Front matter (continued 8)

The Abbé Roux's face while Don Agostino was speaking presented a study in some of the various feelings capable of being reflected on the human countenance. Anger, mortification, dismay—all these displayed themselves in turn as he listened to Don Agostino's words, each one of which was delivered with a calm incisiveness which added to the force of his speech.

"Monsignore!" he exclaimed, furiously. "Are you aware of what you are saying? Monsieur le Baron," he added, turning to Monsieur d'Antin, "this is an insult—not to me only, but to the princess and to yourself—"

Monsieur d'Antin looked from one to the other curiously, almost as if he enjoyed the situation.

"I think not, Monsieur l'Abbé," he said, with a little smile, and rubbing his white hands gently together. "I think not, my dear friend. Monsignor Lelli is merely stating the opinion that others hold concerning you—or concerning us, perhaps I should say. He does not, I am convinced, mean us to suppose that he shares this opinion."

Don Agostino was silent.

"In any case," continued Monsieur d'Antin, with a slight shrug of the shoulders as the silence became markedly prolonged, "it is not worth your while to be angry, my dear abbé, for Monsignor Lelli might regard your anger as a proof that the peasants at Montefiano are a very shrewd race—ha, ha, ha!" and he broke into a gentle laugh which sounded genuine enough, but certainly did not tend to allay the abbé's fury.

"No," he continued. "Let us remain calm, I beg of you, and let us hear what else Monsignor Lelli has to tell us from these admirable peasants."

"I have little else to add to what I have already said," observed Don Agostino, "and I make no apologies for the words I have used. They are plain words, and even the Abbé Roux will not, I think, misunderstand them. As to my own opinion—well, I agree with you, Monsieur le Baron, that the people of Montefiano are shrewd, and I believe their accusations to be just."

The Abbé Roux made a step forward, and, purple with rage, shook his clinched fist in Don Agostino's face.

"And you," he exclaimed, "you, whom the Holy Father sent to minister to these pigs of peasants in order to avoid the scandal of proceeding against you for fraudulent speculation with money intrusted to you, you dare to bring these accusations against me! Liar, hypocrite, pig—like the peasants you represent!"

"My dear friend," remonstrated Monsieur d'Antin, laying his hand on the abbé's arm, "let me implore you to be calm. Recollect that you and Monsignor Lelli are priests—that you both wear the soutane. You cannot demand satisfaction of each other in the usual way—you cannot challenge each other to a duel. It would be—excessively funny," and Monsieur d'Antin laughed again, in evident enjoyment of the idea. "Besides," he continued, "Monsignor Lelli has, no doubt, more to tell us. We have not yet heard what it is that the peasants require of my sister."

"Monsieur," said Don Agostino, "I can answer for the peasants that, if they are allowed to see and speak with Donna Bianca Acorari, they will certainly not proceed to any excesses. They will probably return quietly to their occupations."

"And you," interrupted the Abbé Roux, in a voice that was hoarse and trembling with anger, "can take back to the peasants the princess's answer which I am commissioned to give in her name. The answer is, that they will not be permitted to see Donna Bianca Acorari, who has nothing to say in the matter of the administration of these lands, or to approach her with any story of their grievances. The princess, monsignore, is perfectly well aware of all that underlies this agitation, and that it is directed chiefly against myself. She will not be intimidated into recalling Giuseppe Fontana, or into lowering the rents. She—"

He stopped abruptly. A confused sound of voices came from the gallery outside, and a moment afterwards the door was flung hastily open and the old maggior-domo burst into the room, followed by several of the servants, who stood in a frightened group on the threshold.

"The contadini!" he exclaimed. "There is a crowd of three hundred or more outside the entrance-gates, and they declare that if the gates are not opened, they will break them down, Signor Abate! Ah, Madonna mia! It is a repubblica—a revolution—listen!" and rushing across the gallery, he threw open one of the windows looking into the court-yard.

The thick walls of the castle had effectually prevented any sound from penetrating to the apartments on the other side of the gallery, all of which were situated in the portion of the building added to the mediæval fortress by Cardinal Acorari, and overlooked the terrace and open country beneath it. From the gallery, however, the angry roar of an excited mob could distinctly be heard; and, when the windows were opened by the old maggior-domo, shouts of "Down with the foreigners! Long live the Principessina Bianca!" became plainly audible.

Don Agostino looked at the abbé and Monsieur d'Antin. "You see, monsieur," he said, quietly, to the latter, "I did not exaggerate matters. But even now it is not too late. If the princess and Donna Bianca will show themselves to the peasants, and allow me to address the people in their name, I am confident that order will quickly be restored. Hark!" he added. "They are attempting to break open the gates." And even as he spoke, the noise of heavy blows falling on wood-work re-echoed through the court-yard.

Monsieur d'Antin, to do him justice, appeared to be far more composed than the Abbé Roux. He listened for a moment or two almost impassively to the shouts and the uproar which were growing ever louder and more violent. The abbé, on the contrary, was trembling with an excitement that might have proceeded either from fear or from rage, and probably, as Don Agostino thought, from both. He had his watch in his hand, and looked at it repeatedly, as though counting every minute that passed. Don Agostino noticed his action, and as he did so a sudden suspicion dawned upon him.

Monsieur d'Antin drew the abbé aside, and spoke with him for a minute or so in an undertone. The Abbé Roux, it was evident, dissented energetically from his remarks, and finally, with a shrug of the shoulders, Monsieur d'Antin left him and advanced to Don Agostino.

"Monsieur le Curé," he said, "as I have already told you, my sister does not take advice from me as to the management of her affairs, and I frankly confess to you that I do not understand the situation sufficiently to make interference on my part warrantable. The Abbé Roux is my sister's adviser in all that concerns her affairs. I must refer you to him."

Monsieur d'Antin approached the window again; and then, taking his cigarette-case from his pocket, he proceeded to light a cigarette with quiet deliberation. Don Agostino glanced at him almost with approval. At any rate, he reflected, Baron d'Antin, whatever else he might be, was no coward, and knew how to se tirer d'affaires like a gentleman.

"Yes," exclaimed the Abbé Roux, "you, Monsieur le Curé, have to refer to me in this matter. And I tell you again that it is useless that you and the canaille attempt to intimidate the princess—absolutely useless. What did I say to you a few minutes ago? We are not imbeciles here—certainly not imbeciles, monsieur; as you and your friends outside will find out—if they dare to continue this violence much longer. No; go to these insolent peasants, and tell them that your mission has failed."

Don Agostino looked the abbé steadily in the face for a moment, and then, without a word, turned his back upon him for the second time that afternoon.

"Monsieur le Baron," he said, coldly, "it would be well that you should inform the princess what is taking place, and you will doubtless know how to prevent her and Donna Bianca Acorari from being unduly alarmed. I have done my office here, and it is not my fault if I have failed. My place now is with my people."

Don Agostino was about to pass Monsieur d'Antin with a formal bow, when the latter suddenly held out his hand.

"Monsignore," he said, "you came as a peacemaker; and, believe me, I regret that you do not take away with you terms of peace. I regret it, I repeat, and I am not responsible for what has occurred, or for what may occur."

Don Agostino scarcely heard him. He hurried down the gallery and across the entrance-hall, followed by two trembling domestics, who unbarred the doors opening on to the court-yard.

By this time the fury of the crowd at finding itself prevented from entering the castle had passed all bounds of control. Blow after blow rained upon the wooden gates leading into the court; and suddenly, while Don Agostino was in the act of crossing the court-yard, the gates burst open with a crash, having given way before the impetus of a mad rush from the mob without.

For a moment the peasants stood undecided—surprised, perhaps, at the sudden yielding of the gates.

Don Agostino, seeing their indecision, advanced towards them.

"My friends—" he began.

A great shout drowned his voice.

"Traditore! Vigliacco d'un prete!"

Then a stone struck him, and, with a hoarse roar like that of an angry beast, the crowd surged into the court-yard.

XXXII

The stone hurled at Don Agostino had fortunately only hit him on the body, for, owing to the violence with which it had been thrown, it certainly would have stunned him had it struck him on the head. As it was, however, the folds of his soutane somewhat broke the force of the blow. Don Agostino was scarcely conscious that he had been struck, so great was his amazement at the savage reception he had met with at the hands of his parishioners. Looking round on the angry faces and threatening gestures of the mob of peasants in front of him, Don Agostino speedily realized that neither Sor Stefano nor any of the more prominent supporters of the peasantry were among those who had forced their way into the court-yard. A feeling of anger and indignation took possession of him as he noted the fact. It was the usual thing, he thought bitterly—the invariable system of the incitement of the poor and the ignorant to do the dirty work by those who would instantly desert them in the hour of danger.

Disgust at what he believed to be treachery on the part of those who had been mainly instrumental in instigating the peasants to their present action quickly took the place of the surprise and indignation that Don Agostino had felt at the way in which the people had suddenly turned against him.

Without hesitation, and with a demeanor as calm and composed as though he were mounting the steps of his pulpit, he ascended the double stone staircase leading from the court-yard to the doors from which he had issued only a minute or two previously. The doors were shut and bolted now. The servants had fled precipitately at the sight of the entrance-gates giving way before the assault of the mob, and Don Agostino found himself alone with an angry and menacing crowd confronting him, and behind him the great Renaissance palace of Cardinal Acorari, with its portal barred, and the wooden shutters outside the windows on the piano nobile already closed by its inmates. He stopped at the top of the first flight of steps; and, advancing to the stone balustrade, looked down on the peasants below him.

