Front matter (continued 6)

As a matter of fact, Monsieur d'Antin's vanity had received a violent shock. He had known that Silvio Rossano was extremely good-looking, for he had gathered as much when he had seen him ascending the staircase at Palazzo Acorari. But he had not realized it as fully as he did that evening at the Castello di Costantino. The discovery annoyed him exceedingly, for obvious reasons. He had, up to that moment, felt no particular personal antipathy towards a presumptuous young man of the bourgeois class, who had ventured to consider himself a fitting husband for Bianca Acorari. On the contrary, Monsieur d'Antin had felt most grateful to him for having, by his presumption and want of knowledge of the ways of good society, placed Bianca in an equivocal position, and at the mercy of anybody who might choose to set a scandal abroad concerning her.

But that night, as he looked across the restaurant at the table where Silvio was sitting, he hated him for his youth, for his tall, well-knit form, for his good-looking face; and perhaps, more than all, for a certain indefinable air of high-breeding and easy grace, which Monsieur d'Antin angrily told himself a person of the middle class had no right to possess. Nothing escaped him. He watched Silvio's manner, his mode of eating and drinking, his dress, everything, in short, which could betray the cloven hoof he was longing to discover. He could overhear, too, snatches of the conversation from Professor Rossano's table, and he was disagreeably surprised by what he heard. There was none of the loud, vulgar intonation of the voices usually the accompaniment of any gathering together of Romans of the middle and lower orders, and none of the two eternal topics of conversation—food and money—from which the Roman of the middle classes can with difficulty be persuaded to tear himself away.

Monsieur d'Antin could not but confess that, so far, at any rate, as appearance and manner were concerned, Silvio was a great deal more of a gentleman than very many of the young men of rank and fashion he was accustomed to meet in the drawing-rooms of la haute societé in Rome; and that he had another advantage that these, as a rule, did not possess—he looked intelligent and manly.

The reflection was not pleasing. He would have far preferred to be able to detect some trace of vulgarity in Bianca's presumptuous lover, and he could discover none. He was disagreeably conscious, too, of his own disadvantages as he looked at Silvio—of his years, of his figure, and of other details beside these.

But if the Rossano family, and especially Silvio, had occupied his attention and interest that evening, Monsieur d'Antin had been hardly less concerned with the personality of Monsignor Lelli. His companion had immediately detected the latter's presence and had pointed him out, at the same time rapidly explaining who he was and his past history at the Vatican.

The commendatore—he was commendatore of the papal Order of St. Gregory—made it his business to know as much as he could find out about everybody in Rome, and his information—when it happened to be of sufficient interest, personal, political, or religious—having been for some time placed at the disposal of his patron at the Vatican, the cardinal secretary of state, had been duly paid for by the bestowal of a clerical order of chivalry. It was rumored that he had been the instrument of making more than one wealthy English and American convert to Catholicism among the fair sex; which, as he was not ill-looking, and occupied some of his spare time by giving Italian lessons in eligible quarters, was not improbable. At any rate, the commendatore knew all about Monsignor Lelli and the history of his falling into disgrace at the Vatican, though he was very careful only to give Monsieur d'Antin the official version of the affair. The story did not interest Monsieur d'Antin very much. Moreover, as it turned upon political and financial matters, in which clerics and their money were concerned, he did not believe more than a very small proportion of what he was told. What interested him far more, was the fact that Monsignor Lelli had been sent to work out his repentance at Montefiano; and that he was undoubtedly on intimate terms with the Rossano family.

The departure from the restaurant of the Rossanos and the priest had not escaped the quick eye of the commendatore.

"He does not want it known that he is in Rome," he had whispered to Monsieur d'Antin, as Don Agostino disappeared from the terrace.

Monsieur d'Antin did not reply. He thought it far more probable that Monsignor Lelli did not wish to be seen in Silvio's society by anybody connected with the Montefiano household. He kept his own counsel, however, and allowed his companion to think that it was his appearance on the scene that had frightened the priest away. The time had not yet arrived for letting the outside world into the secret of Bianca Acorari's indiscretion.

"I shall certainly let them know at the Vatican that Lelli is in Rome," Peretti said to Monsieur d'Antin. "Who knows why he is here, instead of attending to his duties at Montefiano? I am almost sure it was to Montefiano he was sent, but I will make certain to-morrow, when I shall see the cardinal."

"Why did they choose Montefiano?" asked Monsieur d'Antin. "It is a dreary place; and whenever I have driven through the town, I have seen nothing but pigs and old women—very ugly old women."

Peretti laughed. "That is why he was sent there," he replied. "The Holy Father concluded that he was better fitted to deal with pigs and old women than with finance."

"How long will he be kept there?"

The other lifted his eyebrows. "Mah!" he said. "Who knows?"

It had not suited Monsieur d'Antin's purpose to discuss Monsignor Lelli any further with the host that evening. He reflected that whatever Peretti might know about him, the Abbé Roux would know also, and possibly considerably more. He wondered that the abbé had never mentioned the fact that the parish priest at Montefiano had once been a member of the papal court, or alluded to him in any way. It did not surprise him that Monsignor Lelli should never have presented himself at the castle, for he quite understood that the Abbé Roux would not allow any opportunity of poaching over his ground on the part of a brother cleric. Besides, there was a chapel in the castle, and mass, and the Abbé Roux said the mass; at which latter thought Monsieur d'Antin smiled, as if it afforded him some amusement.

And so he returned, the next day but one, to Montefiano, resolved to lose no time in acquainting the Abbé Roux with the news that he had seen Monsignor Lelli dining at a Roman restaurant in the company of the Rossano family, and apparently on terms of intimate friendship both with the Senator Rossano and with his son. There could be no kind of doubt that this intimacy, so providentially discovered, might seriously compromise the ultimate success of the scheme which had been so carefully devised for compelling Bianca to give up all thoughts of young Rossano, and accept what was offered to her in the place of his presumptuous attachment. Nothing but a separation from her lover, which should be complete in every detail, could accomplish this object; and if Silvio Rossano had a friend at Montefiano, and that friend the parroco, there could be no saying what means might not be resorted to for the purpose of establishing the very communications between him and Bianca which it was so imperative to render absolutely impracticable.

It was nearly mid-day before Monsieur d'Antin, who had taken the early morning train from Rome to Attigliano, arrived at Montefiano, and he had barely time to wash, and change his dusty clothes, before joining his sister at breakfast. A glance at the princess's face showed him that something had certainly occurred during his absence to upset her. The Abbé Roux, who was also at the table, looked both preoccupied and cross. Only Bianca appeared serene, and, to Monsieur d'Antin's surprise, altogether contented. There was a light in her eyes and an expression of scarcely suppressed happiness on her face that he never remembered to have seen there, certainly not since he had been at Montefiano. It reminded him of the look she had worn on the afternoon of his visit to the Villa Acorari, when he had found her alone in the Marble Hall, fresh from her stolen interview with her lover.

Expression and demeanor changed, however, as Monsieur d'Antin greeted Bianca with an airy compliment on her appearance. His salutation was scarcely replied to, and every subsequent attempt to draw her into conversation failed ignominiously. The meal was decidedly not a cheerful one, and it had scarcely concluded when Bianca got up from her chair, and, making a slight courtesy to her step-mother, left the room without a word. The Abbé Roux lifted his eyes to the ceiling with a sigh, and the princess looked pained and uncomfortable. The men-servants were already bringing in the coffee, and Monsieur d'Antin was constrained to wait until they had served and retired before seeking for an explanation of the state of the social atmosphere in which he found himself.

The princess drank a few mouthfuls of her coffee, and left the table almost as soon as the door had closed upon the servants.

"If you will excuse me, Philippe," she said to her brother, "I am going to my room. I am nervous—unwell. That unhappy child—" Her voice trembled, and it was evident that Princess Montefiano was very near to tears. "Monsieur l'Abbé will explain to you," she continued; "he is entirely in my confidence. You can talk together over your cigars, and we will meet afterwards, when I am calmer."

She left the room hastily, and Monsieur d'Antin looked across the table to the abbé.

"Que diable!" he exclaimed. "Might one ask what has happened?"

The Abbé Roux cleared his throat. "Let us go into the next room," he said. "We can talk quietly there without being overheard by the servants"—and he led the way into the apartment specially devoted to his use.

"Ah, my dear monsieur," he said, as soon as they had shut the double doors behind them, "it is not to be wondered at if Madame la Princesse is upset! Since you have been away, Donna Bianca has made a scene—a veritable scene, you understand. It appears that she has asserted her fixed determination to marry this impossible young man, and has announced that she will wait till she is her own mistress, if—"

"If what?" asked Monsieur d'Antin, as he paused.

"Parbleu! If her lover does not choose that she should marry him before—the religious marriage, of course."

Monsieur d'Antin lit a cigarette.

"A girl's enthusiasm," he observed. "It will pass."

The abbé glanced at him. "I think not," he replied. "I have known Donna Bianca since she was a child. When she has made up her mind to do or not to do a thing, it is not easy to make her alter it. She is undisciplined—completely undisciplined," he added, almost angrily.

"No doubt. It is all the more reason that she should learn what discipline means. She will make a better wife for knowing it," and Monsieur d'Antin chuckled softly.

