XVOn his arrival at the Villa Acorari, the Abbé Roux was at once ushered into Princess Montefiano's private sitting-room, where she was waiting him with evident anxiety. It was clear that something had occurred to upset and annoy her, and the abbé was at once convinced that, as he had suspected when he received her telegram, she had by some means discovered her step-daughter's secret.He was scarcely prepared, however, for what had really happened.That morning's post had brought the Princess Montefiano a letter from the Senator Rossano. To say that its contents had filled her with amazement would be but a meagre description of her feelings. It was a very short letter, but, like the learned senator's discourses, very much to the point, and couched in a terseness of language very unusual in Italian missives of so formal a character.The professor briefly apologized for addressing the Princess Montefiano personally, without having the honor of knowing her otherwise than as a tenant in her house, but added that the personal nature of the matter he had to lay before her must be his excuse. He then proceeded, without any further circumlocution, to inform the princess that his only son, Silvio, had fallen desperately in love with her step-daughter, Donna Bianca Acorari; that his son had some reason to believe Donna Bianca might return his attachment were he permitted to address her; and finally, that he, the Senator Rossano, at his son's desire, begged to make a formal request that the latter should be allowed to plead his own cause with Donna Bianca. The princess had, not unnaturally, been petrified with astonishment on reading this letter, and her amazement had quickly been succeeded by indignation. The thing was absurd, and more than absurd; it was impertinent. Evidently this young man had seen Bianca going in and out of the Palazzo Acorari, and had imagined himself to have fallen in love with her—if, indeed, it was not simply a barefaced attempt to secure her money without love entering at all into the matter.Her first impulse had been to send for Bianca and ask her what it all meant. On second thoughts, however, she decided not to mention the subject to her until she had consulted the Abbé Roux. If, as was probable, Bianca knew nothing about it, and the whole affair were only the silly action of a boy who had persuaded his father that he was desperately in love with a young girl upon whom he believed himself to have made an impression, it would be very imprudent to put any ideas of the kind into her head. No, the only wise course, the princess reflected, was to hear what Monsieur l'Abbé might advise, though naturally there could be but one answer to the Senator Rossano's letter. Indeed, she would not reply to it in person. Such an impertinence should be treated with silent contempt; or, if some answer had to be given, she would depute the abbé to interview these Rossanos.The door had hardly closed behind the servant who showed him into the room when Princess Montefiano put the letter into the abbé's hands."Did you ever read anything so extraordinary in your life?" she asked him. "Yes, it was about this I telegraphed to beg you to come to me. It is an unheard-of impertinence, and I think the professor, senator—or whatever he might be—Rossano must be a fool, and not the clever man you say he is, or he would never have listened to this ridiculous son of his."Princess Montefiano was evidently thoroughly angry, as, indeed, from her point of view, she had every right to be. The Abbé Roux read the letter through attentively. Then he coughed, arranged hissoutane, and read it through a second time."Well?" asked the princess, impatiently. "Are you not as much amazed as I am?"The abbé hesitated for a moment. Then he said, quietly: "No, madame, I am not amazed at all."The princess stared at him. "Not amazed at all?" she re-echoed. "But—""May I ask," he interrupted, "if you have spoken to Donna Bianca of this—this offer?""Offer!" exclaimed the princess, scornfully. "I do not call it an offer; I call it an insult—at least, it would be an insult if it were not a stupidity. No, I have not as yet mentioned the subject to Bianca. I thought I would wait until I had consulted with you. You see, Monsieur l'Abbé, it is a delicate matter to discuss with a young girl, because, if there is any love at all in the matter, it can only be a case of love at first sight on the part of this youth—and for love at first sight there is another name—"The abbé smiled. "Exactly, madame," he said. "You are very wise not to mention the senator's letter to Donna Bianca. It would be better that she should never know it had been written. At the same time, if you read the letter carefully, you will observe that the young man believes his affection to be reciprocated."The princess shrugged her shoulders. "The vanity of a youth who no doubt thinks himself irresistible," she observed. "How could it be reciprocated? I dare say he has seen Bianca driving, or, at the most, passed her on the staircase.""I am inclined to think," said the abbé, "that he has more reason than this to believe Donna Bianca to be not indifferent to him."Princess Montefiano started visibly."Mon Dieu, monsieur, what do you mean?" she exclaimed.The Abbé Roux carefully refolded the letter, and, placing it in the envelope, returned it to her."Madame la Princesse," he said, after a pause, "the subject, as you observed just now, is a delicate one. I regret that I should be obliged to give you pain. Even had I not received your telegram, I should have felt it to be my duty to come to see you on this matter.""You knew it, then?" asked the princess, more bewildered than ever."Yes, I knew it," replied the priest. "It came to my knowledge only three or four days since. I fear, madame, that Donna Bianca has given this young man every reason to feel himself justified in persuading his father to address this letter to you. That does not excuse his presumption—certainly not! But, as I say, it makes it more reasonable."Princess Montefiano turned to him with some dignity. "Monsieur l'Abbé," she said, "are you aware what your words imply? You are speaking of my step-daughter, of Donna Bianca Acorari."The Abbé Roux spread out his hands apologetically. "Alas, madame!" he replied, "I am fully aware of it. But I consider it to be my duty to speak to you of Donna Bianca. I think," he added, "that you have never had cause to complain of my failing in my duty towards Casa Acorari, or of any lack of discretion on my part, since you honored me with your confidence.""That is true," said Princess Montefiano, hurriedly; "I ask your pardon, Monsieur l'Abbé. I am sure that whatever you may have to tell me is prompted by your sense of the confidence I repose in you. But, Bianca! I do not understand—""It is a very simple matter," interrupted the abbé. "A person of my acquaintance was an accidental witness of an interview between Donna Bianca and young Rossano—here in the grounds of the Villa Acorari—a few days ago. It appears that there can be no doubt it was a lover's interview, and probably not the first of its kind between these two young people."The princess turned a horrified gaze upon him."And you call that a simple matter!" she exclaimed, so soon as she could find words.The abbé shrugged his shoulders."Madame," he replied, "between two people who are young and good-looking, love is always a simple matter! It is in its results that complications arise.""Monsieur l'Abbé!" exclaimed the princess."Precisely," he proceeded—"in its results. It is from these results that we must try to save Donna Bianca."Princess Montefiano seemed as though she were about to give way to uncontrollable agitation."But it is impossible!" she cried. "Great God—it is impossible! Bianca is little more than a child still. You do not mean to suggest—what can I say? The thought is too horrible!"The Abbé Roux rubbed his hands gently together. "We will trust things are not quite so serious as that," he said, slowly. "Indeed," he added, "I do not for a moment believe that they are so. Nevertheless, my informant declares that the interview between the two lovers was—well, of a very passionate nature. I fear, madame, you have been mistaken in looking upon Donna Bianca as merely a child."The princess groaned. "That is what my brother has told me more than once of late," she said."He has said the same to me," remarked the abbé. "Monsieur your brother is, as one may say, a keen observer," he added."But what can we do?" exclaimed Princess Montefiano, almost hysterically. "Good Heavens!" she continued; "how thankful I am that I telegraphed to you! I can rely on your discretion, monsieur, as a friend—as a priest!""As both, madame," returned the abbé, bowing. "The situation is certainly a difficult one, and Donna Bianca, through her inexperience, has no doubt placed herself in an equivocal position. Unfortunately, the world never forgets an indiscretion committed by a young girl; and, as I have said, there was a witness to Donna Bianca's last interview with this young man. That is to say, this individual could hear, though he could not see, all that passed between them.""Ah! And who is this individual?" asked the princess, hastily. "Is he a person whose silence can be bought?"The Abbé Roux shook his head. "I am pledged not to reveal the name," he replied. "I must beg of you, madame, not to ask me to do so. As regards his silence, that is not to be bought—and even if it were, I should not advise such a course. It would be equivalent to admitting—well, that the worst construction could be placed on Donna Bianca's unfortunate actions.""Good Heavens!" repeated the princess. "What can be done? What course can we pursue with that unhappy child? Ah! it is the mother's blood coming out in her, Monsieur l'Abbé."The abbé thought that the paternal strain might also be taken into account; but he very naturally kept the reflection to himself."The responsibility is a terrible one for me," continued Princess Montefiano. "If anything happens to Bianca, if she were to make a bad marriage—and, still more, if there were to be any scandal about her, people would say I had neglected her because she was not my own child—""Yes, madame," interposed the abbé, quietly, "but there must be no bad marriage, and there must be no scandal. It will be my task to assist you in making both things impossible.""Yes, but how? She has put herself in the power of these Rossanos. Probably the father is quite aware that the child has compromised herself with his son by the very fact of meeting him alone and secretly—otherwise he would not have ventured to write this letter. And then, there is this, other person—your informant. Do you not see, monsieur, that my step-daughter's good name is seriously compromised by being at the mercy of people like these Rossanos, who are not of our world? They would be quite capable of revenging themselves for my treating their proposal with the contempt it deserves by spreading some story about Bianca."The abbé did not reply for a moment or two. "I do not think they will do that," he said, presently. "The senator is too well-known a man to care to place himself and his son in a false position. Though the story, if it became known, would certainly be injurious to Donna Bianca, it would not redound to the credit of the Rossanos. A young man with any sense of honor does not place an inexperienced girl in such an equivocal position. No—I should be much more afraid that, unless Donna Bianca is removed from all possibility of being again approached by the young Rossano, he will acquire such an influence over her that sooner or later he will oblige her to marry him.""But it would be an absolutemésalliance!" exclaimed Princess Montefiano."Of course it would be amésalliance, from the worldly point of view," said the abbé. "It would also be a crime," he added."A crime!""Yes, certainly, madame. Would you give a young girl, for whose spiritual welfare you are responsible, to the son of Professor Rossano—a man whose blasphemous writings and discourses have perverted the minds and ruined the faith of half the youth of Italy? Why, Bruno was burned for hazarding opinions which were orthodox in comparison with the assertions made by Rossano on the authority of his miserable science!"The princess shuddered. "Of course!" she replied. "I forgot for the moment whom we were discussing. No matter what might happen, I would never give my consent to Bianca's marriage with a free-thinker. I would rather see her dead, and a thousand times rather see her in a convent."The Abbé Roux smiled. "Fortunately," he said, "there are other solutions. Donna Bianca has shown very clearly that she has no vocation for conventual life, and of the other we need not speak.""I do not see the solutions you speak of," returned the princess, with a sigh."There is only one which presents itself to my mind as being not only simple, but absolutely necessary for the moment," said the abbé. "Donna Bianca," he continued, looking at the princess gravely, "must be removed where there can be no danger of her again seeing this young Rossano. She is young, and evidently impressionable, and in time she will forget him. It is to be hoped that he, too, will forget her. Do you recollect, madame, my telling you that for a young lady in Donna Bianca Acorari's position, anything that protected her against marrying before she attained years