the room,
and Don Agostino fancied that, as he returned the glance, the Abbé Roux
shook his head almost imperceptibly.

"Monsignor Lelli," Monsieur d’Antin observed airily, "has come this
afternoon as an ambassador from—what shall we call them, Monsieur
l’Abbé—the rebels, eh?  He wishes my sister to reconsider her refusal to
receive their deputation."

"It would seem scarcely necessary for madame to do so," said the abbé,
coldly.  "Monsignor Lelli," he continued, "has apparently taken upon
himself the functions of the deputation."

"Precisely, monsieur," observed Don Agostino, tranquilly. "It seemed to
me not impossible that the princess and Donna Bianca Acorari might
listen to my representations as _parroco_ of Montefiano, even though the
reception of a deputation might not be permitted by their advisers."

The Abbé Roux frowned angrily.

"Permitted, monsieur!" he repeated.  "I do not understand you.  The
princess stands in no need of permission to act as she thinks fit and as
may be advantageous to Donna Bianca’s future interests.  Nor do I
understand why you assume Donna Bianca Acorari to have any voice in what
the princess may choose to do as her guardian. You must surely be well
aware that, until she is of age, Donna Bianca has absolutely nothing to
say in the management of her properties.  It is, therefore, absurd to
drag her name into any question arising in connection with that
management."

Don Agostino looked at him steadily.  "I am aware that Donna Bianca does
not enter into the full possession of her estates until she is of age—or
until she marries," he said.  "Nevertheless, the fact does not prevent
her from being regarded by the people in and round Montefiano as their
mistress—as the only child of and successor to the late Prince of
Montefiano.  And the people will insist on regarding her as such, and
upon being permitted access to her.

"It is not for me, Monsieur l’Abbé, to discuss what may be your motives
for advising the princess to pursue a course which is not only unjust to
the people, but injurious to her step-daughter’s true interests.  I have
come here this afternoon to warn the princess that the people intend to
insist upon being heard, not by her only, but by Donna Bianca Acorari.
They are loyal to Donna Bianca—but—you must pardon me for my plain
speaking—they look upon the princess as a foreigner who allows foreign
influence to interfere between them and their lawful _padrona_. At any
moment, Monsieur l’Abbé, unless you advise the princess to adopt a more
conciliatory course, you may hear this from the people themselves.  They
will tell it you more roughly than I have told it you."

The Abbé Roux laughed disagreeably.  "You are very disinterested,
_monsignore_," he remarked, "but I regret that I cannot accept your
views upon business matters—and this affair of the peasants is purely a
business—a financial—matter.  You may very possibly be mistaken in your
judgment, _monsignore_.  It would not be the first time, I think, that
you were mistaken in your estimate of sound finance.  No, Madame la
Princesse will not, I imagine, be disposed to accept your advice on such
matters."

The sneer and the insinuation contained in the abbé’s words were patent
enough, and for a moment Don Agostino reddened with anger.  He
restrained himself with an effort, however.  It was very evident that
the Abbé Roux was losing his temper; and time, valuable time, was
passing.

Don Agostino shrugged his shoulders, and then, turning his back upon the
abbé, he addressed Monsieur d’Antin, whose face he had noticed with some
surprise had worn a sudden but unmistakable look of disgust and contempt
while the Abbé Roux was speaking.

"Monsieur le Baron," he said, quietly, "I appeal to you as to one who is
not a professional man of business in the employ of Madame la Princesse,
but who is her brother, and who may therefore not be altogether
influenced by pecuniary considerations.  I entreat you to take my
warning to the princess, and to persuade her to allow me to return,
while there is yet time, to the people, with the news that I have spoken
with her and with Donna Bianca, and that she is prepared to make some
concessions.  I entreat you, also, to recall, in her name, the
application which has been made for military aid—"

The abbé and Monsieur d’Antin both started.  "How, monsieur?" exclaimed
the abbé.  "Military aid!  What folly is this?  Who talks of military
aid having been applied for?"

Don Agostino drew Silvio’s _Tribuna_ from his _soutane_ and gave it to
Monsieur d’Antin.

"If it has not been actually applied for," he said, pointing to the
telegram from Montefiano, "its requisition is threatened.  That
newspaper arrives in Montefiano every afternoon from Rome," he added,
"and by this time the telegram will have been read by everybody in the
_paese_."

The Abbé Roux muttered something very like an oath under his breath.
Then he looked furtively, almost apologetically, at Don Agostino.

"Absurd!" he exclaimed.  "A mere canard!  Probably some occasional
correspondent to the _Tribuna_, in Montefiano thought he would be very
clever and anticipate events."

Don Agostino looked at him narrowly.  It was clear that, whoever had
sent the telegram to the _Tribuna_, the abbé was disagreeably surprised
by its publication.  He looked, indeed, both taken aback and ill at
ease.  Don Agostino, always watching him, saw him take out his watch and
look at it, glancing at Monsieur d’Antin as he did so.

"_Enfin_, monsieur," said Don Agostino, again addressing Monsieur
d’Antin, "once more I appeal to you as the brother of Madame la
Princesse.  Am I to go back to the people and tell them that I have
obtained nothing, and that I have not been permitted to see either the
princess or Donna Bianca?  Monsieur," he added, earnestly, "let me beg
of you to consider.  So little is demanded of the princess—so much
bitterness and misery will be the result of not giving way.  At least
send a telegram to countermand any despatch of troops to Montefiano, and
authorize me to tell the people that the telegram in the _Tribuna_ was
communicated without there being any foundation for it."

Monsieur d’Antin rose from the arm-chair in which he had been smoking
cigarettes unremittingly.

"One moment, my dear monsieur," he said to Don Agostino; "believe me, if
the matter rested with me, you should go back to your peasants with
hands full of concessions. But I have no influence with my sister in
these matters. I do not think she understands them; that is true.  But
unfortunately she knows that I understand them even less than she does.
After all, it is natural.  We are not Italians, as you pointed out to
Monsieur l’Abbé just now."

"It is not necessary to be Italian, monsieur, in order to understand
when injustices are being committed.  A little common sympathy and a
little common-sense are all that is required in this instance; and these
qualities are not the exclusive attribute of my compatriots," said Don
Agostino, dryly.

The Abbé Roux came forward and placed himself between Don Agostino and
Monsieur d’Antin.

"Monsieur le Baron," he said, casting an angry glance at Don Agostino,
"it seems to me that we are wasting time. Monsignor Lelli has come here,
apparently, with the object of attempting to induce the princess to give
way to the insolent demands of these ignorant peasants, and to dictate
to her what she should and should not do.  Well, I, Monsieur le Baron,
as you well know, am honored by the princess’s confidence; and, as you
also know, I am deputed by her excellency to give Monsignor Lelli her
final and definite answer to his representations on behalf of the
peasants and their friends."

Don Agostino interrupted him.

"How did the princess know that I was coming here to-day on behalf of
the peasants?" he asked, abruptly.

The Abbé Roux looked suddenly perplexed; and Monsieur d’Antin joined the
tips of his fingers together and laughed softly to himself.  Don
Agostino glanced at him keenly.  Baron d’Antin’s manner puzzled him.  It
was the manner that an amused spectator of a comedy might display, but
it was certainly not fitting to one of the characters on the stage.

The abbé scowled.  "_Parbleu!_" he exclaimed, roughly, "we are not all
imbeciles here; and we are better informed as to what has been going on
than Monsignor Lelli is aware! We know, for instance, that he did not
hesitate to compromise his position as _parroco_ by encouraging with his
presence a meeting held this morning in a _caffè_ by the leaders of this
agitation, and that he took upon himself the responsibility of being
their spokesman.  Ah, yes, _monsignore_, the princess expected your
visit this afternoon; but, as you see, she altogether declines to
receive you in person."

Don Agostino turned to him with quiet dignity.

"So be it, Monsieur l’Abbé," he said, tranquilly.  "The princess must
take the responsibility of declining to receive me in person, and to
allow me access to Donna Bianca Acorari.  Nevertheless, I am here as the
representative of Donna Bianca’s people, and I will discharge my duty.
I shall say, boldly—"

"To the princess and Donna Bianca?  No, _monsignore_, you will not have
the opportunity.  It would be well that you should understand this
finally."

"No, not to the princess and Donna Bianca, but to you!" continued Don
Agostino.  "You tell me that you are honored with the princess’s entire
confidence.  I hope that she equally enjoys your own, Monsieur l’Abbé.
If so, you will repeat to her what I say.  As you are aware that I
attended the meeting held this morning in the principal _caffè_ of
Montefiano, you are, no doubt, also aware of the attitude of the people
towards the princess, towards Monsieur le Baron d’Antin, and towards
yourself.  You no doubt know that they regard you, Monsieur l’Abbé Roux,
as a foreigner who has abused the confidence the princess has had in you
as a priest, in order by degrees to fill your own pockets out of Donna
Bianca Acorari’s possessions and at the expense of the people.  You
doubtless know that they accuse you of being the real lessee of the
rents paid by the tenants on this estate, and believe that the recent
raising of those rents and the dismissal of the _fattore_ Fontana, for
having protested against any increase in the rent, was due to you.  You
will have heard, also, that you are credited with having devised a
scheme whereby Donna Bianca Acorari is to marry Monsieur le Baron
d’Antin in order to keep her patrimony in the family—so to speak—and
enable you to continue to administer the properties for some years to
come.  Of course, Monsieur l’Abbé, you know all this, since you are well
informed of what is being said and done in Montefiano."

The Abbé Roux’s face while Don Agostino was speaking presented a study
in some of the various feelings capable of being reflected on the human
countenance.  Anger, mortification, dismay—all these displayed
themselves in turn as he listened to Don Agostino’s words, each one of
which was delivered with a calm incisiveness which added to the force of
his speech.

"_Monsignore!_" he exclaimed, furiously.  "Are you aware of what you are
saying?  Monsieur le Baron," he added, turning to Monsieur d’Antin,
"this is an insult—not to me only, but to the princess and to yourself—"

Monsieur d’Antin looked from one to the other curiously, almost as if he
enjoyed the situation.

"I think not, Monsieur l’Abbé," he said, with a little smile, and
rubbing his white hands gently together.  "I think not, my dear friend.
Monsignor Lelli is merely stating the opinion that others hold
concerning you—or concerning us, perhaps I should say.  He does not, I
am convinced, mean us to suppose that he shares this opinion."

Don Agostino was silent.

"In any case," continued Monsieur d’Antin, with a slight shrug of the
shoulders as the silence became markedly prolonged, "it is not worth
your while to be angry, my dear abbé, for Monsignor Lelli might regard
your anger as a proof that the peasants at Montefiano are a very shrewd
race—ha, ha, ha!" and he broke into a gentle laugh which sounded genuine
enough, but certainly did not tend to allay the abbé’s fury.

"No," he continued.  "Let us remain calm, I beg of you, and let us hear
what else Monsignor Lelli has to tell us from these admirable peasants."

"I have little else to add to what I have already said," observed Don
Agostino, "and I make no apologies for the words I have used.  They are
plain words, and even the Abbé Roux will not, I think, misunderstand
them.  As to my own opinion—well, I agree with you, Monsieur le Baron,
that the people of Montefiano are shrewd, and I believe their
accusations to be just."

The Abbé Roux made a step forward, and, purple with rage, shook his
clinched fist in Don Agostino’s face.

"And you," he exclaimed, "you, whom the Holy Father sent to minister to
these pigs of peasants in order to avoid the scandal of proceeding
against you for fraudulent speculation with money intrusted to you, you
dare to bring these accusations against me!  Liar, hypocrite, pig—like
the peasants you represent!"

"My dear friend," remonstrated Monsieur d’Antin, laying his hand on the
abbé’s arm, "let me implore you to be calm.  Recollect that you and
Monsignor Lelli are priests—that you both wear the _soutane_.  You
cannot demand satisfaction of each other in the usual way—you cannot
challenge each other to a duel.  It would be—excessively funny," and
Monsieur d’Antin laughed again, in evident enjoyment of the idea.
"Besides," he continued, "Monsignor Lelli has, no doubt, more to tell
us.  We have not yet heard what it is that the peasants require of my
sister."

"Monsieur," said Don Agostino, "I can answer for the peasants that, if
they are allowed to see and speak with Donna Bianca Acorari, they will
certainly not proceed to any excesses.  They will probably return
quietly to their occupations."

"And you," interrupted the Abbé Roux, in a voice that was hoarse and
trembling with anger, "can take back to the peasants the princess’s
answer which I am commissioned to give in her name.  The answer is, that
they will not be permitted to see Donna Bianca Acorari, who has nothing
to say in the matter of the administration of these lands, or to
approach her with any story of their grievances. The princess,
_monsignore_, is perfectly well aware of all that underlies this
agitation, and that it is directed chiefly against myself.  She will not
be intimidated into recalling Giuseppe Fontana, or into lowering the
rents.  She—"

He stopped abruptly.  A confused sound of voices came from the gallery
outside, and a moment afterwards the door was flung hastily open and the
old _maggior-domo_ burst into the room, followed by several of the
servants, who stood in a frightened group on the threshold.

"The _contadini_!" he exclaimed.  "There is a crowd of three hundred or
more outside the entrance-gates, and they declare that if the gates are
not opened, they will break them down, Signor Abate!  Ah, _Madonna mia_!
It is a _repubblica_—a revolution—listen!" and rushing across the
gallery, he threw open one of the windows looking into the court-yard.

The thick walls of the castle had effectually prevented any sound from
penetrating to the apartments on the other side of the gallery, all of
which were situated in the portion of the building added to the mediæval
fortress by Cardinal Acorari, and overlooked the terrace and open
country beneath it.  From the gallery, however, the angry roar of an
excited mob could distinctly be heard; and, when the windows were opened
by the old _maggior-domo_, shouts of "Down with the foreigners!  Long
live the Principessina Bianca!" became plainly audible.

Don Agostino looked at the abbé and Monsieur d’Antin. "You see,
monsieur," he said, quietly, to the latter, "I did not exaggerate
matters.  But even now it is not too late.  If the princess and Donna
Bianca will show themselves to the peasants, and allow me to address the
people in their name, I am confident that order will quickly be
restored.  Hark!" he added.  "They are attempting to break open the
gates."  And even as he spoke, the noise of heavy blows falling on
wood-work re-echoed through the court-yard.

Monsieur d’Antin, to do him justice, appeared to be far more composed
than the Abbé Roux.  He listened for a moment or two almost impassively
to the shouts and the uproar which were growing ever louder and more
violent. The abbé, on the contrary, was trembling with an excitement
that might have proceeded either from fear or from rage, and probably,
as Don Agostino thought, from both. He had his watch in his hand, and
looked at it repeatedly, as though counting every minute that passed.
Don Agostino noticed his action, and as he did so a sudden suspicion
dawned upon him.

