XXIIAfter leaving her step-mother, Bianca went to her own room, where she shut herself up in order to be able to think quietly. Although she felt that she had been by no means the vanquished party in the unexpected skirmish which had just taken place, she was far more ill at ease in her own mind than she had allowed herself to show to the princess. Whatever might be Bianca Acorari's faults, lack of courage, moral or physical, was certainly not among them; and during the time she had been at Montefiano, her courage and her pride combined had forbidden her to show any external sign of the doubt and uncertainty ever increasing in her heart as the days lengthened into weeks, and yet no word from Silvio Rossano had reached her.That Silvio's father had written to her step-mother making a formal proposal of marriage on his son's behalf, and that this proposal had been indignantly rejected by the princess, Bianca was already well aware. Monsieur d'Antin had informed her of the fact a very few days after his arrival at Montefiano. It had been this information, indeed, and the kindly and sympathetic manner of its conveyance, that had caused Bianca to regard Monsieur d'Antin as the one person about her to whom she might venture to confide her hopes and difficulties. It had not been long, however, before vague and fleeting suspicions, which she had at first dismissed from her mind as not only absurd, but almost wrong to entertain, as to Monsieur d'Antin's motives for seeking her society, developed into certainties, before which she had recoiled with fear and disgust. Her instinct had very soon told her that there was more in her uncle's—for she had begun to regard him in that relationship—manner towards her than was justified by his professed compassion and sympathy. Sometimes, when alone with her, he had made certain observations which, although apparently in connection with her and Silvio's love for each other, had offended her sense, if not of modesty, at least of propriety and good taste. She could hardly explain to herself why they should have done so, but she was conscious that they did do so. Sometimes, too, she had surprised an expression on Monsieur d'Antin's countenance as he looked at her which had made her shrink from him, as she might have shrunk from some evil thing that meant to harm her. Her suspicions once aroused, Bianca had been quick to perceive that the more she was alone with Monsieur d'Antin, the more apt he became to assume a manner towards her which caused her no little embarrassment as well as distaste. The result had been an ever-growing feeling of distrust, which soon made her regret bitterly that she had ever allowed herself to talk to her uncle about Silvio, and latterly she had sought every pretext to avoid being alone with him. Sometimes, too, she reproached herself deeply for having disregarded her promise to Silvio that she would confide in nobody until he had an opportunity of again communicating with her. This promise, however, as she repeatedly told herself, had been given when they had still a channel of communication in the person of Mademoiselle Durand, and before she had become, to all intents and purposes, a prisoner at Montefiano. But now Mademoiselle Durand had utterly vanished from the scene—gone, as Monsieur d'Antin informed her, to Paris with the wife and children of a secretary of the French embassy in Rome, and Bianca had quickly realized that no communication, direct or indirect, from her lover would be allowed to reach her as long as she was within the walls of Montefiano.Monsieur d'Antin, moreover, had certainly played the opening moves of his game very well, and a more experienced person than Bianca might have been deceived by them. He had extracted her confidence by impressing upon Bianca that he, and he alone, could by degrees overcome the objections that his sister entertained to an alliance with the Rossano family. He had explained to her how these objections came in reality much more from the Abbé Roux than from the princess, and that the latter would infallibly relent if the abbé's good-will could be secured. It had been Monsieur d'Antin, too, who had warned Bianca that her step-mother had decided, always by the Abbé Roux's advice, absolutely to ignore, at any rate for the present, the fact of her having met Silvio and allowed him to propose to her. He had carefully impressed upon her that any attempt on her part to overcome the princess's objections, any allusion, indeed, to the subject, would only result in failure; and that Bianca's best plan, in her own and her lover's interests, would be to maintain an absolute silence, except, of course, to himself. No questions, he told her, would be asked her by her step-mother, and no lectures on her conduct given to her. Therefore, there would be no need for her to give her confidence in a quarter where it was not demanded, and where the giving of it could only prejudice her cause. And everything had happened as Monsieur d'Antin had foretold. The princess had not made the slightest allusion to her step-daughter regarding the meeting in the grounds of the Villa Acorari, and, save for the sense of being continually guarded and watched, Bianca could not truthfully say to herself that her life at Montefiano differed in any particular degree from the life she had been accustomed from childhood to lead.At first, when Bianca had finally decided to yield to her uncle's suggestions and confide in him, she had more than once asked him to assist her in sending or in receiving some communication from Silvio. But Monsieur d'Antin had always declared this to be impossible. He had explained plausibly enough that if his sister and the Abbé Roux were once to suspect him of such a course, all the influence he might be able to use with them in order to overcome their objections would be hopelessly destroyed. Moreover, his sister would certainly ask him to leave Montefiano, and then Bianca would be left without her only friend and sympathizer.And so long as Monsieur d'Antin, counselling patience, had himself been patient, matters had progressed fairly well for the furtherance of the object he and the Abbé Roux had in view. Bianca was, if not easy in her mind, at least satisfied that there was no other course open to her but to keep silence and wait for her uncle's influence to do its work.But Monsieur d'Antin had not had patience. The success attending his first efforts to gain Bianca's confidence had been his undoing. The constant companionship of the young girl, whose very youth and inexperience had kindled afresh his well-worn passions, had brought about its almost inevitable psychological result. Monsieur d'Antin began to lose his head, and to be unable, or at any rate unwilling, to place the restraint upon himself that a younger man would probably have done. He believed that Bianca would certainly in the end be compelled by force of circumstances to see that a marriage with Silvio Rossano was impossible for the heiress of the Acorari. It was true that she might come to realize this, and yet make up her mind to marry some other young man who might present himself—some flaccid, Roman youth with empty pockets, but the possessor of a spurious title which would render him, in the eyes of the little, but strangely snobbish Roman world, an eligible husband for Donna