Front matter (continued 5)

Giacinta was silent for a moment. Then she said, suddenly:

"I am glad you are not going back to Montefiano. It was wise of Don Agostino, as you call him, to advise you to remain here."

"Oh, but I shall go back there very soon," returned Silvio. "In a few days Don Agostino will write to me to come. You see, Bianca must be protected from that old baron. She will be glad to know that I am near her, even if we cannot see each other."

"Do not go, Silvio!" Giacinta exclaimed, almost passionately. "You will be mad to go! Ah, but I saw Baron d'Antin's expression when he recognized you! I could see that he recognized you—and you, you looked at him as if you would have struck him."

Silvio laughed. "And I could have struck him—very hard," he replied, "for he stared at me in an insolent manner. Of course, I shall return to Montefiano, Giacinta, whenever Don Agostino writes to me that I can do so. I cannot imagine what you are afraid of."

Giacinta smiled slightly. "After all," she said, "I hardly know myself! But there is some mystery—something I do not understand. I am afraid that it is money—that they want to keep Donna Bianca's money. Oh, not the princess! She is only a fool. But these others, the Abbé Roux and Monsieur d'Antin, they are not fools. And if it is money, and you stand in their way—well, who knows what people will not do for money? They might murder you at Montefiano, and who would be the wiser?"

Silvio laughed again. "Scarcely, Giacinta mia," he replied. "If they tried to put me out of the way, several people would be the wiser, and some of them—Don Agostino, for instance—would make awkward inquiries. Via! we are not in the Middle Ages; and the son of the Senator Rossano is not a completely obscure person who could be made away with with impunity. I assure you that you need not be alarmed. Now I must go and write my letter, for at seven o'clock to-morrow morning I have to be at the Albergo Santa Chiara, for Don Agostino leaves Rome at eight. Buona notte, Giacinta, e buon riposo, and do not get foolish ideas into your head, or you will lie awake."

And so saying, Silvio went off to his own room, taking with him the ring he had selected from his mother's jewel-case.

XXI

Bianca was walking slowly up and down the terrace beneath the castle of Montefiano. Every now and then she would pause and lean over the low stone parapet, gazing thoughtfully into the deep ravine below, or across the ridges of the Sabines to the towns and villages perched upon their rocky eminences commanding the upper valley of the Tiber. It was late in the afternoon, and cool enough upon the terrace, which was sheltered from the westering sun by the shadow of the mass of building above it.

More than a month had passed since she had been brought to Montefiano, and no word had come to her from Silvio. That a letter should not have reached her in the ordinary way, did not surprise her. She had very rarely received a letter in her life, save, perhaps, some words of greeting at Easter or at the New Year; and under the circumstances it was not very likely that any missive could arrive for her by the post without being intercepted and confiscated by those who were so evidently determined to guard against any renewal of communication between her and her lover.

The days had passed slowly enough at Montefiano. The great suite of rooms on the piano nobile of the palace had been put into a certain order, as the princess had directed; but the furniture sent from Palazzo Acorari at Rome made a sorry show of comfort in the huge rooms of the Montefiano fortress. Indeed, it was only the corners of the living-room which could be made habitable—little oases, as it were, in a desert of marble floors, of walls from which faded damask was hanging in tattered strips, and upon which hung mirrors that had long ago ceased to reflect, or such pictures as the late prince had left as not being worth the trouble and expense of being moved to Rome to be sold to foreign collectors.

An indescribable atmosphere of dreariness seemed to pervade the interior of Montefiano, that dreariness which is produced by the sense of departed strength and grandeur. The apartments occupied by the princess and Bianca were entirely on one floor. A large vestibule formed the centre of the suite, approached by a double flight of stone steps leading up from the quadrangle or inner court of the palace. On one side of this hall were high double doors opening into an immense drawing-room, and opposite to them similar doors led into a gallery, at the farther extremity of which were two other sitting-rooms. Beyond these, again, was the princess's bedroom, and a smaller room beyond it, and at the end of the suite was Bianca's room, which could only be reached by passing through her step-mother's sleeping apartment. There were other rooms on the opposite side of the court-yard, which were occupied by the Abbé Roux and Monsieur d'Antin; while the servants inhabited a part of the house to get to which endless corridors and unused chambers had to be traversed. If life at the Palazzo Acorari and at the villa near Velletri had been quiet, it was amusing compared with that led by the princess and her step-daughter at Montefiano. Even the horses and the carriage had been left behind at Rome. Except a daily walk about a few acres of brushwood and coppices behind the castle—an enclosed piece of ground dignified by the name of a park, access to which was only possible by descending a damp, moss-grown flight of steps at the end of the terrace—Bianca never left the immediate precincts of the old dwelling, half palace and half mediæval fortress, of which she was nominally the mistress.

The Abbé Roux had been quite right when he had declared that no convent could afford a more secure retreat from the world than the castle of Montefiano. The little town, nestling beneath the grim, battlemented walls and flanking round towers on the southern side of the building, might have been a hundred miles away, for not a sound from it ever penetrated to that part of the castle in which the princess and Bianca lived, nor was so much as a roof-top visible. The cries of the jackdaws, or the scream of a hawk during the daytime, or, after dusk, the melancholy note of the little gray owls haunting the macchia, the monotonous croaking of the frogs in a swampy piece of ground in its recesses, were the only sounds audible, except that of the bell of Cardinal Acorari's clock over the Renaissance façade, tolling the passage of the hours and half-hours, as it had tolled them for over two centuries.

They had been some weeks at Montefiano, and the princess had never spoken to Bianca on the subject of what she termed the imprudent attempt of an adventurer to lead her into an entanglement in which she might have seriously compromised herself. Perhaps Princess Montefiano had never before felt how far removed from Bianca she was, how little sympathy and confidence existed between her and her step-daughter, as during the period immediately following the discovery of what, in her conversations with the Abbé Roux and with her brother, she called Bianca's indiscretion. She felt that she did not understand the girl; and, more keenly than she had ever done before, she felt conscious that Bianca regarded her as a foreigner. Had it been consistent with her sense of duty, Princess Montefiano would very readily have relegated the office of explaining to her step-daughter the gravity of her offence against all the rules that should guide the conduct of a young girl, and the utter impossibility of any alliance being tolerated between the heiress and representative of Casa Acorari and the son of a professor, however illustrious that professor might be. But to whom could she relegate the task? Certainly not to the Abbé Roux, although the subject was one in which fatherly advice from a priest would surely be better than any advice, save that of a mother, and she was not the girl's mother—all the difficulty lay in that point. But to expect Bianca to open her heart to the Abbé Roux, or to tolerate any open interference from him in her actions, was, as the princess had learned from experience, an altogether hopeless idea. The situation was certainly embarrassing, all the more so because Bianca shut herself up in an impenetrable reserve. She had accepted the sudden move to Montefiano without making any comment, or uttering any protest. Under any other circumstances, Princess Montefiano would have attributed this attitude to that apathy which she had until lately honestly believed to be one of Bianca's characteristics. Unluckily, recent events had conclusively proved this belief to be an illusion. As Monsieur d'Antin had pointed out to his sister, in language admitting of no misconstruction, young girls who were apathetic did not allow young men to make love to them in a manner that had—well, certainly nothing of apathy about it. And the princess had sighed and shaken her head. She felt herself to be out of her depth. Her experiences of love had been limited to the short period of married life passed with the Principe di Montefiano, experiences which of necessity were very limited indeed. As was her invariable practice when confronted by any difficulty, she had sought counsel of the Abbé Roux, and the abbé had readily understood and sympathized with her in her embarrassment. He could not offer to speak to Donna Bianca and point out to her the grave dangers, both worldly and spiritual, to which she had exposed herself, and the still greater unhappiness which was certainly in store for her were she to continue in her present unfortunate state of mind. Donna Bianca, he reminded the princess, had shown too plainly her want of confidence in him, both as a priest and as an individual, to allow of his making any attempt to force that confidence. But there was another person to whom, perhaps, she would be more communicative, and who might possibly succeed in distracting her thoughts from their present object. Donna Bianca had, at all events, shown symptoms of being more at her ease with Monsieur le Baron than she had with himself, or even—madame must pardon his frankness—with her step-mother. Why not, the Abbé Roux had concluded, refrain from pointing out to Donna Bianca the impossibility of the situation into which she had drifted until Monsieur d'Antin had endeavored to make her see matters in a different light? It might well be, considering the obvious sympathy which had existed between Monsieur le Baron and Donna Bianca, that the former might succeed where he himself would certainly, and Madame la Princesse possibly, fail. In the mean time, a rigorous seclusion at Montefiano would not cease to be advisable. The very dulness of this seclusion, the gradual certainty that no communication with young Rossano would ever be permitted, would doubtless soon break down Donna Bianca's obstinacy; while very probably the young man himself would realize the hopelessness of his suit and turn his attentions elsewhere.