They were still crowded together round the entrance-gates, and seemed as though uncertain what their next move should be. Possibly, too, they were taken aback at finding themselves within a deserted court-yard, with closed windows all round them, and nothing but the solitary black figure of Don Agostino standing in front of the entrance to that portion of the castle inhabited by the princess and Bianca Acorari.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Don Agostino made a gesture as though to wave back a group of peasants who, detaching themselves from the rest, were approaching the flight of steps on which he stood—a gesture that was almost imperious.

"You have broken your word to me," he cried; "you, and those who have sent you here and are afraid to come themselves! You promised that you would make no move until I returned from the castle—" Shouts of "Abbasso il pretaccio! Liar—traitor!" interrupted and drowned his words.

Don Agostino's eyes flashed with anger.

"Silence!" he exclaimed. "And if there is a man among you, let him stand out and tell me what you mean—what you accuse me of. Choose your spokesman. I am waiting to hear what he has to say." He folded his arms and leaned against the balustrade almost indifferently. His demeanor was not lost on the crowd, composed of peasants though it was. Its members fell to talking excitedly among themselves, and presently one of the younger men came forward. Don Agostino recognized him as the speaker at the Caffè Garibaldi that morning, who had advocated no delay in going to the castle and insisting on seeing Donna Bianca Acorari in person.

"You ask us what it is we accuse you of!" he exclaimed, in a threatening voice. "Porca Madonna!"

"There is no necessity to be blasphemous," interrupted Don Agostino, sternly.

"If it had not been for your promises, and because we believed that you would not deceive us, we should have been here this morning. You persuaded us to delay, because all the time you knew that the soldiers had been sent for."

"I did not know it," said Don Agostino, in a voice that rang through the court-yard. "I swear that I did not know it until I read the telegram in the paper that you have probably all seen. Even now I do not know that the report is true. In the castle they deny that there has ever been any idea of sending for troops, and, still more, that they have been actually sent for. You accuse me of having deceived you. I tell you that until a few minutes ago I have been doing my best to persuade the princess to give you a hearing. But other counsels have prevailed, and I have not succeeded in seeing either her or the Principessina Donna Bianca. No—I have deceived you in nothing, but you have been deceived all the same. You have been deceived by those who have encouraged you to come here and commit acts of violence, but who have, nevertheless, taken good care not to compromise themselves. Now, my friends, I have answered your accusations. What further reasons have you to give for turning against me, who have never done anything to deserve your want of confidence?"

Cries of "È vero! È vero!" greeted Don Agostino's words, and a few shouts of "Evviva il parroco!" were raised from the back of the crowd.

Don Agostino slowly descended the steps, and advanced towards the foremost group of peasants.

"Listen to me, ragazzi miei," he said. "Be wise and go back to the paese, quietly. I told you this morning that you would obtain nothing by violence, and I tell it you again. There are other means—better means—of obtaining your rights than by committing wrongs. Have I ever deceived you? I think not. Did I deceive you, Angelo Frassi, when you were nearly crippled for life, and I sent you to the hospital in Rome, and you came back cured? Or you, Pietro Santucci, when your mother was dying, and you had not money left in the house to buy a piece of meat to make her a cup of broth? Via, figli miei, you have called me some hard names, but I think, all the same, that you will trust me for a little yet."

Don Agostino paused, and an outburst of cheering came from his audience. The peasants he had named, who were among the most threatening of the younger men among the mob, shrunk back shamefaced and abashed. The parroco's appeal was true, and they knew it to be so. There were few in the crowd, moreover, who, in some way or another, had not experienced Don Agostino's sympathy and generosity.

Almost mechanically they made way for him to pass between their ranks, and followed him over the debris of the broken gates out on to the square-paved piazza, in front of the walls and round battlemented towers flanking the main entrance to the castle.

Don Agostino had just breathed a sigh of relief at the effects of his appeal, when a band of some fifty or sixty men, accompanied by as many women and children, rushed into the piazza out of the steep road leading up to the castle from the town.

"The troops!" they shouted. "The troops! They are entering the town now. In a few minutes they will be here!"

A howl of rage answered them from the mob of peasants behind and around Don Agostino.

"Traditore—traditore! porco d'un prete! It was for this you were waiting—deceiving us with your lies till you knew the soldiers would be here! Ah, vigliacco!"

A rush was made at him by those nearest, and Don Agostino had just time to defend himself from a blow dealt with the handle of a broken spade, the end of which was still covered by the rusty iron ferrule. His suspicions were verified now. The Abbé Roux had lied to him, and when Don Agostino had seen him glancing every now and again at his watch, he had been calculating how many minutes might elapse before the appearance of the troops he had caused to be summoned. It had been the knowledge that these troops were in the vicinity that had doubtless given the abbé courage to refuse to listen to any representations, even from Monsieur d'Antin, as to the advisability of treating with the peasants.

It had been the suspicion—nay, almost the certainty, that the Abbé Roux was lying, and that troops had already been requisitioned, which had made Don Agostino determined if possible to persuade the peasants to leave the court-yard of the castle. If the troops should arrive when the mob was within the walls, the peasants would be caught, as it were, in a trap, and any additional act of violence on their part, or error of judgment on the part of the officers of the pubblica sicurezza, who, in accordance with the law, would have to accompany the officer commanding and call upon him to order the soldiers to charge or fire on the crowd, might lead to appalling results.

It had been of the safety of his people that Don Agostino had been thinking, far more than of his own safety, and even now, with the angry mob shouting execrations and threats upon him for his treachery, he reproached himself bitterly for having played into the Abbé Roux's hands, by delaying his exit from the castle until the peasants had already commenced their assault.

He had little time to think of this now, however. It was in vain that he attempted for a moment to make his voice heard above the din. The mob was too angry now, too certain that it had been deceived, to listen to him a second time, and Don Agostino knew it.

He turned and faced the crowd in silence, and the thought of the irony of his situation brought a fleeting smile to his lips. How could the peasants know that he sympathized with them—that it was not he who had deceived them, but that he himself had been deceived?

"Morte—morte al pretaccio! Morte all 'assassino!"

Well, death must come some time; and, at any rate, he had tried to do his duty. Death, perhaps, would come to him as it had done to his Master, at the hands of those who knew not what they did.

"Morte—morte al traditore!"

A heavy blow struck from behind him fell upon his head, causing him to reel and totter back. Don Agostino shut his eyes, and his lips moved silently. Surely, death was very near now. Surely—

Suddenly another voice sounded in his ears. His name was shouted out loudly; yes, but in very different accents from those of the peasants now closing round him.

Don Agostino opened his eyes in time to see two men with raised reaping-hooks, who were apparently about to strike him a more deadly blow than the rest, hurled right and left, and the next moment Silvio Rossano stood by his side.

"Stand back!" Silvio shouted. "Back, I say, or by God, I will blow the brains out of the first man who comes within a metre of Don Agostino!" and as he spoke he covered the nearest peasant with a revolver.

"Coraggio, Don Agostino!" he said, quickly, "you are not hurt—no? In a minute or two the troops will be here. Ah, I could stay no longer. I knew the mob had gone to the castle, and that you were still there. And then, on my way here, I met Fontana and his daughter, and they told me the peasants had turned against you. When I heard that I ran as hard as I could—and here I am!"

Don Agostino felt sick and dizzy from the blow he had received. "You are just in time, Silvio mio," he said. "Another minute, and who knows whether you would have found me alive? Oh, but it is not their fault, the poor people—they think that I knew the troops had been sent for, and that I meant to deceive them."

The peasants, who had fallen back at Silvio's unexpected appearance and at the sight of his revolver, now began to crowd round Don Agostino again, and once more cries of "Morte al pretaccio!" were raised, coupled with threats against Silvio and curses at his interference.

Suddenly a woman's voice rose above the uproar. "Fools!—idiots! Are you trying to murder your best friend, Don Agostino? And that other—-do you know who he is? He is the fidanzato of the Principessina Bianca!"

The voice was Concetta Fontana's. Accompanied by her father and Sor Stefano, she forced her way through the crowd to where Don Agostino and Silvio were standing.

"Yes," roared out Sor Beppe, "my daughter is right—and you—you are pigs and beasts, and it is I who say it! Don Agostino knew no more than I did that the soldiers had been summoned. Evviva il fidanzato della principessina!"

The effect of Sor Beppe's intervention was instantaneous, and the mob took up his cry, while Concetta, after whispering a few words in her father's ear, disappeared within the gateway of the castle.

Suddenly a cry arose from the end of the piazza. "The troops—the troops!"

The leaders of the peasants shouted to the rest to follow them. "Back to the castle!" they cried. "The soldiers shall find us there!" and the crowd surged again through the broken-down gates into the court-yard.

"For the love of God, come!" exclaimed Don Agostino to his companions. "We must put ourselves between them and the soldiers, or who knows what may happen? You, Signor Mazza, speak to the peasants—they will listen to you." Accompanied by Silvio, Fontana, and Sor Stefano, Don Agostino hurried to the gateway and entered the court-yard. Already the mob had swarmed up the staircase at the opposite end of the court, and the foremost were attempting to break in the great double doors in the centre of the piano nobile.

They were scarcely inside the court, when the quick tramp of armed men was heard in the piazza; a sharp word of command re-echoed through the gateway, and then a long metallic rattle of steel, as a company of grenadiers and a detachment of infantry fixed bayonets. A moment afterwards the granatieri marched through the gateway, the officer in command of them being accompanied by a delegate of public safety wearing the tricolor scarf.

The delegate stepped forward, and in the name of the law called upon the rioters to desist. A shout of defiance answered his words. "We go to see our padrona! Evviva la principessina, abbasso gli stranieri!" and a volley of blows resounded on the doors at the top of the double flight of steps.

At this moment the outside shutters of a window in the gallery were thrown open, and the Abbé Roux appeared at it.