Bianca Acorari. But Baron d'Antin felt comfortably convinced that even should this contingency arise, he still held in his hand the trump-card which would win him the game. If such a young man were to present himself—well, a few words spoken in a few Roman drawing-rooms, a hint or two dropped at the clubs of what had recently occurred at the Villa Acorari, a suggestion that the Princess Montefiano was anxious to marry her step-daughter in order to prevent her making amésalliancein a quarter in which she had already compromised herself—and the young man's family would at once break off negotiations.But there had come a day when Monsieur d'Antin, in the course of a walk with Bianca in the parco at Montefiano, had allowed his passion momentarily to get the better of him, and in that moment Bianca had understood all. She had entertained no suspicions since that instant—only the certainty that she was the object of Monsieur d'Antin's desires. Indignation rather than fear, or even aversion, had been her first sensation—indignation at the cowardice of this elderly hypocrite who had tricked her into giving him her confidence. Monsieur d'Antin probably never knew how near he had been to receiving a blow in the face from Bianca's clinched fist, as, with a few scathing words of anger and disgust, she had left him and almost run back to the terrace, where Princess Montefiano was sitting reading in the shade under the castle.Nor had this episode been all that had occurred during the last few days to confirm Bianca Acorari's suspicions and make her doubly uneasy in her mind.It so happened that, while wandering through some of the disused apartments of the castle, in the wing opposite to that occupied by the princess and herself, she had overheard a portion of a conversation between domestics, certainly not intended for her ears. Her attention was arrested by the mention of her own name in a loud and rather excited female voice; and approaching nearer to the room whence the voices proceeded, she saw her own maid, Bettina, and a girl whom she recognized as thefattoreFontana's daughter, engaged in mending some linen. They were also, apparently, occupied in a discussion of which she herself was the object, and the agent's daughter appeared to be taking her part with some vigor."It was a shame," Bianca heard the girl exclaim, "that theprincipessinashould be forced to marry an old man like the baron, when there was abel giovanottowho loved her and whom she loved. For her part, if she were the Principessina Bianca she would box the baron's ears—uno, due—so! and marry the lad she loved. What was the use of being a princess if one could not do as one chose?"Then had followed some words in a lower tone from Bettina, the sense of which Bianca could not catch, but which appeared to have the effect of still further arousing Concetta Fontana's indignation."Ah, the poor girl!" Bianca heard her reply. "They shut her up here in this dreary place, and they will keep her here until she lets that old he-goat have his own way. And the priest is at the bottom of it—oh, certainly, the priest is at the bottom of it! It is useless to tell me. I have heard him and the Signor Barone talking together—and I know. If one could ever approach theprincipessinato get a word with her, I would warn her that it is a trap they are laying for her—just as though she were a bird, the poor child!"Bianca Acorari turned away, sick at heart. The servants, then, and the people about Montefiano, knew for a fact what she had never even suspected. She had regarded Monsieur d'Antin's attempt to make love to her as odious and cowardly, and also, perhaps, as ludicrous—but she had not until then suspected that others were aware of his passion for her, and still less that her having been brought to Montefiano was part of a deliberately laid plan to force her to yield to that passion.Concetta Fontana's words seemed suddenly to make everything clear to her, and to reveal Monsieur d'Antin's treachery in its full light. She understood now, or she thought that she understood. She had been purposely allowed to confide in her uncle, purposely thrown in his company, in the hope that she might in time consent to relinquish her love for Silvio as a thing out of the question.And her step-mother? Of course her step-mother would do what the Abbé Roux counselled. She had always done so ever since Bianca could remember, and she always would do so. What the priest's motives might be for desiring that she should marry Baron d'Antin, Bianca did not stop to consider. Monsieur l'Abbé had always tried to interfere in her life; and the fact that he knew she wished to marry Silvio Rossano was quite sufficient to account for his determination to marry her to somebody else.Well, they should see that she, Bianca Acorari, was not to be forced to marry anybody against her will. She was not a foreigner, not a Belgian, thank Heaven—but an Italian—a Roman, the head of an ancient Roman house. And so her pride came to her rescue, as, indeed, it had often done before. And with it had come the courage to face her new difficulties. She could give her step-mother plainly to understand that she knew what steps had been taken and what plans had been made to compel her to abandon all idea of marrying the man she intended to marry. After that, the abbé and Monsieur d'Antin might do their worst. She had only to be firm and patient for three years, and then they could have no more power to interfere with her.It had been a certain comfort to her to discover that there was one person at Montefiano, however humbly placed, who was her friend. Bettina, she knew well, had an eye only to her own interests, and would not hesitate to betray any confidences Bianca might be tempted to make to her, were she to consider it to her advantage to do so. She had several times noticed Concetta Fontana since her arrival at Montefiano, and had been struck by the honest and straightforward bearing both of the girl and of her father. Fontana himself, indeed, had been very marked in the deference and attention he paid to his young mistress. As a matter of fact, he regarded both the princess and Monsieur d'Antin in the light of foreign intruders, while for the Abbé Roux he felt nothing but the suspicion and dislike with which priests, as a general rule, Don Agostino always excepted, inspired him. The Principessina Bianca, on the contrary, he regarded as his liege lady, the daughter and representative of the princes of Montefiano whom he and his forefathers had served for several generations in one capacity or another.Bianca Acorari could not have explained why the thought that the agent's daughter took a friendly interest in her was a consolation, but it certainly was so. She had scarcely spoken to the girl beyond wishing her "Good-morning" or "Good-evening" if they met in the passages or the courtyard of the castle.As she sat alone in her room after the stormy scene with her step-mother, Bianca thought long and calmly over the situation in which that scene must inevitably have placed her. On the whole, she felt rather relieved than otherwise that it had taken place. The keeping up for so many weeks of a pretence that there was nothing unusual in the position between the princess and herself had become more than irksome; and Bianca would certainly not have submitted