of discretion was an advantage?"The princess nodded. "I do, indeed," she replied. "I see now how right you were. A young girl with the prospects Bianca has is always in danger of falling a prey to some fortune-hunter, such as, no doubt, this Rossano is.""I hope," continued the abbé, "that my present advice to you will prove as sound as the advice I gave you then, and as advantageous to Donna Bianca's true interests. I, personally, am convinced that it will prove so—and I offer it as the only solution I can see to the problem with which we have to deal—I mean, madame, the problem of how to extricate Donna Bianca from the position in which she has been placed, without further difficulties arising. May I make my suggestion?" he added."Why, of course, Monsieur l'Abbé!" replied Princess Montefiano. "It is what I asked you here to do—to give me your assistance in this very painful matter."You must take Donna Bianca away from here, madame.""Of course," said the princess; "I had already thought of that. But the question is, where can I take her? To return to Palazzo Acorari is impossible. She would be exposed to the probability of meeting this young man every day. I cannot turn the Rossanos out of their apartment, for, so far as I recollect, the lease has still two years to run. And if I take Bianca to some other town, or to some sea-side place, what is to prevent the young man from following us?""Very true," assented the Abbé Roux. "I also have thought of these difficulties," he added. "I have considered the matter well, and it seems to me that there is only one place in which Donna Bianca could satisfactorily be guarded from further annoyance.""And where is that?""Her own castle at Montefiano.""Montefiano?" the princess exclaimed. "But, Monsieur l'Abbé, Montefiano, as you well know, is practically deserted—abandoned. There is, I believe, no furniture in the house.""The furniture could be sent there," said the abbé. "There could be no better place for Donna Bianca to remain for a few months, or until she has forgotten this youthful love-affair. It would not be easy for a stranger to obtain access to the castle at Montefiano without it being known—and, as you are aware, madame, the domain is of considerable extent. It would not be an imprisonment.""I have only once been at Montefiano," said the princess, "and then only for the day. It struck me as being a very dreary place, except, perhaps, in the summer.""The air is good," observed the abbé, a little dryly, "and, as I say, it has the advantage of being out of the way. My advice would be to take Donna Bianca there as soon as possible. In a week or ten days the rooms could be made quite comfortable, and servants could be sent from Rome. After all, there would be nothing strange in the fact of your having decided to spend a few weeks at Montefiano, especially at this season of the year.""Perhaps you are right, monsieur," said the Princess Montefiano. "At any rate," she added, "I can think of no better plan for the moment. What distresses me now is that I do not know what to say to Bianca, or how to say it. I cannot let her think that I know nothing of what has happened—and I am still in the dark, Monsieur l'Abbé, as to—well, as to how much has happened."The abbé pondered for a moment. "I should be inclined, madame, not to give Donna Bianca any definite reason for your visit to Montefiano. You can scarcely tell her your real object in taking her there without letting her know that young Rossano has made you a formal proposal for her hand. You must remember she is quite unaware that her meeting with him was observed, and she would, therefore, at once guess that you must have had some communication from the Rossano family."The princess looked doubtful. From the Abbé Roux she would, to quote Shakespeare, "take suggestion as a cat laps milk." Nevertheless, to pretend to Bianca that she was in complete ignorance of her conduct seemed to be derogatory to her own position as the girl's step-mother and guardian."I must certainly speak to Bianca sooner or later," she began."Then, madame," said the abbé, "let it be later, I beg of you. There will be time enough when you are at Montefiano to explain to Donna Bianca your reasons for your actions. If you go into the subject with her now she may communicate with her lover, and warn him that she is being taken to Montefiano. When she is once safely there, it will not matter. It will, of course, be known that you are residing at Montefiano, but Montefiano is not Villa Acorari. A convent itself could not be a more secure retreat.""Well," returned the princess, "perhaps you are right. But I must say I do not like the idea of meeting Bianca as if nothing at all had happened. It appears to me to be scarcely—scarcely honorable on my part, and to be encouraging her in maintaining a deception towards me.""Chère madame," said the Abbé Roux, blandly, "I fully understand your scruples, and they do you credit. But we must remember the end we have in view. This absurd love-affair between a boy and a girl—for it is, after all, nothing more serious—must be put an end to in such a way as to preserve Donna Bianca Acorari's name from any breath of scandal.""Then," replied Princess Montefiano, "you advise me to say nothing to Bianca at present.""At present I should say nothing. There is one thing, however, that you should do, madame—a necessary precaution against any further communication passing between Donna Bianca and young Rossano. I believe that Mademoiselle Durand continues giving Donna Bianca lessons, does she not? I think you told me that she was at Albano, and that you had arranged for her to come here two or three days weekly.""Ah!" exclaimed Princess Montefiano, "Mademoiselle Durand! Do you mean to say that she has been the go-between in this affair?""I know nothing for certain," replied the abbé, "but I have been told that young Rossano and she are on intimate terms—that they walk together in Rome—""A respectable company, truly, for my step-daughter to find herself in!" said Princess Montefiano—"a professor's son and a daily governess!"The Abbé Roux sighed. "I fear," he said, "that this woman has played a very mischievous part, but I cannot be certain. It would be as well, perhaps, not to give her any explanations, but merely to inform her that you no longer require her for Donna Bianca. All these details, madame," he added, "you will learn later on, no doubt, from Donna Bianca herself. But for the moment, believe me, the less said to any one on the subject, the better.""Yes, yes, I quite see that you are right, Monsieur l'Abbé," said the princess, hurriedly. "Your advice is always sound, and whenever I have not taken it I have always regretted the fact. There is one person, however, to whom I must give some explanation of my sudden move to Montefiano, and that is my brother. He was coming to spend a fortnight or so here.""Ah, Monsieur le Baron," observed the Abbé Roux. "No, there would, of course, be no objection in your confiding in Monsieur le Baron. Indeed, it would be but natural to do so.""Exactly," returned Princess Montefiano. "My brother is, after all, the child's uncle, so to speak."The abbé smiled. "Scarcely, madame," he replied; "there is not the slightest connection between them.""Of course not, really," the princess said, "but a kind of relationship through me.""I think," observed the abbé, hesitatingly—"it has seemed to me that monsieur your brother takes a great interest in Donna Bianca. He has certainly been very quick to discern things in her which have escaped the notice of others."Princess Montefiano directed a quick glance at him, and then she looked away."I am afraid," proceeded the priest, "that this affair will be quite a blow to him; yes, indeed, quite a blow. Monsieur le Baron, after all, is a comparatively young man, and—"He hesitated again, and then stopped abruptly.The princess glanced at him nervously."It is strange that you should say this, Monsieur l'Abbé," she said. "I have, I confess, sometimes thought, sometimes wondered— Ah, but certain things cross one's mind occasionally which are better left unspoken!"The Abbé Roux looked at her. "We may leave our present thoughts unspoken, Madame la Princesse," he said, with a smile. "I imagine," he continued, "that the same idea has struck both of us. Well, supposing such a thing to be the case, what then? There is nothing unnatural in the situation—nothing at all. A disparity of age, very likely; but, again, what is disparity of age? An idea—a sentiment. A man who has arrived at the years of Monsieur le Baron may be said to have gained his experience—to have had timede se ranger. Such husbands are often more satisfactory than younger men."The princess checked him with a gesture."But it is an imagination!" she exclaimed—"a mere idea. I confess I have once or twice thought that my brother looked at Bianca in—in rather a peculiar way, you know—as if he admired her very much; and, yes, I have even made an excuse sometimes to send Bianca out of the room when he was calling on me. I did not think she should be exposed to anything which might put ideas into her head.""It appears to me, madame, that your precautions were unnecessary," said the Abbé Roux, dryly. "The ideas, as we now know, were already there.""Alas, yes!" sighed the princess. "But," she added, "do you really think that there can be anything in it, Monsieur l'Abbé? It seems too strange—too unnatural, I was about to say; but that would not be quite true, as you pointed out just now."The Abbé Roux made a gesture with outspread hands."Madame," he said, "I know as much as you do of what may be in monsieur your brother's mind. It is probable, however, that he has some thoughts of the kind concerning Donna Bianca, or we should not both have suspected their existence. Does the idea shock you so much?" he added, suddenly."Yes—no," returned Princess Montefiano, confusedly. "I can hardly tell. Do not let us talk any more about it, Monsieur l'Abbé—not, at all events, at present. We have so much else to occupy our thoughts. Of course, I must let my brother know what has happened, and explain to him that I shall not be able to receive him here.""Of course," assented the Abbé Roux. "I have no doubt," he added, "that Monsieur le Baron will be quite as pleased to pay his visit to you at Montefiano."The princess apparently did not hear him. She stooped and picked up Professor Rossano's letter, which had fallen from her lap onto the floor."And this?" she asked, holding the missive out to the abbé. "What reply am I to send to this—if, indeed, any reply is necessary?""There is only one reply to make; namely, that the proposal cannot be entertained either now or at any future time," replied the abbé. "It is not necessary to enter into any explanations," he continued.And, after discussing for some time longer with the princess the necessary arrangements to be made for moving to Montefiano with as little delay as possible, the Abbé Roux took his leave and returned by an afternoon train to Rome.XVI"I told you how it would be, Silvio," Giacinta Rossano said to her brother. "I don't see what else you could have expected.""I did not expect anything else," returned Silvio, placidly. "At all events," he added, "we now know where we are."Giacinta laughed dryly. "Do you?" she asked. "It appears to me that you are—nowhere! Nothing could be more explicit than Princess Montefiano's reply to Babbo's letter—and nothing could be more marked than the brief way she dismisses your proposals. I can assure you that Babbo is very much annoyed. I do not think I have ever seen him so annoyed about anything—unless it was when a servant we had last season lighted the fire with some proof-sheets he had left lying on the floor.""It is not the slightest use his being annoyed," said Silvio."At least you must admit that it is not a pleasant position for a father to be placed in," observed Giacinta. "He told me this morning, Silvio," she added, "that nothing could induce him to do anything more in the matter. He says you have had your answer, and that the best thing you can do is to try to forget all that has happened. After all, there are plenty of other girls to choose from. Why need you make your life unhappy because these Acorari will not have anything to say to you?""Princess Montefiano is not an Acorari," replied Silvio, obstinately. "There is only one Acorari concerned in the matter, and she has everything to say to me!"Giacinta sighed. She knew by experience that it was of no use to argue with this headstrong brother of hers when once an idea was fixed in his mind."May one ask what you propose to do next?" she inquired, after a pause. "Your communications in the shape of Mademoiselle Durand having been cut, and Villa Acorari no doubt probably watched and guarded, I do not see how you are going to approach Donna Bianca in the future. At any rate, you mustn't count upon Babbo doing anything, Silvio, for he told me to-day he did not wish to hear the subject mentioned any more. You know what he is about anything disagreeable—how he simply ignores its existence."Silvio Rossano smiled. "I know well," he replied. "It is not a bad plan, that of simply brushing a disagreeable thing to one side. But few people are able to carry it out so consistently as Babbo does. In this case, Giacinta, it is the best thing he can do. There is nothing to be said or done, for the