"Signor Delegate," he cried, "in the name of the Principessa di Montefiano, I call upon you to protect the inhabitants of this castle from the assault of a disorderly mob. Those men," he added, pointing to Don Agostino and his companions, "are the ringleaders—they are responsible for this agitation."

A howl of execration from the mob followed the Abbé Roux's speech, and sticks and stones were hurled at the window at which he was standing.

The delegate looked from the abbé to Don Agostino and Silvio Rossano, who was standing by his side, in some perplexity.

"Your names, signori," he said, curtly.

"Agostino Lelli, parroco of Montefiano."

"Silvio Rossano, son of the Senator Rossano."

"Evviva! Evviva il fidanzato della nostra principessina!" shouted the crowd.

The official looked up to the window again.

"There is surely some mistake—" he began.

"I tell you, Signor Delegate, that there is no mistake," shouted the Abbé Roux. "Is this a time to waste words, when in a moment the mob will be inside the castle?"

The delegate shrugged his shoulders. Then he turned to Don Agostino and Silvio. "Signori," he said, courteously, "I must ask you to consider yourselves under arrest pending further inquiries. Have the kindness to place yourselves behind the troops!"

The peasants began to leave the staircase and flock into the body of the court-yard.

"Morte al prele straniero!" they shouted. "We will have no arrests!"

The delegate made a sign to the officer in command of the grenadiers, and immediately the three bugle-calls which the law ordains shall precede any action on the part of troops against the public resounded through the court-yard.

Moved partly by rage and partly by fear, the peasants made another rush towards the staircase. The delegate called upon the officer in command to order his men to charge. The captain hesitated.

"Signor Delegate," he said, "a little patience; it maybe that my men may be saved from having to perform a disagreeable duty."

Don Agostino went up to him. "You are right, Signor Capitano. For God's sake, let us have patience! Let me see if I can make them hear reason—ah!"

"Cristo!" swore the officer, drawing in his breath sharply.

A sudden silence had fallen on the mob, and those who were half-way up the stone staircase paused and stood still.

Then, Sor Stefano's voice rang out:

"Ecco la principessina! Evviva la nostra padrona!"

A great shout answered him. The doors at the top of the staircase had opened, and in the centre of them stood Bianca Acorari. She remained for a moment or two looking steadily down on the astonished crowd of peasants and the double line of granatieri drawn up at the back of the court-yard. Then, raising her head proudly, she moved forward and rested her hands on the stone balustrade. It was perhaps no wonder that a silence had fallen on the crowd; that the captain of granatieri had sworn, and that one of his men had let his musket fall with a clatter to the ground. The sudden appearance of a young girl, simply dressed in white, with the light falling on her tawny gold hair, and her creamy complexion flushed with a glow of excitement, her every movement full of high-bred grace and dignity, among a mob of angry peasants, formed a picture that certainly could not be seen every day.

"They tell me that you want to see me—to speak with me. Well, I am here to speak with you. I am Bianca Acorari."

The low, clear voice could be heard all over the court-yard. There was no tremor of fear, no trace of excitement, even, in its tones. For a few moments soldiers and peasants gazed, as though spellbound, at the girlish figure standing alone upon the steps against the background formed by the columns and heavy mouldings of the portico. Then the silence which succeeded her appearance was broken; and when she ceased speaking, the peasants greeted her with an outburst of cheering, in which—did discipline permit—the soldiers looked as though they would willingly join.

If the delegate representing the law had been perplexed before, he was fairly bewildered now at the turn events had taken. The message received that morning from the sindaco of Montefiano had been urgent, and the instant despatch of an armed force had been requested by that official for the purpose both of maintaining public order and of protecting the Princess Montefiano and Donna Bianca Acorari from violence at the hands of their unruly tenants.

The delegato, indeed, was about to demand an explanation from the avvocato Ricci, who had waited for the arrival of the troops before venturing to show himself among the mob in his official capacity as syndic, when the Abbé Roux, livid with rage and excitement, rushed from the doorway down the steps to where Bianca was standing.

"Signor Delegato," he cried, "once more I request that the castle be cleared of these rioters. In the name of her excellency, the princess—" A woman's voice interrupted him.

"Eccolo—Ecco l'Abate! Fuori gli stranieri!"

A cry of execration rose from the crowd, and in an instant its passions were kindled afresh. A sudden rush was made for the staircase, but the captain in command of the granatieri had watched his opportunity, and by a rapid movement his men had placed themselves between the mob and its base. At the same time a detachment of the infantry left outside the court-yard filed through the gateway and occupied the space in the rear of the mob.

The peasants, as Don Agostino had foreseen would probably be the case were they to be surprised in the court-yard by the troops, were trapped; and it was the discovery that they were so which redoubled their fury against the foreign priest. Uttering a volley of curses and blasphemies, a group of the younger men attempted to force their way to the staircase. For the second time the bugle sounded the three warning blasts. At that instant both Silvio and Don Agostino hurled themselves against the foremost of the peasants who were struggling to break through the ranks of the granatieri. They tried to force them back, imploring them at the same time not to oblige the troops to use their weapons.

The delegate misunderstood the action of the two men whom he had a few minutes previously told to consider themselves as under arrest, and a further furious appeal from the Abbé Roux did not help him to keep his head or his temper. He turned angrily to the officer in command, and ordered him to give the word to his men to charge the crowd.

"Yes—yes!" shouted the abbé. "Drive the canaglia out of the court-yard! Donna Bianca Acorari, Signor Delegate, has no business to be here. She is a minor, and has no authority. She is being deceived by certain adventurers who have incited the peasants to revolt. You, Signor Capitano, give the order to charge, as the law requires you to do."

The delegate stamped his foot angrily. "In the name of the law, charge the crowd!" he shouted to the soldiers.

"No! I, Bianca Acorari, Principessina di Montefiano, forbid it! I will not have the people—my people—touched."

The Abbé Roux attempted to restrain her; but, breaking away from him, Bianca rushed down the steps. The soldiers mechanically made way for her to pass between their ranks; and erect, defiant, she stood between the troops and the excited mob confronting them.

The delegate, like the majority of the officials of Italian bureaucracy, was extremely sensitive in any thing which touched his official dignity or prerogative.

"Signorina," he exclaimed, "you will have the goodness to retire. We are not here to play a comedy. Signor Capitano, order your men to dislodge the mob from the court-yard."

Bianca turned to the officer, her eyes flashing with anger.

"Signore," she said, "your men are not assassins, and you—you will not give that order! The people have come to see me—to speak with me. Who has any right, excepting myself, to turn them away? That priest"—and she pointed with a scornful gesture to the Abbé Roux standing on the steps above—"has lied!"

The officer lowered the point of his sword.

"Signor Delegato," he said, "I protest. My men shall not charge."

"You are here to obey my orders," shouted the delegato, angrily. "I shall report you to headquarters."

"I undertake the responsibility of disobeying your orders," returned the officer, coldly. "My men shall not move. Signorina," he added, "you need not be afraid. As you say, we are not assassins."

A murmur ran through the ranks of the granatieri. Every man's eyes were fixed upon Bianca Acorari.

At this moment Sor Beppe forced his way through the struggling crowd and approached Bianca.

"Excellenza," he said, quickly, "speak to the people. They will do what you tell them—you will see."

In the mean time, neither Silvio nor Don Agostino had seen Bianca's descent into the court-yard, so occupied had they been in reasoning and almost fighting with the leaders of that faction of the peasants which was in favor of trying to force a passage through the cordon of troops in front of the staircase.

In a stentorian voice Fontana shouted out that the Principessina Bianca wished to speak to the people, and Sor Stefano seconded his efforts to obtain silence. Bianca moved slowly forward, until she was within a few paces of her lover and Don Agostino.

"Evviva la nostra principessina! Speak, speak!" shouted those nearest to her.

Bianca smiled. "I have little to say," she said, simply, "but I have heard that things have been done in my name that are unjust things. You have come here to tell my step-mother, the princess, this; is it not so? Well, I shall tell her; and I, Bianca Acorari, promise you that there shall be no increase in the rents, and that a faithful servant of Casa Acorari, who has been dismissed because he would not consent to injustice being done in my step-mother's and my name, shall be—no—is recalled to his post," and she turned to Sor Beppe with a quiet smile.

A dead silence greeted her words. The peasants forgot to cheer her. They could only look at her, open-mouthed and wonder-struck. Don Agostino started forward and gazed at her almost wildly for a moment. Then, staggering back, and placing his hands to his head, he seemed as though he would have fallen to the ground had it not been for Silvio, who supported him in his arms.

"Listen," Bianca continued, tranquilly, "for I do not wish you, the people of Montefiano, to think what is not the truth. My step-mother is not responsible for what has been done, any more than I am responsible. She is good, and she would never have consented to anything which was unjust. But she has been deceived—yes—deceived by that priest in whom she trusted, who summoned the soldiers here, and who, as you have heard, has called upon them to charge you with their bayonets."

An outburst of hisses and groans followed her last words, and once more the crowd made a movement as though to force its way to the staircase. The soldiers closed up, lowering their muskets with fixed bayonets to the charge.

Silvio Rossano and Don Agostino, who by a supreme effort over himself had regained his composure, sprang to Bianca's side. The color mounted to her face as she looked at Silvio, and their eyes met. Then she turned from him to the crowd that was swaying like the swell of the sea before a coming storm.

"No!" she called out, imperatively. "There must be no more violence. You say that you will do what I ask you—that you trust me? Well, I ask you to go quietly to your homes, secure in having my word that the injustices committed by the Abate Roux will be removed."

"She speaks well! Evviva la Principessina Bianca!" shouted the crowd.

"Yes—long live the Principessina Bianca, and long live her betrothed husband, Signor Silvio Rossano! Evviva! Evviva!" cried Sor Beppe.