to Silvio's proposal being passed over in silence by her step-mother, had it not been for Monsieur d'Antin's assurances that nothing but harm would result were she to insist on discussing it.Her amazement and indignation had been great, however, at hearing from her that it had been no other than Monsieur d'Antin himself who had been a witness to her interview with Silvio in the ilex grove of the Villa Acorari. She had always concluded that one of the servants of the place had been her step-mother's informant, and Monsieur d'Antin had never said anything to lead her to suppose the contrary. It was, of course, but another instance of his treachery and double-dealing towards her; but all the same, Bianca was glad to know the truth. She could understand the course of events more clearly now, and the last discovery, immediately following the remarks she had overheard from Concetta Fontana, pointed without doubt to the existence of some intrigue between her uncle and the Abbé Roux of which she was to be the victim. It was certainly as well that she had that day spoken plainly to her step-mother. In a day or two Monsieur d'Antin would return from Rome, and then she supposed there would be war to the knife.Well, they should see that she would not give way—not one centimetre. Better to have open war to the knife than to continue to be surrounded by an atmosphere of intrigue and deception.Ah, but if she could only have one line from Silvio, one word to assure her that he was faithful to her as she was to him! She could afford to wait patiently then—to wait, if need be, till three years were over and she was accountable to nobody for her actions. She could not doubt Silvio—not for one moment; but it was strange that he had not as yet discovered some means of communicating with her. Sometimes a deadly fear struck her that he had believed her step-mother's rejection of his offer to have been written with her knowledge and consent. It was more than likely that an attempt would have been made to induce him to believe this. But she put the thought away from her persistently. Silvio and she had known from the first that his offer would be declined—it had only been made, indeed, as a formality, and as being in accordance with the usages of society.Nevertheless, she longed for some message, some word to comfort her and give her courage to face the weary months in front of her. Surely he would find some means of sending her this word! It seemed so long ago since his arms were round her and his lips lay upon hers—so long ago and yet she felt their pressure still. What had he said to her "I will marry no woman if I do not marry you." Ah, but she was sure of that—very sure. And so it was ridiculous to be afraid—cowardly to be afraid and not to trust in his word, that as soon as he could possibly do so with the certainty that his message would reach her, he would communicate with her as to what their next step should be.XXIIIDon Agostino was sitting in his study the evening after his return to Montefiano from Rome. His housekeeper, Ernana, had waited upon him during his supper, and in the interval of carrying in the dishes from the kitchen had entertained him with all that had occurred in thepaeseduring his absence. Not very much had occurred; but then occurrences of any import at Montefiano were apt to be few and far between. The wife of the baker who supplied the house with bread had had a baby; and Ernana, counting up upon her fingers the number of months that had elapsed since the baker's marriage, could only get as far as the little finger of one hand, and shook her head accordingly. There had been a dispute in theosteriakept by Stefano Mazza, and Stefano's son, while attempting to put an end to it, had been stabbed. But it wasuna cosa di niente; and it served Stefano's son right, and would teach him that no good ever came of trying to interfere in other folks' quarrels. Nothing else had happened—at any rate, nothing that had reached Ernana's ears. But it certainly was very unfortunate about the baby, and a great pity that the baker had delayed his marriage so long; though, after all, he might have delayed it altogether, which would have been worse.Don Agostino listened in silence as he ate hisfritturaand salad. He rather agreed with Ernana as to the futility in this world of trying to play the part of a peacemaker, however advantageous having done so might prove to be in the world to come. As to the baby, he had heard about it before, at a very early stage of its creation; and he had nothing further to say regarding it than he had already had occasion to whisper from behind the grille of his confessional.His supper over, and Ernana having retired into the kitchen to wash up, Don Agostino had betaken himself to his favorite arm-chair in his study, after carefully roasting the end of a Virginia cigar in the flame of a candle on his writing-table, and ascertaining that it drew satisfactorily. On that same writing-table lay the little packet containing the ring and letter which Silvio had intrusted to him, and which he had undertaken should, by one means or another, be conveyed safely into Bianca Acorari's own hands.Don Agostino glanced at the packet more than once as he sat and smoked his cigar. A work by Professor Rossano was lying on his lap. He had taken the volume from his bookshelves in order to refresh his memory as to certain arguments propounded in it which had especially roused the indignation of the Sacred Congregation of the Index, some months after the work had appeared. As a matter of fact, however, he was thinking far more of how he should fulfil his promise to Professor Rossano's son, than of the learned senator's unorthodox propositions in print.The more he thought over the strange combination of circumstances which had led him to interest himself in Silvio's case, the more he became convinced that he had been called upon to save the only child of the woman he had loved from unhappiness, and perhaps from worse. It was scarcely conceivable, he argued to himself, that the similarity between his own youthful love affair and that of Silvio should be a mere coincidence. Indeed, he had long ago rejected the idea as impossible, and to one of his nature, partly philosophical but also largely mystical, there was nothing incongruous or improbable in the thought that his departed love remembered his devotion to her, and was calling upon him from her place in the world beyond the veil to shield her child from evil, and bidding him labor to procure her the happiness which had been denied to her mother.And Don Agostino did not doubt that a woman who loved Silvio Rossano, and could call him her husband, would be happy. He had never doubted it from the first day that he had talked with Silvio, when the boy had been, as it were, but a chance acquaintance. Much knowledge of human nature had made Don Agostino singularly quick at reading both countenances and character, and experience had taught him that his first impressions, especially of a man, were very seldom wrong impressions.He had not been satisfied, however, until he had learned from Silvio's father all that the professor had to tell him concerning his son. As Don Agostino had said to Silvio, that "all" was only what he had felt convinced that he should hear. It had told him that the lad was a good son