"Ah, as to that, monsieur, there can be, I suppose, no question. But what I have already told you is not all. The princess, perhaps, would not have taken Donna Bianca's refusal to submit her will to the direction of those who are her lawful guardians so deeply to heart, if that had been all. She would have trusted to time and—and to Donna Bianca's conscience, to make her step-daughter see reason and realize that obedience is the first of all duties."

Monsieur d'Antin fidgeted uneasily in his chair. "I think, Monsieur l'Abbé," he said, dryly, "that you and I can afford to dispense with moralities, can we not?"

The abbé looked angry for an instant. Then he smiled. "Perhaps," he replied. "After all, we have to regard Donna Bianca's position from a business point of view."

"Precisely, my dear friend, from a business point of view. Let us confine it to that, if you please. Let us assume, for example, that you are—a layman. It will simplify matters very much."

The abbé looked at him suspiciously, and his black eyebrows contracted disagreeably. He was never quite sure whether he were managing Monsieur d'Antin or whether Monsieur d'Antin were managing him.

"It would appear," he observed, presently, "from what Donna Bianca has said to Madame la Princesse, that you have introduced—what shall I say!—a little too much sentiment into your business point of view."

Monsieur d'Antin smiled complacently.

"What would you have, my dear abbé?" he replied. "You know my little secret. If I remember rightly, I confessed to you, and you gave me absolution—is it not so? Yes. I admit that I have perhaps been a little indiscreet, a little premature. But one cannot always control one's feelings. The soutane is one thing, and the pantalons are another. You must make allowance for those who do not wear the soutane."

"The question is," said the Abbé Roux, a little irritably, "that Donna Bianca will have none of it."

"None of which, my dear friend?" asked Monsieur d'Antin, imperturbably. "Of the soutane, or—"

The abbé laughed in spite of himself. "You have frightened her," he said. "She understands; and she has told the princess—oh, told her very plainly! It was a mistake. You should have waited—a month—six months. Moreover, she has found out that it was you who saw her and young Rossano together at the Villa Acorari; and now she feels that you have deceived her throughout the whole business. She will never forgive that. It would have been better to have told her that it was through you the affair became known, that you had felt bound to warn Madame la Princesse of what you believed to be a great peril threatening her step-daughter. Now, Donna Bianca has said that even if she is kept here for three years it will make no difference; that she will not be made love to by you; and that you are a liar and a coward."

Monsieur d'Antin started up from his chair.

"Monsieur l'Abbé!" he exclaimed, furiously.

"Oh, I am quoting Donna Bianca's words. You cannot be surprised that madame your sister should be upset. It is now three days ago—that little scene—and the girl has scarcely spoken a word to the princess since. She is hard—hard as a piece of stone when she chooses to be so. Now, I ask you, what is to be done? She will wait three years, six years, if necessary, or she will find some means of running away with her lover—who knows? But she will never allow you to approach her, Monsieur le Baron; of that I am convinced."

Monsieur d'Antin swore, softly. "She must give way!" he exclaimed. "It is a mere question of time. The girl has a spirit, that I do not deny, but it can be broken. Bah! it is not worth while de se faire de la bîle about a girl's sentimental passion for a good-looking young man who has once kissed her, and whom she will never see again. We have only to remain firm, and all will turn out as we propose. It will take time, perhaps, but from a business point of view—always from a business point of view, my dear Monsieur l'Abbé—time is exactly what we wish to gain, is it not? I admit that, from the other point of view—mine, you understand—delay is not so satisfactory."

The abbé looked up quickly. "Ah, certainly," he said, eagerly, "you are perfectly right; to gain time is everything! And if Donna Bianca does not mind waiting for her lover, well, from a business point of view, delay will be very advantageous."

Monsieur d'Antin lit another cigarette.

"To you," he said, quietly. "To you, dear Monsieur l'Abbé; but, as I said before, to me not quite so much so. There is my part of the bargain to be considered, is there not? And if I am not to marry Donna Bianca Acorari, I confess that I do not particularly care whether she marries young Rossano or goes into a convent. All the same, I do not imagine that she will go into a convent."

Monsieur d'Antin paused, and looked steadily at his companion. His voice and manner were suaveness itself; nevertheless, the abbé was conscious that his words implied something very like a threat.

"Of course," he replied, "there is your part of the question to be considered. I do not forget it. But what you want is not so easy to obtain. I fear that Donna Bianca, even were she finally to renounce all hopes of Rossano, would never be induced to listen to your proposal to take his place. Besides, I very much doubt if Madame la Princesse would go so far as to attempt to force upon her step-daughter an alliance apparently so distasteful to her. No, Monsieur le Baron, I speak frankly. Donna Bianca's sudden assertion of the course she intends to adopt has materially altered the situation. Who has any influence over her? Certainly not the princess, certainly not myself, to whom she never addresses a word if she can avoid doing so. The only person who, until recently, seemed to have gained her confidence, was yourself. What has caused her to declare, as she has declared, that she will not allow you to approach her, you must know better than I. In the mean time, the field is as clear to you as it was before, and we will hope that this little outburst on the part of Donna Bianca may not be of much importance. At least, you must admit that I have done my best to further your object. You owe it entirely to me if the princess, against her own inclinations, was persuaded to countenance that object."

"But, my dear Monsieur l'Abbé," returned Monsieur d'Antin, airily, "I fully realize the efforts you have made on my behalf. Why not? As to Donna Bianca having taken me en grippe, well, I assure you that I rather enjoy it. I like a woman to show some fight. I shall do my best to remove the bad impression I have made. Apparently, she enjoys it also. I never saw her look so animated as she did to-day. The little scene with my sister, that you tell me of, must have acted as a tonic—and no doubt she will be the better for it, and more amenable to reason. Do not let us talk any more about it for the present. Apropos, how do your little matters of business progress? I think you told me before I left that my sister had some trouble with the agent here, and that you had advised her to dismiss him?"

The abbé frowned. "Yes," he said, curtly, "the man is dismissed, and I have another fattore ready to take his place. But there is some little difficulty. It appears that the people are angry at his dismissal. I am told it has created great ill-feeling in Montefiano. There is a meddlesome parroco here—"

"Diable!" exclaimed Monsieur d'Antin; "I had quite forgotten about him."

"What? You know him?"

"No, my dear friend, no. But I happened to see him two or three evenings ago in Rome, and in whose company do you suppose he was? You will never guess. Well, he was dining at a restaurant with Professor Rossano and his son and daughter."

The Abbé Roux gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Lelli! Dining with the Rossanos? Are you sure that it was he?"

"Absolutely sure. I was dining with Peretti—you know whom I mean?—and Peretti knew Monsignor Lelli perfectly well. He left the restaurant very soon after he saw us."

"Lelli!" repeated the Abbé Roux, with a scowl. "Yes, he is the priest at Montefiano. Peretti will have told you his story. He fell into disgrace at the Vatican—in fact, he embezzled money, and rather than have a public scandal, he was sent here to get him out of the way. What was he doing with the Rossanos?"

"Eating his dinner," replied Monsieur d'Antin, tranquilly; "at least, if you call such a thing a dinner. Ciel! what filth one eats in a Roman restaurant, even in the best of them. Oh, la, la! Yes, your parroco was dining with the Rossano family. It would appear that he is an intimate friend."

"No doubt," observed the abbé, with a sneer. "Lelli was always hand and glove with all the canaille in Rome of the literary and scientific world. He is simply a free-thinker—nothing more nor less. It does not at all surprise me that he should be a friend of Professor Rossano."

"But it is a little unfortunate that a friend of the Rossanos should be curé at Montefiano, is it not?" asked Monsieur d'Antin.

The abbé started. "Assuredly," he said. "You are right. It is a danger. For the moment I did not think of it. Yes, it might be a grave danger. Moreover, the man is mischievous. He is always siding with the peasants. Only yesterday I heard that he had declared Fontana's—the agent's—dismissal to be an injustice. We do not want men of that sort. They spoil the people and make them discontented."

"It is clear that he is very intimate with Professor Rossano and his son," returned Monsieur d'Antin, "and in his position here at Montefiano as parish priest, what is to prevent him from inducing one of the people about to deliver some letter or some message to Donna Bianca? And once she realizes that she can receive communications from the outside world, all our precautions will be useless. The knowledge that she could do so would make her more obstinate than ever in her determination not to give up young Rossano."

The abbé frowned. "Leave it to me, monsieur," he replied. "Lelli will not succeed in entering the castle of Montefiano, however much he may be the village priest. I put a stop to any idea of the kind long ago. Indeed, it was necessary to warn the princess against him. She had never heard his history, and I discovered—oh, two or three years ago—that he was getting money out of her for the poor; and, moreover, that he was always urging Fontana to appeal for a reduction in the rents. Of course, directly the princess realized that he had been sent to Montefiano in disgrace, and heard all the scandal concerning his removal from the Vatican, she ceased to allow him to interfere between the people and the administration of the estates. No, I do not think we need fear Monsignor Lelli."

"At least it will do no harm to be on our guard," insisted Monsieur d'Antin.