moment. When there is, you will see that Bianca and I will manage it. It is certainly a bore about Mademoiselle Durand having been told to discontinue giving her lessons at Villa Acorari."Giacinta shrugged her shoulders. "Considering the subject chosen for instruction, it is not to be wondered at if the princess thought they had better cease," she remarked, dryly.Silvio smiled. Knowing that Bianca Acorari loved him, nothing seemed to matter very much. It had been the uncertainty whether she had observed and understood his passion for her, and the longing to be sure that, if so, it had awakened in her some response, which had seemed so difficult to insure."Luckily," he said, "the princess played her card a day or two too late. Bianca had my letter, and Mademoiselle Durand brought me back her answer to it.""Ah!" exclaimed Giacinta, "you never told me that you had corresponded with each other since you met.""I don't think you and I have discussed the subject since I told you of our meeting," said Silvio. "I told Babbo.""What did he say?""He said I was an imbecile—no, a pumpkin-head," answered Silvio, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "Also, he said I was like a donkey in the month of May, and that he did not wish to hear any more asinine love-songs—and, oh, several other observations of the kind.""His opinion is generally looked upon as being a very good one," observed Giacinta, tranquilly.Silvio laughed outright. Giacinta's satirical remarks always amused him, even when they were made at his expense. "It is certainly a misfortune that Mademoiselle Durand is no longer to go to Villa Acorari," he said. "I must say," he added, "she has proved herself to be a most loyal friend—and an entirely disinterested one, too."Giacinta glanced at him. "I suppose," she said, "that Mademoiselle Durand likes a little romance. I believe most single women who are over thirty and under fifty do.""I suppose so," observed Silvio, carelessly. "She seemed quite upset when she told me of the note she had received from Princess Montefiano. I thought, of course, that she felt she had lost an engagement.""But did the princess give a reason for dispensing with her services?" asked Giacinta."No. The note merely said that as Donna Bianca's studies would not be continued, there was no necessity for Mademoiselle Durand to come any more to Villa Acorari. The princess enclosed money for the lessons given—and that was all. But, of course, Giacinta," continued Silvio, "I felt that Mademoiselle Durand had lost her engagement through befriending me. Though the princess for some reason did not allude to anything of the kind, I am sure she must know, or suspect, the part Mademoiselle Durand has played.""I should think so, undoubtedly," remarked Giacinta."And naturally," Silvio proceeded, "I felt very uncomfortable about it. I did not quite know what to do, and I offered—""Yes?" said his sister, as he paused, hesitatingly."Well, Giacinta, you see, she had probably lost money through me, so I offered to—to make her loss good, so to say.""And then?""Oh, and then she was very angry, and said that I insulted her. After that she cried. One does not like to see grown-up people cry; it is very unpleasant. She said that I did not understand; that what she had done was out of mere friendship and sympathy—for me and for Bianca. I knew she had grown attached to Bianca, Giacinta; she had told me so once before. After all, nobody who saw much of Bianca could help being fond of her."Giacinta looked at him for a moment or two without speaking."I am not surprised that she was angry," she said, at length. "As to her being attached to Donna Bianca—well, it appears that even people who have not seen much of her become attached to that girl. It is a gift, I suppose. But all this does not tell me what you mean to do, now you can no longer employ Mademoiselle Durand to fetch and carry for you.""We mean to wait," said Silvio, quietly. "Bianca and I are quite agreed as to that. Three years are soon over, and then, if she still chooses to marry me, neither the princess nor anybody else can prevent her. It is the best way, Giacinta, for it leaves her free, and then none can say that I took advantage of her inexperience.""And in the mean time, if they marry her to somebody else?""But they will not. They cannot force her to marry. If they tried to do so, then we would not wait three years, nor even three weeks.""But you might know nothing about it, Silvio," said Giacinta. "And they might tell her you had given her up, or that you were in love with some one else—anything, in fact, to make her think no more about you."Silvio smiled. "You are full of objections," he said; "but you need not be uneasy. It is true that we no longer have Mademoiselle Durand to depend upon, but we shall find other means of communicating with each other. After all, shall we not be under the same roof here all the winter and spring? The princess will not remain at the Villa Acorari forever. No—if there should be any pressure put upon Bianca to make her give me up against her will I shall very soon know it. We are agreed on all those points. If the princess keeps quiet, we shall keep quiet also. She has a perfect right to refuse her consent to Bianca marrying me—for the present. But in course of time that right will no longer hold good. While it does, however, Bianca and I have agreed to respect it, unless, in order to protect ourselves, we are forced to set it at defiance, get some priest to marry us, and delay the legal marriage till afterwards. This is what I have explained to Babbo—and he calls it the braying of donkeys in May. Well, at least the donkeys know what one another mean, which, after all, is something gained—from their point of view!"Giacinta laughed, and then became suddenly grave again."Well, Silviomio," she replied, "you seem to have settled everything in your own mind, and I only hope it will all be as easy as you think. So much depends on the girl herself. If you are sure of her, then, as you say, three years soon pass. In the mean time, if I were you, I would watch very carefully. As I have told you before, for some reason which we know nothing of, it is not intended that the girl should marry; and when I say they might marry her to somebody else, I do not believe it."Silvio shrugged his shoulders. "All the better for me," he observed; and Giacinta, with a slight gesture of impatience, was about to reply, when the professor entered the room.XVIIThesollionehad ran his course. Already the vines on the slopes below Montefiano were showing patches of ruddy gold among their foliage, and the grapes were beginning to color, sometimes a glossy purple, sometimes clearest amber. Figs and peaches were ripe on the fruit trees rising from among the vines, and here and there tall, yellow spikes of Indian-corn rattled as the summer breeze passed over them.Solitary figures prowled about the vineyard with guns—no brigands, but merely local sportsmen lying in wait for the daintybeccafichiwhich visit the fig-trees at this season and slit open the ripest figs with their bills. In the evening a half-dozen of the plump little brown-and-white birds will make a succulent addition to the dish ofpolentaon which they will repose. Perhaps, if fortune favor, a turtle-dove, or even a partridge, may find its way into the oven for the sportsman's evening meal. In the mean time, a few purple figs, from which the sun has scarcely kissed away the chill of the night dew, a hunch of brown bread and a draught of white wine from a flask left in the shade and covered with cool, green vine leaves, form a breakfast not to be despised by one who has been out with his gun since the dawn was spreading over the Sabine hills and the mists were rolling back before it across the Roman Campagna to the sea.Who that has not wandered through her vineyards and forests, among her mountains and by the side of her waters in the early hours of a summer dawn, or the late hours of a summer night, knows the beauty of Italy? Then the old gods live again and walk the earth, and nature triumphs. The air is alive with strange whisperings: the banks and the hedgerows speak to those who have ears to hear—of things that lie hidden and numbed during the hot glare of the day.The gray shadows lying over thecampagnawere fast dissolving before a light that seemed to change almost imperceptibly from silver into gold, as the first rays of the rising sun stole over the Sabine mountains. Across the plain, the summit of Soracte was already bathed in light, while its base yet lay invisible, wreathed in the retreating mists. The air was fresh with the scent of vines and fig-trees, and long threads of gossamer, sparkling with a million dew-drops, hung from grassy banks rising above a narrow pathway between the terraces of the vineyards.A black figure suddenly appeared round an angle of the winding path. Don Agostino Lelli, his cassock brushing the blossoms of wild geranium and purple mallow as he passed, was making his way in the dawn of the summer morning back to Montefiano. He had been sitting through the night with a dying man—a young fellow whom an accident with a loaded wagon had mortally injured. The end had come an hour or two before the dawn, and Don Agostino had speeded the parting soul with simple human words of hope and comfort, which had brought a peace and a trust that all the rites enjoined by the Church had failed to do. Perhaps he was thinking of the failure, and wondering why sympathy and faith in the goodness of God had seemed to be of more avail at the death-bed he had just left than ceremonies and sacraments.His refined, intellectual countenance wore a very thoughtful expression as he walked leisurely through the vineyards. It was not an anxious nor an unhappy expression, but rather that of a man trying to think out the solution of an interesting problem. As a matter of fact, he had been brought face to face with a problem, and it was not the first time he had been confronted by it.He had, as in duty bound, administered the last sacrament of the Church to a dying man who had made due confession to him. But he had known perfectly well in his own mind that those sacraments had been regarded by his penitent as little else than a formality to be observed under the circumstances. He knew that if he had asked that lad when he was in health whether he honestly believed thesantissimoto be what he had been told it was, the answer would not have been satisfactory to a priest to hear. He had asked the question that night, and two words had been whispered back to him in reply—"Chi sa?"They were very simple words, but Don Agostino felt that they contained a truth which could not be displeasing to the God of Truth. Moreover, he honored the courage of the lad more than he did that of many who dared not confess inability to believe what reason refused to admit."Who knows?" he had said to himself, half-smiling, repeating the young fellow's answer. And then he had added aloud, "You will know very soon—better than any of us. Until then, only trust. God will teach you the rest."Afterwards, answered by the look on the dying lad's face, he had given the sacrament.And now Don Agostino was walking homeward in the peaceful summer dawn, and if there was pity in his heart for the strong young life suddenly taken away from the beautiful world around him, there was also some joy. Even now the veil was lifted, and the boy—knew. Perhaps the simple, human understanding, which could have no place in theology, had not led him so far astray, and had already found favor in the eyes of Him who gave it.And Don Agostino looked at the landscape around him, waking up to a new day and laughing in the first rays of a risen sun. As he looked he crossed himself, and the lad who had been summoned from all this beauty was followed to his new home by a prayer.Suddenly Don Agostino's meditations were interrupted by the report of a gun fired some yards in front of him, immediately succeeded by a pattering of spent shot among the leaves on the bank above him. He called out quickly, in order to warn the unseencacciatoreof his propinquity; for there was a sharp bend in the pathway immediately ahead of him, and he by no means wished to receive the contents of a second barrel as he turned it. A reassuring shout answered him, and he quickened his pace until, after turning the corner, a brown setter came up and sniffed at him amicably, while its owner appeared among the vines close by.Don Agostino lifted his hat in response to the sportsman's salutation and regrets at having startled him."I was safe enough where I was,signore," he said, smiling; "but it was as well to warn you that there was somebody on the path. I did not wish to be taken for a crow," he added, with a downward glance at hissoutane.Thecacciatorelaughed. "Your reverence would have been even safer as a crow," he replied; "but indeed there was no danger. I was firing well above the path at a turtledove, which I missed badly. But it is better to miss than to wound."Don Agostino looked at the speaker, and there was approval in his glance, either of the sentiment or of the appearance of the sportsman—perhaps of both."Sicuro," he replied, "it is better to miss than to wound. For my part, I should prefer always to miss; but then I am not a sportsman, as you see. All the same, I am glad youcacciatorido not always miss—from the point of