and a good brother, that he had proved himself to be worthy of trust, as well as clever and hard-working, and Don Agostino knew enough of matrimony to realize that such men, when they loved, and if they were loved, made good husbands.He could not doubt Silvio's love for Bianca Acorari; nor had he any reason to think that Silvio was deceiving himself as to its depth and sincerity. The professor, to be sure, had declared that it was a case of love at first sight—only he had defined it more cynically, if somewhat less gracefully—and had argued that similar affections were not apt to be of very long duration. This argument, however, had not appealed to Don Agostino as being by any means conclusive. When he had first met Bianca Negroni, Bianca Acorari's mother, he had fallen in love with her there and then, and that love had dominated his whole life. It had not, it was true, been realized, but had it been realized he knew that it would have endured the test of supreme satisfaction—that test which, in love, is the severest of any. He would not have been what he was—theparrocoof Montefiano! Nor was there anything unnatural or improbable in Bianca Acorari having fallen in love at first sight with Silvio. Such things might not occur with the colder natures of the north, perhaps, or they might occur but rarely. But in the south, among the Latin races, Don Agostino knew very well that such a thing was very far from being uncommon. All the same, however desirable it may be that Bianca Acorari and Silvio should find happiness in living their lives together, Don Agostino did not see how the affair could be managed. None knew better than he how hard a thing to break down, especially among the Roman "nobility," was the prejudice of caste. Money, indeed, provided there was enough of it, could always break it down; but otherwise the line between the so-called aristocracy and thebourgeoisiewas irremediably fixed.Don Agostino was revolving all these thoughts in his mind, when he was suddenly disturbed by the sound of the bell at the entrance-door. Somebody, no doubt, was ill, and had sent to summon him, for it was nearly nine o'clock, and no one would be likely to wish to see him on any other business at so late an hour. A moment or two passed, and then Ernana hurried into the room. It was Sor Beppe, she explained, Signor Fontana, who wished to speak with Don Agostino—if the hour was not too inconvenient."Fontana!" exclaimed Don Agostino. "Of course, Ernana; bring Signor Fontana in here. And bring some wine, too, and glasses," and he rose from his chair to greet his visitor.Sor Beppe entered the room hastily, and Don Agostino could see at a glance that he had not come at that hour, uninvited, merely to discuss the affairs of Montefiano. It was evident that Fontana was considerably upset in his mind, or else extremely angry. Don Agostino was not sure whether it was the one or the other, or perhaps both.He quickly came to the conclusion, however, that it was both. Sor Beppe, indeed, was trembling with ill-suppressed excitement. He scarcely waited to return Don Agostino's greeting; but, after a hasty apology for disturbing him at such an hour, seemed at a loss for words to explain the object of his visit."You have heard?" he burst out at length.Don Agostino motioned to him to sit down."I have heard nothing," he replied, quietly. "I only returned from Rome this morning—or, rather, early this afternoon. Is there anything wrong, Signor Fontana? You look disturbed.""Anything wrong!" exclaimed Fontana. "There is this that is wrong. I am dismissed!"Don Agostino started. "Dismissed?" he repeated. "Dismissed from what? I do not understand.""Perbacco, it is very simple!" returned Sor Beppe, sullenly. "I am dismissed from my office. I am no longerfattoreto the Eccellentissima Casa Acorari at Montefiano. I have said it."Don Agostino looked at him. "When, and why?" he asked, abruptly."When? Two days ago. The day your reverence went to Rome. Why? Because I am an honest man, and because I and my people have been faithful servants to Casa Acorari for a hundred years and more. Is it not reason enough?" and Sor Beppe laughed bitterly.Don Agostino poured out a glass of wine and pushed it towards him. "Tell me how it has come about," he said. "If I am not mistaken," he added, looking at the agent keenly, "Casa Acorari has too much need of honest men just now to be able to spare one.""Ah!" exclaimed Fontana, quickly, "you know that, too? You have heard it in Rome, perhaps?""I know nothing," replied Don Agostino. "I only guess. And I have heard nothing in Rome concerning the affairs of Casa Acorari—nothing, that is, connected with the estates. May I ask," he added, "apart from the reason you have just given, on what grounds you have been dismissed?"Sor Beppe drank off his glass of wine."I will tell you,reverendo," he replied. "Some days ago I received instructions from the estate office in Rome that the rents of certain small holdings here at Montefiano were to be raised five per cent. I represented to the administration that the rents were already high enough, and that to increase them would certainly create much ill-feeling. The people can barely live like Christians and pay the rents they are paying,reverendo; and who should know it better than I, who have lived on the land for fifty years?"Don Agostino nodded. "I know it, too," he observed. "Go on, Signor Fontana.""I thought my protest had been accepted," continued Fontana, "as I heard no more from Rome. But four or five days ago that foreign priest, the Abbé Roux, as they call him, came into my office and asked what I meant by refusing to obey the instructions I had received from the administration. I replied that I had sent my reasons to the administration; and, moreover, that however many instructions to raise the rents in question might be sent to me from Rome, I should not obey them until I had explained the truth of the matter to the princess in person, and had received her orders as the Principessina Bianca's representative. Was I right,reverendo, or wrong?"Don Agostino shrugged his shoulders. "You were right, decidedly, I should say," he replied; "but whether you were wise in your own interests is another matter.""My interests have always been those of Casa Acorari," returned Sor Beppe, simply, "and it certainly is not to the interest of Casa Acorari to arouse ill-feeling among the tenants at Montefiano for the sake of a few hundred francs a year. That is what I intended to have explained to her excellency the princess.""And why did you not explain it to her?""Because I was dismissed by thatmascalzoneof a priest!" exclaimed Fontana, angrily. "I beg your pardon, Don Agostino, I should have remembered that there are priests and priests."Don Agostino smiled. "Yes," he observed, "for precisely the same reason that there are men—and men! So the Abbé Roux dismissed you in the princess's name, I conclude?""In her excellency's name—yes. Everything is done by the Abbé Roux in her name. For some time past I have beenfattoreat Montefiano only nominally. It is no longer any secret that the Abbé Roux is the chief administrator of the estate. Two years ago, as your reverence probably knows, the lease of the rents at Montefiano expired, and the holder of it offered to renew on the same terms. His offer was declined because the