"Oh, as to that, of course! Moreover, should there be any cause to suspect that he was helping young Rossano, it would not be difficult to obtain his removal. There are many hill villages which are even more isolated than Montefiano—in the Abruzzi, for instance. And I do not imagine that the Holy Father cares where Lelli is, so long as he is safely out of the way until it pleases Providence to remove him altogether." And the Abbé Roux laughed harshly.

Monsieur d'Antin yawned. "I shall go to my room," he said, throwing away his cigarette and rising from his chair. "Travelling on one of these horrible Italian railways is bad enough at any time, with the dirt and the unpunctuality, but in hot weather it is doubly fatiguing. Then it appears to me, my dear friend," he added, "that notwithstanding Donna Bianca's charming display of petulancy, we remain as before. A little stricter discipline, perhaps—a little more precaution against any possible interference on the part of this monsignore, is it not so?"

"Precisely, monsieur—and patience, always patience!"

"Ah!" observed Monsieur d'Antin. "It is an admirable quality—but the exercising of it is apt to become monotonous."

XXV

The evening before Monsieur d'Antin's return to Montefiano from Rome, Bianca Acorari had dined alone. The princess had been invisible most of the day. Although she appeared at breakfast, she had retired to her room later on in the afternoon, a victim to a violent nervous headache, the result, as Bianca was only too well aware, of the agitation she had been in ever since the scene on the previous day. The Abbé Roux had announced at breakfast that he should be away until late that evening, having, as he explained, to go to Orvieto to visit a friend who lived near that city. As Bianca sat alone at dinner, she felt grateful to the abbé for having had the tact to absent himself. She did not feel inclined for a tête-à-tête meal with anybody, and certainly not with the Abbé Roux.

To say the truth, her step-mother's evident distress had made Bianca almost regret that she had allowed herself to speak so plainly as she had done the day before. Resolute and strong-willed as she could be when she chose, her nature was both sensitive and warm-hearted; and although she would not have retracted one word that she had said, or retreated one inch from the attitude she had taken up, she felt sorry and disturbed in her mind at the pain she had evidently occasioned the princess. After all, it was not unnatural that her step-mother should consider it to be her duty to impede by every means in her power a marriage of which she disapproved. It was not unnatural, either, that she should disapprove. Bianca, whose sense of justice was unusually strong, would have scorned to be unjust to any individual simply because she happened not to be in agreement with that individual. She was quite aware, too, that her conduct had been certainly not in accordance with that which was considered fitting to a young girl in any position. She should, of course, have refused to allow Silvio to speak a word of love to her until he should first have gained the consent of her step-mother. No doubt she had been wrong—immodest, perhaps, as her step-mother had said—but all the same, she was glad she had not repulsed Silvio that day in the ilex grove. Glad, did she say? But that was an untruth. She had never thought of repulsing him, could not have done so, for she wanted love. She had wanted it for so long, and she had understood that Silvio had it to give her. And she wanted somebody whom she could love, not merely some one towards whom she was perpetually being told she should be dutiful. No, it was absurd to say she was glad she had listened to him, and had let him tell her his love in his own way. It was worse than absurd—it was a lie told to herself. Ever since that Christmas night when she had seen him in the church of the Sudario, she had understood that she loved, and that he loved her. And she had never thought of repulsing him. She had thought only of the moment when she should hear him tell her of his love; when she should feel his arms around her and his lips on hers; when she could show him that she, too, knew what love was.

From which reflections it was evident that Monsieur d'Antin had been right in his diagnosis of Bianca Acorari's temperament, and in coming to the conclusion that his sister and the Abbé Roux would be preparing for themselves a disillusion if they continued to regard her as little more than a child.

Bianca retired to her room early that night. It was certainly not cheerful to sit alone in the drawing-room after dinner, trying to read a book by the light of one or two old-fashioned moderator lamps, which only served to cast gloomy shadows into the corners of the vast apartment. The princess had caused a pianoforte to be sent from Rome; for the Érard which stood at one end of the drawing-room was reduced by age and damp to a compass of some two octaves of notes which, when played upon, produced sounds that were strange but scarcely musical; while the upper and lower octaves of the key-board had ceased to produce any sound whatever, save a spasmodic, metallic tapping as the hammer struck the broken wires. Bianca used to touch the instrument sometimes, and wonder whether it had belonged to her mother, and if her hands had pressed the yellow keys. She knew that her mother had passed the last year or two of her life at Montefiano, and that she herself had first seen the light there.

But to-night she was not in the humor for either reading or playing the piano. She felt weary, mentally and bodily; for, after the excitement of the discussion the previous day with her step-mother, reaction had set in. She was depressed, and, a thing very unusual to her, nervous. An almost intolerable sensation of loneliness haunted her. It seemed strange to think that a few hundred metres away, down in the paese, people were talking and laughing and living their lives. She was not living hers; life was going on all around her, but she had no part or share in it. Ah, if only she could hear something from Silvio!—hear of him, even—she would not feel quite so lonely. She would feel sure then, though they were separated, though probably they would be divided for months and years to come, that they were together in their thoughts; that he was faithful and true to her, as she was struggling with all her force to be faithful and true to the promise she had made him there, under the ilex-trees at the Villa Acorari.

Passing quietly through her step-mother's apartment, lest she should be perhaps already asleep, Bianca was about to enter her own room, when the princess called to her.

"Come here, figlia mia," she said, gently, "I am not asleep."

Bianca approached the bed and remained standing by it. Princess Montefiano took her hand and held it in hers for a moment.

"You think me very cruel, do you not, Bianca?" she said; "like the cruel step-mothers in the fairy-tales," she added, with a little attempt at a laugh. "Well, some day you will understand that if I am unkind, it is for your good. But there is something else I want to say to you. I do not intend to discuss the other matter—the Rossano matter. I shall never change my opinion on that point—never! And so long as you are under my authority, so long shall I absolutely forbid any question of a marriage between you and a son of Professor Rossano, and communication of any sort to pass between you. What I wish to say to you is this. Because I will not consent to your marriage with this young Rossano, you must not think that I wish to influence you or compel you to listen to my brother. That would not be my idea of what is my duty towards you as my husband's child, for whose happiness I am responsible, both before God and before the world. You must understand that you are free, Bianca, absolutely free to do as you choose as regards accepting or not the affection my brother offers you. It may be, perhaps, that when you are in a more reasonable frame of mind, and have realized that under no circumstances would you be allowed to marry out of your own sphere in life—and certainly not the son of an infidel professor, who, no doubt, shares his father's abominable principles and ideas—you will hesitate before throwing away my brother's love."

Bianca shook her head. "It is useless to think of that," she said, "and it is useless to tell me that under no circumstances shall I marry Silvio Rossano. Unless one of us dies, I shall marry him. I have nothing more to say than what I said yesterday, and nothing to unsay. You ask me if I think you unkind. No; I do not think that."

"Surely," exclaimed the princesse, almost wistfully—"surely you can understand that in all this miserable business I am only doing what my conscience tells me to be my duty towards you!"

Bianca withdrew her hand. "Yes," she said; "I quite understand. I have always understood." Then, wishing her step-mother good-night, she bent down and kissed her, and passed into her own room, gently closing both of the double set of doors which separated the two apartments.

She had not been in bed long before sleep came to her, for she was, in fact, more weary in body and mind than she had realized. For four or five hours she slept soundly enough, but after that her slumbers became disturbed by dreams. She dreamed that Silvio was near her, that she could see him but could not speak to him, and that he had some message for her, some letter which the Abbé Roux was trying to take from him. In her sleep she seemed to hear strange noises and her own name called softly at intervals. Suddenly she awoke with a start. A gleam of moonlight was shining through the window-curtains and half-closed persiennes. It made a broad track across the floor to the wall opposite her bed, and fell on the face of a picture hanging near the corner of the room—a portrait of that very Cardinal Acorari who had caused the Renaissance palace to be added to the Montefiano fortress, in order that he might have a villa in the Sabine Mountains in which to pass the hot summer months away from Rome. The moonlight glanced upon his scarlet robes and skull-cap and on his heavy countenance. Time had caused the flesh colors to fade, and the full mouth, with the sensual lips, looked unnaturally red against the waxy whiteness of the rest of the face.

Bianca lay and looked at the streak of moonlight on the floor. Presently her gaze followed the track until it rested on the picture. For some moments she looked at the portrait with a certain fascination. She had never seen it in the moonlight before; it looked ghostly. She had once seen a cardinal lying in state when she was a child, and the sight had frightened her. She was not at all frightened now, for she was no longer a child; but all the same, she could not take her eyes off the picture. She found herself wondering what relation she was to that old Cardinal Acorari—great-great-what? Granddaughter would not do, for cardinals, of course, never had children; certainly not cardinal-priests; and Cardinal Acorari had been bishop of Ostia and cardinal vicar of Rome.