Monsieur d’Antin drew the abbé aside, and spoke with him for a minute or
so in an undertone.  The Abbé Roux, it was evident, dissented
energetically from his remarks, and finally, with a shrug of the
shoulders, Monsieur d’Antin left him and advanced to Don Agostino.

"Monsieur le Curé," he said, "as I have already told you, my sister does
not take advice from me as to the management of her affairs, and I
frankly confess to you that I do not understand the situation
sufficiently to make interference on my part warrantable.  The Abbé Roux
is my sister’s adviser in all that concerns her affairs.  I must refer
you to him."

Monsieur d’Antin approached the window again; and then, taking his
cigarette-case from his pocket, he proceeded to light a cigarette with
quiet deliberation.  Don Agostino glanced at him almost with approval.
At any rate, he reflected, Baron d’Antin, whatever else he might be, was
no coward, and knew how to _se tirer d’affaires_ like a gentleman.

"Yes," exclaimed the Abbé Roux, "you, Monsieur le Curé, have to refer to
me in this matter.  And I tell you again that it is useless that you and
the _canaille_ attempt to intimidate the princess—absolutely useless.
What did I say to you a few minutes ago?  We are not imbeciles
here—certainly not imbeciles, monsieur; as you and your friends outside
will find out—if they dare to continue this violence much longer.  No;
go to these insolent peasants, and tell them that your mission has
failed."

Don Agostino looked the abbé steadily in the face for a moment, and
then, without a word, turned his back upon him for the second time that
afternoon.

"Monsieur le Baron," he said, coldly, "it would be well that you should
inform the princess what is taking place, and you will doubtless know
how to prevent her and Donna Bianca Acorari from being unduly alarmed.
I have done my office here, and it is not my fault if I have failed. My
place now is with my people."

Don Agostino was about to pass Monsieur d’Antin with a formal bow, when
the latter suddenly held out his hand.

"_Monsignore_," he said, "you came as a peacemaker; and, believe me, I
regret that you do not take away with you terms of peace.  I regret it,
I repeat, and I am not responsible for what has occurred, or for what
may occur."

Don Agostino scarcely heard him.  He hurried down the gallery and across
the entrance-hall, followed by two trembling domestics, who unbarred the
doors opening on to the court-yard.

By this time the fury of the crowd at finding itself prevented from
entering the castle had passed all bounds of control.  Blow after blow
rained upon the wooden gates leading into the court; and suddenly, while
Don Agostino was in the act of crossing the court-yard, the gates burst
open with a crash, having given way before the impetus of a mad rush
from the mob without.

For a moment the peasants stood undecided—surprised, perhaps, at the
sudden yielding of the gates.

Don Agostino, seeing their indecision, advanced towards them.

"My friends—" he began.

A great shout drowned his voice.

"_Traditore!  Vigliacco d’un prete!_"

Then a stone struck him, and, with a hoarse roar like that of an angry
beast, the crowd surged into the court-yard.




                                *XXXII*


The stone hurled at Don Agostino had fortunately only hit him on the
body, for, owing to the violence with which it had been thrown, it
certainly would have stunned him had it struck him on the head.  As it
was, however, the folds of his _soutane_ somewhat broke the force of the
blow.  Don Agostino was scarcely conscious that he had been struck, so
great was his amazement at the savage reception he had met with at the
hands of his parishioners. Looking round on the angry faces and
threatening gestures of the mob of peasants in front of him, Don
Agostino speedily realized that neither Sor Stefano nor any of the more
prominent supporters of the peasantry were among those who had forced
their way into the court-yard.  A feeling of anger and indignation took
possession of him as he noted the fact.  It was the usual thing, he
thought bitterly—the invariable system of the incitement of the poor and
the ignorant to do the dirty work by those who would instantly desert
them in the hour of danger.

Disgust at what he believed to be treachery on the part of those who had
been mainly instrumental in instigating the peasants to their present
action quickly took the place of the surprise and indignation that Don
Agostino had felt at the way in which the people had suddenly turned
against him.

Without hesitation, and with a demeanor as calm and composed as though
he were mounting the steps of his pulpit, he ascended the double stone
staircase leading from the court-yard to the doors from which he had
issued only a minute or two previously.  The doors were shut and bolted
now.  The servants had fled precipitately at the sight of the
entrance-gates giving way before the assault of the mob, and Don
Agostino found himself alone with an angry and menacing crowd
confronting him, and behind him the great Renaissance palace of Cardinal
Acorari, with its portal barred, and the wooden shutters outside the
windows on the _piano nobile_ already closed by its inmates. He stopped
at the top of the first flight of steps; and, advancing to the stone
balustrade, looked down on the peasants below him.

They were still crowded together round the entrance-gates, and seemed as
though uncertain what their next move should be.  Possibly, too, they
were taken aback at finding themselves within a deserted court-yard,
with closed windows all round them, and nothing but the solitary black
figure of Don Agostino standing in front of the entrance to that portion
of the castle inhabited by the princess and Bianca Acorari.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Don Agostino made a gesture as
though to wave back a group of peasants who, detaching themselves from
the rest, were approaching the flight of steps on which he stood—a
gesture that was almost imperious.

"You have broken your word to me," he cried; "you, and those who have
sent you here and are afraid to come themselves!  You promised that you
would make no move until I returned from the castle—"  Shouts of
"_Abbasso il pretaccio_!  Liar—traitor!" interrupted and drowned his
words.

Don Agostino’s eyes flashed with anger.

"Silence!" he exclaimed.  "And if there is a man among you, let him
stand out and tell me what you mean—what you accuse me of.  Choose your
spokesman.  I am waiting to hear what he has to say."  He folded his
arms and leaned against the balustrade almost indifferently.  His
demeanor was not lost on the crowd, composed of peasants though it was.
Its members fell to talking excitedly among themselves, and presently
one of the younger men came forward.  Don Agostino recognized him as the
speaker at the Caffè Garibaldi that morning, who had advocated no delay
in going to the castle and insisting on seeing Donna Bianca Acorari in
person.

"You ask us what it is we accuse you of!" he exclaimed, in a threatening
voice.  "_Porca Madonna_!"

"There is no necessity to be blasphemous," interrupted Don Agostino,
sternly.

"If it had not been for your promises, and because we believed that you
would not deceive us, we should have been here this morning.  You
persuaded us to delay, because all the time you knew that the soldiers
had been sent for."

"I did not know it," said Don Agostino, in a voice that rang through the
court-yard.  "I swear that I did not know it until I read the telegram
in the paper that you have probably all seen.  Even now I do not know
that the report is true.  In the castle they deny that there has ever
been any idea of sending for troops, and, still more, that they have
been actually sent for.  You accuse me of having deceived you.  I tell
you that until a few minutes ago I have been doing my best to persuade
the princess to give you a hearing.  But other counsels have prevailed,
and I have not succeeded in seeing either her or the Principessina Donna
Bianca.  No—I have deceived you in nothing, but you have been deceived
all the same.  You have been deceived by those who have encouraged you
to come here and commit acts of violence, but who have, nevertheless,
taken good care not to compromise themselves.  Now, my friends, I have
answered your accusations.  What further reasons have you to give for
turning against me, who have never done anything to deserve your want of
confidence?"

Cries of "_È vero!  È vero!_" greeted Don Agostino’s words, and a few
shouts of "_Evviva il parroco!_" were raised from the back of the crowd.

Don Agostino slowly descended the steps, and advanced towards the
foremost group of peasants.

"Listen to me, _ragazzi miei_," he said.  "Be wise and go back to the
_paese_, quietly.  I told you this morning that you would obtain nothing
by violence, and I tell it you again.  There are other means—better
means—of obtaining your rights than by committing wrongs.  Have I ever
deceived you?  I think not.  Did I deceive _you_, Angelo Frassi, when
you were nearly crippled for life, and I sent you to the hospital in
Rome, and you came back cured? Or _you_, Pietro Santucci, when your
mother was dying, and you had not money left in the house to buy a piece
of meat to make her a cup of broth?  _Via, figli miei_, you have called
me some hard names, but I think, all the same, that you will trust me
for a little yet."

Don Agostino paused, and an outburst of cheering came from his audience.
The peasants he had named, who were among the most threatening of the
younger men among the mob, shrunk back shamefaced and abashed.  The
_parroco’s_ appeal was true, and they knew it to be so.  There were few
in the crowd, moreover, who, in some way or another, had not experienced
Don Agostino’s sympathy and generosity.

Almost mechanically they made way for him to pass between their ranks,
and followed him over the debris of the broken gates out on to the
square-paved piazza, in front of the walls and round battlemented towers
flanking the main entrance to the castle.

Don Agostino had just breathed a sigh of relief at the effects of his
appeal, when a band of some fifty or sixty men, accompanied by as many
women and children, rushed into the piazza out of the steep road leading
up to the castle from the town.

"The troops!" they shouted.  "The troops!  They are entering the town
now.  In a few minutes they will be here!"

A howl of rage answered them from the mob of peasants behind and around
Don Agostino.

"_Traditore—traditore! porco d’un prete_!  It was for this you were
waiting—deceiving us with your lies till you knew the soldiers would be
here!  Ah, _vigliacco_!"

A rush was made at him by those nearest, and Don Agostino had just time
to defend himself from a blow dealt with the handle of a broken spade,
the end of which was still covered by the rusty iron ferrule.  His
suspicions were verified now.  The Abbé Roux had lied to him, and when
Don Agostino had seen him glancing every now and again at his watch, he
had been calculating how many minutes might elapse before the appearance
of the troops he had caused to be summoned.  It had been the knowledge
that these troops were in the vicinity that had doubtless given the abbé
courage to refuse to listen to any representations, even from Monsieur
d’Antin, as to the advisability of treating with the peasants.

It had been the suspicion—nay, almost the certainty, that the Abbé Roux
was lying, and that troops had already been requisitioned, which had
made Don Agostino determined if possible to persuade the peasants to
leave the court-yard of the castle.  If the troops should arrive when
the mob was within the walls, the peasants would be caught, as it were,
in a trap, and any additional act of violence on their part, or error of
judgment on the part of the officers of the _pubblica sicurezza_, who,
in accordance with the law, would have to accompany the officer
commanding and call upon him to order the soldiers to charge or fire on
the crowd, might lead to appalling results.

It had been of the safety of his people that Don Agostino had been
thinking, far more than of his own safety, and even now, with the angry
mob shouting execrations and threats upon him for his treachery, he
reproached himself bitterly for having played into the Abbé Roux’s
hands, by delaying his exit from the castle until the peasants had
already commenced their assault.

He had little time to think of this now, however.  It was in vain that
he attempted for a moment to make his voice heard above the din.  The
mob was too angry now, too certain that it had been deceived, to listen
to him a second time, and Don Agostino knew it.

He turned and faced the crowd in silence, and the thought of the irony
of his situation brought a fleeting smile to his lips.  How could the
peasants know that he sympathized with them—that it was not he who had
deceived them, but that he himself had been deceived?

"_Morte—morte al pretaccio!  Morte all ’assassino!_"

Well, death must come some time; and, at any rate, he had tried to do
his duty.  Death, perhaps, would come to him as it had done to his
Master, at the hands of those who knew not what they did.

"_Morte—morte al traditore!_"

A heavy blow struck from behind him fell upon his head, causing him to
reel and totter back.  Don Agostino shut his eyes, and his lips moved
silently.  Surely, death was very near now.  Surely—

Suddenly another voice sounded in his ears.  His name was shouted out
loudly; yes, but in very different accents from those of the peasants
now closing round him.

Don Agostino opened his eyes in time to see two men with raised
reaping-hooks, who were apparently about to strike him a more deadly
blow than the rest, hurled right and left, and the next moment Silvio
Rossano stood by his side.

"Stand back!" Silvio shouted.  "Back, I say, or by God, I will blow the
brains out of the first man who comes within a metre of Don Agostino!"
and as he spoke he covered the nearest peasant with a revolver.

"_Coraggio_, Don Agostino!" he said, quickly, "you are not hurt—no?  In
a minute or two the troops will be here. Ah, I could stay no longer.  I
knew the mob had gone to the castle, and that you were still there.  And
then, on my way here, I met Fontana and his daughter, and they told me
the peasants had turned against you.  When I heard that I ran as hard as
I could—and here I am!"

Don Agostino felt sick and dizzy from the blow he had received.  "You
are just in time, Silvio _mio_," he said. "Another minute, and who knows
whether you would have found me alive?  Oh, but it is not their fault,
the poor people—they think that I knew the troops had been sent for, and
that I meant to deceive them."

The peasants, who had fallen back at Silvio’s unexpected appearance and
at the sight of his revolver, now began to crowd round Don Agostino
again, and once more cries of "_Morte al pretaccio!_" were raised,
coupled with threats against Silvio and curses at his interference.

Suddenly a woman’s voice rose above the uproar.  "Fools!—idiots! Are you
trying to murder your best friend, Don Agostino?  And that other—-do you
know who he is? He is the _fidanzato_ of the Principessina Bianca!"

The voice was Concetta Fontana’s.  Accompanied by her father and Sor
Stefano, she forced her way through the crowd to where Don Agostino and
Silvio were standing.

"Yes," roared out Sor Beppe, "my daughter is right—and you—you are pigs
and beasts, and it is I who say it! Don Agostino knew no more than I did
that the soldiers had been summoned.  _Evviva il fidanzato della
principessina!_"

The effect of Sor Beppe’s intervention was instantaneous, and the mob
took up his cry, while Concetta, after whispering a few words in her
father’s ear, disappeared within the gateway of the castle.

Suddenly a cry arose from the end of the piazza.  "The troops—the
troops!"

The leaders of the peasants shouted to the rest to follow them.  "Back
to the castle!" they cried.  "The soldiers shall find us there!" and the
crowd surged again through the broken-down gates into the court-yard.

"For the love of God, come!" exclaimed Don Agostino to his companions.
"We must put ourselves between them and the soldiers, or who knows what
may happen?  You, Signor Mazza, speak to the peasants—they will listen
to you."  Accompanied by Silvio, Fontana, and Sor Stefano, Don Agostino
hurried to the gateway and entered the court-yard.  Already the mob had
swarmed up the staircase at the opposite end of the court, and the
foremost were attempting to break in the great double doors in the
centre of the _piano nobile_.

They were scarcely inside the court, when the quick tramp of armed men
was heard in the piazza; a sharp word of command re-echoed through the
gateway, and then a long metallic rattle of steel, as a company of
grenadiers and a detachment of infantry fixed bayonets.  A moment
afterwards the _granatieri_ marched through the gateway, the officer in
command of them being accompanied by a delegate of public safety wearing
the tricolor scarf.