His words were taken up with an almost frenzied enthusiasm. It was evident that the peasants had been waiting for some allusion to the principessina's own troubles, now that they had obtained their desire and had heard from her lips that she disapproved of what had been done in the princess's and her name. Concetta Fontana's reports had indeed been cleverly circulated, with a view of securing to Bianca the sympathy and support of the people. The women of the paese had poured into the ears of their husbands, brothers, and lovers such stories of the principessina's unhappiness at being forbidden to marry the man she loved, and at the prospect of being sacrificed to the lust of an old man and the dishonest schemes of the Abbé Roux, as had aroused local indignation to the highest pitch. At the same time, Bianca's defence of the princess and her decided refusal to allow her step-mother to be blamed, had only coincided with the sentiments of the large majority of her hearers. Public opinion in Montefiano had long ago exonerated the princess from any other offence than that of being a foreigner who allowed her own compatriots to interfere in the management of her step-daughter's affairs.

The sight of Silvio Rossano standing by their young padrona, who had shown them that she could fearlessly take the part of her people against injustice, was all that had been needed to evoke an unmistakable demonstration that, whatever the princess and her advisers might do, the Montefianesi approved of Bianca's choice.

"Evviva i fidanzati!" rang from all parts of the court-yard, while there were also not wanting premature shouts of "Evviva gli sposi!"

Bianca blushed scarlet. She stood for a moment hesitating and uncertain, almost unnerved by the acclamations of the crowd of peasants whose threatening attitude a few minutes before had only served to kindle her spirit and rouse her courage. Then, shyly, she turned to Silvio.

"Speak to them," she said, pushing him gently forward.

Silvio was about to obey her, when a sudden movement among the soldiers at the foot of the staircase arrested the attention of the crowd. At a word from their officer, the ranks of the granatieri parted, and Princess Montefiano approached her step-daughter. Monsieur d'Antin was by her side, and the Abbé Roux followed immediately behind them.

Bianca rushed up to her step-mother. "Ah," she exclaimed, quickly, in a low voice, "I am glad you have come! See, the people are quite quiet now. There is no more danger. You must not blame me; I was told that nothing would happen if I came and spoke to them, but that if I did not, then they would be more angry than ever, and the troops would charge—and then—" and she shuddered visibly.

The princess looked at her, and apparently was unable to summon her words for a moment or two. That she was not suffering from fear was evident, for she gazed at the crowd of peasants almost indifferently.

"You are angry," said Bianca. "I am sorry; but I did what I thought—what I was told—was for the best. After all," she added, "they are my father's people, and they wanted me. Surely it was better to try to calm them than to allow a fight with the soldiers! Why should you be angry if I have prevented that?"

"Hush, Bianca, hush!" exclaimed Princess Montefiano. "I am not angry. You did right. I would have come before, but Monsieur l'Abbé Roux persuaded me not to show myself, and until five minutes ago I believed you were in your own room. I have seen and heard everything during the last few minutes from the gallery, but I do not quite understand. Now I have come to learn the truth. Monsignor Lelli," she continued, raising her voice so as to be heard by the crowd, which was now dumb from wonder and curiosity, "you came to see me this afternoon, and I was advised not to receive you. Will you now say what you would have said had I not listened to that advice?"

The Abbé Roux started forward, and was about to speak, but Princess Montefiano waved him back.

"No, monsieur," she said, with dignity, "the people shall hear you afterwards. Monsignore," she added, again addressing Don Agostino, "will you have the kindness to explain to me your reasons for wishing to see me this afternoon?"

Don Agostino bowed to her. "My object in asking you to see me, principessa, was to communicate to you personally the requests which would have been made by the deputation you declined to receive. I had, it is true, another and even more pressing object. This was to interest you to prevent the despatch of troops to Montefiano."

The princess did not reply for a moment. Then she said, slowly and emphatically:

"The requests of the deputation which I was advised not to receive, monsignore, have been answered by Donna Bianca Acorari. She has promised that certain acts of injustice which have been committed in my name and in hers shall be remedied, and I shall see that her promise is duly carried into effect."

A murmur of applause interrupted her. Monsieur d'Antin, standing a little apart, watched his sister critically.

"Tiens!" he said to himself, "Jeanne is a capable woman—more capable than I imagined. She can rise to a situation. If she would only think less of the next world and more of this, she would be more capable still."

"As to the despatch of troops to Montefiano," the princess added, "until five minutes ago I was in ignorance that any such step had been taken. The requisition for military intervention was made without consulting me and without my authority."

"Evviva la principessina! Viva l'esercito!" shouted the peasants.

"Signori," Princess Montefiano continued, addressing the delegate and the officer in command of the granatieri, "perhaps you will be so good as to tell me at whose request you are here?"

The delegate of public safety bustled forward, full of the consciousness of his own importance and dignity.

"I am here at the request of the sindaco of Montefiano," he replied, "to enforce order and respect for the law in this commune."

The princess turned from him abruptly.

"Signor Commandante," she said to the military officer, "I thank you for your discretion in refusing to allow the people to be attacked at the bidding of a civilian. My brother has told me of your declining to order your men to charge the crowd. You may be sure that your conduct will be represented in its proper light to the authorities. In the mean time, perhaps you will tell me who summoned you to Montefiano?"

The captain shrugged his shoulders. "Your sindaco, Signora Principessa, telegraphed to the military authorities at Civitacastellana for troops to be despatched at once. An official of the pubblica sicurezza accompanied me, according to the requirements of the law in these circumstances, and the law places me at the Signor Delegate's orders for the time being. Nevertheless, an officer is allowed to use a certain discretion as to carrying out any orders that may in his opinion be inopportune—and I merely exercised that discretion. I may add," he continued, with a glance of admiration at Bianca, "that had it not been for the timely arrival of Donna Bianca Acorari on the scene, and her courage in facing the crowd at a very critical moment, I should probably have been reluctantly compelled to order my men to clear the court-yard. We soldiers do not like that kind of work, Signora Principessa; and both I and my men are grateful to Donna Bianca for having spared us the unpleasant duty of performing it."

Princess Montefiano looked round her.

"Where is the sindaco?" she asked.

A movement took place in the rear of the crowd, and presently the avvocato Ricci advanced into the open space.

"I understand, Signor Sindaco," the princess said, "that the troops are here at your request. With the arrangements of the municipal authorities regarding the town of Montefiano I have nothing to do. But within the castle of Montefiano I am mistress. Why was I not informed that troops had been sent for?"

Monsieur d'Antin rubbed his hands together. "Jeanne is superb," he said to himself, "absolutely superb!"

The sindaco looked petrified with astonishment.

"But," he stammered, "it was after consultation with the Signor Abate that I made the official application for troops to be sent. The abate assured me that he was acting in your eccellenza's name. He declared it to be your wish that troops should at once be despatched to protect the castle."

"Monsieur l'Abbé," said the princess, quietly, "is this true?"

"Madame," replied the Abbé Roux, sullenly, "I have already explained that if I did not inform you of the fact that I had applied for military protection against a possible assault on the castle by the peasants, it was because I did not wish unduly to alarm you and the inmates of the castle. I believed that I had full authority to act as I might think best in this as in other matters."

"You were mistaken, monsieur," the princess returned, coldly. "This matter," she continued, "has been from the beginning misrepresented to me. What proof have I that in other matters, also, I have not been deceived?"

"Your excellency has been deceived all down the line!" shouted a voice from the crowd. "It is I, Stefano Mazza, who say it!"

Princess Montefiano turned to Don Agostino.

"Stefano Mazza?" she repeated, inquiringly.

Sor Stefano came forward.

"Your excellency, perhaps, is not aware that the Abate Roux is the lessee of the rents of the property belonging to Casa Acorari at Montefiano," he said.

The princess started violently, and Monsieur d'Antin drew nearer to where she was standing.

"What does this mean?" she exclaimed.

"It means, madame, that the man is a liar!" cried the abbé, hoarsely.

Sor Stefano laughed. "If her excellency desires it," he said, "I will this evening put positive proofs into her hands that it is as I say. Sicuro! the affittuario of these lands is nominally one Signor Oreste Francavalli; is it not so, eccellenza? But the Signor Oreste Francavalli is a poor devil of a bankrupt mercante di campagna, who has not a lira left in the world, as I know to my cost, and the real holder of the rents is at this moment the Abate Roux. It is not surprising, eccellenza, that the abate should have wished to increase his profits."

XXXIII

Princess Montefiano seemed to be almost stunned by Sor Stefano's assertion. Once or twice she tried to speak, but appeared to be unable to collect her words.

The Abbé Roux turned furiously to Stefano Mazza. "It is a lie!" he exclaimed. "You cannot prove your assertion. What have I to do with this Oreste Francavalli?"

Sor Stefano laughed scornfully.

"Mah!" he returned. "It seems that you have a great deal to do with him, Signor Abate. And I, too, have had a great deal to do with him, as I shall be happy to prove to you from certain documents which I do not carry about with me but which I can produce for her excellency's inspection, should she care to see them. Sicuro! Francavalli is an old acquaintance of mine—an old client, I may say. You are probably unaware, Signor Abate, that I found myself reluctantly obliged to make him a bankrupt. It was naturally, therefore, somewhat of a surprise to me to learn that Signor Francavalli had become the new lessee of the latifondo of Montefiano. A man does not offer himself as affittuario of a large property unless he has some capital at his back—or, if he does do so, his offer is not usually accepted by the administration of that property. It was news to me—interesting news—that Francavalli had capital; for he had certainly not discharged all his liabilities to his creditors, of whom I am not the least important. Do you understand, Signor Abate?"

"It is untrue," the abbé repeated. "Francavalli has never been a bankrupt."