Suddenly she sat up in her bed. Surely she had seen the face move? Yes; it had certainly moved; it was quite ten centimetres more to the right of the moonlight than it had been a moment ago. Now half the features were in shadow, and the cardinal's biretta was half red and half black. Sciocchezze! Of course, it was the moon that had moved, not the picture; or, rather, she supposed it was the earth that had moved, or the sun! Something had moved, at any rate, but not the cardinal. And smiling at her own stupidity, Bianca withdrew her gaze from the picture, and, turning on her side, tried to compose herself to sleep once more. But it soon became evident that sleep would not return to her. She felt restless, and the night, too, was hot. Rising from her bed, she threw a light wrap over her shoulders and went to one of the windows, the curtains of which she drew gently aside; and then, taking care not to make any noise that could be heard in the room beyond, she opened the green persiennes outside the window and leaned out. Not a breath of air was stirring, and the September night was oppressively warm. A silvery haze hung over the macchia below the terrace, and far away, under the encircling mountains, Bianca could see the wreaths of mist rising in the valley of the Tiber. The two flanking wings of the palace stood out cold and white in the moonlight, while the double avenue of lofty cypresses on each side of the great night of stone steps leading down from the terrace into the park looked black and sombre in the nearer foreground.

The splashing of a fountain in the centre of the avenue, and the occasional cry of some bird, alone broke the intense stillness. Bianca rested her arms on the ledge of the window, gazing out upon the scene below her. The moonlight fell full upon her and glanced upon the tawny gold of her hair. For some moments she remained immovable. Then, with a gesture of passionate abandonment, she flung her white arms out into the silver night. "Silvio!" she whispered; "Silvio, not one word? Ah, my beloved, if you knew how I want you, if you knew the loneliness! Ah, but I will be patient, I will be brave, for your sake and for my own—only—Dio!—" She turned suddenly with a little cry. Surely she had heard her own name again, spoken very softly from somewhere within the room behind her. She looked hastily round, but could see nobody. Only her own shadow fell across the floor in the moonlight.

"Eccellenza! Donna Bianca!"

Ah, this time she was not mistaken! It was her name she had heard whispered, and the voice came from the cardinal's portrait. Bianca started back. For a second or two she felt fear. If she could only see the person who had called her, she would not be frightened, she was certain of that. Gathering her wrap round her she came forward into the room.

"I am Bianca Acorari," she said, in a low, clear voice. "What do you want with me, and how have you ventured to come here? Speak, or I will call for help."

"Ah, per carità! do not call—do not be afraid."

"I am not afraid," interrupted Bianca Acorari, quietly. "Why should I be afraid? Besides, it—you are a woman, are you not?"

"Eccellenza—yes! It is I, Concetta Fontana, and I bring a message—a letter. Ah, but I have been waiting for an hour before I dared speak. I called you, but you were sleeping, and then, when I saw you at the window, I was frightened—"

The white face of Cardinal Acorari disappeared noiselessly into the wall, and Concetta's form occupied its place. She carried in her hand a small oil-lamp; and, balancing herself for an instant, she dropped lightly down the three or four feet from where the picture had hung, to the floor.

Bianca rushed towards her. "Concetta!" she exclaimed. Then she tottered a little, and, dropping into a chair, began to sob convulsively.

In a moment Concetta was by her side and had thrown her arms round her.

"For the love of God, eccellenza, do not cry!" she exclaimed. "Do not make a sound—the princess—she might hear. Yes, it is Concetta—Concetta who has brought you this—who will do anything for you," and she thrust Silvio's packet into Bianca's hand.

Bianca looked at it for a moment as if she scarcely understood her. Then she tore it open eagerly. A smaller packet fell from it to the floor, but Bianca let it lie there. Her eyes had caught sight of the letter in which it was enclosed, and she wanted that and nothing else. Hurriedly unfolding it, she darted to the window again and held the closely written sheets to the moonlight. "Ah, Silvio!" she exclaimed, "I knew, I knew!"

Concetta, practically, lighted a candle, and waited in silence while Bianca devoured the contents of her lover's letter. Every now and then she cast anxious glances towards the princess's apartment. Then, when Bianca had finished feverishly reading through the letter for the first time and was about to begin it again, she stooped, and picking up the packet from the floor, gave it to her.

Bianca undid the paper, and, opening the little box inside, took out the ring.

"Ah, look!" she said. "Look what he sends me—his mother's ring! Look how the diamonds sparkle in the moonlight, Concetta—and the sapphire—how blue the sapphire is! Blue, like—"

She stopped suddenly, and a hot wave of color mounted to her face. Replacing the ring in its case, she thrust it and the letter into her bosom.

Then she turned to Concetta quickly.

"How did you come here, and why should you do this thing for me?" she asked, almost fiercely. "Are you sent to lay a trap for me? Speak!"

Concetta Fontana flung herself upon her knees, and taking Bianca's hand, covered it with kisses. "No, no," she exclaimed. "I have come because my father sent me—my father and Don Agostino—because you are the padrona—not—not that other one—the foreigner. Eccellenza, you have no right to mistrust me. I swear to God that there is no deceit, no trap. Nobody knows of the secret passage—only my father and I. My father could not come here—in the dead of night—so I came."

"The secret passage!" repeated Bianca, wonderingly.

Concetta pointed to the hole in the wall where the cardinal's portrait had been. "It is there," she said, "and it runs the whole length of the piano nobile and down into the entrance-court. See!" Going to the aperture, she pressed a spring concealed in the groove, and slowly, noiselessly, the picture of Cardinal Acorari glided back into its original position.

"I can come and go when I please," said Concetta, with a smile, "so the principessina is no longer a prisoner who cannot communicate with the world outside. Oh, and there are those outside who mean to help her—Don Agostino, and my father, and others besides. We will not have our padrona shut up in the castle of Montefiano to please a foreign priest. Sicuro! very soon—in a few days perhaps—the principessina will understand that she is at Montefiano—among her own people."

Bianca scarcely heard Concetta Fontana's latter words.

"Who is Don Agostino?" she asked, suddenly. "Silvio—this letter—says that the packet will be brought or conveyed to me by Monsignor Lelli."

"Don Agostino—Lelli—it is all one," replied Concetta. "He is our parroco, eccellenza; and he is good, oh, he is good! If all priests were like Don Agostino—mah!"

Bianca took out her letter again. As yet she could hardly realize her happiness. A few minutes ago she had felt utterly alone, almost without hope, save the hope that her own courage and her trust in Silvio gave her. Now the world seemed different. She had got her message from that great world outside, which until just now had seemed so far away from her own—that world where life and love were waiting for her.

Suddenly she turned to Concetta and took both the girl's hands in hers. "Forgive me," she said, softly; "I was wrong to doubt you, but I think I have begun to suspect everybody lately. When one has once been deceived, it is not easy to trust again."

Concetta's eyes flashed. "Who has dared to deceive you, signorina?" she asked, hastily. "Not—" she pointed to the letter Bianca was still holding against her heart.

Bianca smiled. "No, Concetta; ah, no, not he! How could he deceive me? I was thinking of somebody else—somebody here at Montefiano. But it does not matter. I do not care at all now. Indeed, I do not think that I shall care about anything again. Ah, Concetta, some day you will know that I am grateful for what you have done to-night. I shall not forget. I shall ask you what I can do for you in return, when I am really Principessina di Montefiano."

Concetta looked at her quickly. "It will not be difficult to repay me," she said; "but I don't want repayment, eccellenza; it is not for repayment I mention it. But, some day, if you will remember that my father has been dismissed from your service because he would not consent to an injustice being done in your name to the people, that will be repayment enough."

Bianca started. "Of course!" she exclaimed. "I recollect. Your father has been dismissed from his post, has he not? Well, when I have power to recall him, he shall be recalled. It is enough for me to know that he has been dismissed by Monsieur l'Abbé Roux to suspect that he has been unjustly treated. But what do you mean by injustice to the people done in my name, Concetta? I do not understand."

Concetta hesitated. "You will understand very soon, perhaps," she replied, mysteriously. "But do not be alarmed, eccellenza, it is not you with whom the people are angry. They know you cannot help what is being done, although it may be done in your name. Basta! if you have no further orders for me, I will go. It is nearly morning, and I have been here too long. If the princess were to awake and think of coming into your room—"

"She never comes into my room after I have wished her good-night," said Bianca, "and you must not go yet, Concetta—at least, not before I have given you a letter which you will take back to Monsignor Lelli—Don Agostino—for me. You will do that, will you not?"

"Altro! But, eccellenza, do not be long writing your letter. If I were to be found here—well—" and Concetta shrugged her shoulders significantly.

Bianca suddenly looked round the room in despair. "Madonna mia!" she exclaimed, "I have nothing to write with—no ink or paper—only a little pencil."

"The pencil must serve for this time, signorina," said Concetta. "To-morrow you can bring some writing-materials here and hide them in the passage outside, for I will show you how to work the spring. Anything you place in the passage is as if Domeneddio had it in his own pocket. But for to-night write a few words on the blank half-sheet of that letter you have, and early to-morrow morning I will give it myself to Don Agostino."

Bianca looked at her doubtfully. She was loath to part with even a scrap of paper that had come from Silvio. But time pressed, and if she did not return an immediate reply to his missive, Silvio would think it had been intercepted. She sat down and wrote a few lines hurriedly, and, folding up her half-sheet of paper, confided it to Concetta's keeping.

"You will tell Don Agostino that I shall send another letter to-morrow by you," she said, "and you will thank him for all he is doing, Concetta, from me. And tell him also that I shall write to him myself, because—"

She hesitated for a moment, then, drawing herself up, she looked Concetta full in the face. "Because my future husband wishes me to do so," she concluded, quietly.