Abbé Roux had a friend, amercante di campagna, who offered to pay a rather larger annual sum. Since this man has farmed the rents they have been gradually increased, and now the people cannot pay and make enough out of theirtenuteto live decently."Don Agostino leaned forward in his chair. "I did not know," he said. "I thought the same individual held the contract. To be sure, I did know that the rents have, in many cases, been raised of late. The peasants have grumbled, and I have heard you blamed for it.""It was not generally known that there had been any change," said Fontana. "I had my instructions not to talk about the matter, and I obeyed them. It was no affair of mine who farmed the rents; that is the business of the administration at Palazzo Acorari in Rome. My duty was to see that they were paid, and that the tenants cultivated the land properly. It is quite true—I have been called a hard man, especially lately. But there were very few complaints of any kind, and I think still fewer reasonable ones, before this change took place.""And who is this friend of the Abbé Roux, who has taken over the lease of the rents?" asked Don Agostino.Sor Beppe hesitated; then, looking round the room as though afraid of being overheard, he leaned forward and whispered:"I do not know; I only suspect. But my belief is that the Abbé Roux's friend is—himself.""Accidente!" ejaculated Don Agostino."Sicuro!" continued Sor Beppe. "I suspect it, but I have no means of proving it. One thing is certain, and that is, that the individual who received the rents has never presented himself in the flesh at Montefiano; whereas the Abbé Roux has presented himself very frequently. There is not a metre of land that he has not been over—not a farm or a cottage that he has not visited, inside and out—and always in the name of their excellencies,si capisce—so what could anybody say?"Don Agostino remained silent for a moment."But you have appealed to the princess," he asked, presently, "and perhaps to Donna Bianca? It is true that she has no voice in the management of her affairs as yet, but she is thepadrona, when all is said and done.""Of course I have appealed to the princess," replied Fontana. "I saw her personally, but the priest was always with her, listening to every word I said. She was very affable, very sympathetic; but, as she explained, the business matters of the administration lay in other hands than her own. She was merely acting in the interests of the Principessina Bianca, and could only take the advice of those who understood business matters better than she did herself. She regretted the present affair, oh, very much; but it was evident that I was not in accord with the administration of Casa Acorari, and therefore she could not do otherwise than confirm my dismissal from the post offattoreat Montefiano.""And theprincipessina, Donna Bianca?" said Don Agostino, quickly.Sor Beppe made an expressive gesture with both hands. "Theprincipessina," he repeated; "ma che vuole? Theprincipessina,poveretta, is like a fly in a spider's web. I have seen her half a dozen times, but never to speak to, except a few words of respect. Theprincipessina? Ah, no! As your reverence says, she has no voice in the management of her own affairs, none at all. And she never will have any, for before she is of age they will marry her to her uncle! Of course he is not her uncle really, but it is much the same."Don Agostino drew his chair closer to the other, and at the same time poured out another glass of wine."Ah," he said, "so you believe that gossip? I had heard it, but it seemed incredible that it should be anything else but gossip.""Do I believe it!" exclaimed Fontana. "Of course I believe it! My daughter Concetta works at the castle, and they all—all the household—talk of it. It seems that there is somebody else whom the poor child wants to marry—the son of some professor in Rome; but she will never be allowed to marry him. She will marry theprincipessa'sbrother; you will see.""That she will not!" exclaimed Don Agostino, emphatically.Sor Beppe drank half of his glass of wine."They have brought her here to Montefiano," he said, "and they will keep her here till she gives way. For the rest, the baron, as they call him, is madly in love with the girl—at least, he is—""I understand," Don Agostino, interrupted. "It is monstrous," he added—"a crime!""Altrocchè! Who knows what may be the motives?"Don Agostino glanced at Sor Beppe quickly."The motives?" he repeated."Sicuro! Concetta has heard things—oh, but very strange things.Sa, reverendo, the castle is a curious building, and especially that part of it in which the family resides. There is not one of them who knows it; but we know it—I and Concetta.Diamine! We have lived in it for more than twenty years, so how should we not know it?Ebbene! Concetta has overheard things—conversations between the baron and that cursed priest, carried on when they thought themselves secure. At first she could not understand very clearly, for they talked in French; and Concetta understands a little French, but not much. She learned all she knows when she went to a family in Rome. Occasionally, however, the Abbé Roux and the princess spoke in Italian, and by degrees she has been able to learn a great deal of what is going on. The baron and the Abbé Roux are working together, I tell you; the one for lust, the other for money—or both for money.Che ne so io?"Don Agostino looked at him steadily."Adagio, Signor Fontana!" he said, quietly. "These are very serious allegations to make. Are you sure that in your very natural indignation at being dismissed for no offence but that of doing what your conscience told you was just, you are not exaggerating? Your daughter may have been mistaken, and the things she overheard may not have applied to Donna Bianca at all. As to the Baron d'Antin, it is possible that he may have conceived a passion for Donna Bianca, who is, I believe, a very beautiful girl. After all, the fact, although perhaps somewhat repugnant, would not be unprecedented."Sor Beppe shook his head. "Concetta made no mistake," he replied, doggedly. "What she heard, she heard not once only, but many times. Donna Bianca is to marry the baron; and the princess believes by consenting to the marriage she will prevent theprincipessinafrom marrying the other—the son of the Roman professor. But in the mean time, Concetta tells me that theprincipessinahas found out the intrigue, and has realized that her uncle wants to make love to her. How Concetta has learned that, I do not know. Perhaps from the Principessina Bianca's maid—or perhaps she has heard Donna Bianca talking to herself in her own room."Don Agostino turned his head with a movement of impatience. "One would imagine," he said, "that the walls of the castle had ears."Sor Beppe glanced at him with a curious expression in his eyes. "The castle was not built yesterday," he observed, enigmatically.Don Agostino looked round. "What do you mean to imply?" he asked, quickly.The other laughed. "Only this," he replied; "that there are those who know their way about the castle of Montefiano better than its owners—better than its present owners, at all events. The late prince knew—oh, very well, if all the stories are true! But nobody in the castle now has an idea—except myself and my children—""An idea of what?" asked