Front matter (continued 3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monsieur d'Antin laughed merrily.

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

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

XII

"The thing is absolutely incredible!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The other hesitated.

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

Monsieur d'Antin laughed softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The abbé bowed silently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My wits."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course," repeated Silvio, dryly.

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

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

"Diamine!" ejaculated the professor, "but you seem to be very certain of your arrangements, figlio mio, and of the girl."

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

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

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

The professor shrugged his shoulders.

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

"You could write," suggested Silvio.

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

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

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

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

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

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

XIV

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

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

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

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

"That one?" he said. "Why, that is the signorino of the second floor, a bel ragazzo—is it not true, monsignore?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Princess Montefiano started visibly.

"Mon Dieu, monsieur, what do you mean?" she exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The princess turned a horrified gaze upon him.

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

The abbé shrugged his shoulders.

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

"Monsieur l'Abbé!" exclaimed the princess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A crime!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And where is that?"

"Her own castle at Montefiano."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hesitated again, and then stopped abruptly.

The princess glanced at him nervously.

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

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

The princess checked him with a gesture.

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

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

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

The Abbé Roux made a gesture with outspread hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did he say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Giacinta laughed, and then became suddenly grave again.

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

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

XVII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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