The delegate stepped forward, and in the name of the law called upon the
rioters to desist.  A shout of defiance answered his words.  "We go to
see our _padrona!  Evviva la principessina, abbasso gli stranieri!_" and
a volley of blows resounded on the doors at the top of the double flight
of steps.

At this moment the outside shutters of a window in the gallery were
thrown open, and the Abbé Roux appeared at it.

"Signor Delegate," he cried, "in the name of the Principessa di
Montefiano, I call upon you to protect the inhabitants of this castle
from the assault of a disorderly mob. Those men," he added, pointing to
Don Agostino and his companions, "are the ringleaders—they are
responsible for this agitation."

A howl of execration from the mob followed the Abbé Roux’s speech, and
sticks and stones were hurled at the window at which he was standing.

The delegate looked from the abbé to Don Agostino and Silvio Rossano,
who was standing by his side, in some perplexity.

"Your names, _signori_," he said, curtly.

"Agostino Lelli, _parroco_ of Montefiano."

"Silvio Rossano, son of the Senator Rossano."

"_Evviva!  Evviva il fidanzato della nostra principessina!_" shouted the
crowd.

The official looked up to the window again.

"There is surely some mistake—" he began.

"I tell you, Signor Delegate, that there is no mistake," shouted the
Abbé Roux.  "Is this a time to waste words, when in a moment the mob
will be inside the castle?"

The delegate shrugged his shoulders.  Then he turned to Don Agostino and
Silvio.  "Signori," he said, courteously, "I must ask you to consider
yourselves under arrest pending further inquiries.  Have the kindness to
place yourselves behind the troops!"

The peasants began to leave the staircase and flock into the body of the
court-yard.

"_Morte al prele straniero!_" they shouted.  "We will have no arrests!"

The delegate made a sign to the officer in command of the grenadiers,
and immediately the three bugle-calls which the law ordains shall
precede any action on the part of troops against the public resounded
through the court-yard.

Moved partly by rage and partly by fear, the peasants made another rush
towards the staircase.  The delegate called upon the officer in command
to order his men to charge.  The captain hesitated.

"Signor Delegate," he said, "a little patience; it maybe that my men may
be saved from having to perform a disagreeable duty."

Don Agostino went up to him.  "You are right, Signor Capitano.  For
God’s sake, let us have patience!  Let me see if I can make them hear
reason—ah!"

"_Cristo!_" swore the officer, drawing in his breath sharply.

A sudden silence had fallen on the mob, and those who were half-way up
the stone staircase paused and stood still.

Then, Sor Stefano’s voice rang out:

"_Ecco la principessina!  Evviva la nostra padrona!_"

A great shout answered him.  The doors at the top of the staircase had
opened, and in the centre of them stood Bianca Acorari.  She remained
for a moment or two looking steadily down on the astonished crowd of
peasants and the double line of _granatieri_ drawn up at the back of the
court-yard.  Then, raising her head proudly, she moved forward and
rested her hands on the stone balustrade.  It was perhaps no wonder that
a silence had fallen on the crowd; that the captain of _granatieri_ had
sworn, and that one of his men had let his musket fall with a clatter to
the ground.  The sudden appearance of a young girl, simply dressed in
white, with the light falling on her tawny gold hair, and her creamy
complexion flushed with a glow of excitement, her every movement full of
high-bred grace and dignity, among a mob of angry peasants, formed a
picture that certainly could not be seen every day.

"They tell me that you want to see me—to speak with me.  Well, I am here
to speak with you.  I am Bianca Acorari."

The low, clear voice could be heard all over the court-yard.  There was
no tremor of fear, no trace of excitement, even, in its tones.  For a
few moments soldiers and peasants gazed, as though spellbound, at the
girlish figure standing alone upon the steps against the background
formed by the columns and heavy mouldings of the portico. Then the
silence which succeeded her appearance was broken; and when she ceased
speaking, the peasants greeted her with an outburst of cheering, in
which—did discipline permit—the soldiers looked as though they would
willingly join.

If the delegate representing the law had been perplexed before, he was
fairly bewildered now at the turn events had taken.  The message
received that morning from the _sindaco_ of Montefiano had been urgent,
and the instant despatch of an armed force had been requested by that
official for the purpose both of maintaining public order and of
protecting the Princess Montefiano and Donna Bianca Acorari from
violence at the hands of their unruly tenants.

The _delegato_, indeed, was about to demand an explanation from the
_avvocato_ Ricci, who had waited for the arrival of the troops before
venturing to show himself among the mob in his official capacity as
_syndic_, when the Abbé Roux, livid with rage and excitement, rushed
from the doorway down the steps to where Bianca was standing.

"Signor Delegato," he cried, "once more I request that the castle be
cleared of these rioters.  In the name of her excellency, the princess—"
A woman’s voice interrupted him.

"_Eccolo—Ecco l’Abate!  Fuori gli stranieri!_"

A cry of execration rose from the crowd, and in an instant its passions
were kindled afresh.  A sudden rush was made for the staircase, but the
captain in command of the _granatieri_ had watched his opportunity, and
by a rapid movement his men had placed themselves between the mob and
its base.  At the same time a detachment of the infantry left outside
the court-yard filed through the gateway and occupied the space in the
rear of the mob.

The peasants, as Don Agostino had foreseen would probably be the case
were they to be surprised in the court-yard by the troops, were trapped;
and it was the discovery that they were so which redoubled their fury
against the foreign priest.  Uttering a volley of curses and
blasphemies, a group of the younger men attempted to force their way to
the staircase.  For the second time the bugle sounded the three warning
blasts.  At that instant both Silvio and Don Agostino hurled themselves
against the foremost of the peasants who were struggling to break
through the ranks of the _granatieri_.  They tried to force them back,
imploring them at the same time not to oblige the troops to use their
weapons.

The delegate misunderstood the action of the two men whom he had a few
minutes previously told to consider themselves as under arrest, and a
further furious appeal from the Abbé Roux did not help him to keep his
head or his temper.  He turned angrily to the officer in command, and
ordered him to give the word to his men to charge the crowd.

"Yes—yes!" shouted the abbé.  "Drive the _canaglia_ out of the
court-yard!  Donna Bianca Acorari, Signor Delegate, has no business to
be here.  She is a minor, and has no authority.  She is being deceived
by certain adventurers who have incited the peasants to revolt.  You,
Signor Capitano, give the order to charge, as the law requires you to
do."

The delegate stamped his foot angrily.  "In the name of the law, charge
the crowd!" he shouted to the soldiers.

"No!  I, Bianca Acorari, Principessina di Montefiano, forbid it!  I will
not have the people—my people—touched."

The Abbé Roux attempted to restrain her; but, breaking away from him,
Bianca rushed down the steps.  The soldiers mechanically made way for
her to pass between their ranks; and erect, defiant, she stood between
the troops and the excited mob confronting them.

The delegate, like the majority of the officials of Italian bureaucracy,
was extremely sensitive in any thing which touched his official dignity
or prerogative.

"_Signorina_," he exclaimed, "you will have the goodness to retire.  We
are not here to play a comedy.  Signor Capitano, order your men to
dislodge the mob from the court-yard."

Bianca turned to the officer, her eyes flashing with anger.

"_Signore_," she said, "your men are not assassins, and you—you will not
give that order!  The people have come to see me—to speak with me.  Who
has any right, excepting myself, to turn them away?  That priest"—and
she pointed with a scornful gesture to the Abbé Roux standing on the
steps above—"has lied!"

The officer lowered the point of his sword.

"Signor Delegato," he said, "I protest.  My men shall not charge."

"You are here to obey my orders," shouted the _delegato_, angrily.  "I
shall report you to headquarters."

"I undertake the responsibility of disobeying your orders," returned the
officer, coldly.  "My men shall not move.  Signorina," he added, "you
need not be afraid. As you say, we are not assassins."

A murmur ran through the ranks of the _granatieri_. Every man’s eyes
were fixed upon Bianca Acorari.

At this moment Sor Beppe forced his way through the struggling crowd and
approached Bianca.

"Excellenza," he said, quickly, "speak to the people. They will do what
you tell them—you will see."

In the mean time, neither Silvio nor Don Agostino had seen Bianca’s
descent into the court-yard, so occupied had they been in reasoning and
almost fighting with the leaders of that faction of the peasants which
was in favor of trying to force a passage through the cordon of troops
in front of the staircase.

In a stentorian voice Fontana shouted out that the Principessina Bianca
wished to speak to the people, and Sor Stefano seconded his efforts to
obtain silence.  Bianca moved slowly forward, until she was within a few
paces of her lover and Don Agostino.

"_Evviva la nostra principessina_!  Speak, speak!" shouted those nearest
to her.

Bianca smiled.  "I have little to say," she said, simply, "but I have
heard that things have been done in my name that are unjust things.  You
have come here to tell my step-mother, the princess, this; is it not so?
Well, I shall tell her; and I, Bianca Acorari, promise you that there
shall be no increase in the rents, and that a faithful servant of Casa
Acorari, who has been dismissed because he would not consent to
injustice being done in my step-mother’s and my name, shall be—no—is
recalled to his post," and she turned to Sor Beppe with a quiet smile.

A dead silence greeted her words.  The peasants forgot to cheer her.
They could only look at her, open-mouthed and wonder-struck.  Don
Agostino started forward and gazed at her almost wildly for a moment.
Then, staggering back, and placing his hands to his head, he seemed as
though he would have fallen to the ground had it not been for Silvio,
who supported him in his arms.

"Listen," Bianca continued, tranquilly, "for I do not wish you, the
people of Montefiano, to think what is not the truth.  My step-mother is
not responsible for what has been done, any more than I am responsible.
She is good, and she would never have consented to anything which was
unjust.  But she has been deceived—yes—deceived by that priest in whom
she trusted, who summoned the soldiers here, and who, as you have heard,
has called upon them to charge you with their bayonets."

An outburst of hisses and groans followed her last words, and once more
the crowd made a movement as though to force its way to the staircase.
The soldiers closed up, lowering their muskets with fixed bayonets to
the charge.

Silvio Rossano and Don Agostino, who by a supreme effort over himself
had regained his composure, sprang to Bianca’s side.  The color mounted
to her face as she looked at Silvio, and their eyes met.  Then she
turned from him to the crowd that was swaying like the swell of the sea
before a coming storm.

"No!" she called out, imperatively.  "There must be no more violence.
You say that you will do what I ask you—that you trust me?  Well, I ask
you to go quietly to your homes, secure in having my word that the
injustices committed by the Abate Roux will be removed."

"She speaks well!  _Evviva la Principessina Bianca!_" shouted the crowd.

"Yes—long live the Principessina Bianca, and long live her betrothed
husband, Signor Silvio Rossano!  _Evviva_! _Evviva_!" cried Sor Beppe.

His words were taken up with an almost frenzied enthusiasm.  It was
evident that the peasants had been waiting for some allusion to the
_principessina’s_ own troubles, now that they had obtained their desire
and had heard from her lips that she disapproved of what had been done
in the princess’s and her name.  Concetta Fontana’s reports had indeed
been cleverly circulated, with a view of securing to Bianca the sympathy
and support of the people.  The women of the _paese_ had poured into the
ears of their husbands, brothers, and lovers such stories of the
_principessina’s_ unhappiness at being forbidden to marry the man she
loved, and at the prospect of being sacrificed to the lust of an old man
and the dishonest schemes of the Abbé Roux, as had aroused local
indignation to the highest pitch.  At the same time, Bianca’s defence of
the princess and her decided refusal to allow her step-mother to be
blamed, had only coincided with the sentiments of the large majority of
her hearers.  Public opinion in Montefiano had long ago exonerated the
princess from any other offence than that of being a foreigner who
allowed her own compatriots to interfere in the management of her
step-daughter’s affairs.

The sight of Silvio Rossano standing by their young _padrona_, who had
shown them that she could fearlessly take the part of her people against
injustice, was all that had been needed to evoke an unmistakable
demonstration that, whatever the princess and her advisers might do, the
Montefianesi approved of Bianca’s choice.

"_Evviva i fidanzati!_" rang from all parts of the court-yard, while
there were also not wanting premature shouts of "_Evviva gli sposi!_"

Bianca blushed scarlet.  She stood for a moment hesitating and
uncertain, almost unnerved by the acclamations of the crowd of peasants
whose threatening attitude a few minutes before had only served to
kindle her spirit and rouse her courage.  Then, shyly, she turned to
Silvio.

"Speak to them," she said, pushing him gently forward.

Silvio was about to obey her, when a sudden movement among the soldiers
at the foot of the staircase arrested the attention of the crowd.  At a
word from their officer, the ranks of the _granatieri_ parted, and
Princess Montefiano approached her step-daughter.  Monsieur d’Antin was
by her side, and the Abbé Roux followed immediately behind them.

Bianca rushed up to her step-mother.  "Ah," she exclaimed, quickly, in a
low voice, "I am glad you have come!  See, the people are quite quiet
now.  There is no more danger.  You must not blame me; I was told that
nothing would happen if I came and spoke to them, but that if I did not,
then they would be more angry than ever, and the troops would charge—and
then—" and she shuddered visibly.

The princess looked at her, and apparently was unable to summon her
words for a moment or two.  That she was not suffering from fear was
evident, for she gazed at the crowd of peasants almost indifferently.

"You are angry," said Bianca.  "I am sorry; but I did what I
thought—what I was told—was for the best.  After all," she added, "they
are my father’s people, and they wanted me.  Surely it was better to try
to calm them than to allow a fight with the soldiers!  Why should you be
angry if I have prevented that?"

"Hush, Bianca, hush!" exclaimed Princess Montefiano. "I am not angry.
You did right.  I would have come before, but Monsieur l’Abbé Roux
persuaded me not to show myself, and until five minutes ago I believed
you were in your own room.  I have seen and heard everything during the
last few minutes from the gallery, but I do not quite understand.  Now I
have come to learn the truth.  Monsignor Lelli," she continued, raising
her voice so as to be heard by the crowd, which was now dumb from wonder
and curiosity, "you came to see me this afternoon, and I was advised not
to receive you.  Will you now say what you would have said had I not
listened to that advice?"

The Abbé Roux started forward, and was about to speak, but Princess
Montefiano waved him back.

"No, monsieur," she said, with dignity, "the people shall hear you
afterwards.  _Monsignore_," she added, again addressing Don Agostino,
"will you have the kindness to explain to me your reasons for wishing to
see me this afternoon?"

Don Agostino bowed to her.  "My object in asking you to see me,
principessa, was to communicate to you personally the requests which
would have been made by the deputation you declined to receive.  I had,
it is true, another and even more pressing object.  This was to interest
you to prevent the despatch of troops to Montefiano."

The princess did not reply for a moment.  Then she said, slowly and
emphatically:

"The requests of the deputation which I was advised not to receive,
_monsignore_, have been answered by Donna Bianca Acorari.  She has
promised that certain acts of injustice which have been committed in my
name and in hers shall be remedied, and I shall see that her promise is
duly carried into effect."