Concetta Fontana took her hand, and, raising it to her lips, kissed it. "I will go to Don Agostino at seven o'clock this morning, before he says his mass, and I will give him the letter. Ah, signorina, if the Signorino Rossano is Don Agostino's friend, it is proof enough that, speaking with respect, you have chosen your husband wisely. Sicuro! Don Agostino is a good man. There are many at Montefiano who distrust the priests; but there is nobody who does not trust Don Agostino. It is I, Concetta, who say it to you—and I know. But look, signorina, the dawn will soon be here. Let me go now—for who knows that her excellency might not awake. You will not be frightened if you see the picture move again? It will only be Concetta looking into the room to make sure that you are alone."

Bianca turned to her quickly. "Ah, Concetta," she exclaimed, "I am so happy—you do not know how happy! And I shall not forget what you have done for me—you will see that I shall not forget. Yes—go—go! I am not alone any longer now."

Concetta lifted up a chair and placed it under the picture. Then, standing upon it, she pressed the spring concealed behind the heavy, carved frame, and slowly, noiselessly, the portrait of Cardinal Acorari slid back into the wall. Another moment, and Concetta was standing in the aperture where the painted panel had been. "Sleep well now, signorina," she whispered to Bianca, "and do not be afraid. There are those watching that no harm shall come to you at Montefiano."

She drew back into the passage as she spoke, pressing the corresponding spring on the other side of the wall as she did so; and once more the cardinal looked down on Bianca from the spot where Concetta had been standing but an instant before.

Bianca gazed at the picture for a few moments, and listened for any faint echo of Concetta's footsteps. Not the slightest sound was audible from the passage. Only the twittering of waking birds came through the open window; and Bianca, turning away, went again to it and leaned out. A faint breeze was stirring the trees in the macchia below the terrace, and the drooping tops of the cypresses were swaying softly. The moon was sinking behind the lofty ridges of Soracte, and away in the east the violet sky of night was already streaked with the first pale messengers heralding the coming of the dawn.

And Bianca leaned from the window and watched till the pearly whiteness in the eastern sky deepened into rose red; till the wreaths of mist floating away from the valley of the Tiber rose, and, clinging to the mountain-sides, glided slowly upward till they caught the first golden rays of the yet hidden sun.

From the woodland below came the distant notes of a reed-pipe, and then a boy's voice singing one of the strange minor cadences learned, probably, centuries ago of slaves from the East, and sung still by the peasants and shepherds of the Latin province. In the present instance, Bianca knew that the lad was no shepherd—for the sheep had not yet been brought down from the higher pastures—but that he was engaged in the less poetical occupation of tending pigs.

As she watched, a wave of golden light seemed to spread over the face of the landscape below her, and the sun rose. And Bianca Acorari flung out her arms once more; this time not in doubt and almost in despair, but in a passion of joy, thankfulness, and love.

XXVI

The Caffè Garibaldi, which was situated in the main street of Montefiano—a street that bore, as a matter of course, the name of Corso Vittorio Emanuele—was doing an unusually brisk business. At each little marble-topped table a group of excited men was sitting, each member of which was talking at the top of his voice. Nobody was listening to his neighbor; but then, as all the world knows, there are occasions when no Italian ever does listen to his neighbor during a discussion; the whole aim and object of each speaker being to talk the other down. A considerable amount of wine was being drunk, and some of it was new wine, the process of fermentation being scarcely over. No doubt this fact accounted for much of the heat with which the sole topic of conversation in the Caffè Garibaldi that evening was being discussed. There was an argument, indeed, and, taking into consideration the number of half-litres consumed and the quality of at any rate a large proportion of the wine, it was perhaps as well that everybody was of the same opinion, though each strove to express that opinion more forcibly than his companion. A difference on the main issue in question would have certainly led to quarrels, and quarrels would as likely as not have resulted in the flow of other liquid than Stefano Mazza's red wine at eight soldi the litre.

In a room at the back of the caffè—a room wherein was to be found the solitary billiard-table in Montefiano, and where the choicer and more exclusive elements of Montefianese society were wont to gather—the conversation was as animated and scarcely less noisy than in the portion communicating directly with the street bearing the name of the Re Galantuomo.

Stefano Mazza, the host, was himself attending to the wants of his clients in this more select part of his premises; and Stefano Mazza was a person of considerable weight in Montefiano, not only bodily but, what was far more important, socially. The sindaco of Montefiano himself, with all the importance of bureaucracy at his back, was not so influential a man as Stefano Mazza; for Mazza, so to speak, held the sindaco in the hollow of his hand, as he did a very considerable proportion of the sindaco's municipal councillors and of the inhabitants of Montefiano generally. There were few, very few of the Montefianesi, from officials to peasants, whose signatures to certain pieces of paper bearing the government stamp and setting forth that the signatories were in his debt to amounts ranging from thousands to tens of lire, Stefano did not possess. He was, in short, the money-lender, not only to Montefiano, but to a considerable portion of the agricultural district surrounding it, and, as such, his opinion on most questions was listened to with unfailing respect by all members of the community.

On the whole, strozzino though he was, Stefano was neither an unjust nor a hard man. To be sure, he charged a six-per-cent. interest for the money he loaned; but he was content with getting this interest and never departed from his conditions. He had been known to wait for his money, too, when, owing to bad seasons, some of his poorer clients were unable to pay their interest at the proper dates. The consequence was that Sor Stefano was regarded by his neighbors of all degrees as a personage with whom it was to their advantage to stand well; the more so as even the most prosperous among them could never tell when they might not want to borrow his money, or renew a bill for money already advanced by him.

A sudden hail-storm which would devastate the crops or the vineyards in the space of a few minutes; an unfortunate season with the lambs or the pigs; a failure with the maize or the grain—and it was as likely as not that Sor Stefano's assistance would have to be sought in order to tide over the winter months; and often, too, in order to have the rent ready for Sor Beppe, the fattore, when he should come to collect it.

It was certain, therefore, that nobody, not excepting Sor Beppe himself, was so thoroughly acquainted with the financial conditions of the tenants on the Montefiano estates as Stefano Mazza, the proprietor of the Caffè Garibaldi. Moreover, Sor Stefano and Sor Beppe were good and intimate friends, as their fathers had been before them. Sor Stefano, indeed, had recently stood by the fattore on more than one occasion, when, after the rents had been farmed out to the new lessee, Sor Beppe had been compelled to obey instructions from Rome and increase them, thereby incurring the dislike of the small holders, who not unnaturally regarded him as the primary cause of the extra burden laid upon them.

The news of Sor Beppe's dismissal from the office of fattore had stirred public opinion in and around Montefiano to its depths. Notwithstanding its Corso Vittorio Emanuele, its Via Giordano Bruno, and other outward and visible signs of a desire to tread the path of independence and liberty, Montefiano was conservative enough in maintaining its own traditions, and in not welcoming any changes in the order of things to which it had become accustomed. For five-and-twenty years Sor Beppe had been fattore at Montefiano to Casa Acorari; while, for fifty years before he succeeded to the post, it had been occupied by Sor Pompilio, his father. This fact was in itself sufficient to cause the news that another fattore was to be appointed in the place of Giuseppe Fontana to be received with astonishment and not a little indignation.

When it became known, however, that Sor Beppe had been dismissed because he had flatly declined to obey instructions of the administration in Rome to raise the rents of certain small holdings without laying the matter personally before the princess, popular indignation had increased until it became a deep and bitter anger. As Sor Beppe had pointed out to Don Agostino, it had been generally known in Montefiano for some time that the principessa's foreign priest was practically the head of the administration to the Eccellentissima Casa Acorari; and during the last few weeks, since the sudden arrival at the castle of the princess and the Principessina Bianca, rumor had insisted that the new affittuario of the Montefiano estate was no other than the priest himself. If this were not so, it was argued, why did the new affittuario never show himself in the flesh, and why did the foreign monsignore make a point of personally examining every holding on the property? But that Sor Beppe should be dismissed from a post that he had honorably filled for five-and-twenty years because he would not lend himself to furthering this interloper's schemes for enriching himself at the expense of the poor, and of the good name of Casa Acorari, was an abominable thing. Men and women had talked of nothing else in the streets of the paese during the day, and at night the men flocked to the Caffè Garibaldi to hear what Sor Stefano and the more influential members of the community might have to say on the subject.

It was evident that these worthies had much to say; and, like their inferiors in the social scale of Montefiano, they said it loudly and decidedly. Such a thing could not be tolerated; and the voice of the majority was in favor of forming a deputation that should wait upon their excellencies at the castle and point out to them the injustice of Sor Beppe's dismissal, and the ill-feeling among the peasants that insistence on the raising of their rents would infallibly produce. There was, indeed, a secondary motive in the minds of those who, headed by Sor Stefano, had suggested the expediency of a deputation. For some little time mysterious rumors had circulated in Montefiano—rumors of which the Principessina Bianca was the central object. It was whispered, especially among the women, that there was something going on in the castle that was not satisfactory; that the principessina had been brought to Montefiano because she wanted to marry a bel giovane in Rome, whose only fault was that he had not a title; that instead of being allowed to marry the man she loved she was being forced to receive the attentions of the princess's brother—a worn-out foreign baron, old enough to be the poor child's father. It was insisted that the Principessina Bianca was unhappy, that she was practically a prisoner, and that the priest was at the bottom of it all. Who circulated these stories among the women, Sor Stefano knew perfectly well. It was certain that they became more definite from day to day, and that by degrees a very wide-spread feeling of suspicion had been aroused among all classes at Montefiano that the Principessina Bianca was being made the victim of an intrigue on the part of her step-mother's foreign advisers to possess themselves both of her person and her estates.