"Ah, no?" returned Stefano Mazza, dryly. "But I tell you that he is a bankrupt—and I will tell you something more, Signor Abate. If Francavalli were the real affittuario of these lands, then he would be a fraudulent bankrupt, for he would be in possession of capital and of income which would belong to his creditors. But he is not the real lessee of the lands belonging to Casa Acorari."

"And who says that he is not so?" asked the abbé.

Sor Stefano shrugged his shoulders. "He says so himself," he replied. "Or, rather," he added, "I happen to possess a document signed by him, declaring that he is merely the nominal lessee; that in consideration of a sum of money advanced by you, Signor Abate, he allowed you to use his name, but that the real lessee is yourself. Had it not been for Francavalli's readiness to sign the said document, I should have been compelled to proceed against him for fraud. Sicuro! you have been very cautious, Signor Abate, but not quite cautious enough. If you had happened to consult me, I could have told you that in selecting the Signor Oreste Francavalli as your confidant, you had made a bad choice;" and Sor Stefano laughed dryly.

For a moment the Abbé Roux remained silent. He was evidently unable to refute Sor Stefano's words, spoken as they were with the calm conviction of a man who knew that he was in a position to substantiate them. Then he turned to Princess Montefiano.

"Madame," he said, "it is true that, in a sense, I am the purchaser of the right to take the rents of these lands; and also that, as I did not wish to appear as the lessee, I arranged with Francavalli that the affair should be carried out in his name. You are aware, madame, that a larger annual sum is now paid by the lessee than has hitherto been the case, and that the half-yearly payments of this sum have been punctually made. This being so, I do not see that the fact of my being the real lessee instead of Francavalli or another need concern anybody but myself. You, Madame la Princesse, are better off in consequence of my having taken over the lease; and when I told you that a friend of mine was disposed to pay more for the lease of the rents than the lessee whose tenure was just expiring, I only spoke the truth."

Princess Montefiano hesitated, and then turned to her brother with a distressed look on her face. "It is true," she said, in a low voice. "Monsieur l'Abbé advised me not to give the late affittuario a renewal of his term, promising me that he would find a more satisfactory lessee. As he says, we have been better off since the change, and I do not see—"

"Eccellenza," interrupted Sor Stefano, "there is more to say, and with your permission, it had better be said now! The peasants are here not only to obtain justice for themselves, but to support their padrona, the Principessina Bianca—is it not so?" he added, turning towards the crowd.

"Yes—yes! Long live the Principessina Bianca!" resounded from all parts of the court-yard. Princess Montefiano bit her lip.

"What does he mean?" she asked, abruptly, of Don Agostino.

"Evviva la principessina! Evviva! Abbasso gli stranieri! Evviva il fidanzato della principessina!"

The shouts were raised again and again, and among them were others, in which Baron d'Antin was alluded to in terms neither delicate nor complimentary.

The princess flushed with anger.

"Monsignore," she exclaimed, turning again to Don Agostino, "am I to understand that you, the parroco of Montefiano, encourage your people to insult my brother and myself? I insist upon an explanation, but I will not listen to it from peasants—"

"Signora principessa," said Don Agostino, quietly, "you are quite right. Explanations are necessary, but not here—not in the presence of the crowd. Let the Signor Delegato here dismiss the troops, and at a word from you and from Donna Bianca Acorari, the people will disperse quietly. Afterwards," he added, "I shall be entirely at your service to give what explanations I can of the attitude of the peasants."

Princess Montefiano considered for a moment. "So be it, monsignore," she said, at length; and then, turning to the delegate, she added: "Signore, as I observed a few minutes ago, I have no right to interfere with the arrangements of the authorities outside these walls; but inside the castle of Montefiano I am mistress, and I beg of you to order the troops to retire. We, I and my step-daughter, have no need of their protection. We are among our own people."

The officer hesitated and looked at Monsieur d'Antin, who had preserved an imperturbable demeanor of good-humor even during the uncomplimentary epithets cast at him by the crowd—epithets, indeed, that he had scarcely understood so well as did the princess.

"My sister is right, signore," Monsieur d'Antin observed, tranquilly. "If there are explanations to be made, it is scarcely necessary that the whole population of Montefiano, a company of grenadiers and a detachment of infantry should assist at them. That gentleman," he continued, indicating Sor Stefano, "appears to have considerable authority with the peasants. No doubt he will persuade them to leave the castle quietly, now that they have received assurances that their grievances will be removed."

Sor Stefano turned to the crowd. "Her excellency, the princess, has requested the troops to retire," he said, in a loud voice. "Since she and the principessina are here at Montefiano they need no soldiers to protect them. Therefore you will leave the castle quietly and go to your own homes."

"We will go if the principessina and her fidanzato tell us to go!" shouted a voice from among the group of younger men.

Princess Montefiano drew back suddenly, and her face flushed. For a moment she seemed as if about to resent so obvious an affront to her position and authority.

Monsieur d'Antin advanced towards her. "Jeanne," he said, in a low voice, "I think you would be wise to allow Bianca to complete her office of peacemaker. The peasants evidently are ready to listen to her, and to do what she tells them. Is it not so, monsignore?" he added, turning to Don Agostino.

Don Agostino glanced at him with some surprise, and the Abbé Roux's countenance exhibited both astonishment and anger.

"You are quite right, monsieur," Don Agostino replied. "The people will listen to Donna Bianca, and in these cases it is generally prudent to seize every opportunity of bringing matters to a peaceful solution. Moreover," he continued, "if I may presume to say so, the fact of Madame la Princesse putting Donna Bianca forward will have an excellent effect."

Princess Montefiano looked at him quickly. "You mean—" she began, and then she paused, abruptly.

"Madame," Don Agostino said, returning her look and making a slight gesture of apology, "I mean that your encouraging Donna Bianca Acorari to take her rightful position before the people of Montefiano will remove many misunderstandings and stop much idle gossip."

The princess gazed inquiringly at him for a moment, then she turned to Bianca. "Speak to them, figlia mia," she said, quietly.

Bianca shook her head. "No," she replied; "now that you are here, it is for you to speak to them. I came because I knew—"

"You knew what?" interrupted Princess Montefiano.

"Oh, that Monsieur l'Abbé had told you nothing—that you did not even know the soldiers had been sent for."

"La principessina!" shouted the crowd, impatient with a colloquy in a language it could not understand. "Vogliamo sentire la principessina!"

Princess Montefiano took her step-daughter by the hand and led her forward. "Speak to them," she repeated, in Italian; and as she spoke, she drew back, leaving Bianca standing in front of her.

The words and the action accompanying them met with an immediate response from the peasants. "Evviva la principessa!" they cried, and then pressed forward until Bianca was almost surrounded.

"Go," she said, in a quiet, clear voice—"go back to your homes, now you know that neither my step-mother nor I will allow any injustice to be done to our people. Signori," she added, addressing the delegate and the officer in command of the granatieri, "you will order the troops to retire, is it not true? You see well that we are in no danger here at Montefiano."

An outburst of approval drowned the remainder of her words, and with a shrug of the shoulders the civil official turned to the officer in command and bade him give the order to his men to leave the court-yard.

The peasants fell back to allow the troops to pass through their midst, and cheered the captain of the granatieri as he marched through the gateway at the head of his company.

As the last of the soldiers disappeared under the archway, the majority of the peasants prepared tranquilly to follow them. A certain number lingered, however, talking eagerly among themselves, and presently shouts of "Evviva i fidanzati!" were raised, succeeded by cries of "Evviva Rossano!"

Princess Montefiano turned hastily, and a look of astonishment and anger crossed her face.

"You see, madame," said the Abbé Roux, quickly, "the whole affair has another scope than that which you have been made to believe to be the case. There is the true ringleader of the peasants"—and he pointed scornfully to Silvio Rossano, who was urging the remainder of the crowd to leave the castle without making any further demonstration.

The princess did not answer, but she looked intently at Silvio for a moment. Then she turned to her brother. "Philippe," she said, coldly, "you will have the goodness to inform Signor Rossano that his presence here is unwelcome, and that he must leave the castle with—his friends!"

Bianca started forward. "No," she exclaimed, abruptly; "if you send that message, Monsieur d'Antin shall not be the bearer of it! It is an insult, a—"

Princess Montefiano waved her back indignantly. "Have you no shame?" she said, rapidly, beneath her breath.

Monsieur d'Antin smiled. "Bianca is right, Jeanne," he observed. "I prefer not to be the bearer of your message. No doubt Monsieur l'Abbé will undertake to deliver it," and then he laughed gently.

Bianca looked at him for a moment in evident perplexity, and then quickly averted her gaze.

"Wait," she said to her step-mother, earnestly—"wait till you have heard—till you know."

Princess Montefiano gave a gesture of impatience.

"I think you are all mad!" she exclaimed, angrily. "And in this, at least, I will be obeyed. Philippe—"

Don Agostino interrupted her.

"Madame," he said, "let me entreat you not to insist. Donna Bianca is right—it would be an insult. When you have heard all Donna Bianca has to tell you—all that others have to tell you—you will understand better, and perhaps you will form a different opinion. But this is not the place for explanations. It is not necessary to discuss a scandal in public."

"How, monsignore, a scandal!" exclaimed Princess Montefiano, indignantly.

"I repeat it, madame—a scandal," returned Don Agostino, looking at the Abbé Roux and Monsieur d'Antin steadily. "Donna Bianca Acorari and yourself have been the victims of a dishonorable intrigue. Ah, I am not afraid to use the expression, for I can prove my words."

"But you may be mistaken, monsignore—you may be mistaken," observed Monsieur d'Antin, airily, gently rubbing his hands as he spoke.

"If I am so, monsieur, it is for you and the Abbé Roux to prove it," returned Don Agostino, coldly.