A murmur of applause interrupted her.  Monsieur d’Antin, standing a
little apart, watched his sister critically.

"_Tiens!_" he said to himself, "Jeanne is a capable woman—more capable
than I imagined.  She can rise to a situation.  If she would only think
less of the next world and more of this, she would be more capable
still."

"As to the despatch of troops to Montefiano," the princess added, "until
five minutes ago I was in ignorance that any such step had been taken.
The requisition for military intervention was made without consulting me
and without my authority."

"_Evviva la principessina!  Viva l’esercito!_" shouted the peasants.

"_Signori_," Princess Montefiano continued, addressing the delegate and
the officer in command of the _granatieri_, "perhaps you will be so good
as to tell me at whose request you are here?"

The delegate of public safety bustled forward, full of the consciousness
of his own importance and dignity.

"I am here at the request of the _sindaco_ of Montefiano," he replied,
"to enforce order and respect for the law in this commune."

The princess turned from him abruptly.

"Signor Commandante," she said to the military officer, "I thank you for
your discretion in refusing to allow the people to be attacked at the
bidding of a civilian.  My brother has told me of your declining to
order your men to charge the crowd.  You may be sure that your conduct
will be represented in its proper light to the authorities. In the mean
time, perhaps you will tell me who summoned you to Montefiano?"

The captain shrugged his shoulders.  "Your _sindaco_, Signora
Principessa, telegraphed to the military authorities at Civitacastellana
for troops to be despatched at once. An official of the _pubblica
sicurezza_ accompanied me, according to the requirements of the law in
these circumstances, and the law places me at the Signor Delegate’s
orders for the time being.  Nevertheless, an officer is allowed to use a
certain discretion as to carrying out any orders that may in his opinion
be inopportune—and I merely exercised that discretion.  I may add," he
continued, with a glance of admiration at Bianca, "that had it not been
for the timely arrival of Donna Bianca Acorari on the scene, and her
courage in facing the crowd at a very critical moment, I should probably
have been reluctantly compelled to order my men to clear the court-yard.
We soldiers do not like that kind of work, Signora Principessa; and both
I and my men are grateful to Donna Bianca for having spared us the
unpleasant duty of performing it."

Princess Montefiano looked round her.

"Where is the _sindaco_?" she asked.

A movement took place in the rear of the crowd, and presently the
_avvocato_ Ricci advanced into the open space.

"I understand, Signor Sindaco," the princess said, "that the troops are
here at your request.  With the arrangements of the municipal
authorities regarding the town of Montefiano I have nothing to do.  But
within the castle of Montefiano I am mistress.  Why was I not informed
that troops had been sent for?"

Monsieur d’Antin rubbed his hands together.  "Jeanne is superb," he said
to himself, "absolutely superb!"

The _sindaco_ looked petrified with astonishment.

"But," he stammered, "it was after consultation with the Signor Abate
that I made the official application for troops to be sent.  The abate
assured me that he was acting in your _eccellenza’s_ name.  He declared
it to be your wish that troops should at once be despatched to protect
the castle."

"Monsieur l’Abbé," said the princess, quietly, "is this true?"

"Madame," replied the Abbé Roux, sullenly, "I have already explained
that if I did not inform you of the fact that I had applied for military
protection against a possible assault on the castle by the peasants, it
was because I did not wish unduly to alarm you and the inmates of the
castle. I believed that I had full authority to act as I might think
best in this as in other matters."

"You were mistaken, monsieur," the princess returned, coldly.  "This
matter," she continued, "has been from the beginning misrepresented to
me.  What proof have I that in other matters, also, I have not been
deceived?"

"Your excellency has been deceived all down the line!" shouted a voice
from the crowd.  "It is I, Stefano Mazza, who say it!"

Princess Montefiano turned to Don Agostino.

"Stefano Mazza?" she repeated, inquiringly.

Sor Stefano came forward.

"Your excellency, perhaps, is not aware that the Abate Roux is the
lessee of the rents of the property belonging to Casa Acorari at
Montefiano," he said.

The princess started violently, and Monsieur d’Antin drew nearer to
where she was standing.

"What does this mean?" she exclaimed.

"It means, madame, that the man is a liar!" cried the abbé, hoarsely.

Sor Stefano laughed.  "If her excellency desires it," he said, "I will
this evening put positive proofs into her hands that it is as I say.
_Sicuro!_ the _affittuario_ of these lands is nominally one Signor
Oreste Francavalli; is it not so, _eccellenza_?  But the Signor Oreste
Francavalli is a poor devil of a bankrupt _mercante di campagna_, who
has not a lira left in the world, as I know to my cost, and the real
holder of the rents is at this moment the Abate Roux.  It is not
surprising, _eccellenza_, that the _abate_ should have wished to
increase his profits."




                                *XXXIII*


Princess Montefiano seemed to be almost stunned by Sor Stefano’s
assertion.  Once or twice she tried to speak, but appeared to be unable
to collect her words.

The Abbé Roux turned furiously to Stefano Mazza.  "It is a lie!" he
exclaimed.  "You cannot prove your assertion.  What have I to do with
this Oreste Francavalli?"

Sor Stefano laughed scornfully.

"_Mah!_" he returned.  "It seems that you have a great deal to do with
him, Signor Abate.  And I, too, have had a great deal to do with him, as
I shall be happy to prove to you from certain documents which I do not
carry about with me but which I can produce for her excellency’s
inspection, should she care to see them.  _Sicuro_! Francavalli is an
old acquaintance of mine—an old client, I may say.  You are probably
unaware, Signor Abate, that I found myself reluctantly obliged to make
him a bankrupt.  It was naturally, therefore, somewhat of a surprise to
me to learn that Signor Francavalli had become the new lessee of the
_latifondo_ of Montefiano.  A man does not offer himself as
_affittuario_ of a large property unless he has some capital at his
back—or, if he does do so, his offer is not usually accepted by the
administration of that property. It was news to me—interesting news—that
Francavalli had capital; for he had certainly not discharged all his
liabilities to his creditors, of whom I am not the least important. Do
you understand, Signor Abate?"

"It is untrue," the abbé repeated.  "Francavalli has never been a
bankrupt."

"Ah, no?" returned Stefano Mazza, dryly.  "But I tell you that he is a
bankrupt—and I will tell you something more, Signor Abate.  If
Francavalli were the real _affittuario_ of these lands, then he would be
a fraudulent bankrupt, for he would be in possession of capital and of
income which would belong to his creditors.  But he is not the real
lessee of the lands belonging to Casa Acorari."

"And who says that he is not so?" asked the abbé.

Sor Stefano shrugged his shoulders.  "He says so himself," he replied.
"Or, rather," he added, "I happen to possess a document signed by him,
declaring that he is merely the nominal lessee; that in consideration of
a sum of money advanced by you, Signor Abate, he allowed you to use his
name, but that the real lessee is yourself.  Had it not been for
Francavalli’s readiness to sign the said document, I should have been
compelled to proceed against him for fraud.  _Sicuro!_ you have been
very cautious, Signor Abate, but not quite cautious enough.  If you had
happened to consult me, I could have told you that in selecting the
Signor Oreste Francavalli as your confidant, you had made a bad choice;"
and Sor Stefano laughed dryly.

For a moment the Abbé Roux remained silent.  He was evidently unable to
refute Sor Stefano’s words, spoken as they were with the calm conviction
of a man who knew that he was in a position to substantiate them.  Then
he turned to Princess Montefiano.

"Madame," he said, "it is true that, in a sense, I am the purchaser of
the right to take the rents of these lands; and also that, as I did not
wish to appear as the lessee, I arranged with Francavalli that the
affair should be carried out in his name.  You are aware, madame, that a
larger annual sum is now paid by the lessee than has hitherto been the
case, and that the half-yearly payments of this sum have been punctually
made.  This being so, I do not see that the fact of my being the real
lessee instead of Francavalli or another need concern anybody but
myself.  You, Madame la Princesse, are better off in consequence of my
having taken over the lease; and when I told you that a friend of mine
was disposed to pay more for the lease of the rents than the lessee
whose tenure was just expiring, I only spoke the truth."

Princess Montefiano hesitated, and then turned to her brother with a
distressed look on her face.  "It is true," she said, in a low voice.
"Monsieur l’Abbé advised me not to give the late _affittuario_ a renewal
of his term, promising me that he would find a more satisfactory lessee.
As he says, we have been better off since the change, and I do not see—"

"_Eccellenza_," interrupted Sor Stefano, "there is more to say, and with
your permission, it had better be said now! The peasants are here not
only to obtain justice for themselves, but to support their _padrona_,
the Principessina Bianca—is it not so?" he added, turning towards the
crowd.

"Yes—yes!  Long live the Principessina Bianca!" resounded from all parts
of the court-yard.  Princess Montefiano bit her lip.

"What does he mean?" she asked, abruptly, of Don Agostino.

"_Evviva la principessina!  Evviva!  Abbasso gli stranieri!  Evviva il
fidanzato della principessina!_"

The shouts were raised again and again, and among them were others, in
which Baron d’Antin was alluded to in terms neither delicate nor
complimentary.

The princess flushed with anger.

"_Monsignore_," she exclaimed, turning again to Don Agostino, "am I to
understand that you, the _parroco_ of Montefiano, encourage your people
to insult my brother and myself?  I insist upon an explanation, but I
will not listen to it from peasants—"

"_Signora principessa_," said Don Agostino, quietly, "you are quite
right.  Explanations are necessary, but not here—not in the presence of
the crowd.  Let the Signor Delegato here dismiss the troops, and at a
word from you and from Donna Bianca Acorari, the people will disperse
quietly. Afterwards," he added, "I shall be entirely at your service to
give what explanations I can of the attitude of the peasants."

Princess Montefiano considered for a moment.  "So be it, _monsignore_,"
she said, at length; and then, turning to the delegate, she added:
"_Signore_, as I observed a few minutes ago, I have no right to
interfere with the arrangements of the authorities outside these walls;
but inside the castle of Montefiano I am mistress, and I beg of you to
order the troops to retire.  We, I and my step-daughter, have no need of
their protection.  We are among our own people."

The officer hesitated and looked at Monsieur d’Antin, who had preserved
an imperturbable demeanor of good-humor even during the uncomplimentary
epithets cast at him by the crowd—epithets, indeed, that he had scarcely
understood so well as did the princess.

"My sister is right, _signore_," Monsieur d’Antin observed, tranquilly.
"If there are explanations to be made, it is scarcely necessary that the
whole population of Montefiano, a company of grenadiers and a detachment
of infantry should assist at them.  That gentleman," he continued,
indicating Sor Stefano, "appears to have considerable authority with the
peasants.  No doubt he will persuade them to leave the castle quietly,
now that they have received assurances that their grievances will be
removed."

Sor Stefano turned to the crowd.  "Her excellency, the princess, has
requested the troops to retire," he said, in a loud voice.  "Since she
and the _principessina_ are here at Montefiano they need no soldiers to
protect them.  Therefore you will leave the castle quietly and go to
your own homes."

"We will go if the _principessina_ and her _fidanzato_ tell us to go!"
shouted a voice from among the group of younger men.

Princess Montefiano drew back suddenly, and her face flushed.  For a
moment she seemed as if about to resent so obvious an affront to her
position and authority.

Monsieur d’Antin advanced towards her.  "Jeanne," he said, in a low
voice, "I think you would be wise to allow Bianca to complete her office
of peacemaker.  The peasants evidently are ready to listen to her, and
to do what she tells them.  Is it not so, _monsignore_?" he added,
turning to Don Agostino.

Don Agostino glanced at him with some surprise, and the Abbé Roux’s
countenance exhibited both astonishment and anger.

"You are quite right, monsieur," Don Agostino replied. "The people will
listen to Donna Bianca, and in these cases it is generally prudent to
seize every opportunity of bringing matters to a peaceful solution.
Moreover," he continued, "if I may presume to say so, the fact of Madame
la Princesse putting Donna Bianca forward will have an excellent
effect."

Princess Montefiano looked at him quickly.  "You mean—" she began, and
then she paused, abruptly.

"Madame," Don Agostino said, returning her look and making a slight
gesture of apology, "I mean that your encouraging Donna Bianca Acorari
to take her rightful position before the people of Montefiano will
remove many misunderstandings and stop much idle gossip."

The princess gazed inquiringly at him for a moment, then she turned to
Bianca.  "Speak to them, _figlia mia_," she said, quietly.

Bianca shook her head.  "No," she replied; "now that you are here, it is
for you to speak to them.  I came because I knew—"

"You knew what?" interrupted Princess Montefiano.

"Oh, that Monsieur l’Abbé had told you nothing—that you did not even
know the soldiers had been sent for."

"_La principessina_!" shouted the crowd, impatient with a colloquy in a
language it could not understand.  "_Vogliamo sentire la
principessina_!"

Princess Montefiano took her step-daughter by the hand and led her
forward.  "Speak to them," she repeated, in Italian; and as she spoke,
she drew back, leaving Bianca standing in front of her.

The words and the action accompanying them met with an immediate
response from the peasants.  _"Evviva la principessa!_" they cried, and
then pressed forward until Bianca was almost surrounded.

"Go," she said, in a quiet, clear voice—"go back to your homes, now you
know that neither my step-mother nor I will allow any injustice to be
done to our people. _Signori_," she added, addressing the delegate and
the officer in command of the _granatieri_, "you will order the troops
to retire, is it not true?  You see well that we are in no danger here
at Montefiano."

An outburst of approval drowned the remainder of her words, and with a
shrug of the shoulders the civil official turned to the officer in
command and bade him give the order to his men to leave the court-yard.

The peasants fell back to allow the troops to pass through their midst,
and cheered the captain of the _granatieri_ as he marched through the
gateway at the head of his company.

As the last of the soldiers disappeared under the archway, the majority
of the peasants prepared tranquilly to follow them.  A certain number
lingered, however, talking eagerly among themselves, and presently
shouts of "_Evviva i fidanzati!_" were raised, succeeded by cries of
"_Evviva Rossano!_"

Princess Montefiano turned hastily, and a look of astonishment and anger
crossed her face.

"You see, madame," said the Abbé Roux, quickly, "the whole affair has
another scope than that which you have been made to believe to be the
case.  There is the true ringleader of the peasants"—and he pointed
scornfully to Silvio Rossano, who was urging the remainder of the crowd
to leave the castle without making any further demonstration.

The princess did not answer, but she looked intently at Silvio for a
moment.  Then she turned to her brother. "Philippe," she said, coldly,
"you will have the goodness to inform Signor Rossano that his presence
here is unwelcome, and that he must leave the castle with—his friends!"