view of the stomach, you know. Thesignoreis from Rome, I conclude?"The other hesitated for a moment."From Rome—yes," he replied,Don Agostino glanced at him again, and thought how good-looking the young man was. A gentleman, evidently, by his manner and bearing—but a stranger, for he had certainly never seen him in Montefiano."I," he said, "am theparrocoof Montefiano—Agostino Lelli,per servirla."The youngcacciatorestarted slightly, and then he hesitated again. Courtesy necessitated his giving his own name in return."And I,reverendo," he replied, after a slight pause, "am Silvio Rossano, of Rome."Don Agostino looked surprised."Rossano?" he said. "A relative, perhaps, of the Senator Rossano?""My father," replied Silvio. "Your reverence knows him?""Altrocchè!" exclaimed Don Agostino, holding out his hand. "Your father is an old friend—one of my oldest friends in days gone by. But I have not seen anything of him for years.Che vuole! When one lives at Montefiano one does not see illustrious professors. One sees peasants—and pigs. Not but what there are things to be learned from both of them. And so you are the son of Professor Rossano? But you have not come to Montefiano for sport—no? There is not much game about here, as no doubt you have already discovered."He glanced at Silvio's game-bag as he spoke. Three or fourbeccafichiand a turtle-dove seemed to be its entire contents.Silvio looked embarrassed, though he had felt that the priest's question must come. His embarrassment did not escape Don Agostino, who jumped at the somewhat hasty conclusion that either this young man must be hiding from creditors, or else that he must be wandering in unfrequented places with a mistress. In this latter case, however, Don Agostino thought it improbable that he would be out so early in the morning. It was, no doubt, a question of creditors. Young men went away from Montefiano when they could scrape up enough money to emigrate, but he had never known one to come there.Silvio's answer tended to confirm his suspicions concerning the creditors."I did not come to Montefiano for the sport, certainly," he said; "and, indeed, I am not living in Montefiano itself. I am staying at Civitacastellana for the moment.""Civitacastellana!" exclaimed Don Agostino. "Pardon my curiosity, my dear Signor Rossano, but how in the world do you occupy yourself at Civitacastellana—unless, indeed, you are an artist? It is a beautiful spot, certainly, with its neighboring ravines and its woods, but—well, after Rome you must find it quiet, decidedly quiet. And the inn—I know that inn. One feels older when one has passed a night there.""I cannot call myself an artist," said Silvio, laughing, "though I certainly draw a great deal. I am an engineer by profession, and Civitacastellana is—well, as you say, a very quiet place. Sometimes one likes a quiet place, after Rome.""Ah, yes, that is true," returned Don Agostino, thoughtfully. "I, too, have come to a quiet place after Rome, but then I have been in it more than ten years. I think the change loses its effect when one tries it for so long a time."Silvio glanced at him. He had at once realized that this was no ordinary village priest, scarcely, if at all removed from the peasant class. The quiet, educated voice, the polished Italian, the clear-cut, intellectual features, all told their own tale quickly enough. And this Don Lelli was an old friend of his father. Silvio was well aware that his father did not number very many priests among his friends, and that the few whom he did so number were distinguished for their wide learning and liberal views."You know Rome,reverendo?" he inquired, with some curiosity, though he knew well enough that he was talking to a Roman.Don Agostino smiled. "Yes," he replied, "I know Rome. That is to say," he added, "if anybody can assert that he knows Rome. It is a presumptuous assertion to make. Perhaps I should rather say that I know one or two features of Rome.""You no doubt studied there?""Yes, I studied there. I was also born there—like yourself, no doubt. We are bothRomani di Roma—one cannot mistake the accent.""And it was then you knew my father, of course," said Silvio."When I was a seminarist? No, some years after that period of my life. I knew your father when—well, when I was something more than I am now," concluded Don Agostino, with a slight smile."When you were a parish priest in the city?" asked Silvio."When I was at the Vatican," replied Don Agostino, quietly."At the Vatican!" Silvio exclaimed.Don Agostino laughed quietly. "Why not?" he returned. "You are thinking to yourself that members of the pontifical court are not usually sent to such places as Montefiano. Well, it is a long story, but your father will tell it you. He will not have forgotten it—I am quite sure of that."They had walked on together while they were talking, and presently emerged on the steep road leading up the hill to Montefiano. From this point Silvio could see the little town clustering against the face of the rock some mile or so above them, and the great, square castle of the Acorari dominating it."You have been to Montefiano?" Don Agostino asked his companion."Yes," answered Silvio, "several times. But," he added, "the Montefianesi do not seem very communicative to strangers."Don Agostino laughed. "They are unaccustomed to them," he said, dryly; "but they are good folk when once you know them. For the rest, there is not much for them to be communicative about.""Has the castle no history?""It has much the same history as all our mediæval and renaissance strongholds—that is to say, a mixture of savagery, splendor, and crime. But the Montefianesi would not be able to tell you much about it. I doubt if nine out of every ten of them have ever been inside it.""But it is inhabited now," said Silvio, quickly.Don Agostino glanced at him, struck by a sudden change in the tone of his companion's voice."Yes," he replied, "for the first time for many years. The princess and her step-daughter, Donna Bianca Acorari, are there at present.""You know them, of course,reverendo?""I have not that honor," replied Don Agostino. "My professional duties do not bring me into communication with them, except occasionally upon paper. But," he continued, "will you not come to my house? You can see it yonder—near the church, behind those chestnut-trees. It is getting late for your shooting, and I dare say you have walked enough. I have to say mass at six o'clock, but this morning I shall be late, for it is that now. Afterwards we will have some coffee and some eggs. We have both been occupied for the last few hours, though in different ways; and I, for one, need food."Silvio accepted the invitation with alacrity, and they proceeded to mount the long hill together."I thought," he observed, presently, "that you would certainly be acquainted with Princess Montefiano.""Are you acquainted with her?" asked Don Agostino, somewhat abruptly."No," replied Silvio, "except by sight. My father lives in Palazzo Acorari in Rome—we have the second floor."Don Agostino said nothing, and they walked on for some minutes in silence. The heat of the sun was by this time becoming considerable, and both of them felt that they would not be sorry to arrive at their journey's end. Twenty minutes more brought them to the little piazza in front of the church, and here Don Agostino paused."I must say the mass at once," he said; "the people will have been waiting half an hour or more. There," he added, "is the house. You can go through the garden and wait for me if you do not care to assist at the mass."Silvio, however, declared that he wished to be present, and Don Agostino led the way into the church. Half a dozen peasant women and one or two old men formed the congregation, and Silvio sat down on a bench near the altar, while Don Agostino disappeared into the sacristy to vest himself.The mass did not take long, and at its conclusion Don Agostino beckoned to his guest to follow him into the sacristy, whence a passage communicated with the house. By this time Don Agostino was fairly exhausted. He had eaten nothing since the evening before, and his long walk and sad vigil through the night had left him weary both in body and mind. His mass over, however, he was at liberty to eat and drink; and thecaffè e latte, fresh-laid eggs, and the rolls and butter his housekeeper had prepared were most acceptable. Even Silvio, who had already breakfasted on figs and bread, needed no pressing to breakfast a second time.The food and rest quickly revived his host's strength, and very soon Silvio could hardly believe that he was sitting at the table of a parish priest in the Sabina. Don Agostino proved himself to be a courteous and agreeable host. He talked with the easy assurance of one who was not only a man of God, but also a man of the world. Silvio found himself rapidly falling under the spell of an individuality which was evidently strong and yet attractive. As he sat listening to his host's conversation, he wondered ever more and more why such a man should have been sent by the authorities of the Church to live, as he had himself expressed it, among peasants and pigs in a Sabine town. He was scarcely conscious that Don Agostino, while talking pleasantly on all sorts of topics, had succeeded in quietly eliciting from him a considerable amount of information concerning himself, his profession, and, indeed, his personality generally. And yet, so it was. Monsignor Lelli had not occupied an official position in the Vatican for some years without learning the art of being able to extract more information than he gave.In this instance, however, Don Agostino's curiosity concerning his guest was largely due to the favorable impression Silvio's good looks and frank, straightforward manner had made upon him; as well as to the fact that he was the son of a man for whose learning he had a deep admiration, and with whom he had in former years been very intimate.The more he talked to Silvio, the more he felt his first impressions had not been wrong. He would have liked very much to know, all the same, why this handsome lad was wandering about the neighborhood of Montefiano. He shrewdly suspected that a few birds and a possible hare were not the true inducement; and that, unless he were hiding himself, this young Rossano must have some other game in view.The expression which had passed over Silvio's face on hearing that he was not acquainted with the owners of Montefiano had not escaped Don Agostino's notice. He had observed, moreover, that his young guest more than once brought the conversation round to Princess Montefiano, but that he never alluded to her step-daughter. Monsignor Lelli had been young himself—it seemed to him sometimes that this had happened not so very long ago—and he had not always been a priest. As he talked to Silvio Rossano, he thought of the days when he had been just such another young fellow—strong, enthusiastic, and certainly not ill-looking. Meeting the frank glance of Silvio's blue eyes, Don Agostino did not believe that their owner was hiding from anything or from anybody. He felt strangely drawn towards this chance acquaintance, the only educated human being, the only individual of his own class in life with whom he had interchanged a word for months—nay, for more, for it was now more than two years since some private business had taken him to Rome, where he had seen one or two of his old friends.Their light breakfast over, Silvio Rossano presently rose, and thanking the priest for his hospitality, was about to depart. Don Agostino, however, pressed him to remain."I do not have so many visitors," he said, with a smile, "that I can afford to lose one so quickly. You will give me great pleasure by staying as long as you can. It is hot now for walking, and if you are returning to Civitacastellana, you can do that just as well in the evening. I have a suggestion to make to you," he added, "which is, that we should smoke a cigar now, and afterwards I will have a room prepared for you, and you can rest tillmezzogiorno, when we will dine. When one has walked since dawn, a little rest is good; and as for me, I have been up all the night, so I have earned it."Silvio hesitated. "But I cannot inflict my company upon you for so long," he said. "You have been already too hospitable to me, Don Agostino."Don Agostino rose from the table, and, opening a drawer, produced some cigars. "I assure you," he replied, "that it is I who will be your debtor if you will remain. As I say, I seldom have a visitor, and it is a great pleasure to me to have made your acquaintance. I think, perhaps," he continued, looking at Silvio with a smile, "that it is an acquaintance which will become a friendship.""I hope so,monsignore," replied Silvio, heartily, "and I accept your invitation with pleasure.""That is well," returned Don Agostino; "but," he added, laughing, "at Montefiano there are nomonsignori. There is only theparroco—Don Agostino."
XV
On his arrival at the Villa Acorari, the Abbé Roux was at once ushered into Princess Montefiano's private sitting-room, where she was waiting him with evident anxiety. It was clear that something had occurred to upset and annoy her, and the abbé was at once convinced that, as he had suspected when he received her telegram, she had by some means discovered her step-daughter's secret.
He was scarcely prepared, however, for what had really happened.