Princess Montefiano had not received this suggestion without considerable misgivings. Her brother's interest in Bianca had certainly not diminished since the day when she had discovered that the Abbé Roux shared her suspicions that this interest was not altogether platonic. She was in some ways a sensitive woman, always thinking what people might or might not say of her and her actions. Ever since her marriage to the late Prince Montefiano, she had been haunted by a nervous dread lest she should be supposed to neglect his daughter; and though she scarcely realized it herself, it had been this feeling, rather than any affection for Bianca, that had made her almost timidly anxious not to fail in anything which she might conceive to be her duty towards the girl. Bianca, however, had realized when quite a child, with all that quick intuition which children share with other animals, that however kind her step-mother might be to her, it was a kindness certainly not born of love. Strangely enough, it would never have entered Princess Montefiano's head that her step-daughter was capable of detecting the difference. Like many conscientious people, she was quite satisfied by the constant reflection that she was doing her duty. That Bianca was not equally satisfied with and duly appreciative of the fact, she had long ago accustomed herself to attribute to the girl being possessed of a cold and indifferent nature.

After duly considering the abbé's advice, Princess Montefiano had decided to act upon it. It was true that, should he be correct in his calculations that a policy of seclusion and of a quiet but determined ignoring of the pretensions of the Rossano family would result in Bianca's submission, everything would be gained. At the same time, the world would think it strange, and not altogether seemly, that the girl should marry a man old enough to be her father, and who was also the brother of her father's second wife. But, as the abbé had pointed out, similar marriages, though possibly unusual, were not unheard of; and in Rome there had certainly been instances in which they had turned out satisfactorily to all parties. Moreover, even were the world to criticise her for allowing Bianca to contract such an alliance, criticism, as the Abbé Roux rightly insisted, would instantly cease were it suspected that the affair had been arranged in order to prevent the heiress of the Acorari from marrying a man who was not of her own social condition, but who had presumed to ask for her hand.

Altogether it had seemed better to the princess to take the unbiased advice of a man of the world, who was at the same time a priest, and to wait patiently to see whether Bianca would not in time come to her senses, and be glad to accept the devotion of a man of her own order, even if there was some disparity of age between him and her.

Matters had not, however, gone quite so smoothly as Monsieur l'Abbé had anticipated. For the first few days after his arrival at Montefiano it had appeared as if Bianca rather welcomed Baron d'Antin's attentions to her than otherwise. The princess even began to ask herself whether, after all, the Abbé Roux had not been right when he had hinted that her step-daughter's clandestine love-affair with a young man must not be taken too seriously—that Donna Bianca was of a temperament which demanded certain things—oh, but certain things that one husband could supply as well as another. Princess Montefiano had felt somewhat shocked at the idea. Nevertheless, when she observed that Bianca seemed to take pleasure in her brother Philippe's society, and that she was less silent and reserved when talking to him than she was at other times, she wondered whether the Abbé Roux had not read the girl's nature accurately, and she began to congratulate herself on having listened to his advice.

It was with not a little anxiety and disappointment, therefore, that Princess Montefiano noticed a sudden but unmistakeable change in Bianca's demeanor towards Monsieur d'Antin. Whereas she had always been ready to talk to him, she now seemed anxious to avoid him. If he addressed her at meals, she would answer in monosyllables, or perhaps not at all. Her manner betrayed an uneasiness and suspicion whenever she was in company, and at times would become almost sullen. If he proposed to walk with her on the terrace, or in the park, instead of consenting almost with alacrity, as she had usually done, she would answer coldly that she was not going out.

This state of things had lasted some days, and one evening at dinner Monsieur d'Antin suddenly announced his intention of going to Rome the following morning, as he had some business to do there.

The princess, who happened to glance at Bianca, saw an expression of intense relief pass over her countenance. The look surprised and then shocked her. It was the look that some trapped animal might give when just set at liberty.

Nothing more was said at that moment, however, and very soon after dinner Bianca went to her own room. The next morning Monsieur d'Antin left early, in order to catch a train which would enable him to reach Rome by twelve o'clock.

At the mid-day breakfast Bianca and her step-mother were alone together, for the Abbé Roux, as the princess explained, was occupied with the fattore on business.

"It is very annoying," she observed, presently, to Bianca, when the servants had brought in the coffee and left the room. "I have had to discharge Fontana—the agent, you know."

Bianca looked up from a fig she was peeling. "Ah," she said, quickly, "what has he done?"

"It is rather a case of what he has not done," replied Princess Montefiano. "Monsieur l'Abbé," she continued, "has been occupying himself with going about the estate since we have come here. He finds everything in a very unsatisfactory condition, I am sorry to say. Apparently the fattore, this Fontana, has resented any inquiries being made into his management. Monsieur l'Abbé is quite sure Fontana has ruled here too long, and that it will be better to make a change. He knows of a man—"

"Of course!" interposed Bianca, dryly.

The princess glanced at her. "It is very fortunate for you," she observed, "and for me, that we have a shrewd man of business like Monsieur l'Abbé to advise us. That is what you will never understand, Bianca."

Bianca Acorari pushed her plate from her impatiently. "No," she said, abruptly, "I shall never understand it. I think I should prefer priests who were not shrewd men of business, and men of business who were not priests."

The princess sighed. "When you are older, figlia mia," she remarked, "you will understand many things better than you do at present. I am sorry that you are vexed about Fontana. I am annoyed also, for I do not like turning off an old servant who has been here many years. But we, Monsieur l'Abbé and I, have to think of your interests."

Bianca raised her eyebrows. "Monsieur l'Abbé is, no doubt, very disinterested," she observed; and then she relapsed into silence, idly stirring her little cup of black coffee. Suddenly she rose from her chair, and, crossing to the opposite side of the table, stood beside her step-mother.

"How long do you—you and Monsieur l'Abbé—propose to keep me imprisoned here at Montefiano?" she asked, abruptly.

The princess set down her coffee-cup hastily—so hastily, indeed, that she spilled some of its contents.

"Bianca!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean? Imprisonment? That is an altogether absurd expression to use. You are here because—well, because I think it for your good that you should be here; and you must remember that, until you are of age, I am your guardian."

"Until I am of age, or marry," interrupted Bianca.

"You cannot marry without my consent before you are of age," the princess returned, quickly.

Bianca laughed—a hard little laugh.

"Without your consent, and that of Monsieur l'Abbé Roux," she replied. "Oh, but I understand that very well. It is the reason why I am here. No? A proposal of marriage was made to you for me, and you—you and Monsieur l'Abbé—refused your consent. Why?"

Princess Montefiano gazed at her step-daughter with an amazement nearly amounting to stupefaction. She had thought Bianca apathetic, perhaps even sullen, and had believed that she would probably never speak of her own accord about her love for Silvio Rossano. She had certainly not calculated upon her suddenly assuming an aggressive attitude, and that it was an aggressive attitude a glance at the girl's face, and the quiet, determined tone of her voice, showed clearly enough.

For a moment or two the princess remained silent, astonishment and indignation striving for mastery in her mind. It was not long before indignation triumphed. The absolute disregard which Bianca had shown for all the convenances had been bad enough; the manner in which she had allowed herself to become entangled in a love-affair, to have words of love spoken to her—and more than words, if Philippe was to be believed—by the son of an infidel professor, as though she had been some girl of the borghesia, was a horrible and an unheard-of thing. Nevertheless, nothing, at least in Princess Montefiano's eyes, was so culpable as want of submission to authority. All that intolerance of disobedience and defiance, which would have made the princess so admirable a mother-superior, arose within her at Bianca's words.

"I refused it—yes," she said, curtly. "We need not discuss the matter, Bianca. I do not intend to reprove you for your want of confidence in me, nor for your conduct. Your conscience should tell you how wrong, how—I must use the term—immodest that conduct has been. Yes; the proposal which the Professor Rossano had the insolence to make on behalf of his son was refused by me, and that is enough. In the mean time, you wish to know how long we remain here at Montefiano. The question is easily answered. You will remain here as long as I consider it fit that you should do so. You must learn to submit your will to those whom God has placed in authority over you. I shall certainly not shrink from doing what I know to be my duty towards you, although you have shown me very plainly that it is likely to be a thankless task. You have never given me your confidence, Bianca, never—not even when you were a child."

The defiant look on Bianca's face melted suddenly.

"It was not my fault," she said, slowly; "at least, I do not think it was my fault. I wanted to give it to you so often; but you did not love me, even when I was a child. You did your duty by me, but duty is not love; I understood that."

The princess knitted her brows, as though she were considering the point.

"That is nonsense," she said, presently. "The duty of a parent to a child, and of a child to a parent, is the same as love; and though I am not your mother, I have always tried to behave towards you as though you were my own child."

Bianca did not answer, but a little smile stole over her face and played about her lips. The hardness was all gone now, and there was only tenderness in her expression. Perhaps she was thinking that within the last few weeks she had learned the difference between love and duty.

"No, Bianca," continued Princess Montefiano, "if you had wanted to give me your confidence—if you had ever felt enough affection for me to make you wish to give it me—there could be no reason why you should persistently have withheld it. Nevertheless," she added, "your ingratitude towards me will not deter me from doing my duty. You must be protected against your own inexperience of the world, and against those who would take advantage of that inexperience."

Bianca looked at her almost wistfully. "You think me ungrateful," she said. "I am not that. But to confide in you meant confiding in Monsieur l'Abbé. He has always come between you and me—oh, ever since I was a child."