"Ah, as to that," Monsieur d'Antin said, composedly, "I can only speak for myself. Monsieur l'Abbé Roux must make his own defence. I am not responsible for his actions."

The abbé's face grew livid.

"What do you mean?" he exclaimed, hoarsely. "Do you mean to say that your honor is less attacked than mine by this disgraced priest?"

"Honor?" repeated Monsieur d'Antin; "honor, Monsieur l'Abbé? Oh, la, la! Monsignor Lelli is right, Jeanne," he continued. "This is not the place for explanations. I would suggest retiring in-doors."

The princess looked from one to the other. "I do not understand," she said, at length, "but if I am to hear of more deceptions—more abuses of my trust and confidence—this is certainly not the moment to discuss them. Come, Bianca! Monsignore," she continued, "you will doubtless explain to me your words in the presence of Monsieur l'Abbé Roux and my brother."

Don Agostino bowed. "I desire nothing better, madame," he said, and then he paused and glanced at Silvio. "I must ask that Signor Rossano may also be present," he added, "since what I and others have to say concerns him nearly, and it is only fair to him and to Donna Bianca that he should hear it."

The princess gave a gesture of dissent.

"No," she replied, "Signor Rossano is a stranger. I cannot admit that he is in any way concerned with my step-daughter's affairs or with my own."

Don Agostino hesitated for a moment. Then he said, quietly: "I cannot press the subject, madame. It is possible, however, that you may change your opinion."

"When I do so, I will send for Signor Rossano," returned Princess Montefiano, obdurately. "Come, Bianca," she repeated, "we will hear what Monsignor Lelli has to say."

The court-yard was by this time nearly empty. Fontana and Sor Stefano, together with a few of the older and more prominent tenants, alone remained. Princess Montefiano turned away, and, accompanied by Bianca, who, now that she had played her part, seemed to be overcome by a nervous shyness, slowly ascended the flight of steps leading up to the portico of the piano nobile. Monsieur d'Antin and the Abbé Roux followed them in silence, but Don Agostino lingered for a moment.

Approaching Silvio, who was standing apart, he said to him, hurriedly: "Do not go away, figlio mio, you may be wanted to plead your own cause."

And without waiting to offer any further explanations, he followed the princess and the others into the castle.

XXXIV

Of those who accompanied Princess Montefiano into one of the drawing-rooms on the piano nobile of the castle, Monsieur d'Antin certainly appeared to be the least embarrassed. Throughout the crisis which had just been overcome he had preserved an imperturbable air of composure, and almost, indeed, of indifference. The Abbé Roux glanced at his confederate every now and then with an expression at once of bewilderment and resentment on his countenance. Nevertheless, to judge by his demeanor, Monsieur d'Antin appeared to be completely at his ease, and even, in a quiet way, to be enjoying the situation in the development of which he found himself called upon to assist.

"If you have no objection, my dear Jeanne," he observed airily, to his sister, "I will smoke. It calms the nerves." And, producing his case, he proceeded to light a cigarette in a leisurely and deliberate manner.

Monsieur d'Antin's action seemed to break the spell of embarrassment that had fallen upon those around him. The princess, it was true, had already shown herself to be no longer the weak, pliable individual that even her brother had been accustomed to consider her. The suspicion, now almost a conviction, that she had been deceived, that her authority had been exploited and undermined by the person in whom she had placed all her confidence and reliance, appeared to have had the effect of arousing in Princess Montefiano that spirit of imperiousness which in reality was inherent in her nature, as it has almost invariably been in that of the deeply religious of both sexes and of all creeds—being, after all, but a form of intellectual vanity wearing the garb of holiness. To say the truth, Monsieur d'Antin had been not a little surprised at the change in his sister's attitude. He had expected that she would altogether decline to listen to any evidence that should tell against the Abbé Roux. He had not quite understood that great as was the glamour of the priesthood in his sister's eyes, her own authority and power were yet greater, and that she would not readily condone any action tending to infringe or diminish them.

Moreover, Baron d'Antin had not fully realized how strong was Princess Montefiano's sense of her duty towards her husband's child, or how genuine was her desire fully to act up to that sense. He had always regarded Jeanne's marriage as one of those desperate remedies which single women of a certain age were apt to take as a palliative for evils not invariably of a physical nature; and, being quite aware that his sister had very little real affection for her step-daughter, he had often wondered whether Bianca's existence must not be, as it were, something of a thorn in the flesh.

But if Monsieur d'Antin was surprised at his sister's change of attitude, he was still more astonished at the blunder committed by the Abbé Roux in basing his schemes to enrich himself at Bianca Acorari's expense on so unsound a foundation. He had always taken it for granted that the Abbé Roux was feathering his own nest, but he had never troubled himself to ascertain the details of the process adopted by that ecclesiastic, though he was convinced that in some way or another the abbé had succeeded in making money out of his position in the Montefiano household. Indeed, Monsieur l'Abbé had not attempted to deny that Donna Bianca's marriage to a stranger would not at all suit the objects he had in view. Monsieur d'Antin was perfectly aware that he was dealing with a rogue—but he had at least given the abbé the credit of being a clever rogue, though perhaps not quite as clever as himself. He certainly would not have believed that the priest would have allowed himself to be outwitted, as he evidently had been outwitted, by a bankrupt mercante di campagna, to whom he had been presumably paying a commission for the use of his name. This was a folly and an irretrievable blunder; and Monsieur d'Antin, who was certainly not lacking in astuteness, on hearing Stefano Mazza's confident assertions, had at once realized that the game had reached the stage of rien ne va plus. If he were to continue to maintain friendly relations with Jeanne—and it certainly would not be to his advantage that these relations should cease—he must walk warily. And the Abbé Roux? Well, the Abbé Roux must pay the penalty usually inflicted upon the unsuccessful—he must be disowned.

To be sure, he would have liked to possess Bianca; but, as Monsieur d'Antin had told himself more than once lately, this was obviously impossible of attainment. He was conscious of being no match for the girl's quiet, determined will, and he dared not make any second attempt to force his passion upon her. No, it would be better, more diplomatic, to retire gracefully from the contest while there was yet time; and the present moment surely afforded opportunity for a man of ready resource to do so.

In the mean while, Princess Montefiano had been the object of a keener observation than that of Monsieur d'Antin. Don Agostino had noted every expression of her countenance, every inflection of her voice, almost every movement of her person since she had descended into the court-yard. He had marked the succession of feelings called forth by the discovery that she had been deceived where she had most trusted; he had followed the struggle between her sense of justice, her wounded pride, her disgust and mortification at finding that her confidence had been abused by one whose sacred calling had been used as a means whereby to exploit it. And Don Agostino, far from blaming her former weakness, had sympathized with her in his heart, for he felt that he understood all she was suffering, every phase of her trial. Perhaps it had been some sense of this silent sympathy that had made Princess Montefiano more than once turn to him as though intuitively seeking the aid of the man she had so short a time before refused to receive. If Monsieur d'Antin had found his sister's attitude when brought face to face with her difficulties superb, as he had expressed it, Don Agostino had been scarcely less struck by her courage and unexpected assumption of dignity; and he was fully able to appreciate both the one and the other. It was clear to him that there was nothing mean about Princess Montefiano, and that, once persuaded that wrong had been done, she would right it at whatever cost to her own feelings. Indeed, Don Agostino was fain to admit that both the princess and Monsieur d'Antin showed sang de race in a difficult and embarrassing situation. Nevertheless, he felt himself entirely unable to account for Monsieur d'Antin's apparent composure and indifference, knowing, as he now did, of the pact existing between him and the Abbé Roux, whereby Bianca Acorari was, if possible, to be sacrificed.

Don Agostino's reflections were disturbed by the princess addressing him.

"Monsignore," she said, quietly, "we can now discuss, in private, matters which it was not fitting to discuss before my step-daughter. I must ask you to explain the meaning of certain expressions you have used regarding Donna Bianca Acorari. I do not wish you to be under any misapprehension, so it will be perhaps as well that I should tell you that my brother has had my full consent in wishing to make Donna Bianca his wife. You appear to be aware that my step-daughter has allowed herself to form another attachment in—in an entirely undesirable quarter. I am her guardian, and without my consent she cannot marry until she is twenty-one. This, monsignore, was a special clause to her father's will."

"Madame, I am under no misapprehension," returned Don Agostino. "It is rather you who are so and I regret to be obliged to say what will give you pain to hear."

"Continue, monsignore," said Princess Montefiano, as he paused.

"You ought to know, madame, that if you have been persuaded to sanction a union between Baron d'Antin and your step-daughter, it is because such a union would have enabled the Abbé Roux to continue for some years to farm the rents of Donna Bianca's lands. Briefly, madame, you have been tricked by the Abbé Roux, and, I regret to say, by your brother, who, in return for the abbé's assistance in persuading you to allow such a marriage, engaged not to interfere with his lease of the rents for a certain period, before the expiration of which Donna Bianca would long have attained her majority. The danger of her marrying an honest gentleman of good family, who has been represented to you as an adventurer and a nobody, has been perpetually put forward with the object of gaining your consent to what your own sense of justice, of propriety, madame, would otherwise have forbidden you to contemplate."

Princess Montefiano started up from her chair. "Monsignore!" she exclaimed; "do you know what you are saying? You forget that you are accusing my brother of a villanous action! Philippe," she continued, passionately, "tell Monsignor Lelli that he is mistaken—tell him that he lies, if you like—but do not let me think that you, my brother, have also deceived me—that you could lend yourself to such a horrible intrigue—"

"My dear Jeanne!" interrupted Monsieur d'Antin. "My dear Jeanne!" he repeated, and then he laughed softly.

"It is incredible—monstrous! I will not believe it!" Princess Montefiano exclaimed, with increasing agitation.