That morning's post had brought the Princess Montefiano a letter from the Senator Rossano. To say that its contents had filled her with amazement would be but a meagre description of her feelings. It was a very short letter, but, like the learned senator's discourses, very much to the point, and couched in a terseness of language very unusual in Italian missives of so formal a character.
The professor briefly apologized for addressing the Princess Montefiano personally, without having the honor of knowing her otherwise than as a tenant in her house, but added that the personal nature of the matter he had to lay before her must be his excuse. He then proceeded, without any further circumlocution, to inform the princess that his only son, Silvio, had fallen desperately in love with her step-daughter, Donna Bianca Acorari; that his son had some reason to believe Donna Bianca might return his attachment were he permitted to address her; and finally, that he, the Senator Rossano, at his son's desire, begged to make a formal request that the latter should be allowed to plead his own cause with Donna Bianca. The princess had, not unnaturally, been petrified with astonishment on reading this letter, and her amazement had quickly been succeeded by indignation. The thing was absurd, and more than absurd; it was impertinent. Evidently this young man had seen Bianca going in and out of the Palazzo Acorari, and had imagined himself to have fallen in love with her—if, indeed, it was not simply a barefaced attempt to secure her money without love entering at all into the matter.
Her first impulse had been to send for Bianca and ask her what it all meant. On second thoughts, however, she decided not to mention the subject to her until she had consulted the Abbé Roux. If, as was probable, Bianca knew nothing about it, and the whole affair were only the silly action of a boy who had persuaded his father that he was desperately in love with a young girl upon whom he believed himself to have made an impression, it would be very imprudent to put any ideas of the kind into her head. No, the only wise course, the princess reflected, was to hear what Monsieur l'Abbé might advise, though naturally there could be but one answer to the Senator Rossano's letter. Indeed, she would not reply to it in person. Such an impertinence should be treated with silent contempt; or, if some answer had to be given, she would depute the abbé to interview these Rossanos.
The door had hardly closed behind the servant who showed him into the room when Princess Montefiano put the letter into the abbé's hands.
"Did you ever read anything so extraordinary in your life?" she asked him. "Yes, it was about this I telegraphed to beg you to come to me. It is an unheard-of impertinence, and I think the professor, senator—or whatever he might be—Rossano must be a fool, and not the clever man you say he is, or he would never have listened to this ridiculous son of his."
Princess Montefiano was evidently thoroughly angry, as, indeed, from her point of view, she had every right to be. The Abbé Roux read the letter through attentively. Then he coughed, arranged hissoutane, and read it through a second time.
"Well?" asked the princess, impatiently. "Are you not as much amazed as I am?"
The abbé hesitated for a moment. Then he said, quietly: "No, madame, I am not amazed at all."
The princess stared at him. "Not amazed at all?" she re-echoed. "But—"
"May I ask," he interrupted, "if you have spoken to Donna Bianca of this—this offer?"
"Offer!" exclaimed the princess, scornfully. "I do not call it an offer; I call it an insult—at least, it would be an insult if it were not a stupidity. No, I have not as yet mentioned the subject to Bianca. I thought I would wait until I had consulted with you. You see, Monsieur l'Abbé, it is a delicate matter to discuss with a young girl, because, if there is any love at all in the matter, it can only be a case of love at first sight on the part of this youth—and for love at first sight there is another name—"
The abbé smiled. "Exactly, madame," he said. "You are very wise not to mention the senator's letter to Donna Bianca. It would be better that she should never know it had been written. At the same time, if you read the letter carefully, you will observe that the young man believes his affection to be reciprocated."
The princess shrugged her shoulders. "The vanity of a youth who no doubt thinks himself irresistible," she observed. "How could it be reciprocated? I dare say he has seen Bianca driving, or, at the most, passed her on the staircase."
"I am inclined to think," said the abbé, "that he has more reason than this to believe Donna Bianca to be not indifferent to him."
Princess Montefiano started visibly.
"Mon Dieu, monsieur, what do you mean?" she exclaimed.
The Abbé Roux carefully refolded the letter, and, placing it in the envelope, returned it to her.
"Madame la Princesse," he said, after a pause, "the subject, as you observed just now, is a delicate one. I regret that I should be obliged to give you pain. Even had I not received your telegram, I should have felt it to be my duty to come to see you on this matter."
"You knew it, then?" asked the princess, more bewildered than ever.
"Yes, I knew it," replied the priest. "It came to my knowledge only three or four days since. I fear, madame, that Donna Bianca has given this young man every reason to feel himself justified in persuading his father to address this letter to you. That does not excuse his presumption—certainly not! But, as I say, it makes it more reasonable."
Princess Montefiano turned to him with some dignity. "Monsieur l'Abbé," she said, "are you aware what your words imply? You are speaking of my step-daughter, of Donna Bianca Acorari."
The Abbé Roux spread out his hands apologetically. "Alas, madame!" he replied, "I am fully aware of it. But I consider it to be my duty to speak to you of Donna Bianca. I think," he added, "that you have never had cause to complain of my failing in my duty towards Casa Acorari, or of any lack of discretion on my part, since you honored me with your confidence."
"That is true," said Princess Montefiano, hurriedly; "I ask your pardon, Monsieur l'Abbé. I am sure that whatever you may have to tell me is prompted by your sense of the confidence I repose in you. But, Bianca! I do not understand—"
"It is a very simple matter," interrupted the abbé. "A person of my acquaintance was an accidental witness of an interview between Donna Bianca and young Rossano—here in the grounds of the Villa Acorari—a few days ago. It appears that there can be no doubt it was a lover's interview, and probably not the first of its kind between these two young people."
The princess turned a horrified gaze upon him.
"And you call that a simple matter!" she exclaimed, so soon as she could find words.
The abbé shrugged his shoulders.
"Madame," he replied, "between two people who are young and good-looking, love is always a simple matter! It is in its results that complications arise."
"Monsieur l'Abbé!" exclaimed the princess.
"Precisely," he proceeded—"in its results. It is from these results that we must try to save Donna Bianca."
Princess Montefiano seemed as though she were about to give way to uncontrollable agitation.
"But it is impossible!" she cried. "Great God—it is impossible! Bianca is little more than a child still. You do not mean to suggest—what can I say? The thought is too horrible!"
The Abbé Roux rubbed his hands gently together. "We will trust things are not quite so serious as that," he said, slowly. "Indeed," he added, "I do not for a moment believe that they are so. Nevertheless, my informant declares that the interview between the two lovers was—well, of a very passionate nature. I fear, madame, you have been mistaken in looking upon Donna Bianca as merely a child."
The princess groaned. "That is what my brother has told me more than once of late," she said.
"He has said the same to me," remarked the abbé. "Monsieur your brother is, as one may say, a keen observer," he added.
"But what can we do?" exclaimed Princess Montefiano, almost hysterically. "Good Heavens!" she continued; "how thankful I am that I telegraphed to you! I can rely on your discretion, monsieur, as a friend—as a priest!"
"As both, madame," returned the abbé, bowing. "The situation is certainly a difficult one, and Donna Bianca, through her inexperience, has no doubt placed herself in an equivocal position. Unfortunately, the world never forgets an indiscretion committed by a young girl; and, as I have said, there was a witness to Donna Bianca's last interview with this young man. That is to say, this individual could hear, though he could not see, all that passed between them."
"Ah! And who is this individual?" asked the princess, hastily. "Is he a person whose silence can be bought?"
The Abbé Roux shook his head. "I am pledged not to reveal the name," he replied. "I must beg of you, madame, not to ask me to do so. As regards his silence, that is not to be bought—and even if it were, I should not advise such a course. It would be equivalent to admitting—well, that the worst construction could be placed on Donna Bianca's unfortunate actions."
"Good Heavens!" repeated the princess. "What can be done? What course can we pursue with that unhappy child? Ah! it is the mother's blood coming out in her, Monsieur l'Abbé."
The abbé thought that the paternal strain might also be taken into account; but he very naturally kept the reflection to himself.
"The responsibility is a terrible one for me," continued Princess Montefiano. "If anything happens to Bianca, if she were to make a bad marriage—and, still more, if there were to be any scandal about her, people would say I had neglected her because she was not my own child—"
"Yes, madame," interposed the abbé, quietly, "but there must be no bad marriage, and there must be no scandal. It will be my task to assist you in making both things impossible."
"Yes, but how? She has put herself in the power of these Rossanos. Probably the father is quite aware that the child has compromised herself with his son by the very fact of meeting him alone and secretly—otherwise he would not have ventured to write this letter. And then, there is this, other person—your informant. Do you not see, monsieur, that my step-daughter's good name is seriously compromised by being at the mercy of people like these Rossanos, who are not of our world? They would be quite capable of revenging themselves for my treating their proposal with the contempt it deserves by spreading some story about Bianca."
The abbé did not reply for a moment or two. "I do not think they will do that," he said, presently. "The senator is too well-known a man to care to place himself and his son in a false position. Though the story, if it became known, would certainly be injurious to Donna Bianca, it would not redound to the credit of the Rossanos. A young man with any sense of honor does not place an inexperienced girl in such an equivocal position. No—I should be much more afraid that, unless Donna Bianca is removed from all possibility of being again approached by the young Rossano, he will acquire such an influence over her that sooner or later he will oblige her to marry him."
"But it would be an absolutemésalliance!" exclaimed Princess Montefiano.
"Of course it would be amésalliance, from the worldly point of view," said the abbé. "It would also be a crime," he added.
"A crime!"
"Yes, certainly, madame. Would you give a young girl, for whose spiritual welfare you are responsible, to the son of Professor Rossano—a man whose blasphemous writings and discourses have perverted the minds and ruined the faith of half the youth of Italy? Why, Bruno was burned for hazarding opinions which were orthodox in comparison with the assertions made by Rossano on the authority of his miserable science!"
The princess shuddered. "Of course!" she replied. "I forgot for the moment whom we were discussing. No matter what might happen, I would never give my consent to Bianca's marriage with a free-thinker. I would rather see her dead, and a thousand times rather see her in a convent."
The Abbé Roux smiled. "Fortunately," he said, "there are other solutions. Donna Bianca has shown very clearly that she has no vocation for conventual life, and of the other we need not speak."
"I do not see the solutions you speak of," returned the princess, with a sigh.
"There is only one which presents itself to my mind as being not only simple, but absolutely necessary for the moment," said the abbé. "Donna Bianca," he continued, looking at the princess gravely, "must be removed where there can be no danger of her again seeing this young Rossano. She is young, and evidently impressionable, and in time she will forget him. It is to be hoped that he, too, will forget her. Do you recollect, madame, my telling you that for a young lady in Donna Bianca Acorari's position, anything that protected her against marrying before she attained years of discretion was an advantage?"
The princess nodded. "I do, indeed," she replied. "I see now how right you were. A young girl with the prospects Bianca has is always in danger of falling a prey to some fortune-hunter, such as, no doubt, this Rossano is."