Bianca started forward.  "No," she exclaimed, abruptly; "if you send
that message, Monsieur d’Antin shall not be the bearer of it!  It is an
insult, a—"

Princess Montefiano waved her back indignantly.  "Have you no shame?"
she said, rapidly, beneath her breath.

Monsieur d’Antin smiled.  "Bianca is right, Jeanne," he observed.  "I
prefer not to be the bearer of your message. No doubt Monsieur l’Abbé
will undertake to deliver it," and then he laughed gently.

Bianca looked at him for a moment in evident perplexity, and then
quickly averted her gaze.

"Wait," she said to her step-mother, earnestly—"wait till you have
heard—till you know."

Princess Montefiano gave a gesture of impatience.

"I think you are all mad!" she exclaimed, angrily. "And in this, at
least, I will be obeyed.  Philippe—"

Don Agostino interrupted her.

"Madame," he said, "let me entreat you not to insist. Donna Bianca is
right—it would be an insult.  When you have heard all Donna Bianca has
to tell you—all that others have to tell you—you will understand better,
and perhaps you will form a different opinion.  But this is not the
place for explanations.  It is not necessary to discuss a scandal in
public."

"How, _monsignore_, a scandal!" exclaimed Princess Montefiano,
indignantly.

"I repeat it, madame—a scandal," returned Don Agostino, looking at the
Abbé Roux and Monsieur d’Antin steadily.  "Donna Bianca Acorari and
yourself have been the victims of a dishonorable intrigue.  Ah, I am not
afraid to use the expression, for I can prove my words."

"But you may be mistaken, _monsignore_—you may be mistaken," observed
Monsieur d’Antin, airily, gently rubbing his hands as he spoke.

"If I am so, monsieur, it is for you and the Abbé Roux to prove it,"
returned Don Agostino, coldly.

"Ah, as to that," Monsieur d’Antin said, composedly, "I can only speak
for myself.  Monsieur l’Abbé Roux must make his own defence.  I am not
responsible for his actions."

The abbé’s face grew livid.

"What do you mean?" he exclaimed, hoarsely.  "Do you mean to say that
your honor is less attacked than mine by this disgraced priest?"

"Honor?" repeated Monsieur d’Antin; "honor, Monsieur l’Abbé?  Oh, la,
la!  Monsignor Lelli is right, Jeanne," he continued.  "This is not the
place for explanations. I would suggest retiring in-doors."

The princess looked from one to the other.  "I do not understand," she
said, at length, "but if I am to hear of more deceptions—more abuses of
my trust and confidence—this is certainly not the moment to discuss
them.  Come, Bianca!  _Monsignore_," she continued, "you will doubtless
explain to me your words in the presence of Monsieur l’Abbé Roux and my
brother."

Don Agostino bowed.  "I desire nothing better, madame," he said, and
then he paused and glanced at Silvio. "I must ask that Signor Rossano
may also be present," he added, "since what I and others have to say
concerns him nearly, and it is only fair to him and to Donna Bianca that
he should hear it."

The princess gave a gesture of dissent.

"No," she replied, "Signor Rossano is a stranger.  I cannot admit that
he is in any way concerned with my step-daughter’s affairs or with my
own."

Don Agostino hesitated for a moment.  Then he said, quietly: "I cannot
press the subject, madame.  It is possible, however, that you may change
your opinion."

"When I do so, I will send for Signor Rossano," returned Princess
Montefiano, obdurately.  "Come, Bianca," she repeated, "we will hear
what Monsignor Lelli has to say."

The court-yard was by this time nearly empty.  Fontana and Sor Stefano,
together with a few of the older and more prominent tenants, alone
remained.  Princess Montefiano turned away, and, accompanied by Bianca,
who, now that she had played her part, seemed to be overcome by a
nervous shyness, slowly ascended the flight of steps leading up to the
portico of the _piano nobile_.  Monsieur d’Antin and the Abbé Roux
followed them in silence, but Don Agostino lingered for a moment.

Approaching Silvio, who was standing apart, he said to him, hurriedly:
"Do not go away, _figlio mio_, you may be wanted to plead your own
cause."

And without waiting to offer any further explanations, he followed the
princess and the others into the castle.




                                *XXXIV*


Of those who accompanied Princess Montefiano into one of the
drawing-rooms on the _piano nobile_ of the castle, Monsieur d’Antin
certainly appeared to be the least embarrassed.  Throughout the crisis
which had just been overcome he had preserved an imperturbable air of
composure, and almost, indeed, of indifference.  The Abbé Roux glanced
at his confederate every now and then with an expression at once of
bewilderment and resentment on his countenance.  Nevertheless, to judge
by his demeanor, Monsieur d’Antin appeared to be completely at his ease,
and even, in a quiet way, to be enjoying the situation in the
development of which he found himself called upon to assist.

"If you have no objection, my dear Jeanne," he observed airily, to his
sister, "I will smoke.  It calms the nerves."  And, producing his case,
he proceeded to light a cigarette in a leisurely and deliberate manner.

Monsieur d’Antin’s action seemed to break the spell of embarrassment
that had fallen upon those around him. The princess, it was true, had
already shown herself to be no longer the weak, pliable individual that
even her brother had been accustomed to consider her.  The suspicion,
now almost a conviction, that she had been deceived, that her authority
had been exploited and undermined by the person in whom she had placed
all her confidence and reliance, appeared to have had the effect of
arousing in Princess Montefiano that spirit of imperiousness which in
reality was inherent in her nature, as it has almost invariably been in
that of the deeply religious of both sexes and of all creeds—being,
after all, but a form of intellectual vanity wearing the garb of
holiness.  To say the truth, Monsieur d’Antin had been not a little
surprised at the change in his sister’s attitude.  He had expected that
she would altogether decline to listen to any evidence that should tell
against the Abbé Roux.  He had not quite understood that great as was
the glamour of the priesthood in his sister’s eyes, her own authority
and power were yet greater, and that she would not readily condone any
action tending to infringe or diminish them.

Moreover, Baron d’Antin had not fully realized how strong was Princess
Montefiano’s sense of her duty towards her husband’s child, or how
genuine was her desire fully to act up to that sense.  He had always
regarded Jeanne’s marriage as one of those desperate remedies which
single women of a certain age were apt to take as a palliative for evils
not invariably of a physical nature; and, being quite aware that his
sister had very little real affection for her step-daughter, he had
often wondered whether Bianca’s existence must not be, as it were,
something of a thorn in the flesh.

But if Monsieur d’Antin was surprised at his sister’s change of
attitude, he was still more astonished at the blunder committed by the
Abbé Roux in basing his schemes to enrich himself at Bianca Acorari’s
expense on so unsound a foundation.  He had always taken it for granted
that the Abbé Roux was feathering his own nest, but he had never
troubled himself to ascertain the details of the process adopted by that
ecclesiastic, though he was convinced that in some way or another the
abbé had succeeded in making money out of his position in the Montefiano
household.  Indeed, Monsieur l’Abbé had not attempted to deny that Donna
Bianca’s marriage to a stranger would not at all suit the objects he had
in view.  Monsieur d’Antin was perfectly aware that he was dealing with
a rogue—but he had at least given the abbé the credit of being a clever
rogue, though perhaps not quite as clever as himself. He certainly would
not have believed that the priest would have allowed himself to be
outwitted, as he evidently had been outwitted, by a bankrupt _mercante
di campagna_, to whom he had been presumably paying a commission for the
use of his name.  This was a folly and an irretrievable blunder; and
Monsieur d’Antin, who was certainly not lacking in astuteness, on
hearing Stefano Mazza’s confident assertions, had at once realized that
the game had reached the stage of _rien ne va plus_.  If he were to
continue to maintain friendly relations with Jeanne—and it certainly
would not be to his advantage that these relations should cease—he must
walk warily.  And the Abbé Roux?  Well, the Abbé Roux must pay the
penalty usually inflicted upon the unsuccessful—he must be disowned.

To be sure, he would have liked to possess Bianca; but, as Monsieur
d’Antin had told himself more than once lately, this was obviously
impossible of attainment.  He was conscious of being no match for the
girl’s quiet, determined will, and he dared not make any second attempt
to force his passion upon her.  No, it would be better, more diplomatic,
to retire gracefully from the contest while there was yet time; and the
present moment surely afforded opportunity for a man of ready resource
to do so.

In the mean while, Princess Montefiano had been the object of a keener
observation than that of Monsieur d’Antin.  Don Agostino had noted every
expression of her countenance, every inflection of her voice, almost
every movement of her person since she had descended into the
court-yard.  He had marked the succession of feelings called forth by
the discovery that she had been deceived where she had most trusted; he
had followed the struggle between her sense of justice, her wounded
pride, her disgust and mortification at finding that her confidence had
been abused by one whose sacred calling had been used as a means whereby
to exploit it.  And Don Agostino, far from blaming her former weakness,
had sympathized with her in his heart, for he felt that he understood
all she was suffering, every phase of her trial.  Perhaps it had been
some sense of this silent sympathy that had made Princess Montefiano
more than once turn to him as though intuitively seeking the aid of the
man she had so short a time before refused to receive.  If Monsieur
d’Antin had found his sister’s attitude when brought face to face with
her difficulties superb, as he had expressed it, Don Agostino had been
scarcely less struck by her courage and unexpected assumption of
dignity; and he was fully able to appreciate both the one and the other.
It was clear to him that there was nothing mean about Princess
Montefiano, and that, once persuaded that wrong had been done, she would
right it at whatever cost to her own feelings.  Indeed, Don Agostino was
fain to admit that both the princess and Monsieur d’Antin showed _sang
de race_ in a difficult and embarrassing situation.  Nevertheless, he
felt himself entirely unable to account for Monsieur d’Antin’s apparent
composure and indifference, knowing, as he now did, of the pact existing
between him and the Abbé Roux, whereby Bianca Acorari was, if possible,
to be sacrificed.

Don Agostino’s reflections were disturbed by the princess addressing
him.

"_Monsignore_," she said, quietly, "we can now discuss, in private,
matters which it was not fitting to discuss before my step-daughter.  I
must ask you to explain the meaning of certain expressions you have used
regarding Donna Bianca Acorari.  I do not wish you to be under any
misapprehension, so it will be perhaps as well that I should tell you
that my brother has had my full consent in wishing to make Donna Bianca
his wife.  You appear to be aware that my step-daughter has allowed
herself to form another attachment in—in an entirely undesirable
quarter.  I am her guardian, and without my consent she cannot marry
until she is twenty-one.  This, _monsignore_, was a special clause to
her father’s will."

"Madame, I am under no misapprehension," returned Don Agostino.  "It is
rather you who are so and I regret to be obliged to say what will give
you pain to hear."

"Continue, _monsignore_," said Princess Montefiano, as he paused.

"You ought to know, madame, that if you have been persuaded to sanction
a union between Baron d’Antin and your step-daughter, it is because such
a union would have enabled the Abbé Roux to continue for some years to
farm the rents of Donna Bianca’s lands.  Briefly, madame, you have been
tricked by the Abbé Roux, and, I regret to say, by your brother, who, in
return for the abbé’s assistance in persuading you to allow such a
marriage, engaged not to interfere with his lease of the rents for a
certain period, before the expiration of which Donna Bianca would long
have attained her majority.  The danger of her marrying an honest
gentleman of good family, who has been represented to you as an
adventurer and a nobody, has been perpetually put forward with the
object of gaining your consent to what your own sense of justice, of
propriety, madame, would otherwise have forbidden you to contemplate."

Princess Montefiano started up from her chair.  "_Monsignore!_" she
exclaimed; "do you know what you are saying?  You forget that you are
accusing my brother of a villanous action!  Philippe," she continued,
passionately, "tell Monsignor Lelli that he is mistaken—tell him that he
lies, if you like—but do not let me think that you, my brother, have
also deceived me—that you could lend yourself to such a horrible
intrigue—"

"My dear Jeanne!" interrupted Monsieur d’Antin.  "My dear Jeanne!" he
repeated, and then he laughed softly.

"It is incredible—monstrous!  I will not believe it!" Princess
Montefiano exclaimed, with increasing agitation.

Monsieur d’Antin blew a ring of smoke into the air from his cigarette.
"Monsignor Lelli is mistaken, Jeanne," he observed, tranquilly; "one can
say as much to him without offence.  But to say that he lies would not
be permissible. It would be—well, an exaggeration.  Before replying to
his accusation, I should like to ask Monsignor Lelli on what grounds he
bases it.  He does not, I presume, derive his information from Monsieur
l’Abbé Roux?"

Don Agostino looked at him steadily.

"I derive my information from those who have overheard conversations
between you and the Abbé Roux—conversations carried on, as you believed,
in private—in which your plans were very fully discussed.  Can you deny,
monsieur, that the arrangement I have named exists between you and the
Abbé Roux?"

Monsieur d’Antin shrugged his shoulders.  "I have not the least
intention of denying it," he observed, calmly.

"Philippe!" exclaimed the princess.

The abbé started forward.  "_Imbécile!_" he muttered, under his breath.

"It is perfectly true," pursued Monsieur d’Antin, ignoring him.  "I
entered into the compact with Monsieur l’Abbé, the nature of which
Monsignor Lelli has described fairly accurately.  You see, my dear
Jeanne," he continued, "I have not your reverence for the clergy, and I
thought it possible—just possible—that Monsieur l’Abbé Roux was—well,
taking advantage of your belief in the apostolic succession.  Is not
that the correct term?  By degrees I became convinced of it.  It amused
me to see how far Monsieur l’Abbé, with a little encouragement, would
go; and I—yes, I myself—proposed to him the arrangement which Monsignor
Lelli has just disclosed.  It was eagerly jumped at, my little
proposal," and Monsieur d’Antin rubbed his hands together gently, with a
quiet chuckle.

"It is a lie!" cried the abbé, furiously.  "You confessed to me that you
were in love with Donna Bianca, and asked me to use my influence with
the princess to remove her objections to your becoming the husband of
her step-daughter."

"And you gave me absolution," returned Monsieur d’Antin, dryly.  "Ah,
yes, you certainly gave me absolution—but conditionally, Monsieur
l’Abbé, always conditionally, you know!"

"But, Philippe," interrupted Princess Montefiano, "I do not understand.
You told me yourself that you loved Bianca—that you would only be happy
when she consented to be your wife."