Princess Montefiano made a gesture of impatience. "If I have found Monsieur l'Abbé worthy of my confidence and my esteem, it should be a proof that he is also worthy of yours," she said. "You have a rebellious nature, Bianca, and God will punish you for it, both in this world and in the next."

A quick gleam of amusement flashed from Bianca's eyes. "How do you know?" she asked.

The princess stared at her. Assuredly, she thought, Bianca became every day more difficult to deal with.

"As to Monsieur l'Abbé," she said, preferring to leave her step-daughter's question unanswered, "your dislike to him is unreasonable—it is unreasonable and wrong. Setting aside his devotion to your worldly interests, which, when you are of an age to understand, you will appreciate better than you are able to do now, you owe him respect as a priest, the respect due to his sacred calling. I am deeply grieved at your attitude towards him; but there again your rebellious nature is at fault. As to saying that he comes between you and me, that is absurd. What does come between us is your own self-will—your own arrogance."

Bianca looked at her step-mother steadily for a moment, and the hard expression on her face returned.

"E sia!" she replied. "Do not let us discuss Monsieur l'Abbé Roux; it is a waste of time. As you say, when I am of an age to understand his devotion to my worldly interests I shall be able to appreciate them. I am sorry that Fontana is dismissed," she continued. "To be sure, I have only seen him a few times, but he appears an honest man."

The princess glanced at her, and her countenance displayed more displeasure than ever. "These business matters need not concern you for nearly three years to come," she said, coldly. "Your interests are in my hands, Bianca, as you very well know. Luckily for you, you have no voice in the management of your affairs. If you had, I fear you would very soon fall a prey to some adventurer like this—"

She stopped abruptly, a look on Bianca's face warning her that it would be more prudent not to complete her sentence. Nevertheless, Princess Montefiano was angry—seriously angry—and, though perhaps she scarcely realized it, alarmed. Her authority was very dear to her, and she clung to it more than she knew. She had always known there must come a time when that authority must cease; but she had certainly no intention of yielding it up before she was legally obliged to do so. Moreover, she felt perfectly assured that she divined the motives which lay behind Bianca's remark. Had she any doubts upon the point, they were speedily removed by her step-daughter's next words.

Whereas the princess was both angry and alarmed, Bianca Acorari showed no symptoms of being either the one or the other. She raised her head proudly, and a look came into her eyes that Princess Montefiano had seen on other occasions—a quiet, resolute look, which had generally preluded her own discomfiture when she had attempted to exercise her authority over her step-daughter beyond its justifiable limits.

"That is what I wanted to say to you," Bianca observed, calmly. "It is much better that you should understand. In three years' time I shall have the management of my own affairs. Well, three years is not a very long time. We, Silvio and I, can afford to wait; and at the end of three years, when I am of age, I shall marry him. But I will not marry Monsieur d'Antin—my uncle."

"Bianca!" exclaimed the princess, "you are either mad, or you are a wicked girl! For the sake of a disgraceful passion for a man in an inferior position of life to your own you rebel against those whom God has placed in authority over you. Yes, it is quite true, my brother loves you. I have suspected it for some time. And why should he not? At least, in marrying him you would be marrying a man of your own order, and not— But what is the use of discussing the matter? You shall never marry this young Rossano with my consent—never, never, I tell you! and without my consent you cannot marry anybody."

Bianca smiled. "Never is a long time," she observed, tranquilly; "whereas, three years— You quite understand," she added, after a pause, "I will marry Silvio Rossano, or I will marry nobody. You have chosen to refuse his offer, and you have a perfect right to do so. I, too, shall have my rights some day. But in the mean time you will tell my uncle that I do not wish for his society any more. I do not want his love. It—it disgusts me. Besides, he has deceived me."

The princess stared at her in dismay.

"Deceived you?" she repeated.

"He pretended to be my friend," answered Bianca, bitterly, "and, like an imbecile, I confided in him. Who else was there for me to confide in? He pretended to know Silvio, and that he would be able by degrees to remove your objections to our marriage. Well, it was all a lie. At first I did not understand; but now—" and Bianca gave a shudder which told, better than any words could have done, all that was passing in her mind of physical repulsion and disgust.

Princess Montefiano looked, as indeed she felt, sorely perplexed. A certain sense of justice made her sympathize with the girl. Although love was to her an unknown and unexplored element in life, she could not but recollect that when first she had suspected her brother's interest in Bianca not to be of a purely Platonic nature, the idea had shocked her as being almost an unnatural one.

At the same time, the Abbé Roux had never ceased to remind her of the gravity of the position in which Bianca had placed herself, of the hopeless manner in which her step-daughter would be compromised in the eyes of the world should it ever be known that she had formed an attachment for a man in whose company she had been alone and unprotected. By degrees Princess Montefiano had come to regard her brother's passion for Bianca as a possible safeguard, not only against the presumption of the Rossano family, but also against a scandal, for which she herself would certainly be blamed by the world, as being the result of a lack of proper supervision on her part towards her step-daughter. Not once, but many times, had the Abbé Roux descanted upon the generosity of Baron d'Antin in being ready to shield Bianca from any troubles which her folly might bring upon her in the future. Princess Montefiano had not stopped to reason that her brother's generosity might be exaggerated by the priest, and that he would receive a good return for it. There were certain things beyond her comprehension, mentally as well as physically, and passion was one of those things. People fell in love, of course; but, in Princess Montefiano's eyes, falling in love was a mere accident, necessary to the carrying-on of human society. She quite believed that she had loved the late Principe di Montefiano, and that he had loved her; and, in itself, this belief was harmless enough. The pity of it was that she was unable to realize any variations in the human temperament, or to understand that what had satisfied her, when at the mature age of five-and-thirty or so she had married a man considerably older than his years, would not be likely to satisfy Bianca. As to her brother's love for the girl, after the first impression caused by its discovery had passed, Princess Montefiano had been only too ready to accept the view of it that the Abbé Roux had more than once delicately hinted to her—namely, that it was a love similar to that of Bianca's father for herself—a placid, protective love, altogether disinterested, and admirable both from a worldly and a spiritual stand-point.

It is possible that the late Principe di Montefiano's point of view would have been different. But, fortunately, perhaps, for herself, Mademoiselle Jeanne d'Antin had not made the acquaintance of her husband until he had already, like King David and King Solomon, experienced misgivings of a religious character, and hence the Abbé Roux's apologia for her brother's state of mind seemed to her to be perfectly reasonable and satisfactory.

So Bianca's abrupt pause and little shiver of disgust passed unobserved by the princess. It was evident to her that the girl did not realize the generosity of Philippe's affection. Bianca was, no doubt, contrasting him with that insolent young Rossano, and the thought added to her irritation and displeasure.

"I do not think you understand, Bianca," she began, after hesitating for a moment or two.

"I assure you that I understand well—perfectly well," returned Bianca, dryly. "I am not a child any longer: for the matter of that, I do not recollect ever having been a child, and it is useless to treat me as though I were one. You may keep me here at Montefiano three years, if you wish. It will be the same thing in the end. But I will not be made love to by my uncle."

The princess rose from the table and began to walk rapidly up and down the room.

"Bianca," she cried, "your language is disgraceful, indelicate! Besides," she added, weakly, "he is not your uncle. It is absurd, and, as usual, you are ungrateful. He wished to save you from the consequences of your conduct. Oh, you need not think that he has said anything to me of his motives. He is too much of a gentleman to do so. But he has confided them to Monsieur l'Abbé, and Monsieur l'Abbé has been profoundly touched. A disinterested affection is not such an easy thing to find, figlia mia," she added, more gently. "Take care that, in despising it, you do not throw away a great blessing."

Bianca did not reply. She seemed to be thinking over her step-mother's last words. A note of kindness found an instant response in her. Princess Montefiano noticed her hesitation, and decided that the moment was opportune for pressing her point. It might quite well be, she thought, that Bianca was really unconscious of the equivocal position in which she might find herself placed before the world.

"You see, Bianca," she continued, gravely, "a young girl cannot act as you have done without laying herself open to very disagreeable things being said of her. Do you suppose that any man would wish to marry you were it to be known that—well, that any such episode as has occurred had happened to you? Most decidedly he would not. Nevertheless, my brother is ready to overlook what another would not overlook, on account of the affection he entertains for you. He knows that you were not to blame so much as that thoughtless young man who ventured to—to persuade you to give him an interview."

"He was not to blame," interrupted Bianca, quickly. "He would have gone away if I had told him to do so, but I did not tell him."

"It does not matter," continued the princess, hurriedly, anxious to avoid a discussion on the subject at that particular moment. "You may be sure that it was only an impudent attempt to compromise you. But the world would never take that into consideration. With my brother, however, it is different."

Unluckily, Princess Montefiano had struck a wrong chord.

"It was nothing of the sort," Bianca exclaimed, indignantly. "It is perfectly true that we met, there in the ilex grove at the Villa Acorari, and I suppose our meeting was seen, and that you were told of it."

"Of course," interrupted the princess. "My brother saw you. Did you not know it was he who heard voices in the casino, and then saw you and—and that young man emerge from it?"

Bianca started violently. "Liar!" she exclaimed, under her breath.