Don Agostino. "Andiamo, Signor Fontana, do not let us play at mysteries! It seems that your castle is a dangerous place for confidential conversations.""And a convenient place for clandestine meetings," added Fontana. "It used to be said that the late prince found it so—blessed soul!"The suspicion of a smile played round Don Agostino's lips. Then he seemed as though a sudden thought struck him, and he looked at his visitor inquiringly."What do you mean?" he exclaimed, almost sharply. "You need not be afraid that anything you say to me will be repeated in thepaese."Sor Beppe got up from his chair. "Of course you do not understand," he said. "How should you? Well, I will tell you how it is that it is not always safe to talk secrets in the castle. One should know where one is—oh, decidedly! I will tell you something,reverendo, and then, perhaps, you will understand better. If I chose, this very night I could enter the sleeping apartment of theprincipessinawithout a soul being any the wiser—yes, even if all the doors of the rooms on thepiano nobilewere locked. No one would see me enter that wing of the castle or leave it. Concetta could do the same."Don Agostino looked at him in amazement."Are you joking, my friend?" he exclaimed."Niente affatto! It is as I say. There is a secret passage in the inside wall, dividing the whole length of thepiano nobilewhich their excellencies occupy from the outer gallery. It is in the thickness of the wall itself, so nobody suspects its existence.""Perbacco!" ejaculated Don Agostino. "And the entrance to the passage?""It is by a trap-door in the floor of a room in the basement—a little room close to the outer gateway, which has long been uninhabited. My own apartment opens out of it on one side, but the door of communication was blocked up years ago—before I can remember.Sicuro!the entrance to the passage is there, and a narrow staircase leads up to thepiano nobileabove.""And the egress," asked Don Agostino, eagerly; "where is that, Signor Fontana?"Sor Beppe's white teeth gleamed from behind his dark beard. "That is the strange part of it," he replied. "The passage leads directly into the room at the extreme end of thepiano nobile, the room in which theprincipessinasleeps. The princess's room is next to it, and there is no other means of entry visible, except by passing through this. No doubt the princess chose it for Donna Bianca's sleeping apartment as being more secure. But, as I say, anybody acquainted with the passage could enter it.""By a trap-door in the floor?" Don Agostino asked.Sor Beppe shook his head. "By a much more artistic contrivance," he replied—"absolutely artistic, you understand. On pressing a spring in the passage a door slides back noiselessly into a groove in the wall of the bedroom. Ah, but those who made it were artists! The door is covered by a picture, the frame of which is so contrived as completely to conceal the groove into which it slides. A person might inhabit the room for a lifetime and not be aware that there was any means of entering or leaving it, except through the adjoining apartment."Don Agostino leaned back in his chair and gazed at Fontana in silence. What he had just heard did not very much surprise him. He knew an old Medicean villa in Tuscany in which a secret entrance existed almost similar to that described by Sor Beppe, although it was not in so serviceable a state as its counterpart at Montefiano appeared to be. Perhaps the late Prince Montefiano had restored and repaired this one for purposes of his own. However that might be, the main point was that here, under his hand, if Sor Beppe was not romancing, was the very opportunity he had been searching for, to convey Silvio's packet to Bianca Acorari. Don Agostino felt almost bewildered at the way in which difficulties, which appeared at one moment to be insurmountable, were removed. No doubt, he argued to himself, this fresh situation was nothing but a coincidence. There was no reason why a mediæval fortress such as Montefiano, to which a Renaissance palace has been attached, should not have a dozen secret passages concealed in its walls. But it was, at any rate, a very fortunate circumstance, and one which, cautiously made use of, might considerably assist the ends he had in view.He looked at Fontana silently for a few moments as though trying to read the man's thoughts."What you have told me is very interesting," he observed, presently; "but I do not understand how your daughter comes to overhear what may be said while in the secret passage. She does not, I conclude, spend all her time in the vicinity of Donna Bianca's room; and even if she did, how could she hear through a stone wall?""Altro! Your reverence is quite right," returned Sor Beppe. "But that is easily explained, only I forgot to explain it. Every word spoken in certain of the apartments on thepiano nobilecan be distinctly heard by any one standing in the secret passage if,ben inteso, that person is in that part of it immediately outside the room in which the conversation takes place. It is managed very cleverly. One has only to know where to stand. For example, the passage runs the whole length of the dining-room. That was a wise thought of those who made it, for who knows what secrets the spies of the old Acorari may not have learned? Food and wine open men's mouths. And the room next to the dining-room,reverendo, is occupied by the Abbé Roux as his study. It is there that he and the baron sit and smoke at nights when their excellencies have retired to their rooms."Don Agostino nodded. "As you say," he observed, "the castle of Montefiano is not a safe place for confidences.""Or for rogues," added Sor Beppe."That depends," returned Don Agostino, dryly. "But why," he added, "did you not warn the princess of the existence of this secret entrance? Surely it is scarcely safe if people are aware of it.""But nobody knows of it," replied Fontana. "All that the people know is that once upon a time there was supposed to be a secret communication between the castle and the town; and when I was a lad, it used to be said that the prince had availed himself of it for certain adventures, for everybody knew that he had an eye for every good-looking woman except his own wife.""Never mind the prince," interrupted Don Agostino, abruptly. "Nobody else knows of the passage, you say?""They think it no longer exists," continued Sor Beppe. "I have always said that it was built up years ago. It was a lie, of course; but it was not necessary to let people think they could get into the castle unobserved. I forbade Concetta ever to mention it. As to naming the matter to the princess, I saw no necessity to do that. I would have told theprincipessinaof it if I had ever had the chance of speaking with her alone. But Concetta implored me not to mention it even to theprincipessina. It would make her nervous, she said, to sleep in a room with a sliding-door in the wall.""Ah," remarked Don Agostino, "you would have mentioned it to Donna Bianca; then why not to the princess?"Sor Beppe shrugged his shoulders. "She is not thepadrona—that other one," he said; "and, besides, she is only a foreigner, and a second wife. I would do anything to serve the Principessina Bianca—anything!