"Quite true, my dear Jeanne," Monsieur d’Antin replied. "What would you
have?  I do not wear the _soutane_, so I have no protection against the
weaknesses of the flesh. Yes, your step-daughter is charming,
adorable—but her charms are not for me.  She has made that very clear to
me.  It is deplorable, but I have failed, and there is nothing left for
me but to retire in favor of a more fortunate rival. But my failure has
nothing to do with the point—nothing at all.  If Monsieur l’Abbé wants
further explanations of my conduct in allowing him to believe that in
return for his assistance in my unlucky affair of the heart I should not
interfere with his affairs of the pocket, I am quite ready to give them
to him.  But, monsieur," he added, as the Abbé Roux, white with rage and
mortification, attempted to interrupt him, "do not forget that in giving
me absolution when I made my little confession to you of my passion for
Donna Bianca, you stipulated for something in return.  It is always so,
is it not?  One is not supposed to come to _le bon Dieu_ empty handed.
You made it clear that without your support I could never hope to gain
my sister’s consent to my object, and that you were only disposed to
accord this support on the condition of my not interfering with your
rights over the rents of the Montefiano lands.

"Well, I agreed; but I agreed under that most convenient of all
compromises—a mental reservation.  _A la guerre comme à la guerre,
n’est-ce pas_, Monsieur l’Abbé?  Ha, ha, ha!" and Monsieur d’Antin
laughed good-humoredly.

The Abbé Roux remained silent.  Perhaps he was thinking that the
suspicions he had at times entertained as to whether it were not
Monsieur d’Antin who was manipulating him rather than he Monsieur
d’Antin, had turned out to be entirely justifiable.

In the mean time, Don Agostino had been regarding Monsieur d’Antin with
a peculiar expression, which was certainly not that of a person
convinced of the truth of what he had just heard.

"You wish me to understand, then," he said to him, dryly, "that you
merely pretended to fall in with the Abbé Roux’s suggestions, in order
to ascertain how far your suspicions that he was abusing his position as
confidential adviser to Madame la Princesse were correct?"

Monsieur d’Antin turned to him with admirable dignity.

"Assuredly, _monsignore_," he replied.  "Do you presume, then, to
suppose that I should lend myself to a conspiracy to deceive my own
sister, and to enrich an unworthy individual at her and Donna Bianca
Acorari’s expense? No, monsieur!  I may have my little weaknesses where
women are concerned, and I frankly admit that had Donna Bianca not
rejected my advances I should have considered myself a very happy man.
But where my honor is concerned, Monsieur le Curé, or the honor of my
family, I, Philippe d’Antin, have no weaknesses!"

Don Agostino looked at him hard, and his finely moulded lips curved in
an ironical smile.

"I make you my compliments, Monsieur le Baron," he said, quietly.  "One
sees that you have done your best to protect yourself from possible
misconstructions being placed upon your actions."

Monsieur d’Antin bowed and smiled benignly.

"Precisely," he said, suavely.  "You, _monsignore_, as a man of the
world, will understand—"

"Everything," interposed Don Agostino, with a slight shrug of the
shoulders.

At this moment Princess Montefiano, who had been listening attentively
to all that had passed, suddenly rose from her chair.

"Monsieur l’Abbé," she said, coldly, "I have heard enough to convince me
that I need no longer trouble you for your advice or assistance in the
management of my affairs.

"No, monsieur," she continued, as the abbé tried to speak, "excuses are
useless.  My confidence has been abused; and you have presumed to
mislead me in the exercise of my authority over my step-daughter and her
affairs for motives of your own.  You may return to Rome, monsieur,
since your services here are no longer required. You will have ample
time to drive to Attigliano and take the evening train."

"Madame!" exclaimed the Abbé Roux.

"Not a word, sir," returned the princess, imperiously. "I trusted you as
a friend and as a priest.  You have proved yourself unworthy of that
trust, and it is enough. Until the last moment—until the troops were
within these walls—you have lied to me—yes, lied.  And for what? In
order to make money; in order—"

Princess Montefiano’s voice failed her, and, suddenly overcome, she sat
down in her chair.  The Abbé Roux advanced towards her.

"Yes," he said, in accents trembling with anger and mortification—"yes,
I will go to Rome, and all Rome shall hear how Donna Bianca Acorari has
compromised herself, and how she has given herself to the first man who
crossed her path.  You may turn me out of your house, madame, but you
cannot close my mouth.  And you," he added, turning to Monsieur d’Antin,
"you are a liar and a coward!"

Baron d’Antin shrugged his shoulders.  "And you, Monsieur l’Abbé," he
replied, "are a priest; otherwise—"

"Philippe," said the princess, in a hard, dry voice, "will you be so
kind as to ring the bell?"

"Madame!" vociferated the abbé again.

The princess took no notice of him, and the _maggior-domo_ answered the
summons with suspicious promptitude.

"Giovanni," Princess Montefiano said, "a carriage will be wanted to take
the Signor Abate and his luggage to Attigliano in time for the evening
train to Rome.

"Monsieur," continued the princess, "I will detain you no longer.  You
have doubtless arrangements to make for your departure."

For a moment the Abbé Roux seemed as though about to make an appeal to
her.  Then, without uttering a word, he walked hastily across the
apartment and disappeared through the double doors leading into the
dining-room, beyond which the room he had occupied as his study was
situated.

He had scarcely gone when Princess Montefiano turned to her brother and
Don Agostino.

"He will ruin that poor girl’s reputation!" she exclaimed, bitterly,
"and all Rome will say that I have neglected my duty towards her because
she is not my own child."

"It will be very easy to prevent anything of the kind, princess," said
Don Agostino, quickly.

The princess looked at him.  "And how, _monsignore_?" she asked.

"By allowing Donna Bianca to marry the man she loves," returned Don
Agostino, "the man who would make her an absolutely worthy husband."

"The son of an infidel professor?  Never, _monsignore_!" exclaimed
Princess Montefiano, emphatically.  "Besides," she added, and then,
pausing abruptly, she glanced at Monsieur d’Antin.

Don Agostino looked at him also, and as their eyes met Baron d’Antin
averted his own.  He read an expression of warning in Don Agostino’s
glance, a silent hint that, however successfully he might have deceived
his sister in his adroit repudiation of any genuine compact having
existed between the Abbé Roux and himself, he had not for an instant
deceived Monsignor Lelli.

"Monsieur le Baron has already announced his readiness to accept Donna
Bianca’s refusal to entertain his offer," Don Agostino observed.  "Is it
not so?" he added, addressing Monsieur d’Antin.

The latter nodded.  "You surely would not wish me to force my love upon
Bianca?" he said to his sister.  "You know, Jeanne, that she will have
none of it, and I—well, I must submit," and he sighed.

"No, no, Philippe, of course I should not wish that," the princess
replied, hurriedly.  "Indeed," she continued, "I am relieved.  I never
approved of your proposal, and I would never have consented to it, had
not the Abbé Roux insisted that Bianca had hopelessly compromised
herself."

"But how compromised herself, madame?" interrupted Don Agostino, almost
angrily.  "Because your step-daughter has given her love to one who
loves and respects her, whom she, too, loves, and who is worthy of her
love, in what or how has she compromised herself?  But these are fables,
princess, malicious insinuations, invented for the purpose of advancing
the schemes of that—that _imbroglione_ who has just left us.  At least,
receive young Rossano, madame, and hear what he has to say for himself.
It is only justice—justice to him and to Donna Bianca. Why ruin the
happiness of two young lives because of caste prejudices, and especially
when the difference is one of rank only—for the Rossano are an old and
well-born family, lacking nothing but a title to make them the equals of
the Acorari."

Princess Montefiano shook her head.

"A man may take his wife from the _bourgeoisie_," she said, "and it does
not matter so much.  But a woman loses caste by marrying beneath her.
But it is not the question of difference in position only," she
continued.  "You, _monsignore_, cannot expect a stanch Catholic, such as
I am, to consent to my step-daughter’s marriage to the son of a
notorious sceptic and freemason."

"The Senator Rossano may be a sceptic," said Don Agostino, "but he is
certainly not a freemason, and he is certainly not antichristian."

"Not a freemason?" repeated the princess.  "But, _monsignore_, I have
been told that he is one of the most prominent of that abominable
organization.  I have heard that he is a frequent attendant at those
blasphemous orgies in Rome in which sacrileges are committed that I dare
not name."

Don Agostino smiled.  "The Abbé Roux was no doubt your informant," he
observed.  "I have known Professor Rossano for many years, and he is
most certainly not a freemason.  The statement that he is so is as false
and fantastic as the legends concerning the orgies and sacrileges to
which you have just alluded.  May I suggest, princess, that you would do
well not to take the assertions of the Abbé Roux too seriously?"

Princess Montefiano colored.  "It would indeed seem so," she replied,
bitterly.  "Philippe," she added, suddenly, turning to her brother,
"what is your advice?  Shall I do as Monsignor Lelli wishes, and receive
Signor Rossano?"

Monsieur d’Antin glanced at Don Agostino.

"Really, Jeanne," he replied, "you are putting my generosity to a severe
test, and I should prefer, under the circumstances, to offer no advice.
However, I will be generous; and since the young man is here—well, you
might take the opportunity of forming your own judgment as to his
suitability to become the husband of your step-daughter.  At least, I
beg of you to spare me the ordeal of being present at your interview.
Really, the events of this afternoon have been sufficiently disturbing
to the nerves.  With your permission, I will retire to my own room and
leave Monsignor Lelli to support you during your conversation with my
fortunate rival.  But, before I leave you, there are one or two little
points that I should like to have explained to me, and no doubt
Monsignor Lelli can explain them.

"In the first place," continued Monsieur d’Antin, "you, _monsignore_,
say that you derive your information from some person or persons who
overheard conversations between me and the Abbé Roux—conversations which
we believed to be held in private.  I confess that I do not understand
how this could be the case; although I can perfectly understand how any
third person overhearing certain conversations I have had with the abbé
would very naturally conclude that I was his confederate."

"You may not understand," replied Don Agostino; "nevertheless, you were
overheard, and much of what passed between you and the Abbé Roux has
been repeated in Montefiano.  It was owing to this fact, and to Stefano
Mazza’s assurances that the abbé was in reality the _affittuario_ of the
rents, that the peasantry were so determined to see and speak with Donna
Bianca.  The whole _paese_ knew, madame," he added to the princess,
"what you were in ignorance of.  I was very certain that you were being
deceived, and it was this certainty which made me so anxious to see you
personally, before any disturbance should break out."

Monsieur d’Antin was silent for a moment.  He had never contemplated the
possibility of his conversations with the abbé becoming known.  They had
been, as he was well aware, compromising enough, and he now felt more
convinced than ever that Monsignor Lelli had not been deceived by his
disavowal of any genuine intention to make himself a partner in the Abbé
Roux’s schemes, nor by his declaration that he had only feigned to agree
with them in order to prove to himself the priest’s unworthiness to
enjoy his sister’s confidence.

Monsieur d’Antin, however, was not wanting in assurance. Its possession
had on more than one occasion stood him in good Stead, and the present
situation was certainly one in which assurance and _aplomb_ were needed.
It did not greatly concern him what Monsignor Lelli might or might not
privately think of him.  He had no intention, however, of forfeiting his
sister’s good opinion, and her summary dismissal of the Abbé Roux had
shown him very plainly that Jeanne’s character was not quite so weak as
he had supposed.

"One must conclude that the walls of Montefiano have ears," he said at
length; "but since the eavesdroppers, whoever they may have been, placed
a wrong, though very natural, interpretation on what they overheard—at
least, so far as my part in the affair was concerned—it does not appear
to me greatly to matter."

"Philippe," exclaimed the princess, "for a moment I wronged you.  I
thought you, too, had deceived me. That would have been a hard thing to
bear, for—"

"My dear Jeanne," interrupted Monsieur d’Antin, "do not think of it
again, I beg of you.  I saw that you suspected me, but I assure you that
I made every allowance for you under the circumstances.  Let us trust
that now you are relieved of the Abbé Roux’s presence, there will be no
more misunderstandings.  After all, Jeanne, a brother is more likely to
be disinterested than a stranger who is paid for his services; is it not
so?"

Don Agostino looked from Baron d’Antin to the princess, but he said
nothing.  Indeed, it was only by a slightly ironical smile that he
betrayed any sign of having listened to Monsieur d’Antin’s remarks.

Monsieur d’Antin did not continue the subject.  He kissed his sister
affectionately, and then observed: "I leave you, my dear Jeanne.  As I
said before, the last hour or so has been sufficiently trying to the
nerves, and in any case, I do not feel equal to assisting at your
interview with Monsieur Silvio Rossano.  All the same, I am generous
enough to say that, in my opinion, you do quite right to receive him.
It may be that our friend the abbé has painted him in blacker colors
that he deserves, and perhaps your interview with him will remove other
misunderstandings.  My only desire, Jeanne, is for Bianca’s happiness,"
and Monsieur d’Antin placed his hand on his heart and sighed.

"_Au revoir_, monsieur," he continued, bowing to Don Agostino; "_à
bientôt_, I hope," and then, humming a little tune to himself, he left
the room.

"My brother has certainly a generous nature," remarked Princess
Montefiano.  Don Agostino did not consider himself called upon to reply
to her observation.

"You have known this young Rossano for some time, _monsignore_, is it
not so?" she asked, presently.

"For some time—yes," Don Agostino replied; "not for long, certainly," he
added, "but I know enough of him from his father, who, as I told you,
madame, is an old friend of mine, to make me confident that he would
make any woman a good husband."

"The Professor Rossano is not an individual of whom I could approve,"
the princess said, dryly.  "Such men do much to create unhappiness in
family life by their teaching. You must pardon me if I say that I should
not accept his opinion concerning a young man’s character."

"Because you do not know him, princess," returned Don Agostino, bluntly.
"If I had not full confidence both in Professor Rossano and in his son,"
he added, "I should certainly not sympathize with the latter in his
desire to marry Donna Bianca Acorari.  The responsibility would have
been too great, and—" He hesitated for a moment, and then was silent.

Princess Montefiano glanced at him with some curiosity. "My
responsibility is great," she said, "for my step-daughter is certainly
not like other girls.  She has a peculiar disposition—inherited, I fear,
from her mother—my poor husband’s first wife.  I do not wish to speak
ill of the dead, _monsignore_, but—"

"No," exclaimed Don Agostino, abruptly, "no, madame! Let the dead rest
in peace."

Princess Montefiano made the sign of the cross.  "Of course," she said,
gravely.  "But I have a duty towards the living, and I cannot forget
that my step-daughter’s mother was—well, not all she should have been as
a wife. Oh, I do not mean to imply that, after her marriage, she was
guilty of any misconduct," she continued, hurriedly, "but she did not
make her husband happy—it was a wretched marriage.  At any rate,
_monsignore_, I am not injuring her memory by saying that she never
loved my poor husband. She had formed an unfortunate attachment, before
her marriage, for somebody who was not, I believe, quite her equal, and
this seems to have ruined her whole life.  You cannot wonder if I am
determined to prevent her daughter from falling into the same unhappy
circumstances. Indeed, I have sometimes felt an almost superstitious
alarm lest the mother’s story were destined to be repeated in her
daughter’s life.  It is certainly strange that Bianca also should have
formed this violent attachment for a young man who, however worthy he
may be individually, is not of her own order."