"It seems to me that it is a further proof of my brother's generosity," continued Princess Montefiano. "Knowing all the circumstances, he has from the first endeavored to shield you."

Bianca laughed a quiet but not very pleasant laugh.

"Sicuro!" she said. "It is a further proof of Monsieur d'Antin's generosity. It appears that everybody at Montefiano is disinterested—my uncle, Monsieur l'Abbé, everybody! But you will explain to them that I need no sacrifices. Ah, it is of no use to interrupt me now! I have learned all I wanted to know, and you—you will learn something from me—something final, definite. It is this: I will marry Silvio Rossano when I am Principessa di Montefiano and my own mistress, and until that time I will wait, unless—"

Princess Montefiano turned towards her, her face quivering with anger.

"Unless—what?" she asked.

"Unless he wishes me to marry him before," answered Bianca, quietly.

"You will not dare—"

Bianca laughed again, and threw her head up like a young horse.

"Dare!" she said, scornfully. "When I have given my word, I do not break it—and do you suppose that I shall break my word when I have given my love? Ah, no, per esempio! I am not so vile as that."

"Oh, but the girl is mad, possessed!" ejaculated Princess Montefiano.

Bianca looked at her almost indifferently.

"I think not!" she said, quietly—and then her eyes flashed with sudden contempt, as she added: "And as for Monsieur d'Antin, you will tell him from me that I have no need of the generosity of a coward and a liar."

And turning on her heel, Bianca walked slowly from the room without another word, leaving Princess Montefiano in a condition of speechless astonishment and dismay.

XXII

After leaving her step-mother, Bianca went to her own room, where she shut herself up in order to be able to think quietly. Although she felt that she had been by no means the vanquished party in the unexpected skirmish which had just taken place, she was far more ill at ease in her own mind than she had allowed herself to show to the princess. Whatever might be Bianca Acorari's faults, lack of courage, moral or physical, was certainly not among them; and during the time she had been at Montefiano, her courage and her pride combined had forbidden her to show any external sign of the doubt and uncertainty ever increasing in her heart as the days lengthened into weeks, and yet no word from Silvio Rossano had reached her.

That Silvio's father had written to her step-mother making a formal proposal of marriage on his son's behalf, and that this proposal had been indignantly rejected by the princess, Bianca was already well aware. Monsieur d'Antin had informed her of the fact a very few days after his arrival at Montefiano. It had been this information, indeed, and the kindly and sympathetic manner of its conveyance, that had caused Bianca to regard Monsieur d'Antin as the one person about her to whom she might venture to confide her hopes and difficulties. It had not been long, however, before vague and fleeting suspicions, which she had at first dismissed from her mind as not only absurd, but almost wrong to entertain, as to Monsieur d'Antin's motives for seeking her society, developed into certainties, before which she had recoiled with fear and disgust. Her instinct had very soon told her that there was more in her uncle's—for she had begun to regard him in that relationship—manner towards her than was justified by his professed compassion and sympathy. Sometimes, when alone with her, he had made certain observations which, although apparently in connection with her and Silvio's love for each other, had offended her sense, if not of modesty, at least of propriety and good taste. She could hardly explain to herself why they should have done so, but she was conscious that they did do so. Sometimes, too, she had surprised an expression on Monsieur d'Antin's countenance as he looked at her which had made her shrink from him, as she might have shrunk from some evil thing that meant to harm her. Her suspicions once aroused, Bianca had been quick to perceive that the more she was alone with Monsieur d'Antin, the more apt he became to assume a manner towards her which caused her no little embarrassment as well as distaste. The result had been an ever-growing feeling of distrust, which soon made her regret bitterly that she had ever allowed herself to talk to her uncle about Silvio, and latterly she had sought every pretext to avoid being alone with him. Sometimes, too, she reproached herself deeply for having disregarded her promise to Silvio that she would confide in nobody until he had an opportunity of again communicating with her. This promise, however, as she repeatedly told herself, had been given when they had still a channel of communication in the person of Mademoiselle Durand, and before she had become, to all intents and purposes, a prisoner at Montefiano. But now Mademoiselle Durand had utterly vanished from the scene—gone, as Monsieur d'Antin informed her, to Paris with the wife and children of a secretary of the French embassy in Rome, and Bianca had quickly realized that no communication, direct or indirect, from her lover would be allowed to reach her as long as she was within the walls of Montefiano.

Monsieur d'Antin, moreover, had certainly played the opening moves of his game very well, and a more experienced person than Bianca might have been deceived by them. He had extracted her confidence by impressing upon Bianca that he, and he alone, could by degrees overcome the objections that his sister entertained to an alliance with the Rossano family. He had explained to her how these objections came in reality much more from the Abbé Roux than from the princess, and that the latter would infallibly relent if the abbé's good-will could be secured. It had been Monsieur d'Antin, too, who had warned Bianca that her step-mother had decided, always by the Abbé Roux's advice, absolutely to ignore, at any rate for the present, the fact of her having met Silvio and allowed him to propose to her. He had carefully impressed upon her that any attempt on her part to overcome the princess's objections, any allusion, indeed, to the subject, would only result in failure; and that Bianca's best plan, in her own and her lover's interests, would be to maintain an absolute silence, except, of course, to himself. No questions, he told her, would be asked her by her step-mother, and no lectures on her conduct given to her. Therefore, there would be no need for her to give her confidence in a quarter where it was not demanded, and where the giving of it could only prejudice her cause. And everything had happened as Monsieur d'Antin had foretold. The princess had not made the slightest allusion to her step-daughter regarding the meeting in the grounds of the Villa Acorari, and, save for the sense of being continually guarded and watched, Bianca could not truthfully say to herself that her life at Montefiano differed in any particular degree from the life she had been accustomed from childhood to lead.

At first, when Bianca had finally decided to yield to her uncle's suggestions and confide in him, she had more than once asked him to assist her in sending or in receiving some communication from Silvio. But Monsieur d'Antin had always declared this to be impossible. He had explained plausibly enough that if his sister and the Abbé Roux were once to suspect him of such a course, all the influence he might be able to use with them in order to overcome their objections would be hopelessly destroyed. Moreover, his sister would certainly ask him to leave Montefiano, and then Bianca would be left without her only friend and sympathizer.

And so long as Monsieur d'Antin, counselling patience, had himself been patient, matters had progressed fairly well for the furtherance of the object he and the Abbé Roux had in view. Bianca was, if not easy in her mind, at least satisfied that there was no other course open to her but to keep silence and wait for her uncle's influence to do its work.

But Monsieur d'Antin had not had patience. The success attending his first efforts to gain Bianca's confidence had been his undoing. The constant companionship of the young girl, whose very youth and inexperience had kindled afresh his well-worn passions, had brought about its almost inevitable psychological result. Monsieur d'Antin began to lose his head, and to be unable, or at any rate unwilling, to place the restraint upon himself that a younger man would probably have done. He believed that Bianca would certainly in the end be compelled by force of circumstances to see that a marriage with Silvio Rossano was impossible for the heiress of the Acorari. It was true that she might come to realize this, and yet make up her mind to marry some other young man who might present himself—some flaccid, Roman youth with empty pockets, but the possessor of a spurious title which would render him, in the eyes of the little, but strangely snobbish Roman world, an eligible husband for Donna Bianca Acorari. But Baron d'Antin felt comfortably convinced that even should this contingency arise, he still held in his hand the trump-card which would win him the game. If such a young man were to present himself—well, a few words spoken in a few Roman drawing-rooms, a hint or two dropped at the clubs of what had recently occurred at the Villa Acorari, a suggestion that the Princess Montefiano was anxious to marry her step-daughter in order to prevent her making a mésalliance in a quarter in which she had already compromised herself—and the young man's family would at once break off negotiations.

But there had come a day when Monsieur d'Antin, in the course of a walk with Bianca in the parco at Montefiano, had allowed his passion momentarily to get the better of him, and in that moment Bianca had understood all. She had entertained no suspicions since that instant—only the certainty that she was the object of Monsieur d'Antin's desires. Indignation rather than fear, or even aversion, had been her first sensation—indignation at the cowardice of this elderly hypocrite who had tricked her into giving him her confidence. Monsieur d'Antin probably never knew how near he had been to receiving a blow in the face from Bianca's clinched fist, as, with a few scathing words of anger and disgust, she had left him and almost run back to the terrace, where Princess Montefiano was sitting reading in the shade under the castle.

Nor had this episode been all that had occurred during the last few days to confirm Bianca Acorari's suspicions and make her doubly uneasy in her mind.

It so happened that, while wandering through some of the disused apartments of the castle, in the wing opposite to that occupied by the princess and herself, she had overheard a portion of a conversation between domestics, certainly not intended for her ears. Her attention was arrested by the mention of her own name in a loud and rather excited female voice; and approaching nearer to the room whence the voices proceeded, she saw her own maid, Bettina, and a girl whom she recognized as the fattore Fontana's daughter, engaged in mending some linen. They were also, apparently, occupied in a discussion of which she herself was the object, and the agent's daughter appeared to be taking her part with some vigor.