Monsieur d'Antin blew a ring of smoke into the air from his cigarette. "Monsignor Lelli is mistaken, Jeanne," he observed, tranquilly; "one can say as much to him without offence. But to say that he lies would not be permissible. It would be—well, an exaggeration. Before replying to his accusation, I should like to ask Monsignor Lelli on what grounds he bases it. He does not, I presume, derive his information from Monsieur l'Abbé Roux?"

Don Agostino looked at him steadily.

"I derive my information from those who have overheard conversations between you and the Abbé Roux—conversations carried on, as you believed, in private—in which your plans were very fully discussed. Can you deny, monsieur, that the arrangement I have named exists between you and the Abbé Roux?"

Monsieur d'Antin shrugged his shoulders. "I have not the least intention of denying it," he observed, calmly.

"Philippe!" exclaimed the princess.

The abbé started forward. "Imbécile!" he muttered, under his breath.

"It is perfectly true," pursued Monsieur d'Antin, ignoring him. "I entered into the compact with Monsieur l'Abbé, the nature of which Monsignor Lelli has described fairly accurately. You see, my dear Jeanne," he continued, "I have not your reverence for the clergy, and I thought it possible—just possible—that Monsieur l'Abbé Roux was—well, taking advantage of your belief in the apostolic succession. Is not that the correct term? By degrees I became convinced of it. It amused me to see how far Monsieur l'Abbé, with a little encouragement, would go; and I—yes, I myself—proposed to him the arrangement which Monsignor Lelli has just disclosed. It was eagerly jumped at, my little proposal," and Monsieur d'Antin rubbed his hands together gently, with a quiet chuckle.

"It is a lie!" cried the abbé, furiously. "You confessed to me that you were in love with Donna Bianca, and asked me to use my influence with the princess to remove her objections to your becoming the husband of her step-daughter."

"And you gave me absolution," returned Monsieur d'Antin, dryly. "Ah, yes, you certainly gave me absolution—but conditionally, Monsieur l'Abbé, always conditionally, you know!"

"But, Philippe," interrupted Princess Montefiano, "I do not understand. You told me yourself that you loved Bianca—that you would only be happy when she consented to be your wife."

"Quite true, my dear Jeanne," Monsieur d'Antin replied. "What would you have? I do not wear the soutane, so I have no protection against the weaknesses of the flesh. Yes, your step-daughter is charming, adorable—but her charms are not for me. She has made that very clear to me. It is deplorable, but I have failed, and there is nothing left for me but to retire in favor of a more fortunate rival. But my failure has nothing to do with the point—nothing at all. If Monsieur l'Abbé wants further explanations of my conduct in allowing him to believe that in return for his assistance in my unlucky affair of the heart I should not interfere with his affairs of the pocket, I am quite ready to give them to him. But, monsieur," he added, as the Abbé Roux, white with rage and mortification, attempted to interrupt him, "do not forget that in giving me absolution when I made my little confession to you of my passion for Donna Bianca, you stipulated for something in return. It is always so, is it not? One is not supposed to come to le bon Dieu empty handed. You made it clear that without your support I could never hope to gain my sister's consent to my object, and that you were only disposed to accord this support on the condition of my not interfering with your rights over the rents of the Montefiano lands.

"Well, I agreed; but I agreed under that most convenient of all compromises—a mental reservation. A la guerre comme à la guerre, n'est-ce pas, Monsieur l'Abbé? Ha, ha, ha!" and Monsieur d'Antin laughed good-humoredly.

The Abbé Roux remained silent. Perhaps he was thinking that the suspicions he had at times entertained as to whether it were not Monsieur d'Antin who was manipulating him rather than he Monsieur d'Antin, had turned out to be entirely justifiable.

In the mean time, Don Agostino had been regarding Monsieur d'Antin with a peculiar expression, which was certainly not that of a person convinced of the truth of what he had just heard.

"You wish me to understand, then," he said to him, dryly, "that you merely pretended to fall in with the Abbé Roux's suggestions, in order to ascertain how far your suspicions that he was abusing his position as confidential adviser to Madame la Princesse were correct?"

Monsieur d'Antin turned to him with admirable dignity.

"Assuredly, monsignore," he replied. "Do you presume, then, to suppose that I should lend myself to a conspiracy to deceive my own sister, and to enrich an unworthy individual at her and Donna Bianca Acorari's expense? No, monsieur! I may have my little weaknesses where women are concerned, and I frankly admit that had Donna Bianca not rejected my advances I should have considered myself a very happy man. But where my honor is concerned, Monsieur le Curé, or the honor of my family, I, Philippe d'Antin, have no weaknesses!"

Don Agostino looked at him hard, and his finely moulded lips curved in an ironical smile.

"I make you my compliments, Monsieur le Baron," he said, quietly. "One sees that you have done your best to protect yourself from possible misconstructions being placed upon your actions."

Monsieur d'Antin bowed and smiled benignly.

"Precisely," he said, suavely. "You, monsignore, as a man of the world, will understand—"

"Everything," interposed Don Agostino, with a slight shrug of the shoulders.

At this moment Princess Montefiano, who had been listening attentively to all that had passed, suddenly rose from her chair.

"Monsieur l'Abbé," she said, coldly, "I have heard enough to convince me that I need no longer trouble you for your advice or assistance in the management of my affairs.

"No, monsieur," she continued, as the abbé tried to speak, "excuses are useless. My confidence has been abused; and you have presumed to mislead me in the exercise of my authority over my step-daughter and her affairs for motives of your own. You may return to Rome, monsieur, since your services here are no longer required. You will have ample time to drive to Attigliano and take the evening train."

"Madame!" exclaimed the Abbé Roux.

"Not a word, sir," returned the princess, imperiously. "I trusted you as a friend and as a priest. You have proved yourself unworthy of that trust, and it is enough. Until the last moment—until the troops were within these walls—you have lied to me—yes, lied. And for what? In order to make money; in order—"

Princess Montefiano's voice failed her, and, suddenly overcome, she sat down in her chair. The Abbé Roux advanced towards her.

"Yes," he said, in accents trembling with anger and mortification—"yes, I will go to Rome, and all Rome shall hear how Donna Bianca Acorari has compromised herself, and how she has given herself to the first man who crossed her path. You may turn me out of your house, madame, but you cannot close my mouth. And you," he added, turning to Monsieur d'Antin, "you are a liar and a coward!"

Baron d'Antin shrugged his shoulders. "And you, Monsieur l'Abbé," he replied, "are a priest; otherwise—"

"Philippe," said the princess, in a hard, dry voice, "will you be so kind as to ring the bell?"

"Madame!" vociferated the abbé again.

The princess took no notice of him, and the maggior-domo answered the summons with suspicious promptitude.

"Giovanni," Princess Montefiano said, "a carriage will be wanted to take the Signor Abate and his luggage to Attigliano in time for the evening train to Rome.

"Monsieur," continued the princess, "I will detain you no longer. You have doubtless arrangements to make for your departure."

For a moment the Abbé Roux seemed as though about to make an appeal to her. Then, without uttering a word, he walked hastily across the apartment and disappeared through the double doors leading into the dining-room, beyond which the room he had occupied as his study was situated.

He had scarcely gone when Princess Montefiano turned to her brother and Don Agostino.

"He will ruin that poor girl's reputation!" she exclaimed, bitterly, "and all Rome will say that I have neglected my duty towards her because she is not my own child."

"It will be very easy to prevent anything of the kind, princess," said Don Agostino, quickly.

The princess looked at him. "And how, monsignore?" she asked.

"By allowing Donna Bianca to marry the man she loves," returned Don Agostino, "the man who would make her an absolutely worthy husband."

"The son of an infidel professor? Never, monsignore!" exclaimed Princess Montefiano, emphatically. "Besides," she added, and then, pausing abruptly, she glanced at Monsieur d'Antin.

Don Agostino looked at him also, and as their eyes met Baron d'Antin averted his own. He read an expression of warning in Don Agostino's glance, a silent hint that, however successfully he might have deceived his sister in his adroit repudiation of any genuine compact having existed between the Abbé Roux and himself, he had not for an instant deceived Monsignor Lelli.

"Monsieur le Baron has already announced his readiness to accept Donna Bianca's refusal to entertain his offer," Don Agostino observed. "Is it not so?" he added, addressing Monsieur d'Antin.

The latter nodded. "You surely would not wish me to force my love upon Bianca?" he said to his sister. "You know, Jeanne, that she will have none of it, and I—well, I must submit," and he sighed.

"No, no, Philippe, of course I should not wish that," the princess replied, hurriedly. "Indeed," she continued, "I am relieved. I never approved of your proposal, and I would never have consented to it, had not the Abbé Roux insisted that Bianca had hopelessly compromised herself."

"But how compromised herself, madame?" interrupted Don Agostino, almost angrily. "Because your step-daughter has given her love to one who loves and respects her, whom she, too, loves, and who is worthy of her love, in what or how has she compromised herself? But these are fables, princess, malicious insinuations, invented for the purpose of advancing the schemes of that—that imbroglione who has just left us. At least, receive young Rossano, madame, and hear what he has to say for himself. It is only justice—justice to him and to Donna Bianca. Why ruin the happiness of two young lives because of caste prejudices, and especially when the difference is one of rank only—for the Rossano are an old and well-born family, lacking nothing but a title to make them the equals of the Acorari."

Princess Montefiano shook her head.

"A man may take his wife from the bourgeoisie," she said, "and it does not matter so much. But a woman loses caste by marrying beneath her. But it is not the question of difference in position only," she continued. "You, monsignore, cannot expect a stanch Catholic, such as I am, to consent to my step-daughter's marriage to the son of a notorious sceptic and freemason."

"The Senator Rossano may be a sceptic," said Don Agostino, "but he is certainly not a freemason, and he is certainly not antichristian."

