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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 46693
   :PG.Title: The Passport
   :PG.Released: 2014-08-23
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Richard Bagot
   :DC.Title: The Passport
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1905
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE PASSPORT
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      THE PASSPORT

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      BY

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      RICHARD BAGOT

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      NEW YORK AND LONDON
      HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
      MCMV

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      Copyright, 1905, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

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      *All rights Reserved.*

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      Published September, 1905.

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   THE PASSPORT

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   I

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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.





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   II

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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."





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.. _`III`:

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   III

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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*.





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.. _`IV`:

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   IV

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





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   V

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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.





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   VI

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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.





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   VII

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"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.





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   VIII

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"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.





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   IX

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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!"[#]
   
.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Le laudi; (Pioggia nel Pineto) Gabriele d'Annunzio.*

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`X`:

.. class:: center large bold

   X

.. vspace:: 2

"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!"





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.. _`XI`:

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   XI

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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.





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.. _`XII`:

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   XII

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"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.





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   XIII

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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.





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   XIV

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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.





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.. _`XV`:

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   XV

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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.





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.. _`XVI`:

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   XVI

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`XVII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XVII

.. vspace:: 2

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."





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.. _`XVIII`:

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   XVIII

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`XIX`:

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   XIX

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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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`XX`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XX

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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   XXI

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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.





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   XXII

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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.





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   XXIII

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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.





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.. _`XXIV`:

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   XXIV

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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."





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   XXV

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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.





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.. _`XXVI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXVI

.. vspace:: 2

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!"





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.. _`XXVII`:

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   XXVII

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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.





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.. _`XXVIII`:

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   XXVIII

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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."





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.. _`XXIX`:

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   XXIX

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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.





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.. _`XXX`:

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   XXX

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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*."





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.. _`XXXI`:

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   XXXI

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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.





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.. _`XXXII`:

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   XXXII

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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."





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.. _`XXXIII`:

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   XXXIII

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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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`XXXIV`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXIV

.. vspace:: 2

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

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`XXXV`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXV

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`XXXVI`:

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   XXXVI

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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.

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   THE END

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