—for she is an Acorari and Principessa di Montefiano. Who knows," he continued, angrily, "whether it is not because I am loyal to theprincipessinathat I am dismissed? I have only seen her a few times,reverendo, but I give you my word that I would rather have a smile and abuon giorno, from Donna Bianca than—well, I do not know what to say."Don Agostino smiled. "I am glad to hear it," he said. "After all, it is very natural that you should feel so. Donna Bianca is yourpadrona.""Was!" interrupted Sor Beppe, swallowing a curse in his beard at the same time."Ah! but let us wait, my friend," proceeded Don Agostino. "Perhaps the princess will discover that she has been ill-advised, and then you will be reinstated. In the mean time, you will not be doing either yourself or Donna Bianca Acorari any harm by continuing to be loyal to her. You may, perhaps, be able to serve her, to have an opportunity of showing your loyalty—who knows?"Sor Beppe passed the back of his brown hand across his eyes. "Magari!" he said, warmly; "magari!if I could serve her!Poveretta, I fear she needs friends badly enough. It is all very fine of the Abbé Roux to talk about Donna Bianca being invilleggiaturaat Montefiano.Ma che villeggiatura! It is an imprisonment, pure and simple. Do I not know it—I? The poor child! She is shut up here to keep her away from her lover in Rome; the maid, Bettina, has said as much to Concetta. And there are strict orders that no one is to enter the castle—no stranger, that is. All the letters are taken to the princess, both the post that arrives and that which goes out. It would have been more humane to have put the girl into a convent. At any rate, she would have had companions, and there would presumably be no old he-goat to make love to her."Don Agostino listened to Sor Beppe's flow of language with a certain amount of satisfaction. The man was evidently sincere in his devotion to Bianca Acorari, and it was pleasant to him, moreover, to hear that Bianca was one of those who were able to inspire personal devotion. That Fontana knew, or at least suspected, more than he divulged of the state of affairs at the castle, and of the intrigues of which Bianca formed the central figure, he had not the slightest doubt. Many whispers had already reached his ears as to the close watch which was being kept over the young princess, how she was always accompanied by either her step-mother or the Baron d'Antin, and how the baron was evidently deeply in love with her. He had often wondered how these rumors were spread, for he happened to know that there was little or no communication between the small household the princess had brought with her and the town of Montefiano. There were no young men-servants, indeed, to go out and gossip in theosteria; for Princess Montefiano had only brought hermaggior-domofrom Palazzo Acorari, a venerable person of sedate habits, and one scarcely less venerable man in livery; and neither of these had ever been known to leave the castle walls or to exchange a word with the Montefianesi.No doubt the rumors in question, and more particularly the rumors concerning Baron d'Antin, had been circulated by Concetta Fontana, and Don Agostino was not altogether sorry if this were really the case. It would be no bad thing were public opinion at Montefiano to be aroused to sympathy with Bianca Acorari and distrust of the princess's advisers. It was more than probable that Monsieur l'Abbé Roux, in bringing about Fontana's dismissal, had committed an impolitic act. Although thefattoremight have lost some of his popularity owing to recent events, he was, nevertheless, a native of the district, and well known throughout the Sabina."Does your reverence really think that the princess will reconsider my dismissal?" asked Sor Beppe, as Don Agostino did not speak. "You can understand," he continued, "that it is a hard thing for me. I am not an old man, that is true; but I am too old to be transplanted. Besides, we Fontana have served Casa Acorari for four generations or more, and it is a bitter thing to be turned away by a foreign woman and animbroglioneof a priest."Don Agostino nodded sympathetically. "It is a hard thing, certainly," he replied, "and it is also, so far as I can see, an unjust thing. As to whether the princess will reconsider the matter, that I cannot tell you. You must remember that, as I think I have told you before, I have never seen the princess. But her rule will not last forever; and when Donna Bianca has the management of her own affairs, things may be very different. She is not a foreigner, and is not at all likely to be influenced by priests, I should say. Probably she will reward those who have been loyal to her, and her own people will come before strangers, unless I am very much mistaken."Sor Beppe looked at him shrewdly. "I thought you said you did not know theprincipessina?" he said."Neither do I," answered Don Agostino, "but I know something about her.""Perhaps you know her lover—oh, I do not mean that Belgian goat, but the other one?""Yes—I know him.""Ah! And he is worthy of theprincipessina?""I feel convinced that he is thoroughly worthy.""Then what is the objection? He has no money, perhaps?""He is not noble.""Diamine!and what does that matter if he is worthy in other ways? I do not suppose he is acontadino.""No," replied Don Agostino, smiling, "he is an engineer, and some day he will be a great man, I believe. His father is a great man already, the famous Senator Rossano. You have perhaps heard of him?""Altro! So it is he whom theprincipessinais in love with! Well,reverendo, is it not better than marrying that old baron with ink-pots under his eyes?"Don Agostino laughed. "Certainly!" he replied. "But the baron and the Abbé Roux think otherwise. That is the difficulty; and what they think, the princess thinks.""Si capisce!""Signor Fontana," said Don Agostino, suddenly, "you said just now that you would do anything for Donna Bianca. Were you in earnest?""And why not,reverendo?""Bene! You have the opportunity of proving your loyalty."He rose from his chair, and, taking Silvio's packet from the writing-table, placed it in Sor Beppe's hands. "I have promised Signor Rossano, Donna Bianca's affianced husband, that this should reach her without delay. She has been waiting for it for weeks. Will you undertake that it shall be given into her hands, and into her hands only?"Sor Beppe's eyes flashed. "I swear it!" he said. "Concetta shall give it to her this very night.""Concetta? But is she to be trusted?""As much as I am to be trusted,reverendo. Concetta would do anything to serve theprincipessina. You need not be afraid. Donna Bianca shall have her lover's letter this very night. You can guess how?""Of course. But will she not be terrified at seeing your daughter enter her room in such a manner? Remember that the princess sleeps next door to her.""Concetta will know what to do," returned Sor Beppe."Good. But there must be no failure—no risk of the packet falling into other hands, or its delivery being suspected.""There will be none."Don Agostino held out his hand. "You will not regret what you have undertaken," he said, "and you may be sure that theprincipessinawill not forget it, either. We must save her from a great unhappiness, my friend, and perhaps from, worse than that. Now, I must be inhospitable and ask you to go; for it is late, and you have to arrange matters with Concetta, who by this time is probably