"It was a shame," Bianca heard the girl exclaim, "that the principessina should be forced to marry an old man like the baron, when there was a bel giovanotto who loved her and whom she loved. For her part, if she were the Principessina Bianca she would box the baron's ears—uno, due—so! and marry the lad she loved. What was the use of being a princess if one could not do as one chose?"

Then had followed some words in a lower tone from Bettina, the sense of which Bianca could not catch, but which appeared to have the effect of still further arousing Concetta Fontana's indignation.

"Ah, the poor girl!" Bianca heard her reply. "They shut her up here in this dreary place, and they will keep her here until she lets that old he-goat have his own way. And the priest is at the bottom of it—oh, certainly, the priest is at the bottom of it! It is useless to tell me. I have heard him and the Signor Barone talking together—and I know. If one could ever approach the principessina to get a word with her, I would warn her that it is a trap they are laying for her—just as though she were a bird, the poor child!"

Bianca Acorari turned away, sick at heart. The servants, then, and the people about Montefiano, knew for a fact what she had never even suspected. She had regarded Monsieur d'Antin's attempt to make love to her as odious and cowardly, and also, perhaps, as ludicrous—but she had not until then suspected that others were aware of his passion for her, and still less that her having been brought to Montefiano was part of a deliberately laid plan to force her to yield to that passion.

Concetta Fontana's words seemed suddenly to make everything clear to her, and to reveal Monsieur d'Antin's treachery in its full light. She understood now, or she thought that she understood. She had been purposely allowed to confide in her uncle, purposely thrown in his company, in the hope that she might in time consent to relinquish her love for Silvio as a thing out of the question.

And her step-mother? Of course her step-mother would do what the Abbé Roux counselled. She had always done so ever since Bianca could remember, and she always would do so. What the priest's motives might be for desiring that she should marry Baron d'Antin, Bianca did not stop to consider. Monsieur l'Abbé had always tried to interfere in her life; and the fact that he knew she wished to marry Silvio Rossano was quite sufficient to account for his determination to marry her to somebody else.

Well, they should see that she, Bianca Acorari, was not to be forced to marry anybody against her will. She was not a foreigner, not a Belgian, thank Heaven—but an Italian—a Roman, the head of an ancient Roman house. And so her pride came to her rescue, as, indeed, it had often done before. And with it had come the courage to face her new difficulties. She could give her step-mother plainly to understand that she knew what steps had been taken and what plans had been made to compel her to abandon all idea of marrying the man she intended to marry. After that, the abbé and Monsieur d'Antin might do their worst. She had only to be firm and patient for three years, and then they could have no more power to interfere with her.

It had been a certain comfort to her to discover that there was one person at Montefiano, however humbly placed, who was her friend. Bettina, she knew well, had an eye only to her own interests, and would not hesitate to betray any confidences Bianca might be tempted to make to her, were she to consider it to her advantage to do so. She had several times noticed Concetta Fontana since her arrival at Montefiano, and had been struck by the honest and straightforward bearing both of the girl and of her father. Fontana himself, indeed, had been very marked in the deference and attention he paid to his young mistress. As a matter of fact, he regarded both the princess and Monsieur d'Antin in the light of foreign intruders, while for the Abbé Roux he felt nothing but the suspicion and dislike with which priests, as a general rule, Don Agostino always excepted, inspired him. The Principessina Bianca, on the contrary, he regarded as his liege lady, the daughter and representative of the princes of Montefiano whom he and his forefathers had served for several generations in one capacity or another.

Bianca Acorari could not have explained why the thought that the agent's daughter took a friendly interest in her was a consolation, but it certainly was so. She had scarcely spoken to the girl beyond wishing her "Good-morning" or "Good-evening" if they met in the passages or the courtyard of the castle.

As she sat alone in her room after the stormy scene with her step-mother, Bianca thought long and calmly over the situation in which that scene must inevitably have placed her. On the whole, she felt rather relieved than otherwise that it had taken place. The keeping up for so many weeks of a pretence that there was nothing unusual in the position between the princess and herself had become more than irksome; and Bianca would certainly not have submitted to Silvio's proposal being passed over in silence by her step-mother, had it not been for Monsieur d'Antin's assurances that nothing but harm would result were she to insist on discussing it.

Her amazement and indignation had been great, however, at hearing from her that it had been no other than Monsieur d'Antin himself who had been a witness to her interview with Silvio in the ilex grove of the Villa Acorari. She had always concluded that one of the servants of the place had been her step-mother's informant, and Monsieur d'Antin had never said anything to lead her to suppose the contrary. It was, of course, but another instance of his treachery and double-dealing towards her; but all the same, Bianca was glad to know the truth. She could understand the course of events more clearly now, and the last discovery, immediately following the remarks she had overheard from Concetta Fontana, pointed without doubt to the existence of some intrigue between her uncle and the Abbé Roux of which she was to be the victim. It was certainly as well that she had that day spoken plainly to her step-mother. In a day or two Monsieur d'Antin would return from Rome, and then she supposed there would be war to the knife.

Well, they should see that she would not give way—not one centimetre. Better to have open war to the knife than to continue to be surrounded by an atmosphere of intrigue and deception.

Ah, but if she could only have one line from Silvio, one word to assure her that he was faithful to her as she was to him! She could afford to wait patiently then—to wait, if need be, till three years were over and she was accountable to nobody for her actions. She could not doubt Silvio—not for one moment; but it was strange that he had not as yet discovered some means of communicating with her. Sometimes a deadly fear struck her that he had believed her step-mother's rejection of his offer to have been written with her knowledge and consent. It was more than likely that an attempt would have been made to induce him to believe this. But she put the thought away from her persistently. Silvio and she had known from the first that his offer would be declined—it had only been made, indeed, as a formality, and as being in accordance with the usages of society.

Nevertheless, she longed for some message, some word to comfort her and give her courage to face the weary months in front of her. Surely he would find some means of sending her this word! It seemed so long ago since his arms were round her and his lips lay upon hers—so long ago and yet she felt their pressure still. What had he said to her "I will marry no woman if I do not marry you." Ah, but she was sure of that—very sure. And so it was ridiculous to be afraid—cowardly to be afraid and not to trust in his word, that as soon as he could possibly do so with the certainty that his message would reach her, he would communicate with her as to what their next step should be.

XXIII

Don Agostino was sitting in his study the evening after his return to Montefiano from Rome. His housekeeper, Ernana, had waited upon him during his supper, and in the interval of carrying in the dishes from the kitchen had entertained him with all that had occurred in the paese during his absence. Not very much had occurred; but then occurrences of any import at Montefiano were apt to be few and far between. The wife of the baker who supplied the house with bread had had a baby; and Ernana, counting up upon her fingers the number of months that had elapsed since the baker's marriage, could only get as far as the little finger of one hand, and shook her head accordingly. There had been a dispute in the osteria kept by Stefano Mazza, and Stefano's son, while attempting to put an end to it, had been stabbed. But it was una cosa di niente; and it served Stefano's son right, and would teach him that no good ever came of trying to interfere in other folks' quarrels. Nothing else had happened—at any rate, nothing that had reached Ernana's ears. But it certainly was very unfortunate about the baby, and a great pity that the baker had delayed his marriage so long; though, after all, he might have delayed it altogether, which would have been worse.

Don Agostino listened in silence as he ate his frittura and salad. He rather agreed with Ernana as to the futility in this world of trying to play the part of a peacemaker, however advantageous having done so might prove to be in the world to come. As to the baby, he had heard about it before, at a very early stage of its creation; and he had nothing further to say regarding it than he had already had occasion to whisper from behind the grille of his confessional.

His supper over, and Ernana having retired into the kitchen to wash up, Don Agostino had betaken himself to his favorite arm-chair in his study, after carefully roasting the end of a Virginia cigar in the flame of a candle on his writing-table, and ascertaining that it drew satisfactorily. On that same writing-table lay the little packet containing the ring and letter which Silvio had intrusted to him, and which he had undertaken should, by one means or another, be conveyed safely into Bianca Acorari's own hands.

Don Agostino glanced at the packet more than once as he sat and smoked his cigar. A work by Professor Rossano was lying on his lap. He had taken the volume from his bookshelves in order to refresh his memory as to certain arguments propounded in it which had especially roused the indignation of the Sacred Congregation of the Index, some months after the work had appeared. As a matter of fact, however, he was thinking far more of how he should fulfil his promise to Professor Rossano's son, than of the learned senator's unorthodox propositions in print.

The more he thought over the strange combination of circumstances which had led him to interest himself in Silvio's case, the more he became convinced that he had been called upon to save the only child of the woman he had loved from unhappiness, and perhaps from worse. It was scarcely conceivable, he argued to himself, that the similarity between his own youthful love affair and that of Silvio should be a mere coincidence. Indeed, he had long ago rejected the idea as impossible, and to one of his nature, partly philosophical but also largely mystical, there was nothing incongruous or improbable in the thought that his departed love remembered his devotion to her, and was calling upon him from her place in the world beyond the veil to shield her child from evil, and bidding him labor to procure her the happiness which had been denied to her mother.

And Don Agostino did not doubt that a woman who loved Silvio Rossano, and could call him her husband, would be happy. He had never doubted it from the first day that he had talked with Silvio, when the boy had been, as it were, but a chance acquaintance. Much knowledge of human nature had made Don Agostino singularly quick at reading both countenances and character, and experience had taught him that his first impressions, especially of a man, were very seldom wrong impressions.