"I hope," continued the abbé, "that my present advice to you will prove as sound as the advice I gave you then, and as advantageous to Donna Bianca's true interests. I, personally, am convinced that it will prove so—and I offer it as the only solution I can see to the problem with which we have to deal—I mean, madame, the problem of how to extricate Donna Bianca from the position in which she has been placed, without further difficulties arising. May I make my suggestion?" he added.
"Why, of course, Monsieur l'Abbé!" replied Princess Montefiano. "It is what I asked you here to do—to give me your assistance in this very painful matter.
"You must take Donna Bianca away from here, madame."
"Of course," said the princess; "I had already thought of that. But the question is, where can I take her? To return to Palazzo Acorari is impossible. She would be exposed to the probability of meeting this young man every day. I cannot turn the Rossanos out of their apartment, for, so far as I recollect, the lease has still two years to run. And if I take Bianca to some other town, or to some sea-side place, what is to prevent the young man from following us?"
"Very true," assented the Abbé Roux. "I also have thought of these difficulties," he added. "I have considered the matter well, and it seems to me that there is only one place in which Donna Bianca could satisfactorily be guarded from further annoyance."
"And where is that?"
"Her own castle at Montefiano."
"Montefiano?" the princess exclaimed. "But, Monsieur l'Abbé, Montefiano, as you well know, is practically deserted—abandoned. There is, I believe, no furniture in the house."
"The furniture could be sent there," said the abbé. "There could be no better place for Donna Bianca to remain for a few months, or until she has forgotten this youthful love-affair. It would not be easy for a stranger to obtain access to the castle at Montefiano without it being known—and, as you are aware, madame, the domain is of considerable extent. It would not be an imprisonment."
"I have only once been at Montefiano," said the princess, "and then only for the day. It struck me as being a very dreary place, except, perhaps, in the summer."
"The air is good," observed the abbé, a little dryly, "and, as I say, it has the advantage of being out of the way. My advice would be to take Donna Bianca there as soon as possible. In a week or ten days the rooms could be made quite comfortable, and servants could be sent from Rome. After all, there would be nothing strange in the fact of your having decided to spend a few weeks at Montefiano, especially at this season of the year."
"Perhaps you are right, monsieur," said the Princess Montefiano. "At any rate," she added, "I can think of no better plan for the moment. What distresses me now is that I do not know what to say to Bianca, or how to say it. I cannot let her think that I know nothing of what has happened—and I am still in the dark, Monsieur l'Abbé, as to—well, as to how much has happened."
The abbé pondered for a moment. "I should be inclined, madame, not to give Donna Bianca any definite reason for your visit to Montefiano. You can scarcely tell her your real object in taking her there without letting her know that young Rossano has made you a formal proposal for her hand. You must remember she is quite unaware that her meeting with him was observed, and she would, therefore, at once guess that you must have had some communication from the Rossano family."
The princess looked doubtful. From the Abbé Roux she would, to quote Shakespeare, "take suggestion as a cat laps milk." Nevertheless, to pretend to Bianca that she was in complete ignorance of her conduct seemed to be derogatory to her own position as the girl's step-mother and guardian.
"I must certainly speak to Bianca sooner or later," she began.
"Then, madame," said the abbé, "let it be later, I beg of you. There will be time enough when you are at Montefiano to explain to Donna Bianca your reasons for your actions. If you go into the subject with her now she may communicate with her lover, and warn him that she is being taken to Montefiano. When she is once safely there, it will not matter. It will, of course, be known that you are residing at Montefiano, but Montefiano is not Villa Acorari. A convent itself could not be a more secure retreat."
"Well," returned the princess, "perhaps you are right. But I must say I do not like the idea of meeting Bianca as if nothing at all had happened. It appears to me to be scarcely—scarcely honorable on my part, and to be encouraging her in maintaining a deception towards me."
"Chère madame," said the Abbé Roux, blandly, "I fully understand your scruples, and they do you credit. But we must remember the end we have in view. This absurd love-affair between a boy and a girl—for it is, after all, nothing more serious—must be put an end to in such a way as to preserve Donna Bianca Acorari's name from any breath of scandal."
"Then," replied Princess Montefiano, "you advise me to say nothing to Bianca at present."
"At present I should say nothing. There is one thing, however, that you should do, madame—a necessary precaution against any further communication passing between Donna Bianca and young Rossano. I believe that Mademoiselle Durand continues giving Donna Bianca lessons, does she not? I think you told me that she was at Albano, and that you had arranged for her to come here two or three days weekly."
"Ah!" exclaimed Princess Montefiano, "Mademoiselle Durand! Do you mean to say that she has been the go-between in this affair?"
"I know nothing for certain," replied the abbé, "but I have been told that young Rossano and she are on intimate terms—that they walk together in Rome—"
"A respectable company, truly, for my step-daughter to find herself in!" said Princess Montefiano—"a professor's son and a daily governess!"
The Abbé Roux sighed. "I fear," he said, "that this woman has played a very mischievous part, but I cannot be certain. It would be as well, perhaps, not to give her any explanations, but merely to inform her that you no longer require her for Donna Bianca. All these details, madame," he added, "you will learn later on, no doubt, from Donna Bianca herself. But for the moment, believe me, the less said to any one on the subject, the better."
"Yes, yes, I quite see that you are right, Monsieur l'Abbé," said the princess, hurriedly. "Your advice is always sound, and whenever I have not taken it I have always regretted the fact. There is one person, however, to whom I must give some explanation of my sudden move to Montefiano, and that is my brother. He was coming to spend a fortnight or so here."
"Ah, Monsieur le Baron," observed the Abbé Roux. "No, there would, of course, be no objection in your confiding in Monsieur le Baron. Indeed, it would be but natural to do so."
"Exactly," returned Princess Montefiano. "My brother is, after all, the child's uncle, so to speak."
The abbé smiled. "Scarcely, madame," he replied; "there is not the slightest connection between them."
"Of course not, really," the princess said, "but a kind of relationship through me."
"I think," observed the abbé, hesitatingly—"it has seemed to me that monsieur your brother takes a great interest in Donna Bianca. He has certainly been very quick to discern things in her which have escaped the notice of others."
Princess Montefiano directed a quick glance at him, and then she looked away.
"I am afraid," proceeded the priest, "that this affair will be quite a blow to him; yes, indeed, quite a blow. Monsieur le Baron, after all, is a comparatively young man, and—"
He hesitated again, and then stopped abruptly.
The princess glanced at him nervously.
"It is strange that you should say this, Monsieur l'Abbé," she said. "I have, I confess, sometimes thought, sometimes wondered— Ah, but certain things cross one's mind occasionally which are better left unspoken!"
The Abbé Roux looked at her. "We may leave our present thoughts unspoken, Madame la Princesse," he said, with a smile. "I imagine," he continued, "that the same idea has struck both of us. Well, supposing such a thing to be the case, what then? There is nothing unnatural in the situation—nothing at all. A disparity of age, very likely; but, again, what is disparity of age? An idea—a sentiment. A man who has arrived at the years of Monsieur le Baron may be said to have gained his experience—to have had timede se ranger. Such husbands are often more satisfactory than younger men."
The princess checked him with a gesture.
"But it is an imagination!" she exclaimed—"a mere idea. I confess I have once or twice thought that my brother looked at Bianca in—in rather a peculiar way, you know—as if he admired her very much; and, yes, I have even made an excuse sometimes to send Bianca out of the room when he was calling on me. I did not think she should be exposed to anything which might put ideas into her head."
"It appears to me, madame, that your precautions were unnecessary," said the Abbé Roux, dryly. "The ideas, as we now know, were already there."
"Alas, yes!" sighed the princess. "But," she added, "do you really think that there can be anything in it, Monsieur l'Abbé? It seems too strange—too unnatural, I was about to say; but that would not be quite true, as you pointed out just now."
The Abbé Roux made a gesture with outspread hands.
"Madame," he said, "I know as much as you do of what may be in monsieur your brother's mind. It is probable, however, that he has some thoughts of the kind concerning Donna Bianca, or we should not both have suspected their existence. Does the idea shock you so much?" he added, suddenly.
"Yes—no," returned Princess Montefiano, confusedly. "I can hardly tell. Do not let us talk any more about it, Monsieur l'Abbé—not, at all events, at present. We have so much else to occupy our thoughts. Of course, I must let my brother know what has happened, and explain to him that I shall not be able to receive him here."
"Of course," assented the Abbé Roux. "I have no doubt," he added, "that Monsieur le Baron will be quite as pleased to pay his visit to you at Montefiano."
The princess apparently did not hear him. She stooped and picked up Professor Rossano's letter, which had fallen from her lap onto the floor.
"And this?" she asked, holding the missive out to the abbé. "What reply am I to send to this—if, indeed, any reply is necessary?"
"There is only one reply to make; namely, that the proposal cannot be entertained either now or at any future time," replied the abbé. "It is not necessary to enter into any explanations," he continued.
And, after discussing for some time longer with the princess the necessary arrangements to be made for moving to Montefiano with as little delay as possible, the Abbé Roux took his leave and returned by an afternoon train to Rome.
XVI
"I told you how it would be, Silvio," Giacinta Rossano said to her brother. "I don't see what else you could have expected."
"I did not expect anything else," returned Silvio, placidly. "At all events," he added, "we now know where we are."
Giacinta laughed dryly. "Do you?" she asked. "It appears to me that you are—nowhere! Nothing could be more explicit than Princess Montefiano's reply to Babbo's letter—and nothing could be more marked than the brief way she dismisses your proposals. I can assure you that Babbo is very much annoyed. I do not think I have ever seen him so annoyed about anything—unless it was when a servant we had last season lighted the fire with some proof-sheets he had left lying on the floor."
"It is not the slightest use his being annoyed," said Silvio.
"At least you must admit that it is not a pleasant position for a father to be placed in," observed Giacinta. "He told me this morning, Silvio," she added, "that nothing could induce him to do anything more in the matter. He says you have had your answer, and that the best thing you can do is to try to forget all that has happened. After all, there are plenty of other girls to choose from. Why need you make your life unhappy because these Acorari will not have anything to say to you?"
"Princess Montefiano is not an Acorari," replied Silvio, obstinately. "There is only one Acorari concerned in the matter, and she has everything to say to me!"
Giacinta sighed. She knew by experience that it was of no use to argue with this headstrong brother of hers when once an idea was fixed in his mind.
"May one ask what you propose to do next?" she inquired, after a pause. "Your communications in the shape of Mademoiselle Durand having been cut, and Villa Acorari no doubt probably watched and guarded, I do not see how you are going to approach Donna Bianca in the future. At any rate, you mustn't count upon Babbo doing anything, Silvio, for he told me to-day he did not wish to hear the subject mentioned any more. You know what he is about anything disagreeable—how he simply ignores its existence."