"Not a freemason?" repeated the princess. "But, monsignore, I have been told that he is one of the most prominent of that abominable organization. I have heard that he is a frequent attendant at those blasphemous orgies in Rome in which sacrileges are committed that I dare not name."

Don Agostino smiled. "The Abbé Roux was no doubt your informant," he observed. "I have known Professor Rossano for many years, and he is most certainly not a freemason. The statement that he is so is as false and fantastic as the legends concerning the orgies and sacrileges to which you have just alluded. May I suggest, princess, that you would do well not to take the assertions of the Abbé Roux too seriously?"

Princess Montefiano colored. "It would indeed seem so," she replied, bitterly. "Philippe," she added, suddenly, turning to her brother, "what is your advice? Shall I do as Monsignor Lelli wishes, and receive Signor Rossano?"

Monsieur d'Antin glanced at Don Agostino.

"Really, Jeanne," he replied, "you are putting my generosity to a severe test, and I should prefer, under the circumstances, to offer no advice. However, I will be generous; and since the young man is here—well, you might take the opportunity of forming your own judgment as to his suitability to become the husband of your step-daughter. At least, I beg of you to spare me the ordeal of being present at your interview. Really, the events of this afternoon have been sufficiently disturbing to the nerves. With your permission, I will retire to my own room and leave Monsignor Lelli to support you during your conversation with my fortunate rival. But, before I leave you, there are one or two little points that I should like to have explained to me, and no doubt Monsignor Lelli can explain them.

"In the first place," continued Monsieur d'Antin, "you, monsignore, say that you derive your information from some person or persons who overheard conversations between me and the Abbé Roux—conversations which we believed to be held in private. I confess that I do not understand how this could be the case; although I can perfectly understand how any third person overhearing certain conversations I have had with the abbé would very naturally conclude that I was his confederate."

"You may not understand," replied Don Agostino; "nevertheless, you were overheard, and much of what passed between you and the Abbé Roux has been repeated in Montefiano. It was owing to this fact, and to Stefano Mazza's assurances that the abbé was in reality the affittuario of the rents, that the peasantry were so determined to see and speak with Donna Bianca. The whole paese knew, madame," he added to the princess, "what you were in ignorance of. I was very certain that you were being deceived, and it was this certainty which made me so anxious to see you personally, before any disturbance should break out."

Monsieur d'Antin was silent for a moment. He had never contemplated the possibility of his conversations with the abbé becoming known. They had been, as he was well aware, compromising enough, and he now felt more convinced than ever that Monsignor Lelli had not been deceived by his disavowal of any genuine intention to make himself a partner in the Abbé Roux's schemes, nor by his declaration that he had only feigned to agree with them in order to prove to himself the priest's unworthiness to enjoy his sister's confidence.

Monsieur d'Antin, however, was not wanting in assurance. Its possession had on more than one occasion stood him in good Stead, and the present situation was certainly one in which assurance and aplomb were needed. It did not greatly concern him what Monsignor Lelli might or might not privately think of him. He had no intention, however, of forfeiting his sister's good opinion, and her summary dismissal of the Abbé Roux had shown him very plainly that Jeanne's character was not quite so weak as he had supposed.

"One must conclude that the walls of Montefiano have ears," he said at length; "but since the eavesdroppers, whoever they may have been, placed a wrong, though very natural, interpretation on what they overheard—at least, so far as my part in the affair was concerned—it does not appear to me greatly to matter."

"Philippe," exclaimed the princess, "for a moment I wronged you. I thought you, too, had deceived me. That would have been a hard thing to bear, for—"

"My dear Jeanne," interrupted Monsieur d'Antin, "do not think of it again, I beg of you. I saw that you suspected me, but I assure you that I made every allowance for you under the circumstances. Let us trust that now you are relieved of the Abbé Roux's presence, there will be no more misunderstandings. After all, Jeanne, a brother is more likely to be disinterested than a stranger who is paid for his services; is it not so?"

Don Agostino looked from Baron d'Antin to the princess, but he said nothing. Indeed, it was only by a slightly ironical smile that he betrayed any sign of having listened to Monsieur d'Antin's remarks.

Monsieur d'Antin did not continue the subject. He kissed his sister affectionately, and then observed: "I leave you, my dear Jeanne. As I said before, the last hour or so has been sufficiently trying to the nerves, and in any case, I do not feel equal to assisting at your interview with Monsieur Silvio Rossano. All the same, I am generous enough to say that, in my opinion, you do quite right to receive him. It may be that our friend the abbé has painted him in blacker colors that he deserves, and perhaps your interview with him will remove other misunderstandings. My only desire, Jeanne, is for Bianca's happiness," and Monsieur d'Antin placed his hand on his heart and sighed.

"Au revoir, monsieur," he continued, bowing to Don Agostino; "à bientôt, I hope," and then, humming a little tune to himself, he left the room.

"My brother has certainly a generous nature," remarked Princess Montefiano. Don Agostino did not consider himself called upon to reply to her observation.

"You have known this young Rossano for some time, monsignore, is it not so?" she asked, presently.

"For some time—yes," Don Agostino replied; "not for long, certainly," he added, "but I know enough of him from his father, who, as I told you, madame, is an old friend of mine, to make me confident that he would make any woman a good husband."

"The Professor Rossano is not an individual of whom I could approve," the princess said, dryly. "Such men do much to create unhappiness in family life by their teaching. You must pardon me if I say that I should not accept his opinion concerning a young man's character."

"Because you do not know him, princess," returned Don Agostino, bluntly. "If I had not full confidence both in Professor Rossano and in his son," he added, "I should certainly not sympathize with the latter in his desire to marry Donna Bianca Acorari. The responsibility would have been too great, and—" He hesitated for a moment, and then was silent.

Princess Montefiano glanced at him with some curiosity. "My responsibility is great," she said, "for my step-daughter is certainly not like other girls. She has a peculiar disposition—inherited, I fear, from her mother—my poor husband's first wife. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, monsignore, but—"

"No," exclaimed Don Agostino, abruptly, "no, madame! Let the dead rest in peace."

Princess Montefiano made the sign of the cross. "Of course," she said, gravely. "But I have a duty towards the living, and I cannot forget that my step-daughter's mother was—well, not all she should have been as a wife. Oh, I do not mean to imply that, after her marriage, she was guilty of any misconduct," she continued, hurriedly, "but she did not make her husband happy—it was a wretched marriage. At any rate, monsignore, I am not injuring her memory by saying that she never loved my poor husband. She had formed an unfortunate attachment, before her marriage, for somebody who was not, I believe, quite her equal, and this seems to have ruined her whole life. You cannot wonder if I am determined to prevent her daughter from falling into the same unhappy circumstances. Indeed, I have sometimes felt an almost superstitious alarm lest the mother's story were destined to be repeated in her daughter's life. It is certainly strange that Bianca also should have formed this violent attachment for a young man who, however worthy he may be individually, is not of her own order."

Don Agostino did not answer immediately. He leaned his arm upon a table beside him, and his face was partially concealed by his hand.

Presently he raised his head and looked earnestly at Princess Montefiano.

"Madame," he said, in a low voice, "you bear the name and have succeeded to the place of her who is no longer here to speak in her own behalf. Do not, I beg of you, misjudge her."

The princess started. "Monsignore!" she exclaimed. "What do you know of my husband's first wife? You speak as though her story were known to you. But I forgot. No doubt, during the years you were in Rome you heard stories concerning the disagreements between her and the prince; for I believe there was much gossip at one time."

"I knew her story well, princess," replied Don Agostino, quietly. "Perhaps I ought to tell you that very few people knew it better."

"You knew her?" the princess asked, with surprise.

"Yes—I knew her."

Princess Montefiano hesitated for a moment.

"Ah!" she said, at length. "You were, perhaps, in her confidence, monsignore—in your priestly capacity, I mean. If that is the case, of course we will not discuss the subject any more. You must forgive me, but I was quite unaware that you even knew her history, and still less that you had been personally acquainted with her. Naturally, under the circumstances, you would not wish to hear her conduct discussed, especially by me. Believe me, it is only my desire to do my duty by the child she left which makes me dread taking any action which might lead to that child following in her mother's footsteps."

"I was in her confidence—yes," said Don Agostino, after a pause, "but not in the sense you mean, princess—not as a priest. I knew her—ah, many years ago—and you are right: I cannot discuss the subject. At the same time, will you permit me to ask you a question?"

Princess Montefiano bent her head without speaking.

"Are you sure," proceeded Don Agostino, "that in your determination to oppose Donna Bianca's love for Silvio Rossano you are not running the grave risk of bringing about the very state of things you wish to avoid? Ah, madame," he continued, earnestly, "I must ask for your patience—for your pardon—if I seem to interfere in matters which you might justly tell me can be no concern of mine. You fear lest your step-daughter may have inherited her mother's nature. Well, I believe your fears to be justified. Her mother loved once, and once only, during her lifetime, and, strangely enough, under circumstances almost identical with those accompanying Donna Bianca's attachment. She was forced to marry a man she did not love, in order to satisfy the prejudices and the ambition of her family. What was the result, madame? Disaster—unhappiness. What will be the result of pursuing the same course with the daughter as that pursued with the mother—in the case of two natures so similar?

"And whom will you bring forward in the place of young Rossano? Some Roman with a title borrowed from his father, but with nothing else; some young spendthrift who, like many we could name, has paid his court to every rich American, to every wealthy foreign girl, Christian or Jewess, in the hope of buying her fortune with his name—and who will use his wife's money to pay off his creditors and to support a mistress. We need not—we who know Rome—seek far in order to find such examples, princess. You talk of responsibility. Do you venture to contemplate what responsibility for such a course would mean?"