He had not been satisfied, however, until he had learned from Silvio's father all that the professor had to tell him concerning his son. As Don Agostino had said to Silvio, that "all" was only what he had felt convinced that he should hear. It had told him that the lad was a good son and a good brother, that he had proved himself to be worthy of trust, as well as clever and hard-working, and Don Agostino knew enough of matrimony to realize that such men, when they loved, and if they were loved, made good husbands.

He could not doubt Silvio's love for Bianca Acorari; nor had he any reason to think that Silvio was deceiving himself as to its depth and sincerity. The professor, to be sure, had declared that it was a case of love at first sight—only he had defined it more cynically, if somewhat less gracefully—and had argued that similar affections were not apt to be of very long duration. This argument, however, had not appealed to Don Agostino as being by any means conclusive. When he had first met Bianca Negroni, Bianca Acorari's mother, he had fallen in love with her there and then, and that love had dominated his whole life. It had not, it was true, been realized, but had it been realized he knew that it would have endured the test of supreme satisfaction—that test which, in love, is the severest of any. He would not have been what he was—the parroco of Montefiano! Nor was there anything unnatural or improbable in Bianca Acorari having fallen in love at first sight with Silvio. Such things might not occur with the colder natures of the north, perhaps, or they might occur but rarely. But in the south, among the Latin races, Don Agostino knew very well that such a thing was very far from being uncommon. All the same, however desirable it may be that Bianca Acorari and Silvio should find happiness in living their lives together, Don Agostino did not see how the affair could be managed. None knew better than he how hard a thing to break down, especially among the Roman "nobility," was the prejudice of caste. Money, indeed, provided there was enough of it, could always break it down; but otherwise the line between the so-called aristocracy and the bourgeoisie was irremediably fixed.

Don Agostino was revolving all these thoughts in his mind, when he was suddenly disturbed by the sound of the bell at the entrance-door. Somebody, no doubt, was ill, and had sent to summon him, for it was nearly nine o'clock, and no one would be likely to wish to see him on any other business at so late an hour. A moment or two passed, and then Ernana hurried into the room. It was Sor Beppe, she explained, Signor Fontana, who wished to speak with Don Agostino—if the hour was not too inconvenient.

"Fontana!" exclaimed Don Agostino. "Of course, Ernana; bring Signor Fontana in here. And bring some wine, too, and glasses," and he rose from his chair to greet his visitor.

Sor Beppe entered the room hastily, and Don Agostino could see at a glance that he had not come at that hour, uninvited, merely to discuss the affairs of Montefiano. It was evident that Fontana was considerably upset in his mind, or else extremely angry. Don Agostino was not sure whether it was the one or the other, or perhaps both.

He quickly came to the conclusion, however, that it was both. Sor Beppe, indeed, was trembling with ill-suppressed excitement. He scarcely waited to return Don Agostino's greeting; but, after a hasty apology for disturbing him at such an hour, seemed at a loss for words to explain the object of his visit.

"You have heard?" he burst out at length.

Don Agostino motioned to him to sit down.

"I have heard nothing," he replied, quietly. "I only returned from Rome this morning—or, rather, early this afternoon. Is there anything wrong, Signor Fontana? You look disturbed."

"Anything wrong!" exclaimed Fontana. "There is this that is wrong. I am dismissed!"

Don Agostino started. "Dismissed?" he repeated. "Dismissed from what? I do not understand."

"Perbacco, it is very simple!" returned Sor Beppe, sullenly. "I am dismissed from my office. I am no longer fattore to the Eccellentissima Casa Acorari at Montefiano. I have said it."

Don Agostino looked at him. "When, and why?" he asked, abruptly.

"When? Two days ago. The day your reverence went to Rome. Why? Because I am an honest man, and because I and my people have been faithful servants to Casa Acorari for a hundred years and more. Is it not reason enough?" and Sor Beppe laughed bitterly.

Don Agostino poured out a glass of wine and pushed it towards him. "Tell me how it has come about," he said. "If I am not mistaken," he added, looking at the agent keenly, "Casa Acorari has too much need of honest men just now to be able to spare one."

"Ah!" exclaimed Fontana, quickly, "you know that, too? You have heard it in Rome, perhaps?"

"I know nothing," replied Don Agostino. "I only guess. And I have heard nothing in Rome concerning the affairs of Casa Acorari—nothing, that is, connected with the estates. May I ask," he added, "apart from the reason you have just given, on what grounds you have been dismissed?"

Sor Beppe drank off his glass of wine.

"I will tell you, reverendo," he replied. "Some days ago I received instructions from the estate office in Rome that the rents of certain small holdings here at Montefiano were to be raised five per cent. I represented to the administration that the rents were already high enough, and that to increase them would certainly create much ill-feeling. The people can barely live like Christians and pay the rents they are paying, reverendo; and who should know it better than I, who have lived on the land for fifty years?"

Don Agostino nodded. "I know it, too," he observed. "Go on, Signor Fontana."

"I thought my protest had been accepted," continued Fontana, "as I heard no more from Rome. But four or five days ago that foreign priest, the Abbé Roux, as they call him, came into my office and asked what I meant by refusing to obey the instructions I had received from the administration. I replied that I had sent my reasons to the administration; and, moreover, that however many instructions to raise the rents in question might be sent to me from Rome, I should not obey them until I had explained the truth of the matter to the princess in person, and had received her orders as the Principessina Bianca's representative. Was I right, reverendo, or wrong?"

Don Agostino shrugged his shoulders. "You were right, decidedly, I should say," he replied; "but whether you were wise in your own interests is another matter."

"My interests have always been those of Casa Acorari," returned Sor Beppe, simply, "and it certainly is not to the interest of Casa Acorari to arouse ill-feeling among the tenants at Montefiano for the sake of a few hundred francs a year. That is what I intended to have explained to her excellency the princess."

"And why did you not explain it to her?"

"Because I was dismissed by that mascalzone of a priest!" exclaimed Fontana, angrily. "I beg your pardon, Don Agostino, I should have remembered that there are priests and priests."

Don Agostino smiled. "Yes," he observed, "for precisely the same reason that there are men—and men! So the Abbé Roux dismissed you in the princess's name, I conclude?"

"In her excellency's name—yes. Everything is done by the Abbé Roux in her name. For some time past I have been fattore at Montefiano only nominally. It is no longer any secret that the Abbé Roux is the chief administrator of the estate. Two years ago, as your reverence probably knows, the lease of the rents at Montefiano expired, and the holder of it offered to renew on the same terms. His offer was declined because the Abbé Roux had a friend, a mercante di campagna, who offered to pay a rather larger annual sum. Since this man has farmed the rents they have been gradually increased, and now the people cannot pay and make enough out of their tenute to live decently."

Don Agostino leaned forward in his chair. "I did not know," he said. "I thought the same individual held the contract. To be sure, I did know that the rents have, in many cases, been raised of late. The peasants have grumbled, and I have heard you blamed for it."

"It was not generally known that there had been any change," said Fontana. "I had my instructions not to talk about the matter, and I obeyed them. It was no affair of mine who farmed the rents; that is the business of the administration at Palazzo Acorari in Rome. My duty was to see that they were paid, and that the tenants cultivated the land properly. It is quite true—I have been called a hard man, especially lately. But there were very few complaints of any kind, and I think still fewer reasonable ones, before this change took place."

"And who is this friend of the Abbé Roux, who has taken over the lease of the rents?" asked Don Agostino.

Sor Beppe hesitated; then, looking round the room as though afraid of being overheard, he leaned forward and whispered:

"I do not know; I only suspect. But my belief is that the Abbé Roux's friend is—himself."

"Accidente!" ejaculated Don Agostino.

"Sicuro!" continued Sor Beppe. "I suspect it, but I have no means of proving it. One thing is certain, and that is, that the individual who received the rents has never presented himself in the flesh at Montefiano; whereas the Abbé Roux has presented himself very frequently. There is not a metre of land that he has not been over—not a farm or a cottage that he has not visited, inside and out—and always in the name of their excellencies, si capisce—so what could anybody say?"

Don Agostino remained silent for a moment.

"But you have appealed to the princess," he asked, presently, "and perhaps to Donna Bianca? It is true that she has no voice in the management of her affairs as yet, but she is the padrona, when all is said and done."

"Of course I have appealed to the princess," replied Fontana. "I saw her personally, but the priest was always with her, listening to every word I said. She was very affable, very sympathetic; but, as she explained, the business matters of the administration lay in other hands than her own. She was merely acting in the interests of the Principessina Bianca, and could only take the advice of those who understood business matters better than she did herself. She regretted the present affair, oh, very much; but it was evident that I was not in accord with the administration of Casa Acorari, and therefore she could not do otherwise than confirm my dismissal from the post of fattore at Montefiano."

"And the principessina, Donna Bianca?" said Don Agostino, quickly.