Silvio Rossano smiled. "I know well," he replied. "It is not a bad plan, that of simply brushing a disagreeable thing to one side. But few people are able to carry it out so consistently as Babbo does. In this case, Giacinta, it is the best thing he can do. There is nothing to be said or done, for the moment. When there is, you will see that Bianca and I will manage it. It is certainly a bore about Mademoiselle Durand having been told to discontinue giving her lessons at Villa Acorari."
Giacinta shrugged her shoulders. "Considering the subject chosen for instruction, it is not to be wondered at if the princess thought they had better cease," she remarked, dryly.
Silvio smiled. Knowing that Bianca Acorari loved him, nothing seemed to matter very much. It had been the uncertainty whether she had observed and understood his passion for her, and the longing to be sure that, if so, it had awakened in her some response, which had seemed so difficult to insure.
"Luckily," he said, "the princess played her card a day or two too late. Bianca had my letter, and Mademoiselle Durand brought me back her answer to it."
"Ah!" exclaimed Giacinta, "you never told me that you had corresponded with each other since you met."
"I don't think you and I have discussed the subject since I told you of our meeting," said Silvio. "I told Babbo."
"What did he say?"
"He said I was an imbecile—no, a pumpkin-head," answered Silvio, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "Also, he said I was like a donkey in the month of May, and that he did not wish to hear any more asinine love-songs—and, oh, several other observations of the kind."
"His opinion is generally looked upon as being a very good one," observed Giacinta, tranquilly.
Silvio laughed outright. Giacinta's satirical remarks always amused him, even when they were made at his expense. "It is certainly a misfortune that Mademoiselle Durand is no longer to go to Villa Acorari," he said. "I must say," he added, "she has proved herself to be a most loyal friend—and an entirely disinterested one, too."
Giacinta glanced at him. "I suppose," she said, "that Mademoiselle Durand likes a little romance. I believe most single women who are over thirty and under fifty do."
"I suppose so," observed Silvio, carelessly. "She seemed quite upset when she told me of the note she had received from Princess Montefiano. I thought, of course, that she felt she had lost an engagement."
"But did the princess give a reason for dispensing with her services?" asked Giacinta.
"No. The note merely said that as Donna Bianca's studies would not be continued, there was no necessity for Mademoiselle Durand to come any more to Villa Acorari. The princess enclosed money for the lessons given—and that was all. But, of course, Giacinta," continued Silvio, "I felt that Mademoiselle Durand had lost her engagement through befriending me. Though the princess for some reason did not allude to anything of the kind, I am sure she must know, or suspect, the part Mademoiselle Durand has played."
"I should think so, undoubtedly," remarked Giacinta.
"And naturally," Silvio proceeded, "I felt very uncomfortable about it. I did not quite know what to do, and I offered—"
"Yes?" said his sister, as he paused, hesitatingly.
"Well, Giacinta, you see, she had probably lost money through me, so I offered to—to make her loss good, so to say."
"And then?"
"Oh, and then she was very angry, and said that I insulted her. After that she cried. One does not like to see grown-up people cry; it is very unpleasant. She said that I did not understand; that what she had done was out of mere friendship and sympathy—for me and for Bianca. I knew she had grown attached to Bianca, Giacinta; she had told me so once before. After all, nobody who saw much of Bianca could help being fond of her."
Giacinta looked at him for a moment or two without speaking.
"I am not surprised that she was angry," she said, at length. "As to her being attached to Donna Bianca—well, it appears that even people who have not seen much of her become attached to that girl. It is a gift, I suppose. But all this does not tell me what you mean to do, now you can no longer employ Mademoiselle Durand to fetch and carry for you."
"We mean to wait," said Silvio, quietly. "Bianca and I are quite agreed as to that. Three years are soon over, and then, if she still chooses to marry me, neither the princess nor anybody else can prevent her. It is the best way, Giacinta, for it leaves her free, and then none can say that I took advantage of her inexperience."
"And in the mean time, if they marry her to somebody else?"
"But they will not. They cannot force her to marry. If they tried to do so, then we would not wait three years, nor even three weeks."
"But you might know nothing about it, Silvio," said Giacinta. "And they might tell her you had given her up, or that you were in love with some one else—anything, in fact, to make her think no more about you."
Silvio smiled. "You are full of objections," he said; "but you need not be uneasy. It is true that we no longer have Mademoiselle Durand to depend upon, but we shall find other means of communicating with each other. After all, shall we not be under the same roof here all the winter and spring? The princess will not remain at the Villa Acorari forever. No—if there should be any pressure put upon Bianca to make her give me up against her will I shall very soon know it. We are agreed on all those points. If the princess keeps quiet, we shall keep quiet also. She has a perfect right to refuse her consent to Bianca marrying me—for the present. But in course of time that right will no longer hold good. While it does, however, Bianca and I have agreed to respect it, unless, in order to protect ourselves, we are forced to set it at defiance, get some priest to marry us, and delay the legal marriage till afterwards. This is what I have explained to Babbo—and he calls it the braying of donkeys in May. Well, at least the donkeys know what one another mean, which, after all, is something gained—from their point of view!"
Giacinta laughed, and then became suddenly grave again.
"Well, Silviomio," she replied, "you seem to have settled everything in your own mind, and I only hope it will all be as easy as you think. So much depends on the girl herself. If you are sure of her, then, as you say, three years soon pass. In the mean time, if I were you, I would watch very carefully. As I have told you before, for some reason which we know nothing of, it is not intended that the girl should marry; and when I say they might marry her to somebody else, I do not believe it."
Silvio shrugged his shoulders. "All the better for me," he observed; and Giacinta, with a slight gesture of impatience, was about to reply, when the professor entered the room.
XVII
Thesollionehad ran his course. Already the vines on the slopes below Montefiano were showing patches of ruddy gold among their foliage, and the grapes were beginning to color, sometimes a glossy purple, sometimes clearest amber. Figs and peaches were ripe on the fruit trees rising from among the vines, and here and there tall, yellow spikes of Indian-corn rattled as the summer breeze passed over them.
Solitary figures prowled about the vineyard with guns—no brigands, but merely local sportsmen lying in wait for the daintybeccafichiwhich visit the fig-trees at this season and slit open the ripest figs with their bills. In the evening a half-dozen of the plump little brown-and-white birds will make a succulent addition to the dish ofpolentaon which they will repose. Perhaps, if fortune favor, a turtle-dove, or even a partridge, may find its way into the oven for the sportsman's evening meal. In the mean time, a few purple figs, from which the sun has scarcely kissed away the chill of the night dew, a hunch of brown bread and a draught of white wine from a flask left in the shade and covered with cool, green vine leaves, form a breakfast not to be despised by one who has been out with his gun since the dawn was spreading over the Sabine hills and the mists were rolling back before it across the Roman Campagna to the sea.
Who that has not wandered through her vineyards and forests, among her mountains and by the side of her waters in the early hours of a summer dawn, or the late hours of a summer night, knows the beauty of Italy? Then the old gods live again and walk the earth, and nature triumphs. The air is alive with strange whisperings: the banks and the hedgerows speak to those who have ears to hear—of things that lie hidden and numbed during the hot glare of the day.
The gray shadows lying over thecampagnawere fast dissolving before a light that seemed to change almost imperceptibly from silver into gold, as the first rays of the rising sun stole over the Sabine mountains. Across the plain, the summit of Soracte was already bathed in light, while its base yet lay invisible, wreathed in the retreating mists. The air was fresh with the scent of vines and fig-trees, and long threads of gossamer, sparkling with a million dew-drops, hung from grassy banks rising above a narrow pathway between the terraces of the vineyards.
A black figure suddenly appeared round an angle of the winding path. Don Agostino Lelli, his cassock brushing the blossoms of wild geranium and purple mallow as he passed, was making his way in the dawn of the summer morning back to Montefiano. He had been sitting through the night with a dying man—a young fellow whom an accident with a loaded wagon had mortally injured. The end had come an hour or two before the dawn, and Don Agostino had speeded the parting soul with simple human words of hope and comfort, which had brought a peace and a trust that all the rites enjoined by the Church had failed to do. Perhaps he was thinking of the failure, and wondering why sympathy and faith in the goodness of God had seemed to be of more avail at the death-bed he had just left than ceremonies and sacraments.
His refined, intellectual countenance wore a very thoughtful expression as he walked leisurely through the vineyards. It was not an anxious nor an unhappy expression, but rather that of a man trying to think out the solution of an interesting problem. As a matter of fact, he had been brought face to face with a problem, and it was not the first time he had been confronted by it.
He had, as in duty bound, administered the last sacrament of the Church to a dying man who had made due confession to him. But he had known perfectly well in his own mind that those sacraments had been regarded by his penitent as little else than a formality to be observed under the circumstances. He knew that if he had asked that lad when he was in health whether he honestly believed thesantissimoto be what he had been told it was, the answer would not have been satisfactory to a priest to hear. He had asked the question that night, and two words had been whispered back to him in reply—"Chi sa?"
They were very simple words, but Don Agostino felt that they contained a truth which could not be displeasing to the God of Truth. Moreover, he honored the courage of the lad more than he did that of many who dared not confess inability to believe what reason refused to admit.
"Who knows?" he had said to himself, half-smiling, repeating the young fellow's answer. And then he had added aloud, "You will know very soon—better than any of us. Until then, only trust. God will teach you the rest."
Afterwards, answered by the look on the dying lad's face, he had given the sacrament.
And now Don Agostino was walking homeward in the peaceful summer dawn, and if there was pity in his heart for the strong young life suddenly taken away from the beautiful world around him, there was also some joy. Even now the veil was lifted, and the boy—knew. Perhaps the simple, human understanding, which could have no place in theology, had not led him so far astray, and had already found favor in the eyes of Him who gave it.
And Don Agostino looked at the landscape around him, waking up to a new day and laughing in the first rays of a risen sun. As he looked he crossed himself, and the lad who had been summoned from all this beauty was followed to his new home by a prayer.
Suddenly Don Agostino's meditations were interrupted by the report of a gun fired some yards in front of him, immediately succeeded by a pattering of spent shot among the leaves on the bank above him. He called out quickly, in order to warn the unseencacciatoreof his propinquity; for there was a sharp bend in the pathway immediately ahead of him, and he by no means wished to receive the contents of a second barrel as he turned it. A reassuring shout answered him, and he quickened his pace until, after turning the corner, a brown setter came up and sniffed at him amicably, while its owner appeared among the vines close by.
Don Agostino lifted his hat in response to the sportsman's salutation and regrets at having startled him.
"I was safe enough where I was,signore," he said, smiling; "but it was as well to warn you that there was somebody on the path. I did not wish to be taken for a crow," he added, with a downward glance at hissoutane.
Thecacciatorelaughed. "Your reverence would have been even safer as a crow," he replied; "but indeed there was no danger. I was firing well above the path at a turtledove, which I missed badly. But it is better to miss than to wound."
Don Agostino looked at the speaker, and there was approval in his glance, either of the sentiment or of the appearance of the sportsman—perhaps of both.