Don Agostino did not answer immediately.  He leaned his arm upon a table
beside him, and his face was partially concealed by his hand.

Presently he raised his head and looked earnestly at Princess
Montefiano.

"Madame," he said, in a low voice, "you bear the name and have succeeded
to the place of her who is no longer here to speak in her own behalf.
Do not, I beg of you, misjudge her."

The princess started.  "_Monsignore!_" she exclaimed. "What do you know
of my husband’s first wife?  You speak as though her story were known to
you.  But I forgot. No doubt, during the years you were in Rome you
heard stories concerning the disagreements between her and the prince;
for I believe there was much gossip at one time."

"I knew her story well, princess," replied Don Agostino, quietly.
"Perhaps I ought to tell you that very few people knew it better."

"You knew her?" the princess asked, with surprise.

"Yes—I knew her."

Princess Montefiano hesitated for a moment.

"Ah!" she said, at length.  "You were, perhaps, in her confidence,
_monsignore_—in your priestly capacity, I mean. If that is the case, of
course we will not discuss the subject any more.  You must forgive me,
but I was quite unaware that you even knew her history, and still less
that you had been personally acquainted with her.  Naturally, under the
circumstances, you would not wish to hear her conduct discussed,
especially by me.  Believe me, it is only my desire to do my duty by the
child she left which makes me dread taking any action which might lead
to that child following in her mother’s footsteps."

"I was in her confidence—yes," said Don Agostino, after a pause, "but
not in the sense you mean, princess—not as a priest.  I knew her—ah,
many years ago—and you are right: I cannot discuss the subject.  At the
same time, will you permit me to ask you a question?"

Princess Montefiano bent her head without speaking.

"Are you sure," proceeded Don Agostino, "that in your determination to
oppose Donna Bianca’s love for Silvio Rossano you are not running the
grave risk of bringing about the very state of things you wish to avoid?
Ah, madame," he continued, earnestly, "I must ask for your patience—for
your pardon—if I seem to interfere in matters which you might justly
tell me can be no concern of mine. You fear lest your step-daughter may
have inherited her mother’s nature.  Well, I believe your fears to be
justified. Her mother loved once, and once only, during her lifetime,
and, strangely enough, under circumstances almost identical with those
accompanying Donna Bianca’s attachment. She was forced to marry a man
she did not love, in order to satisfy the prejudices and the ambition of
her family. What was the result, madame?  Disaster—unhappiness. What
will be the result of pursuing the same course with the daughter as that
pursued with the mother—in the case of two natures so similar?

"And whom will you bring forward in the place of young Rossano?  Some
Roman with a title borrowed from his father, but with nothing else; some
young spendthrift who, like many we could name, has paid his court to
every rich American, to every wealthy foreign girl, Christian or Jewess,
in the hope of buying her fortune with his name—and who will use his
wife’s money to pay off his creditors and to support a mistress.  We
need not—we who know Rome—seek far in order to find such examples,
princess. You talk of responsibility.  Do you venture to contemplate
what responsibility for such a course would mean?"

He spoke earnestly, gravely, with a note of warning in his voice which
silenced the objections already rising to Princess Montefiano’s lips.
The princess did not know very much of the under-currents of life, but
she was sufficiently well acquainted with the world to be aware that
Monsignor Lelli had not exaggerated his presentment of them.  Perhaps,
too, she contrasted in her own mind his simple, straightforward
statements with the more flowery moral speeches she had been accustomed
to hear from the Abbé Roux.

"I want my step-daughter to marry happily," she repeated; "and—yes, I
will see this young man, _monsignore_. But I will not give my consent to
my step-daughter marrying him until I have satisfied myself that he is
worthy to be her husband.  The fact of the Rossanos not being noble, is,
after all, not an insuperable difficulty—one hears of cases every day in
which traditions of class are departed from—"

"It is a mere question of money," interrupted Don Agostino.  "And money,
to make a very banal remark, does not always bring happiness; whereas
love—  Princess," he added, abruptly, "I feel sure that you will not
repent your action in receiving this young Rossano.  I will bring him to
you; and then, if you will permit me, I will leave you to speak with him
alone.  Afterwards, if you wish to see me, I shall be entirely at your
service."

"Certainly, _monsignore_!" exclaimed Princess Montefiano, hurriedly.
"There is much that I wish to learn




                                 *XXXV*


Don Agostino was amused to find Silvio engaged in earnest conversation
with Concetta Fontana outside the court-yard of the castle.  The open
space beyond the gateway, lately the scene of so much confusion, was now
entirely deserted; for the peasants had retired into the _paese_, where
all the Montefianesi—men, women, and children—were busy discussing the
events of the last few hours at the tops of their voices.

It was evident that Silvio was making the best of his opportunities to
learn from Concetta all that she might be able to tell him concerning
Bianca, and also as to how she had acquired her information concerning
the understanding between the Abbé Roux and Monsieur d’Antin.  It was
evident, also, that Concetta was readily imparting all the information
she had to give on the subject, for the pair were so engrossed in their
conversation that they were unaware of Don Agostino’s approach.

"The princess wishes to see you," Don Agostino said to Silvio.  "I have
come to take you to her."

Concetta clapped her hands.

"Vittoria!" she exclaimed.  "What have I been telling the _signorino_?
That once her excellency’s eyes were opened, there would be no more
difficulties."

Don Agostino smiled.  He thought to himself that if her excellency were
to look at Silvio through Concetta’s eyes, difficulties would in all
probability quickly be smoothed away.  But the question yet remained to
be proved whether she would do so.

"Come, Silvio," he said, briefly, "you will find the princess alone."

"And Monsieur d’Antin?" asked Silvio.

Don Agostino took his arm and turned into the court-yard.  "Monsieur
d’Antin?" he repeated.  "Ah, Monsieur d’Antin’s nerves are upset; he has
gone to his room.  For the rest, he will not interfere with you.  No,
indeed; he will probably give you his blessing!  Do you know, Silvio,
that I cannot make up my mind as to which is the greater scoundrel of
the two, Monsieur le Abbé or Monsieur le Baron.  But there can be no
question as to which has the better head—oh, none at all!  The Abbé Roux
put all his eggs in one basket; but Monsieur d’Antin divided his with
admirable judgment.  All the same, with it all, Monsieur d’Antin is a
gentleman in his villanies, and a man of courage.  The abbé is neither
the one nor the other. Moreover, Monsieur d’Antin has a decided sense of
humor; and humor, like charity, covers many sins.  No, you need not fear
Monsieur d’Antin.  And now, Silvio, before we go to the princess, tell
me what you have heard from Fontana’s daughter.  Everything, I suppose?"

"_Sicuro!_ everything.  She repeated to me the conversation between the
abbé and Monsieur d’Antin she had overheard while standing in the secret
passage, and also some of those between the abbé and the princess—so far
as she was able to follow those last."

Don Agostino nodded.  "It is as well that you should know of them," he
said.  "But, Silvio," he added, "do not say anything to the princess
further to shake her confidence in what she believes to be her brother’s
generosity.  She must suffer enough, poor woman, from the discovery of
the abbé’s treachery, and it would be cruel to give her another
disillusion.  You and Donna Bianca can afford to pretend that you both
realize Monsieur d’Antin’s disinterested conduct."

Silvio laughed.  "I could, perhaps," he replied, "but Bianca—Concetta
Fontana says that Bianca has declared she will never speak to him again;
and when Bianca has made up her mind to do a thing—"

"She will do it," concluded Don Agostino.  "One sees that very plainly,"
and then he paused and sighed. "Silvio," he said, suddenly, "there is
one other thing I wish to say to you.  It may be that the princess will
ask you how it has come about that I have pleaded your cause with her.
If she does so, tell her that I have pleaded it in the name of her whose
name she bears.  She will know what I mean. And show her this—as my
credentials," and, drawing the little case containing the miniature of
Bianca Acorari’s mother from beneath his _soutane_, he placed it in
Silvio’s hand.

"You will bring it back to me," he said.  "Yes, I took it with me
to-day, thinking that if anything happened—if the soldiers had fired on
the people—it would have been with me at the last—for they would have
had to fire through me.  There would have been a scandal afterwards, I
suppose," he added, "when the portrait was found upon me; but by that
time I should have been nearer to her—far away from the judgments of
men.  Come, Silvio _mio_," he continued, with a smile.  "It is your
passport, I hope—and it is not I only who give it to you, but one who
has a better right than I to do so, and whose envoy I am."

Silvio took the case, and as he did so he kissed Don Agostino’s hand.

"If somebody had done by you as you have done by me!" he burst out,
passionately.

Don Agostino smiled.  "_Ragazzo mio_," he interrupted, "the whole of
life is an ’if.’  Come."  And mounting the steps together, they entered
the vestibule of the _piano nobile_, where the _maggior-domo_ advanced
towards them, saying that he had orders to conduct them to the
princess’s private sitting-room.

Princess Montefiano, as Don Agostino had told Silvio she would be, was
alone.  She received Silvio with a distant courtesy, which,
nevertheless, was not unkindly, as he was presented to her.

"My friend, Silvio Rossano, will tell you his own story, _principessa_,"
Don Agostino observed.  "With your permission I will wait for him in the
drawing-room, for he will return with me to my house," and he left them
together. The princess did not speak for a few moments.  She appeared to
be thinking deeply, and every now and then Silvio felt that her eyes
were fixed upon him, while, as he met her glance, he saw an inquiring
and almost surprised expression in them.  A more embarrassing situation
it would certainly have been hard to conceive; but Silvio, who was
accustomed to being interviewed by all sorts and conditions of people,
comforted himself with the reflection that if he were ill at ease,
Princess Montefiano could scarcely be less so.  At length the princess
broke the silence.

"Signor Rossano," she said, "we need not waste words in coming to our
point.  I have consented to receive you because—you must pardon me if I
speak plainly you have placed my step-daughter, Donna Bianca Acorari, in
an intolerable position for a young girl—a position which exposes her to
the mercy of any malicious gossip who may choose to make free with her
name."

Silvio started to his feet from the chair to which Princess Montefiano
had motioned him.

"Signora Principessa," he exclaimed, "you forget that your consent was
asked in the usual way."

"No, I do not forget," interrupted the princess.  "It was asked after
you had spoken to my step-daughter spoken to her alone—a thing unheard
of, _signore_."

Silvio was silent for a moment.  The princess was certainly right, and
he could not deny it.

"Had I not spoken to Donna Bianca," he said, presently, "I could never
have been certain that she returned my love.  From the instant that I
knew she did so, I never attempted to see her again until my father had
made a formal offer on my behalf."

"Which offer was declined by me," returned the princess.

"By you, Signora Principessa, yes—"

"And should not that have been sufficient?"

In spite of himself, Silvio’s eyes twinkled.  "Well, no!" he replied.
"It was sufficient neither for Donna Bianca nor for me."

"Signor Rossano!" exclaimed the princess, in amazement.

"Neither for Donna Bianca nor for me," repeated Silvio, tranquilly;
"because, princess, we love each other, and we mean to marry—oh, not
this year, or next year, perhaps—but when Donna Bianca is of an age to
do as she chooses. Until that time arrives we are quite content to wait,
if necessary.  It will make no difference in the end."

Princess Montefiano tapped her foot impatiently on the floor.  Bianca
had said the very same words to her more than once.

"But surely," she began, "you must see for yourself the drawbacks—the
difficulties!  It is a delicate subject, and I do not wish to offend
you, Signor Rossano, but—"

"But I am not noble?  I understand that," interrupted Silvio.  "It is
doubtless a drawback in your eyes," he continued, quickly; "but as to
difficulties, I have never been afraid of those.  One can always
surmount them.  And I am not here to make excuses for not having a
title," he added, a little haughtily.  "We Rossanos have no need to be
ashamed of our blood; and, if it comes to that, my mother was of a noble
family.  I have no need of Donna Bianca’s money.  My father is not a
poor man, and I can earn money if I choose."

"Ah, your mother was noble?" asked Princess Montefiano. "I did not know
that—"

"Oh, not of the _alta nobiltà_," said Silvio, "but of a noble family of
the Romagna, of older descent than most of the Roman houses.  But,
Signora Principessa, as you said a few minutes ago, we need not waste
words in discussion. Donna Bianca Acorari has done me the honor to say
that she will marry me, and I am content to wait until she is in a
position to do so.  I thank you for having received me, if only because
you have given me the opportunity of saying to you that under no
circumstances will I seek to make Donna Bianca act against your consent
and authority. We both recognize that authority, princess, and while it
exists I shall certainly not be the one to dispute it.  I should not, it
is true, have promised as much twelve hours ago."

Princess Montefiano looked at him quickly, and there was an expression
of approval in her glance.  Had Silvio Rossano known it, he could not
have uttered words more likely to ingratiate himself with her than those
in which he expressed his recognition of her authority.

"And why not?" she asked.

Silvio hesitated.  "Because I knew that Donna Bianca was the object of
an intrigue—that an arrangement had been made whereby she was to marry a
man much older than herself whom she could not love—"

"You allude to my brother, _signore_," the princess said, hastily.  "But
there was no intrigue on his part.  He has behaved throughout this
painful affair with a marvellous generosity and unselfishness.  I must
be frank with you, Signor Rossano, and tell you that my brother’s
primary object was to save Donna Bianca from the possible consequences
of the false position in which your thoughtlessness—for I do you the
justice, now that I have seen you and spoken with you, to believe it was
nothing more had placed her."

Silvio bowed.  "The fact remains," he said, "that Donna Bianca rejected
Baron d’Antin’s offer, knowing that she was already engaged to me.  It
is not a matter which I need discuss—the more so, as Don Agostino
informs me that the baron has declared his determination to withdraw his
suit.  It is sufficient for me, Signora Principessa, to know that you no
longer regard me as an adventurer, as a man whose birth and character do
not permit of his aspiring to be the husband of Donna Bianca Acorari.
For the rest, there is no more to be said.  Time will prove that I do
not seek Donna Bianca because she is heiress to lands and titles, but
because I love her, and I know that she loves me.  Signora Principessa,
I have the honor to salute you, and with your permission I will rejoin
Don Agostino."

"Wait, _signore_!" exclaimed the princess, suddenly, as, with a low bow,
Silvio moved towards the door.  "There are certain things I wish to ask
you."

"Ask me anything," Silvio replied.  "I am entirely at your service."

"What brings you here—to Montefiano—at this moment?" she continued,
looking at him keenly.  "It has been said that this disturbance of the
peasantry has been largely fomented by you, for obvious reasons—that you
wished to enlist public sympathy on your behalf."

"It has been said so, yes," returned Silvio, "by the Abbé Roux.  But the
Abbé Roux has said many things which will not bear investigation."