Sor Beppe made an expressive gesture with both hands. "The principessina," he repeated; "ma che vuole? The principessina, poveretta, is like a fly in a spider's web. I have seen her half a dozen times, but never to speak to, except a few words of respect. The principessina? Ah, no! As your reverence says, she has no voice in the management of her own affairs, none at all. And she never will have any, for before she is of age they will marry her to her uncle! Of course he is not her uncle really, but it is much the same."

Don Agostino drew his chair closer to the other, and at the same time poured out another glass of wine.

"Ah," he said, "so you believe that gossip? I had heard it, but it seemed incredible that it should be anything else but gossip."

"Do I believe it!" exclaimed Fontana. "Of course I believe it! My daughter Concetta works at the castle, and they all—all the household—talk of it. It seems that there is somebody else whom the poor child wants to marry—the son of some professor in Rome; but she will never be allowed to marry him. She will marry the principessa's brother; you will see."

"That she will not!" exclaimed Don Agostino, emphatically.

Sor Beppe drank half of his glass of wine.

"They have brought her here to Montefiano," he said, "and they will keep her here till she gives way. For the rest, the baron, as they call him, is madly in love with the girl—at least, he is—"

"I understand," Don Agostino, interrupted. "It is monstrous," he added—"a crime!"

"Altrocchè! Who knows what may be the motives?"

Don Agostino glanced at Sor Beppe quickly.

"The motives?" he repeated.

"Sicuro! Concetta has heard things—oh, but very strange things. Sa, reverendo, the castle is a curious building, and especially that part of it in which the family resides. There is not one of them who knows it; but we know it—I and Concetta. Diamine! We have lived in it for more than twenty years, so how should we not know it? Ebbene! Concetta has overheard things—conversations between the baron and that cursed priest, carried on when they thought themselves secure. At first she could not understand very clearly, for they talked in French; and Concetta understands a little French, but not much. She learned all she knows when she went to a family in Rome. Occasionally, however, the Abbé Roux and the princess spoke in Italian, and by degrees she has been able to learn a great deal of what is going on. The baron and the Abbé Roux are working together, I tell you; the one for lust, the other for money—or both for money. Che ne so io?"

Don Agostino looked at him steadily.

"Adagio, Signor Fontana!" he said, quietly. "These are very serious allegations to make. Are you sure that in your very natural indignation at being dismissed for no offence but that of doing what your conscience told you was just, you are not exaggerating? Your daughter may have been mistaken, and the things she overheard may not have applied to Donna Bianca at all. As to the Baron d'Antin, it is possible that he may have conceived a passion for Donna Bianca, who is, I believe, a very beautiful girl. After all, the fact, although perhaps somewhat repugnant, would not be unprecedented."

Sor Beppe shook his head. "Concetta made no mistake," he replied, doggedly. "What she heard, she heard not once only, but many times. Donna Bianca is to marry the baron; and the princess believes by consenting to the marriage she will prevent the principessina from marrying the other—the son of the Roman professor. But in the mean time, Concetta tells me that the principessina has found out the intrigue, and has realized that her uncle wants to make love to her. How Concetta has learned that, I do not know. Perhaps from the Principessina Bianca's maid—or perhaps she has heard Donna Bianca talking to herself in her own room."

Don Agostino turned his head with a movement of impatience. "One would imagine," he said, "that the walls of the castle had ears."

Sor Beppe glanced at him with a curious expression in his eyes. "The castle was not built yesterday," he observed, enigmatically.

Don Agostino looked round. "What do you mean to imply?" he asked, quickly.

The other laughed. "Only this," he replied; "that there are those who know their way about the castle of Montefiano better than its owners—better than its present owners, at all events. The late prince knew—oh, very well, if all the stories are true! But nobody in the castle now has an idea—except myself and my children—"

"An idea of what?" asked Don Agostino. "Andiamo, Signor Fontana, do not let us play at mysteries! It seems that your castle is a dangerous place for confidential conversations."

"And a convenient place for clandestine meetings," added Fontana. "It used to be said that the late prince found it so—blessed soul!"

The suspicion of a smile played round Don Agostino's lips. Then he seemed as though a sudden thought struck him, and he looked at his visitor inquiringly.

"What do you mean?" he exclaimed, almost sharply. "You need not be afraid that anything you say to me will be repeated in the paese."

Sor Beppe got up from his chair. "Of course you do not understand," he said. "How should you? Well, I will tell you how it is that it is not always safe to talk secrets in the castle. One should know where one is—oh, decidedly! I will tell you something, reverendo, and then, perhaps, you will understand better. If I chose, this very night I could enter the sleeping apartment of the principessina without a soul being any the wiser—yes, even if all the doors of the rooms on the piano nobile were locked. No one would see me enter that wing of the castle or leave it. Concetta could do the same."

Don Agostino looked at him in amazement.

"Are you joking, my friend?" he exclaimed.

"Niente affatto! It is as I say. There is a secret passage in the inside wall, dividing the whole length of the piano nobile which their excellencies occupy from the outer gallery. It is in the thickness of the wall itself, so nobody suspects its existence."

"Perbacco!" ejaculated Don Agostino. "And the entrance to the passage?"

"It is by a trap-door in the floor of a room in the basement—a little room close to the outer gateway, which has long been uninhabited. My own apartment opens out of it on one side, but the door of communication was blocked up years ago—before I can remember. Sicuro! the entrance to the passage is there, and a narrow staircase leads up to the piano nobile above."

"And the egress," asked Don Agostino, eagerly; "where is that, Signor Fontana?"

Sor Beppe's white teeth gleamed from behind his dark beard. "That is the strange part of it," he replied. "The passage leads directly into the room at the extreme end of the piano nobile, the room in which the principessina sleeps. The princess's room is next to it, and there is no other means of entry visible, except by passing through this. No doubt the princess chose it for Donna Bianca's sleeping apartment as being more secure. But, as I say, anybody acquainted with the passage could enter it."

"By a trap-door in the floor?" Don Agostino asked.

Sor Beppe shook his head. "By a much more artistic contrivance," he replied—"absolutely artistic, you understand. On pressing a spring in the passage a door slides back noiselessly into a groove in the wall of the bedroom. Ah, but those who made it were artists! The door is covered by a picture, the frame of which is so contrived as completely to conceal the groove into which it slides. A person might inhabit the room for a lifetime and not be aware that there was any means of entering or leaving it, except through the adjoining apartment."

Don Agostino leaned back in his chair and gazed at Fontana in silence. What he had just heard did not very much surprise him. He knew an old Medicean villa in Tuscany in which a secret entrance existed almost similar to that described by Sor Beppe, although it was not in so serviceable a state as its counterpart at Montefiano appeared to be. Perhaps the late Prince Montefiano had restored and repaired this one for purposes of his own. However that might be, the main point was that here, under his hand, if Sor Beppe was not romancing, was the very opportunity he had been searching for, to convey Silvio's packet to Bianca Acorari. Don Agostino felt almost bewildered at the way in which difficulties, which appeared at one moment to be insurmountable, were removed. No doubt, he argued to himself, this fresh situation was nothing but a coincidence. There was no reason why a mediæval fortress such as Montefiano, to which a Renaissance palace has been attached, should not have a dozen secret passages concealed in its walls. But it was, at any rate, a very fortunate circumstance, and one which, cautiously made use of, might considerably assist the ends he had in view.

He looked at Fontana silently for a few moments as though trying to read the man's thoughts.

"What you have told me is very interesting," he observed, presently; "but I do not understand how your daughter comes to overhear what may be said while in the secret passage. She does not, I conclude, spend all her time in the vicinity of Donna Bianca's room; and even if she did, how could she hear through a stone wall?"

"Altro! Your reverence is quite right," returned Sor Beppe. "But that is easily explained, only I forgot to explain it. Every word spoken in certain of the apartments on the piano nobile can be distinctly heard by any one standing in the secret passage if, ben inteso, that person is in that part of it immediately outside the room in which the conversation takes place. It is managed very cleverly. One has only to know where to stand. For example, the passage runs the whole length of the dining-room. That was a wise thought of those who made it, for who knows what secrets the spies of the old Acorari may not have learned? Food and wine open men's mouths. And the room next to the dining-room, reverendo, is occupied by the Abbé Roux as his study. It is there that he and the baron sit and smoke at nights when their excellencies have retired to their rooms."

Don Agostino nodded. "As you say," he observed, "the castle of Montefiano is not a safe place for confidences."

"Or for rogues," added Sor Beppe.

"That depends," returned Don Agostino, dryly. "But why," he added, "did you not warn the princess of the existence of this secret entrance? Surely it is scarcely safe if people are aware of it."

"But nobody knows of it," replied Fontana. "All that the people know is that once upon a time there was supposed to be a secret communication between the castle and the town; and when I was a lad, it used to be said that the prince had availed himself of it for certain adventures, for everybody knew that he had an eye for every good-looking woman except his own wife."

"Never mind the prince," interrupted Don Agostino, abruptly. "Nobody else knows of the passage, you say?"

"They think it no longer exists," continued Sor Beppe. "I have always said that it was built up years ago. It was a lie, of course; but it was not necessary to let people think they could get into the castle unobserved. I forbade Concetta ever to mention it. As to naming the matter to the princess, I saw no necessity to do that. I would have told the principessina of it if I had ever had the chance of speaking with her alone. But Concetta implored me not to mention it even to the principessina. It would make her nervous, she said, to sleep in a room with a sliding-door in the wall."