"Sicuro," he replied, "it is better to miss than to wound. For my part, I should prefer always to miss; but then I am not a sportsman, as you see. All the same, I am glad youcacciatorido not always miss—from the point of view of the stomach, you know. Thesignoreis from Rome, I conclude?"
The other hesitated for a moment.
"From Rome—yes," he replied,
Don Agostino glanced at him again, and thought how good-looking the young man was. A gentleman, evidently, by his manner and bearing—but a stranger, for he had certainly never seen him in Montefiano.
"I," he said, "am theparrocoof Montefiano—Agostino Lelli,per servirla."
The youngcacciatorestarted slightly, and then he hesitated again. Courtesy necessitated his giving his own name in return.
"And I,reverendo," he replied, after a slight pause, "am Silvio Rossano, of Rome."
Don Agostino looked surprised.
"Rossano?" he said. "A relative, perhaps, of the Senator Rossano?"
"My father," replied Silvio. "Your reverence knows him?"
"Altrocchè!" exclaimed Don Agostino, holding out his hand. "Your father is an old friend—one of my oldest friends in days gone by. But I have not seen anything of him for years.Che vuole! When one lives at Montefiano one does not see illustrious professors. One sees peasants—and pigs. Not but what there are things to be learned from both of them. And so you are the son of Professor Rossano? But you have not come to Montefiano for sport—no? There is not much game about here, as no doubt you have already discovered."
He glanced at Silvio's game-bag as he spoke. Three or fourbeccafichiand a turtle-dove seemed to be its entire contents.
Silvio looked embarrassed, though he had felt that the priest's question must come. His embarrassment did not escape Don Agostino, who jumped at the somewhat hasty conclusion that either this young man must be hiding from creditors, or else that he must be wandering in unfrequented places with a mistress. In this latter case, however, Don Agostino thought it improbable that he would be out so early in the morning. It was, no doubt, a question of creditors. Young men went away from Montefiano when they could scrape up enough money to emigrate, but he had never known one to come there.
Silvio's answer tended to confirm his suspicions concerning the creditors.
"I did not come to Montefiano for the sport, certainly," he said; "and, indeed, I am not living in Montefiano itself. I am staying at Civitacastellana for the moment."
"Civitacastellana!" exclaimed Don Agostino. "Pardon my curiosity, my dear Signor Rossano, but how in the world do you occupy yourself at Civitacastellana—unless, indeed, you are an artist? It is a beautiful spot, certainly, with its neighboring ravines and its woods, but—well, after Rome you must find it quiet, decidedly quiet. And the inn—I know that inn. One feels older when one has passed a night there."
"I cannot call myself an artist," said Silvio, laughing, "though I certainly draw a great deal. I am an engineer by profession, and Civitacastellana is—well, as you say, a very quiet place. Sometimes one likes a quiet place, after Rome."
"Ah, yes, that is true," returned Don Agostino, thoughtfully. "I, too, have come to a quiet place after Rome, but then I have been in it more than ten years. I think the change loses its effect when one tries it for so long a time."
Silvio glanced at him. He had at once realized that this was no ordinary village priest, scarcely, if at all removed from the peasant class. The quiet, educated voice, the polished Italian, the clear-cut, intellectual features, all told their own tale quickly enough. And this Don Lelli was an old friend of his father. Silvio was well aware that his father did not number very many priests among his friends, and that the few whom he did so number were distinguished for their wide learning and liberal views.
"You know Rome,reverendo?" he inquired, with some curiosity, though he knew well enough that he was talking to a Roman.
Don Agostino smiled. "Yes," he replied, "I know Rome. That is to say," he added, "if anybody can assert that he knows Rome. It is a presumptuous assertion to make. Perhaps I should rather say that I know one or two features of Rome."
"You no doubt studied there?"
"Yes, I studied there. I was also born there—like yourself, no doubt. We are bothRomani di Roma—one cannot mistake the accent."
"And it was then you knew my father, of course," said Silvio.
"When I was a seminarist? No, some years after that period of my life. I knew your father when—well, when I was something more than I am now," concluded Don Agostino, with a slight smile.
"When you were a parish priest in the city?" asked Silvio.
"When I was at the Vatican," replied Don Agostino, quietly.
"At the Vatican!" Silvio exclaimed.
Don Agostino laughed quietly. "Why not?" he returned. "You are thinking to yourself that members of the pontifical court are not usually sent to such places as Montefiano. Well, it is a long story, but your father will tell it you. He will not have forgotten it—I am quite sure of that."
They had walked on together while they were talking, and presently emerged on the steep road leading up the hill to Montefiano. From this point Silvio could see the little town clustering against the face of the rock some mile or so above them, and the great, square castle of the Acorari dominating it.
"You have been to Montefiano?" Don Agostino asked his companion.
"Yes," answered Silvio, "several times. But," he added, "the Montefianesi do not seem very communicative to strangers."
Don Agostino laughed. "They are unaccustomed to them," he said, dryly; "but they are good folk when once you know them. For the rest, there is not much for them to be communicative about."
"Has the castle no history?"
"It has much the same history as all our mediæval and renaissance strongholds—that is to say, a mixture of savagery, splendor, and crime. But the Montefianesi would not be able to tell you much about it. I doubt if nine out of every ten of them have ever been inside it."
"But it is inhabited now," said Silvio, quickly.
Don Agostino glanced at him, struck by a sudden change in the tone of his companion's voice.
"Yes," he replied, "for the first time for many years. The princess and her step-daughter, Donna Bianca Acorari, are there at present."
"You know them, of course,reverendo?"
"I have not that honor," replied Don Agostino. "My professional duties do not bring me into communication with them, except occasionally upon paper. But," he continued, "will you not come to my house? You can see it yonder—near the church, behind those chestnut-trees. It is getting late for your shooting, and I dare say you have walked enough. I have to say mass at six o'clock, but this morning I shall be late, for it is that now. Afterwards we will have some coffee and some eggs. We have both been occupied for the last few hours, though in different ways; and I, for one, need food."
Silvio accepted the invitation with alacrity, and they proceeded to mount the long hill together.
"I thought," he observed, presently, "that you would certainly be acquainted with Princess Montefiano."
"Are you acquainted with her?" asked Don Agostino, somewhat abruptly.
"No," replied Silvio, "except by sight. My father lives in Palazzo Acorari in Rome—we have the second floor."
Don Agostino said nothing, and they walked on for some minutes in silence. The heat of the sun was by this time becoming considerable, and both of them felt that they would not be sorry to arrive at their journey's end. Twenty minutes more brought them to the little piazza in front of the church, and here Don Agostino paused.
"I must say the mass at once," he said; "the people will have been waiting half an hour or more. There," he added, "is the house. You can go through the garden and wait for me if you do not care to assist at the mass."
Silvio, however, declared that he wished to be present, and Don Agostino led the way into the church. Half a dozen peasant women and one or two old men formed the congregation, and Silvio sat down on a bench near the altar, while Don Agostino disappeared into the sacristy to vest himself.
The mass did not take long, and at its conclusion Don Agostino beckoned to his guest to follow him into the sacristy, whence a passage communicated with the house. By this time Don Agostino was fairly exhausted. He had eaten nothing since the evening before, and his long walk and sad vigil through the night had left him weary both in body and mind. His mass over, however, he was at liberty to eat and drink; and thecaffè e latte, fresh-laid eggs, and the rolls and butter his housekeeper had prepared were most acceptable. Even Silvio, who had already breakfasted on figs and bread, needed no pressing to breakfast a second time.
The food and rest quickly revived his host's strength, and very soon Silvio could hardly believe that he was sitting at the table of a parish priest in the Sabina. Don Agostino proved himself to be a courteous and agreeable host. He talked with the easy assurance of one who was not only a man of God, but also a man of the world. Silvio found himself rapidly falling under the spell of an individuality which was evidently strong and yet attractive. As he sat listening to his host's conversation, he wondered ever more and more why such a man should have been sent by the authorities of the Church to live, as he had himself expressed it, among peasants and pigs in a Sabine town. He was scarcely conscious that Don Agostino, while talking pleasantly on all sorts of topics, had succeeded in quietly eliciting from him a considerable amount of information concerning himself, his profession, and, indeed, his personality generally. And yet, so it was. Monsignor Lelli had not occupied an official position in the Vatican for some years without learning the art of being able to extract more information than he gave.
In this instance, however, Don Agostino's curiosity concerning his guest was largely due to the favorable impression Silvio's good looks and frank, straightforward manner had made upon him; as well as to the fact that he was the son of a man for whose learning he had a deep admiration, and with whom he had in former years been very intimate.
The more he talked to Silvio, the more he felt his first impressions had not been wrong. He would have liked very much to know, all the same, why this handsome lad was wandering about the neighborhood of Montefiano. He shrewdly suspected that a few birds and a possible hare were not the true inducement; and that, unless he were hiding himself, this young Rossano must have some other game in view.
The expression which had passed over Silvio's face on hearing that he was not acquainted with the owners of Montefiano had not escaped Don Agostino's notice. He had observed, moreover, that his young guest more than once brought the conversation round to Princess Montefiano, but that he never alluded to her step-daughter. Monsignor Lelli had been young himself—it seemed to him sometimes that this had happened not so very long ago—and he had not always been a priest. As he talked to Silvio Rossano, he thought of the days when he had been just such another young fellow—strong, enthusiastic, and certainly not ill-looking. Meeting the frank glance of Silvio's blue eyes, Don Agostino did not believe that their owner was hiding from anything or from anybody. He felt strangely drawn towards this chance acquaintance, the only educated human being, the only individual of his own class in life with whom he had interchanged a word for months—nay, for more, for it was now more than two years since some private business had taken him to Rome, where he had seen one or two of his old friends.
Their light breakfast over, Silvio Rossano presently rose, and thanking the priest for his hospitality, was about to depart. Don Agostino, however, pressed him to remain.
"I do not have so many visitors," he said, with a smile, "that I can afford to lose one so quickly. You will give me great pleasure by staying as long as you can. It is hot now for walking, and if you are returning to Civitacastellana, you can do that just as well in the evening. I have a suggestion to make to you," he added, "which is, that we should smoke a cigar now, and afterwards I will have a room prepared for you, and you can rest tillmezzogiorno, when we will dine. When one has walked since dawn, a little rest is good; and as for me, I have been up all the night, so I have earned it."
Silvio hesitated. "But I cannot inflict my company upon you for so long," he said. "You have been already too hospitable to me, Don Agostino."
Don Agostino rose from the table, and, opening a drawer, produced some cigars. "I assure you," he replied, "that it is I who will be your debtor if you will remain. As I say, I seldom have a visitor, and it is a great pleasure to me to have made your acquaintance. I think, perhaps," he continued, looking at Silvio with a smile, "that it is an acquaintance which will become a friendship."
"I hope so,monsignore," replied Silvio, heartily, "and I accept your invitation with pleasure."
"That is well," returned Don Agostino; "but," he added, laughing, "at Montefiano there are nomonsignori. There is only theparroco—Don Agostino."