Why, it was asked, was the principessina never seen? The very few people who had happened to see her at the castle had come away full of enthusiasm concerning her beauty and her kindness of manner. When it became known that Sor Beppe had been dismissed, these stories had been repeated with greater insistence than ever. Probably the women had determined to excite the compassion and indignation of their menkind on the principessina's behalf; for several of the leading peasants and small farmers in and around Montefiano had openly talked of going to the castle and demanding an interview with the Principessina Donna Bianca, in order to see for themselves whether their young padrona were in reality exposed to the treatment they suspected.

It was in order to consult together concerning the suggested deputation that the leading spirits of Montefiano had assembled at the Caffè Garibaldi that evening. Notwithstanding the noise, and the totally irrelevant side issues raised by many of his customers, it was clear to Stefano Mazza that the general consensus of public opinion was on his side. The dismissal of Sor Beppe should not be allowed to pass without a protest being made to the principessa in person; and at the same time it should be clearly conveyed to her that any fattore who should be appointed to succeed Sor Beppe would find his task by no means easy, inasmuch as the people would with truth conclude that he had been sent to Montefiano to carry out changes which were obnoxious and unjust. Sor Stefano, anxious to please all parties, had further suggested that the deputation in question should insist upon the Principessina Bianca being present when its members were received by her step-mother. Her presence, he pointed out, would enable the representatives of the Montefiano people to ascertain whether Donna Bianca was or was not aware of what was being done in her name, whether it was true that she was merely a victim of the unscrupulous designs of this Belgian priest, and of another stranger who was, to all intents and purposes, her uncle. Donna Bianca Acorari was their legitimate padrona, the daughter and heiress of the princes of Montefiano; and as such her own people at Montefiano had a right to approach her and hear from her own lips whether all that was said concerning her was truth or fiction.

It was late that night when the Caffè Garibaldi put out its lights and barred its doors after the last of Sor Stefano's clients had left the premises. The chief point under discussion during the evening had been settled, however, and it was unanimously decided that a deputation, headed by the sindaco and Sor Stefano, should send a letter to the castle requesting to be received by the princess and the Principessina Donna Bianca. Perhaps the sindaco of Montefiano was the only one to display some hesitation as to the advisability of the course determined upon. He had no desire to compromise himself by lending his official sanction to any movement which might end in disturbance and in possible collision with the civil authorities. It was impossible to foretell what might take place were the princess and her adviser to oppose the wishes of the already suspicious and excited peasants, and refuse to entertain the objections of the deputation to the dismissal of the fattore, Giuseppe Fontana. The avvocato Ricci, syndic of Montefiano, like many other petty Italian lawyers, nourished an ambition to enter political life as a means whereby to fill his empty pockets at the expense of those who might send him to join the large number of his fellow-lawyers in the Chamber of Deputies. It was a somewhat exalted ambition, no doubt; but the avvocato Ricci, after all, was in no more obscure a position than many another local attorney now calling himself onorevole and making the best of his opportunities as a deputy to rob with both hands, until such time as he should either be made a minister of state or fail to be re-elected by a disillusioned constituency.

It would certainly not add to his prospects were he, as sindaco of Montefiano, to compromise himself with the authorities of the Home Office in Rome for the sake of some discontented peasants in his commune, and he had already done his best that evening to throw cold water on Sor Stefano's suggestions, and to dissociate himself from any part in the movement in question. A few words, however, spoken in his ear by Stefano Mazza, conveying a gentle but pointed allusion to certain bills, more than once renewed which Sor Stefano happened to have in his keeping, had effectually silenced the sindaco Ricci's official objections to making one of the proposed deputation to the castle.

The gathering at the Caffè Garibaldi had taken place on the very evening of Concetta Fontana's delivery to Bianca Acorari of her lover's missive. Concetta, indeed, knew well enough that the meeting was to take place, and also what its object was. As a matter of fact, it was largely, if not entirely, owing to her that public interest in Montefiano had been aroused concerning the motives for the Principessina Bianca's confinement—for so Concetta had not hesitated to qualify it—in the castle and the park behind the castle. She had let fall mysterious hints as to what she had seen and heard during the hours she was employed in helping the principessina's maid in mending the linen and in other household duties; and her tales had certainly not lost in the telling during the long summer evenings when the women of the paese had little to do but to sit and gossip outside their doors.

Doubtless, like most gossip, the stories woven round Concetta Fontana's suggestion would soon have been replaced by others of closer interest. The premature appearance of the baker's baby, which had upset the ideas of Don Agostino's house-keeper as to the fitness of things, had been for some days relegated to an altogether secondary place; nor would the men have paid much attention to the tales told them by their womenkind of the treatment to which the Principessina Bianca was being subjected, had it not been for Sor Beppe's sudden dismissal from office. It needed very little to impress upon the farmers and peasantry on the latifondo belonging to Casa Acorari that the latter circumstance was in direct connection with the former; and that it had evidently been found necessary to get rid of Giuseppe Fontana and replace him by another agent who would be nothing more nor less than a tool in the hands of the foreign priest who had already persuaded the princess to consent to their rents being materially increased. It must be confessed that Concetta Fontana had lost no opportunity of duly impressing her friends and acquaintances with this plausible explanation of the reasons which had led to her father's dismissal. She had conceived an enthusiastic devotion to the Principessina Bianca almost from the first moment she had seen her and Bianca had spoken a few kindly words to her. This devotion had been further increased by realizing the loneliness of the girl's position, by sympathy with her for her enforced separation from the man she wished to marry, as well as by the discovery that Bianca was being exposed to the joint intrigues of Monsieur d'Antin and the Abbé Roux. The thought that her young padrona had need of her devotion had kindled Concetta's sense of loyalty, in which, as in that of her father, there was much that was nothing short of feudal feeling for the young head of the house of the Acorari of Montefiano.

Concetta, however, could hardly be blamed if, in addition to her genuine desire to rescue Bianca Acorari from the fate into which she felt convinced that Baron d'Antin and the Abbé Roux were trying to force her, she hoped at the same time to benefit her father and bring about his reinstatement. Sor Beppe had been, as it were, stunned by the suddenness of the blow which had fallen upon him. As he had said to Don Agostino, he was too old for transplantation. The interests of Casa Acorari had been his interests ever since he could remember. However unsatisfactory the late Principe di Montefiano might have been in other relations of life—however neglectful he might have been of the fact that he was taking all he could get out of his properties and was putting nothing into them again—he had always been a just and considerate landlord towards the people of the place from which he took his principal title, and which had been the cradle of his race.

It was the thought of how the late Prince Montefiano would have disapproved of the course taken by the Abbé Roux, and by the so-called administration of the affairs of Casa Acorari, that made the injustice of his dismissal all the harder for Sor Beppe to bear. If he had received his dismissal at the hands of the Principessina Bianca, it would have been bad enough; but to receive it from foreigners who, as he more than suspected, were only bent upon filling their own pockets during the principessina's minority, was altogether intolerable. The sympathy which had been shown him in the paese, and the general indignation aroused by the facts which had led to his dismissal had certainly been very pleasant to Sor Beppe's wounded feelings. He had made no secret of his conviction that so soon as the Principessina Bianca had the control of her affairs he would be reinstated, and public opinion in Montefiano quickly exonerated Donna Bianca Acorari from all responsibility in the matter. That such a thing had happened was, in the eyes of the Montefianesi, only a further proof of the bad foreign influence by which their young princess was surrounded.

Sor Beppe had carefully abstained from going to the Caffè Garibaldi that evening. It was his custom to spend an hour or two there on most nights, taking a hand at tresette or playing a game of billiards. He was aware, of course, of the discussion that was to take place on that particular evening, and it certainly would not have been seemly for him to be present. Moreover, there was no reason to suppose that his cause would suffer by his absence from the gathering. He knew that his friend, Stefano Mazza, would take care that this was not the case.

So, Sor Beppe had taken the opportunity of paying an evening visit to Don Agostino. He had attempted to see him immediately after his interview with the princess, when he had learned that she declined to interfere in his dismissal, but Don Agostino had already departed for Rome. After leaving Don Agostino, Sor Beppe had returned to his own set of rooms in the castle—the home of so many years, which he would now have to leave—and he had found Concetta awaiting him. The girl had required no pressing to deliver the packet Don Agostino had intrusted to her father. She had many times, she told him, wished to go to the principessina and offer to take some message for her to her lover—oh, many times, if only to spite the baron and Monsieur l'Abbé, who thought they had laid their plans so well. But she had not dared to take the liberty. Now, of course, she had an excuse; and if Don Agostino was interesting himself in the principessina's love-affairs, it was certainly a proof that the young man was worthy of her.