"Ah," remarked Don Agostino, "you would have mentioned it to Donna Bianca; then why not to the princess?"

Sor Beppe shrugged his shoulders. "She is not the padrona—that other one," he said; "and, besides, she is only a foreigner, and a second wife. I would do anything to serve the Principessina Bianca—anything!—for she is an Acorari and Principessa di Montefiano. Who knows," he continued, angrily, "whether it is not because I am loyal to the principessina that I am dismissed? I have only seen her a few times, reverendo, but I give you my word that I would rather have a smile and a buon giorno, from Donna Bianca than—well, I do not know what to say."

Don Agostino smiled. "I am glad to hear it," he said. "After all, it is very natural that you should feel so. Donna Bianca is your padrona."

"Was!" interrupted Sor Beppe, swallowing a curse in his beard at the same time.

"Ah! but let us wait, my friend," proceeded Don Agostino. "Perhaps the princess will discover that she has been ill-advised, and then you will be reinstated. In the mean time, you will not be doing either yourself or Donna Bianca Acorari any harm by continuing to be loyal to her. You may, perhaps, be able to serve her, to have an opportunity of showing your loyalty—who knows?"

Sor Beppe passed the back of his brown hand across his eyes. "Magari!" he said, warmly; "magari! if I could serve her! Poveretta, I fear she needs friends badly enough. It is all very fine of the Abbé Roux to talk about Donna Bianca being in villeggiatura at Montefiano. Ma che villeggiatura! It is an imprisonment, pure and simple. Do I not know it—I? The poor child! She is shut up here to keep her away from her lover in Rome; the maid, Bettina, has said as much to Concetta. And there are strict orders that no one is to enter the castle—no stranger, that is. All the letters are taken to the princess, both the post that arrives and that which goes out. It would have been more humane to have put the girl into a convent. At any rate, she would have had companions, and there would presumably be no old he-goat to make love to her."

Don Agostino listened to Sor Beppe's flow of language with a certain amount of satisfaction. The man was evidently sincere in his devotion to Bianca Acorari, and it was pleasant to him, moreover, to hear that Bianca was one of those who were able to inspire personal devotion. That Fontana knew, or at least suspected, more than he divulged of the state of affairs at the castle, and of the intrigues of which Bianca formed the central figure, he had not the slightest doubt. Many whispers had already reached his ears as to the close watch which was being kept over the young princess, how she was always accompanied by either her step-mother or the Baron d'Antin, and how the baron was evidently deeply in love with her. He had often wondered how these rumors were spread, for he happened to know that there was little or no communication between the small household the princess had brought with her and the town of Montefiano. There were no young men-servants, indeed, to go out and gossip in the osteria; for Princess Montefiano had only brought her maggior-domo from Palazzo Acorari, a venerable person of sedate habits, and one scarcely less venerable man in livery; and neither of these had ever been known to leave the castle walls or to exchange a word with the Montefianesi.

No doubt the rumors in question, and more particularly the rumors concerning Baron d'Antin, had been circulated by Concetta Fontana, and Don Agostino was not altogether sorry if this were really the case. It would be no bad thing were public opinion at Montefiano to be aroused to sympathy with Bianca Acorari and distrust of the princess's advisers. It was more than probable that Monsieur l'Abbé Roux, in bringing about Fontana's dismissal, had committed an impolitic act. Although the fattore might have lost some of his popularity owing to recent events, he was, nevertheless, a native of the district, and well known throughout the Sabina.

"Does your reverence really think that the princess will reconsider my dismissal?" asked Sor Beppe, as Don Agostino did not speak. "You can understand," he continued, "that it is a hard thing for me. I am not an old man, that is true; but I am too old to be transplanted. Besides, we Fontana have served Casa Acorari for four generations or more, and it is a bitter thing to be turned away by a foreign woman and an imbroglione of a priest."

Don Agostino nodded sympathetically. "It is a hard thing, certainly," he replied, "and it is also, so far as I can see, an unjust thing. As to whether the princess will reconsider the matter, that I cannot tell you. You must remember that, as I think I have told you before, I have never seen the princess. But her rule will not last forever; and when Donna Bianca has the management of her own affairs, things may be very different. She is not a foreigner, and is not at all likely to be influenced by priests, I should say. Probably she will reward those who have been loyal to her, and her own people will come before strangers, unless I am very much mistaken."

Sor Beppe looked at him shrewdly. "I thought you said you did not know the principessina?" he said.

"Neither do I," answered Don Agostino, "but I know something about her."

"Perhaps you know her lover—oh, I do not mean that Belgian goat, but the other one?"

"Yes—I know him."

"Ah! And he is worthy of the principessina?"

"I feel convinced that he is thoroughly worthy."

"Then what is the objection? He has no money, perhaps?"

"He is not noble."

"Diamine! and what does that matter if he is worthy in other ways? I do not suppose he is a contadino."

"No," replied Don Agostino, smiling, "he is an engineer, and some day he will be a great man, I believe. His father is a great man already, the famous Senator Rossano. You have perhaps heard of him?"

"Altro! So it is he whom the principessina is in love with! Well, reverendo, is it not better than marrying that old baron with ink-pots under his eyes?"

Don Agostino laughed. "Certainly!" he replied. "But the baron and the Abbé Roux think otherwise. That is the difficulty; and what they think, the princess thinks."

"Si capisce!"

"Signor Fontana," said Don Agostino, suddenly, "you said just now that you would do anything for Donna Bianca. Were you in earnest?"

"And why not, reverendo?"

"Bene! You have the opportunity of proving your loyalty."

He rose from his chair, and, taking Silvio's packet from the writing-table, placed it in Sor Beppe's hands. "I have promised Signor Rossano, Donna Bianca's affianced husband, that this should reach her without delay. She has been waiting for it for weeks. Will you undertake that it shall be given into her hands, and into her hands only?"

Sor Beppe's eyes flashed. "I swear it!" he said. "Concetta shall give it to her this very night."

"Concetta? But is she to be trusted?"

"As much as I am to be trusted, reverendo. Concetta would do anything to serve the principessina. You need not be afraid. Donna Bianca shall have her lover's letter this very night. You can guess how?"

"Of course. But will she not be terrified at seeing your daughter enter her room in such a manner? Remember that the princess sleeps next door to her."

"Concetta will know what to do," returned Sor Beppe.

"Good. But there must be no failure—no risk of the packet falling into other hands, or its delivery being suspected."

"There will be none."

Don Agostino held out his hand. "You will not regret what you have undertaken," he said, "and you may be sure that the principessina will not forget it, either. We must save her from a great unhappiness, my friend, and perhaps from, worse than that. Now, I must be inhospitable and ask you to go; for it is late, and you have to arrange matters with Concetta, who by this time is probably asleep. Who knows what led you to visit me this evening? I had been turning over in my mind every means I could imagine to insure that packet reaching Donna Bianca safely. It is certainly very strange."

Sor Beppe buttoned up the little parcel securely in the corner pocket of his coat. "To-morrow I will come again," he said, "and who knows that I shall not bring with me an acknowledgment from the principessina that she has received the packet safely? Then you can write to her lover and tell him so. All the same, if I were that young man, I would come to Montefiano and take Donna Bianca away with me—even if I had to slit the throats of the baron and the Abbé Roux in the doing of it." And muttering a string of expletives under his breath, Sor Beppe passed out into the garden. Don Agostino let him out through the door, opening to the piazza in front of the church; and then, after standing for a few moments to watch his tall figure striding away down the white road towards the castle, he went slowly back into his house, bidding Ernana, whose curiosity as to Sor Beppe's visit had brought her out to the threshold, lock up the door and go to bed.

XXIV

Monsieur d'Antin's visit to Rome was not of long duration. He returned to Montefiano two days after the evening when he had dined at the Castello di Costantino, in close proximity to Professor Rossano and his little party. That evening had certainly been an entertaining one to him, for many reasons. He had, of course, instantly recognized Silvio and Giacinta Rossano, while his host and companion, Peretti, had as quickly identified the professor. Except for the brief glimpse Monsieur d'Antin had caught of Silvio on the staircase of Palazzo Acorari, he had never had an opportunity of watching him with any attention; yet the boy's form and features were well impressed on his memory, and he would in any case have known he must be Giacinta Rossano's brother by the strong likeness existing between the two.

It had been his ill-disguised interest in him, and the marked manner in which he stared, that had nearly provoked Silvio into openly resenting this liberty on the part of a stranger; and probably Monsieur d'Antin had very little idea that he had narrowly escaped bringing about a scene which he might afterwards have had cause to regret. His glance and attitude had been so insolent, indeed, that for a moment or two Silvio had wondered whether he did not intend to provoke a public quarrel, which could have had but one result—a meeting with pistols or swords in some secluded villa garden, where the police were not likely to interfere. Had Giacinta, confident from her brother's face that a storm was brewing, and knowing that though storms were rare with Silvio they were apt to be violent if they burst, not taken Monsieur Lelli's advice and hurried him and her father away from the terrace, there was no saying what complication might not have arisen still further to increase the difficulties of the general situation.