The princess winced.  "But why are you here—at such a time?" she
insisted.

"Because I knew from Donna Bianca that there were threatenings of a
rising on the part of the peasants, and yesterday evening I read in a
newspaper in Rome that troops had been asked for, to proceed to
Montefiano.  When I saw that, I determined to come by the first
available train, lest there should be danger to her."

"You heard from my step-daughter!" repeated the princess in amazement.
"But she knew nothing.  Besides, how could she communicate with you, or
you with her? There is some fresh mystery here, some new deception that
I do not yet understand.  Will you be so good as to explain yourself,
_signore_?"

"Donna Bianca knew everything," said Silvio, "except that the troops had
been summoned.  This she did not know.  When the mob burst into the
court-yard of the castle, your _fattore’s_ daughter went to Donna
Bianca’s room by the secret passage, in order to implore her to come out
and speak to the people—"

The princess stared at him.  "By the secret passage!" she repeated.
"Signor Rossano, what fables are these?"

"Ah—you do not know—they have not explained to you yet?" asked Silvio,
quickly.  "_Sicuro_—by the secret passage which leads into Donna
Bianca’s room—where the portrait of the cardinal is—"

"Maria Santissima!" ejaculated the princess.  "How do you know," she
continued, angrily, "that there is such a portrait in my step-daughter’s
room?  It is an outrage—"

"I know it because Donna Bianca has described it to me," returned
Silvio, who did not at the moment understand what it might be that had
so suddenly aroused the princess’s indignation.  "The picture moves into
the wall, and behind it is the secret entrance.  Concetta Fontana, when
she went to warn Donna Bianca that the peasants were forcing their way
into the castle, found her locked in her room—"

"_Sciocchezze!_" exclaimed Princess Montefiano.  "Why should she be
locked in her room?"

"For a very simple reason.  The Abbé Roux did not want Donna Bianca to
know what was going on.  She had retired to her room after breakfast,
and when the disturbances began, he turned the key of the door opening
into your apartment."

"It is true," said the princess, as if to herself.  "The child
complained of a headache, and had gone to her room. I thought she was
there, until, to my astonishment, I heard that she was speaking to the
peasants."

"Concetta Fontana took her down the concealed passage," said Silvio,
"and it is fortunate she did so, princess, or there would certainly have
been bloodshed at Montefiano to-day."

"Holy Virgin! how many more things am I to hear?" exclaimed Princess
Montefiano.  "As to this mysterious passage," she continued, "why have I
never been told of its existence?  Even now I will not believe it until
I see it. Concetta Fontana must be romancing.  At any rate, I will
investigate the matter for myself.  And so it was by means of this
unknown passage that you communicated—by letter, of course—with my
step-daughter?"

"Yes," replied Silvio, simply.  "I sent a letter to Don Agostino,
begging him to get it conveyed to Donna Bianca if he possibly could do
so.  The agent—Fontana—told him of the passage, and how Donna Bianca’s
room could be entered at any time by a person knowing the secret
communication.  Concetta delivered the letter, and another subsequent
one, and took Donna Bianca’s replies to Don Agostino.  He posted them to
me.  You see, Signora Principessa," added Silvio, "that I have answered
your questions frankly.  And you will not blame Concetta, for she only
did as she was told."

Princess Montefiano looked at him with something like a smile on her
face.  Possibly the straightforward manner in which Silvio had spoken to
her throughout their conversation had impressed her more favorably than
she was fully aware of.

"I do not understand why Monsignor Lelli—Don Agostino, as you call
him—should have taken upon himself to help you so untiringly," she
observed, presently.  "In your case I conclude his friendship with your
father to have been the motive.  But he seems to be equally concerned
for my step-daughter’s happiness.  To be sure he tells me that he knew
her mother, many years ago.  He seemed to be under a strange emotion
when he spoke of her, and hinted at some kind of responsibility he felt
towards my step-daughter."

"Monsignor Lelli considers that he has a certain responsibility towards
Donna Bianca," said Silvio; and then he paused.

"But why, _signore_—why?  It is inexplicable.  Am I to understand that
this strange idea forms one of his reasons for so obviously supporting
your suit?"

Silvio looked at her quickly.  "It is not inexplicable," he replied,
quietly.  "It is an idea—a sentiment, perhaps—or perhaps it is more than
that.  If one does not believe that the dead are conscious beings,
princess, what is the use of praying for them?  And, if they are
conscious beings, why may they not exercise an influence over those who
are dear to them, and whom they have left behind?"

Princess Montefiano regarded him with surprise—but at the same time with
evident approval.  She had certainly not expected to hear any such
arguments from the lips of a son of Professor Rossano.

"Signor Rossano," she exclaimed, "I thought that you believed in
nothing—I mean, that you were an atheist."

Silvio laughed.  "Why, princess?" he asked.

"Why?  Oh, because—well, because you are your father’s son."

"My father is not an atheist," returned Silvio, simply. "He knows too
much—or not enough—to be one."

The princess stared at him.  Perhaps she scarcely understood the full
significance of his answer; but all the same his words, coupled with his
preceding remark, gave her a sense both of satisfaction and of relief.

"I am glad," she said, somewhat irrelevantly, "very glad.  But as
regards Monsieur Lelli, and this strange idea of responsibility towards
the daughter of one whom he knew many years ago—how can you explain
that?  I feel sure that Monsignor Lelli is a good man, though I have
heard him much abused.  But I have also heard people say that he has
been very hardly treated; and possibly his long exile here at Montefiano
may have made him somewhat morbid."

"Signora Principessa," said Silvio, approaching the armchair in which
she was sitting, "Don Agostino has authorized me to answer your
question, in the event of your asking it.  Had it not been for this
authorization, I must have kept silence.  It may be that his idea is a
morbid idea; or it may be that, as he is firmly convinced, he is being
guided by another intelligence than his own.  Of that, princess, you
must be the judge," and taking the case Don Agostino had confided to him
from his pocket, he gave it into her hands.

Princess Montefiano opened it, and then she suddenly turned very pale.

"It is Bianca!" she exclaimed.  "It is Bianca herself! Signor Rossano,"
she added, "what does this mean?"

"No," returned Silvio, in a low voice, "it is not Bianca."

Princess Montefiano did not notice his unconscious departure from the
formalities.  She bent over the miniature and examined it attentively.
"No," she said, after a pause, "it is not Bianca—the face has not her
character in its expression.  It is a weaker face.  It is strange," she
continued, as though speaking to herself, "but I have never seen any
portrait of my husband’s first wife; there is none at Palazzo
Acorari—and, of course, this is she.  But how did the miniature come
into Monsignor Lelli’s possession?" she added.

"Can you not guess, princess?" asked Silvio, gravely.

Princess Montefiano looked at him.  "You mean—" she began, and then she
paused.

Silvio nodded.  "Yes," he said.

The princess remained silent.  She appeared to be deeply moved, for her
hands trembled as, after another intent look at the portrait, she closed
the case and returned it to Silvio.

He took it from her almost reverently.  "Don Agostino told me to say to
you that you were to regard the miniature as his credentials; and," he
added, "as he hoped, my passport."

"Your passport?" repeated Princess Montefiano.

"Yes.  If he had not known me to be worthy of Bianca—to be one who would
make her a good husband—he would not have delivered it to me," continued
Silvio, quickly.  "Listen, princess," and he rapidly told her all that
had passed between him and Don Agostino from the day when he had first
come to Montefiano and had been received into the _parroco’s_ house.  He
told her how Don Agostino had shown him the miniature on that occasion;
and how the priest had from the first been convinced that he was only
obeying some unseen but powerful influence in giving him his friendship
and support.

Princess Montefiano listened to him without uttering a word; but she
never took her eyes off his countenance as he spoke.

As he ceased, she rose from her chair and held out her hand.  "Thank
you, Signor Rossano," she said, gravely, but very courteously—"thank
you.  You have been very frank with me, and I appreciate your
confidence.  You stay with Monsignor Lelli to-night, is it not so?
Well, you and he will, I hope, give me the pleasure of seeing you here
at breakfast at twelve to-morrow.  You will find me alone—me and
Bianca—for my brother will most probably be returning to Rome in the
morning."

Silvio bent over her hand and kissed it.  "I will come with great
pleasure, princess," he said, "and I think I can answer for Don Agostino
that he also will do so."

A happy light shone in his eyes as he spoke.  The princess looked at him
again and smiled slightly.

"I must think," she said, slowly.  "Monsignor Lelli has fulfilled his
responsibilities, and you must both allow me to fulfil mine.  To-morrow
we can talk of many things, and in a few days, Signor Rossano, I promise
you that I will give you an answer to a question which I know you are
longing to ask me."

With a slight inclination of her head, Princess Montefiano turned
towards the bell and rang it.  A moment or two afterwards the
_maggior-domo_, who had been waiting in the adjoining room, opened the
double doors and conducted Silvio to the apartment where Don Agostino
was awaiting him.




                                *XXXVI*


A year had passed; and on the anniversary of the day that had witnessed
the forcible entry of the peasants into the court-yard of the castle at
Montefiano, a still larger and scarcely less noisy crowd was assembled
on the same spot.  Now, however, instead of angry discussions and
threatening cries, laughter and jests resounded in the still air of a
mellow September morning.  The entire population of Montefiano was
gathered together inside or around the castle walls, and the peasants
and farmers had come into the _paese_ from many an outlying village and
hamlet in the Sabina to assist at the wedding of the young Princess of
Montefiano.

The year that had passed had been a year of probation. True to her word,
the _principessa madre_, as she was now termed by the retainers and
dependants of Casa Acorari, had given Silvio her answer to his unasked
question some ten days or so after he had shown her Don Agostino’s
so-called credentials.  There had been, indeed, no doubt in Princess
Montefiano’s mind from the moment of her interview with Silvio that he
and Bianca Acorari would marry one another in the future, even were she
to insist on withholding her consent to their union for the present.
Monsieur d’Antin had been right when he said to himself that his sister
was capable of rising to a situation.  In this instance she had done so
at considerably less cost, either to her feelings or to her authority
than she had anticipated, for she had speedily come to conceive a strong
liking for Silvio, a liking which had only increased as she grew better
acquainted with him.  Nevertheless, in withdrawing her opposition to his
marriage to her step-daughter, she had insisted that a year should
elapse before it should take place: and in this stipulation she had been
supported not only by Don Agostino, who, indeed, had counselled her to
make it, but also by the Senator Rossano.  Professor Rossano was
determined that nobody should be able to say that his son was over eager
to ally himself with Casa Acorari, or with any other noble house; and
there was, moreover, another motive for delay, which neither he nor
Monsignor Lelli deemed it advisable to explain to the princess, although
they had been obliged to do so to Silvio.

The Abbé Roux had apparently been as good as his word when he declared
that he would cause all Rome to learn that Donna Bianca Acorari had
compromised herself by receiving, unknown to her relatives, the
addresses of a young man.  Carefully veiled paragraphs had even appeared
in various Roman journals of the second rank, in which the clandestine
love-affair between the only daughter and last representative of a
princely house and the son of a well-known senator and scientist was
mysteriously hinted at.  It did not need any great knowledge of the
world to realize what would infallibly be whispered were a marriage
between Donna Bianca Acorari and Silvio Rossano to be celebrated too
speedily.

Silvio himself had been the first to see the wisdom of allowing twelve
months to expire before Bianca should become his wife; and he, no less
than his father, had no desire to be supposed to be over anxious for the
alliance on account of its worldly advantages.

And so everything had been arranged satisfactorily for all the parties
chiefly concerned.  Bianca herself, now that opposition to her
engagement was withdrawn, was quite content to listen to the advice of
those round her, especially as Silvio pointed out to her the wisdom of
delay.  After the uncertainty of the past, the assurance that in a short
year they would be united for the remainder of their lives had seemed
almost too good to be true.

And the months had sped quickly enough.  Silvio had pursued his
profession, and had won for himself an increased reputation; and Bianca
Acorari and the princess had been happier together than they had ever
been before, passing the time between Montefiano and the Villa Acorari
near Velletri, and visiting only at rare intervals the old palace in
Rome.  Bianca had developed a great affection for her home at
Montefiano; and, much to the satisfaction of the population, the castle
had been gradually refurnished and put in order, and she had announced
her intention of making it her almost constant residence in future.
Afterwards, when she and Silvio were married, the princess dowager would
occupy an apartment in Palazzo Acorari at Rome, and, if she so chose,
the villa at Velletri, to both of which she had a right for her
lifetime.  She and her brother, Baron d’Antin, had already decided that
they would live together until such time as Monsieur d’Antin should
elect to return to his native country.

A day or two before their wedding, Bianca had received a letter from
Monsieur d’Antin.  It was a gay letter, full of congratulations and airy
trifles, but containing not even the most indirect allusion to the past.
Monsieur d’Antin was vexed beyond words—he assured his dear niece—that
he would be unable to interrupt the course of his baths at Aix, and thus
be present at her wedding; but the pores of his skin being now well
opened, it would be absolutely dangerous to travel so far.  Bianca
showed the note to Silvio, who laughed and said nothing; but Don
Agostino, to whom he subsequently recounted the condition of Monsieur
d’Antin’s skin, shrugged his shoulders and observed that the material in
question was assuredly too thick to be porous.

And now the year of waiting had passed.  In Cardinal Acorari’s chapel,
inside the castle, Monsignor Lelli was saying the few brief words that
would make Silvio Rossano and Bianca Acorari man and wife.  The civil
marriage had already been performed by the _sindaco_ of Montefiano, the
day before, and now the crowd was waiting in the court-yard for the
appearance of the _sposi_.

Suddenly the doors at the top of the stone staircase were thrown back,
and shout after shout rent the air as Bianca and Silvio, followed by the
princess and Professor Rossano, Giacinta, and the remainder of the
witnesses of the religious ceremony appeared.

Bianca led her husband forward, and for a few moments they stood
together, bowing and smiling in response to the vociferous applause from
below.

Presently the cries of "_Evviva gli sposi!_" died away, to be succeeded
by cheers for the _principessa madre_ and for the Senator Rossano.  Then
shouts of _"Evviva Don Agostino—evviva il nostro parroco_!" were raised,
as Don Agostino, more popular and beloved by his people than ever, since
the attack made upon him in that very place a year before, advanced to
where the young couple were standing.

He had removed his vestments, and his tall, black form stood out in
sombre contrast with the color of the bridal dresses and the flowers
round him.

For a moment or two he paused, holding both Silvio’s and Bianca’s hands
in his own.

"God, and the spirits of God, protect you both, in this life and in the
life to come," he said; and, dropping their hands, he made the sign of
the cross over them.

Then he turned, and, descending the steps, made his way quickly through
the crowd, and passed through the dark gateway into the golden sunlight
beyond.




                                THE END








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