And Sor Beppe had accompanied Concetta to the disused room next to the entrance-gate of the castle, where he kept his firewood and his coke, and had seen her pass through the trap-door and mount the narrow stone steps leading into the secret passage above. Then he had awaited her return, not without some misgivings at the length of time which elapsed before he saw her reappear.

Concetta returned from her expedition flushed and excited, and, indeed, very nearly weeping. Her voice trembled as she recounted all that had passed between the principessina and herself; how she had watched the principessina standing at the window of her room, and had heard her cry to her absent lover; and how the poor child had seemed almost dazed when she gave her the packet, and had then broken down and cried in her, Concetta's, arms.

She told her father how the principessina was aware of his dismissal, but evidently knew nothing of the raising of the rents and his refusal to further acts of injustice, committed nominally in her interests; and how she had declared that, when she had the power to do so, she would reinstate him.

Sor Beppe listened attentively. "She is her father's daughter," he said, when Concetta had concluded, "and she will not allow her people to be wronged."

Concetta's eyes flashed. "And we," she exclaimed—"we will not allow her to be wronged! Vedete, it is not the princess, she wants to do her duty by the principessina—oh, I have heard that a hundred times from the maid, Bettina. It is the Abbé Roux. He makes the princess believe that her duty is to force the poor girl to do what he wants. But he will go too far, and then we shall see is it not true, Babbo?"

Sor Beppe nodded. "He has gone too far already," he said. "Listen, Concetta: the peasants are angry—very angry; and not the peasants only, but also those who are more highly placed than they. There will certainly be trouble if the increase in the rents is insisted upon. Moreover, they suspect something, some foul play towards the principessina, and it is as likely as not that there will be a demonstration. Well, if there is, and the Abbé Roux, as you call him, attempts to carry out his plans, I would not answer for the consequences. They are patient, our people—very patient; but when their patience is exhausted, they are not easy to manage. Why, in the Castelli Romani, a few years ago, at Genzano and Ariccia, the peasants held their own against the soldiers, and got what they wanted, too—but there was blood spilled in the getting of it."

Concetta Fontana glanced at her father quickly.

"Do I not know it?" she replied. "Yes, the people are angry. Well, let them be angry. Perhaps, if there is a demonstration, the princess will understand that there is something wrong, and Monsieur l'Abbé will be frightened. But the principessina will not be frightened, I am sure of that. She will know that it is only her own people, who will not be ruled by strangers. To-day we shall know what has happened at the Caffè Garibaldi," and Concetta smiled with a satisfied air. "As to the Abbé Roux—" she added.

"Curse the pretaccio!" growled Sor Beppe, under his breath.

"He would be wiser to return to Rome," concluded Concetta, "if he does not want to take delle belle bastonate some fine day!"

XXVII

Punctually at half-past seven on the morning after Sor Beppe's nocturnal visit to him, Don Agostino, robed in his vestments and accompanied by a small but sturdy acolyte, who was to act as server at the low mass he was about to celebrate, emerged from the sacristy of his church and ascended the steps of one of the side altars. The attendance was not large, the congregation consisting of a few peasant women and two old men; for the day was not a festa, and, consequently, the population of Montefiano was pursuing its usual occupations in the paese, or in the fields and vineyards beyond it.

As Don Agostino, after having arranged the sacred vessels and adjusted the markers in the missal to the proper pages, turned from the altar to commence the opening portion of the mass, his quick eyes fell upon Concetta Fontana, who was kneeling in the body of the church some little way behind the group of women gathered round the marble balustrade in front of the altar. It could not be said that Concetta was a frequent attendant at the half-past seven o'clock mass, and her presence had already excited whispered comments among the rest of the congregation, who had at once recognized Sor Beppe's daughter.

The mass over, Don Agostino retired to the sacristy again to disrobe, and thither, after a few minutes had elapsed, Concetta Fontana followed him. Don Agostino was not surprised to see her. Indeed, he had risen earlier than usual that morning in expectation of a visit either from Fontana or his daughter. He had spent an hour or two in his garden tying up refractory branches of his rose-trees and generally attending to the needs of his fellow-beings of the vegetable world—for it was one of Agostino's theories that any form of life was an attribute of the God whom he worshipped as a God of sympathy and of love, and he regarded his trees and his flowers as sentient beings who had a right to his tenderness and care. It was certainly not a theory of which he spoke in the world; but then most of us who are not content with looking only at the binding of God's book of life probably have our little intimate thoughts and theories which, knowing our world, we are prudent enough to keep for our own use and enjoyment, and, perhaps, as stepping-stones on the path we have to tread.

Concetta waited until she and Don Agostino were alone in the sacristy, and then she gave him the folded sheet of paper that Bianca Acorari had intrusted to her.

"To-morrow," she said, "the principessina will send another letter by me. There were no writing-materials in her room, so she could only send a few lines, which your reverence will no doubt forward to their destination."

Don Agostino took the paper and placed it carefully in his pocket-book. "I shall send it to the Signorino Rossano to-day," he replied. "Donna Bianca need have no fear of its not reaching him safely. So you took the packet to her last night?" he continued. "You had no difficulty in giving it into Donna Bianca's own hands?"

Concetta quickly related to him all that had passed between Bianca and her the night before. "And I was to tell your reverence," she concluded, "from the principessina, that she would write to you herself, because her fidanzato wished her to do so. Ah, but you should have seen the proud way the principessina drew herself up and looked—a look that a queen might give—when she spoke of her fidanzato!"

Don Agostino glanced at her with a smile. "You will be faithful to the principessina, figlia mia?" he asked. "She needs friends, the poor child."

"Faithful to her!" exclaimed Concetta. "I would do anything—anything, for the principessina. Imagine if I was glad when my father came home last night and told me I must take her the packet you had given him. I had wanted to go to her, and to tell her that I would do anything she bade me—oh, so often! But how could I venture? Besides, I was afraid of frightening her if I appeared in her room from the cardinal's portrait."

"But she was not frightened?" Don Agostino asked.

"Niente affatto!" returned Concetta, emphatically. "It was I who was frightened when I saw her leaning out of the window in the moonlight and calling to her lover. I feared she might be walking in her sleep, and that she might throw herself down on the terrace. Ah, but she knows now that there are those who are ready to help her—and she will know it better in a few days' time."

Don Agostino looked at her. "How do you mean? Why should she know it better in a few days than she does now?" he asked.

Concetta pursed up her lips. "She will know it," she repeated, "and so will the principessa and the Abbé Roux. I am nothing—only a woman—but there are men who will help her—all Montefiano, if it comes to that."

Don Agostino looked at her with greater attention. He had already heard through Ernana something concerning the ill-feeling the dismissal of Sor Beppe had aroused in Montefiano; and something, too, of the part the Abbé Roux was supposed to have played in bringing about the fattore's dismissal.

"What do you mean?" he repeated. "You may speak openly to me, figlia mia," he continued, "for I also would do all I could to help Donna Bianca Acorari and to protect her from any evil designs against her. Moreover, Donna Bianca's fidanzato is my friend, and his father and I have been friends for many years. After all, it is I, is it not, who have asked your father to convey that packet to the principessina? And he told me of the means whereby it might be conveyed."

Concetta started. "Ah! he told you of the passage?" she exclaimed.

"Certainly," replied Don Agostino. "So you see," he added, "I am aware that it is possible to communicate with Donna Bianca without the fact being known to those who are trying to isolate her from the outer world. If you have the principessina's welfare at heart, as I am sure that you have, you will take me entirely into your confidence, will you not?"

Concetta nodded. "I know nothing for certain as yet," she said, after hesitating for a moment, "but the people are angry, reverendo, very angry."

"Yes, I have heard something of that," said Don Agostino, as Concetta paused. "They are angry at the rents having been raised, and at your father's having been dismissed for his opposition to the increase. But his dismissal has nothing to do with Donna Bianca's position, and the people's anger will not help her, so far as I can see."

"Ah, but it will help her," replied Concetta, eagerly. "They are angry about the rents and about my father, that is true; but they are also indignant at the way in which the principessina is shut up and not allowed to see anybody. They have heard that she is in love with somebody whom she is forbidden to see any more, and that the princess's brother wants to force her to marry him instead. And they have put the dots upon the i's, and believe that the foreign priest is at the bottom of the whole affair. You must remember, reverendo, that we Montefianesi look upon the principessina as our padrona. We do not want foreigners to interfere between us and the Principessina Bianca."

"I understand that perfectly well," Don Agostino observed, quietly. "But how do the Montefianesi propose to remedy matters? After all, Donna Bianca is a minor, and as such she is not yet her own mistress; nor," he added, "can her people here, however devoted to her they may be, make her so."

"But they can make the principessa get rid of those who are advising her badly," said Concetta. "I do not know what has been decided," she continued, lowering her voice, "but last night there was a meeting at the Caffè Garibaldi. Of course, my father would not be present, for it was his dismissal that they were by way of discussing—that and the raising of the rents. But I am certain that they will have talked about other things besides these; and I know that Sor Stefano meant to propose that a deputation should go to the princess and insist on the rents being lowered to their original amount, and on my father being retained as fattore."

"Precisely," interrupted Don Agostino. "But in what way will Donna Bianca be helped by all this talk? That is what I do not understand, figlia mia."

Concetta directed a shrewd glance at him. "In this way," she replied, "Sor Stefano—oh, and many others, too—intend to see the Principessina Bianca herself, and to explain to her that she and nobody else is padrona at Montefiano, and that they will hear from her own lips, when they have explained matters to her, whether what has been done in her name has her approval or not. This they will do, reverendo, not because they do not understand that the principessina is still a child, so to speak, but because they intend Monsieur l'Abbé and the baron to understand that their schemes are known and will not be tolerated. Mi spiego reverendo?"

Don Agostino's face flushed and his eyes sparkled with an unusual excitement.

"Do you explain yourself?" he said, repeating Concetta's last words. "Certainly, you explain yourself very well. Ah, if your Montefianesi do that, they will, indeed, be helping their padrona."

He paused suddenly, and his countenance became grave and preoccupied.

"And this deputation to the princess," he said, presently—"does your father know of the proposal?"

"Certainly he knows of it," answered Concetta; "but naturally," she added, "he can take no part in it. It is Sor Stefano who will be at the head of it, or perhaps the sindaco—oh, and representatives chosen by the contadini. And you, reverendo, you will surely be asked to join it as the parroco. Sicuro! it will all have been settled last night; but as yet I have seen nobody, for until I had delivered the principessina's letter, as I promised her I would do, I could not be easy in my mind."

Don Agostino's expression remained grave and thoughtful. That the people of Montefiano should resent the interference of the Abbé Roux in their relations with Casa Acorari was certainly natural, and might in the end turn out to be a good thing for both Donna Bianca and Silvio. But Don Agostino well knew the danger that must attend any demonstration of hostility towards the princess and her advisers on the part of the peasants. Such demonstrations were apt unexpectedly to assume serious proportions. If the enraged contadini felt that they had the moral support of men like Sor Stefano, they might easily lose their heads, and, should their demands be refused, attempt to enforce them by measures which would necessitate the intervention of the civil authorities, if not of the military. What military intervention too frequently ended in, Don Agostino was fully aware, and he felt every effort should be made to prevent the threatened demonstration assuming any attitude that might furnish an excuse for obtaining it.

The question was, whether Princess Montefiano would consent to receive this deputation, and to hear what its members had to say. Her decision would evidently be inspired by the Abbé Roux, and the abbé's recent action in causing the rents to be increased, and in the dismissal of an old, popular official for venturing to oppose that increase, convinced Don Agostino that the foreign priest, as the Abbé Roux was called, did not understand the character of the people he was attempting to rule.

Don Agostino's experience of human nature made him at once realize the danger of a misunderstanding on either side, in the present condition of public opinion in Montefiano. The abbé might easily underrate the force of that opinion and persuade the princess to decline to listen to, or even to receive a deputation formed to protest against his policy. If he were so to persuade Princess Montefiano, the situation would infallibly become critical, and very likely perilous. All would then depend on whether the Abbé Roux had the nerve and the tact to deal with it, or whether he would oblige the princess to appeal to the authorities to suppress the demonstration. In this latter case a collision would become inevitable; and it was this collision between his people—for was he not their parroco?—and the authorities, that Don Agostino was determined to use all his influence to avert.

Concetta Fontana watched his countenance, as for a few moments Don Agostino stood, apparently deep in thought.

"You would join the deputation, reverendo, would you not?" she asked him, presently.

Don Agostino hesitated.

"It depends," he replied. "You see, figlia mia," he continued, "we must be careful that in trying to do good we do not bring about a great deal of harm and unhappiness. I should like to talk with your father, and to-day I will go to see Stefano Mazza. The contadini are within their rights—I do not deny that—and a grave injustice has been done, both to them and to your father. Sicuro! they are in the right, but it should be the duty of those who have influence to prevent them from doing anything to put themselves in the wrong. Yes, tell your father that I should like to see him to-day. At mezzogiorno he will find a place ready for him if he likes to come to breakfast. We could talk afterwards—while Ernana is washing the dishes. You will go to see Donna Bianca again—as you did last night, will you not? You will tell her that her letter goes to-day to her fidanzato, and that he will receive it to-morrow morning in Rome. And you will tell her, also, that I am awaiting the letter she is going to write to me; and when I have it, I will answer her. In the mean time, figlia mia, be prudent—if you wish to serve the Principessina Bianca. You and your father have influence with the people—they wish you well. Talk to the women. It is the women who can often lead the men—is it not? Anything that is done must be done cautiously, moderately. There must be no folly—no threats employed in order to enforce demands that in themselves are just. You must tell the women that I, Don Agostino, will support all that is done to obtain justice in a just way—but I will not countenance any measures that may provoke disorder, and perhaps violence. Now go, figlia mia, and give my message to your father this morning—and to the Principessina Bianca when you think it safe to go again to her apartment."

And Don Agostino, opening the door of the sacristy, accompanied Concetta through the empty church, and then returned to his own house, and to his morning coffee which Ernana always prepared for him after he had said his early mass.

XXVIII

Silvio Rossano had quite made up his mind that some days must in all probability elapse before Don Agostino might be able to find a safe opportunity of conveying the letter and ring he had intrusted to him to Bianca. When, therefore, he found on his table, on returning to Palazzo Acorari as usual for breakfast, a notice from the post-office informing him that a registered packet addressed to him was lying at the central office, he did not suppose for a moment that the said packet had come from Montefiano. Indeed, it was not until late in the afternoon that he went to San Silvestro in order to get the packet, as he had some work to do at home which he was anxious to complete. His heart gave a sudden leap when he recognized Don Agostino's handwriting on the registered envelope. The arcade running round the court-yard and garden of palms at San Silvestro, thronged as it was with people asking for their correspondence at the poste-restante, with soldiers and men of business, priests and peasants, was certainly not the place to investigate the contents of Don Agostino's missive, which would scarcely have been registered had the contents not been important.

Silvio hurried out of the building, and, crossing the Corso, plunged into the comparative quiet of the little side streets behind Montecitorio, where he eagerly tore open the sealed envelope. There were only a few lines written by Don Agostino himself, and Silvio, hastily glancing at them, gathered that he had had an opportunity of sending the letter and ring to Bianca Acorari by a safe hand, and that her reply was enclosed. He added that he should write more fully in a day or two, by which time he believed he should have something of importance to communicate.

Bianca's letter, too, was short and hastily written in pencil on a half-sheet of paper that Silvio recognized as having been torn from his own lengthy epistle to her. Brief as this letter was, however, it told him much that he was longing to know, and, indeed, repeated Bianca's words to him in the garden of the Villa Acorari, with which she had vowed that she would marry nobody if she did not marry him. But what set his mind at ease more than anything else was her assurance that means of communication were open to them. Bianca did not explain what these means were, but told him that she would write him a long letter the following day, and that he also could continue to write to her under cover to Monsignor Lelli, as there was now no danger of his letters being intercepted. This, at least, was a comforting piece of news, and Silvio wondered how it had come about that Don Agostino had been able to so quickly find the necessary channel of communication. It was scarcely likely, he reflected, that Don Agostino would venture to go himself to the castle at Montefiano after having been seen by Monsieur d'Antin in his company.

He returned to Palazzo Acorari full of hope, and in better spirits than he had been for many a day. The uncertainty of the last few weeks had begun to tell upon him; and at the same time his complete separation from Bianca Acorari had only increased his love, and had made him more determined than ever to defeat the machinations of those who were trying to break down Bianca's love for him. The first thing to be done was to write to Bianca. She would be expecting to hear from him again, and to know that he had received her pencilled note safely. Silvio shut himself in his room and proceeded to write an epistle longer, if anything, than that he had confided to Don Agostino. The contents were much the same as the contents of other love-letters, and scarcely likely to be of interest to any one except himself and the person to whom they were addressed. Of course, he longed to see her again; and he implored her not to lose any opportunity of allowing him to do so that could be seized upon without risk to herself. He could always, he explained to her, come to Montefiano at any moment, and Monsignor Lelli doubtless would arrange that his presence in the place should be unsuspected.

It was useless, he felt, to attempt to form a plan, until he should have heard again from her and from Don Agostino. He read the latter's note again and again with great attention. It was evident that Don Agostino had something more to communicate than he was able at that moment to write. No doubt he was making sure of his ground before summoning Silvio to Montefiano. In any case, there was nothing to do but to wait patiently for further light upon the situation; and in the mean time he might do more harm than good by suggesting any one of the expedients for obtaining another meeting with Bianca that came into his head.

His letter written, he sought Giacinta's counsel as usual, and told her of what that day's post had brought to him. Giacinta was duly sympathetic. She had, indeed, long ago recognized that Silvio's passion for Bianca Acorari was not to be diminished by any amount of practical reasoning as to its folly. Perhaps the discovery that Monsignor Lelli, whom her father held in such high esteem, not only approved of Silvio's love for Donna Bianca, but had also undertaken to help him, so far as he might be able, to remove the difficulties that stood in the way of his marrying her, had caused Giacinta to take a less pessimistic view of her brother's infatuation; at any rate, since Monsignor Lelli's visit she had regarded the matter as one which must take its course, for better or for worse, since not only was there no apparent likelihood of Silvio being disheartened by the obstacles in his way, but it seemed that Donna Bianca Acorari also knew her own mind, and had no intention of allowing others to alter it for her.