asleep. Who knows what led you to visit me this evening? I had been turning over in my mind every means I could imagine to insure that packet reaching Donna Bianca safely. It is certainly very strange."Sor Beppe buttoned up the little parcel securely in the corner pocket of his coat. "To-morrow I will come again," he said, "and who knows that I shall not bring with me an acknowledgment from theprincipessinathat she has received the packet safely? Then you can write to her lover and tell him so. All the same, if I were that young man, I would come to Montefiano and take Donna Bianca away with me—even if I had to slit the throats of the baron and the Abbé Roux in the doing of it." And muttering a string of expletives under his breath, Sor Beppe passed out into the garden. Don Agostino let him out through the door, opening to the piazza in front of the church; and then, after standing for a few moments to watch his tall figure striding away down the white road towards the castle, he went slowly back into his house, bidding Ernana, whose curiosity as to Sor Beppe's visit had brought her out to the threshold, lock up the door and go to bed.
XXII
After leaving her step-mother, Bianca went to her own room, where she shut herself up in order to be able to think quietly. Although she felt that she had been by no means the vanquished party in the unexpected skirmish which had just taken place, she was far more ill at ease in her own mind than she had allowed herself to show to the princess. Whatever might be Bianca Acorari's faults, lack of courage, moral or physical, was certainly not among them; and during the time she had been at Montefiano, her courage and her pride combined had forbidden her to show any external sign of the doubt and uncertainty ever increasing in her heart as the days lengthened into weeks, and yet no word from Silvio Rossano had reached her.
That Silvio's father had written to her step-mother making a formal proposal of marriage on his son's behalf, and that this proposal had been indignantly rejected by the princess, Bianca was already well aware. Monsieur d'Antin had informed her of the fact a very few days after his arrival at Montefiano. It had been this information, indeed, and the kindly and sympathetic manner of its conveyance, that had caused Bianca to regard Monsieur d'Antin as the one person about her to whom she might venture to confide her hopes and difficulties. It had not been long, however, before vague and fleeting suspicions, which she had at first dismissed from her mind as not only absurd, but almost wrong to entertain, as to Monsieur d'Antin's motives for seeking her society, developed into certainties, before which she had recoiled with fear and disgust. Her instinct had very soon told her that there was more in her uncle's—for she had begun to regard him in that relationship—manner towards her than was justified by his professed compassion and sympathy. Sometimes, when alone with her, he had made certain observations which, although apparently in connection with her and Silvio's love for each other, had offended her sense, if not of modesty, at least of propriety and good taste. She could hardly explain to herself why they should have done so, but she was conscious that they did do so. Sometimes, too, she had surprised an expression on Monsieur d'Antin's countenance as he looked at her which had made her shrink from him, as she might have shrunk from some evil thing that meant to harm her. Her suspicions once aroused, Bianca had been quick to perceive that the more she was alone with Monsieur d'Antin, the more apt he became to assume a manner towards her which caused her no little embarrassment as well as distaste. The result had been an ever-growing feeling of distrust, which soon made her regret bitterly that she had ever allowed herself to talk to her uncle about Silvio, and latterly she had sought every pretext to avoid being alone with him. Sometimes, too, she reproached herself deeply for having disregarded her promise to Silvio that she would confide in nobody until he had an opportunity of again communicating with her. This promise, however, as she repeatedly told herself, had been given when they had still a channel of communication in the person of Mademoiselle Durand, and before she had become, to all intents and purposes, a prisoner at Montefiano. But now Mademoiselle Durand had utterly vanished from the scene—gone, as Monsieur d'Antin informed her, to Paris with the wife and children of a secretary of the French embassy in Rome, and Bianca had quickly realized that no communication, direct or indirect, from her lover would be allowed to reach her as long as she was within the walls of Montefiano.
Monsieur d'Antin, moreover, had certainly played the opening moves of his game very well, and a more experienced person than Bianca might have been deceived by them. He had extracted her confidence by impressing upon Bianca that he, and he alone, could by degrees overcome the objections that his sister entertained to an alliance with the Rossano family. He had explained to her how these objections came in reality much more from the Abbé Roux than from the princess, and that the latter would infallibly relent if the abbé's good-will could be secured. It had been Monsieur d'Antin, too, who had warned Bianca that her step-mother had decided, always by the Abbé Roux's advice, absolutely to ignore, at any rate for the present, the fact of her having met Silvio and allowed him to propose to her. He had carefully impressed upon her that any attempt on her part to overcome the princess's objections, any allusion, indeed, to the subject, would only result in failure; and that Bianca's best plan, in her own and her lover's interests, would be to maintain an absolute silence, except, of course, to himself. No questions, he told her, would be asked her by her step-mother, and no lectures on her conduct given to her. Therefore, there would be no need for her to give her confidence in a quarter where it was not demanded, and where the giving of it could only prejudice her cause. And everything had happened as Monsieur d'Antin had foretold. The princess had not made the slightest allusion to her step-daughter regarding the meeting in the grounds of the Villa Acorari, and, save for the sense of being continually guarded and watched, Bianca could not truthfully say to herself that her life at Montefiano differed in any particular degree from the life she had been accustomed from childhood to lead.
At first, when Bianca had finally decided to yield to her uncle's suggestions and confide in him, she had more than once asked him to assist her in sending or in receiving some communication from Silvio. But Monsieur d'Antin had always declared this to be impossible. He had explained plausibly enough that if his sister and the Abbé Roux were once to suspect him of such a course, all the influence he might be able to use with them in order to overcome their objections would be hopelessly destroyed. Moreover, his sister would certainly ask him to leave Montefiano, and then Bianca would be left without her only friend and sympathizer.
And so long as Monsieur d'Antin, counselling patience, had himself been patient, matters had progressed fairly well for the furtherance of the object he and the Abbé Roux had in view. Bianca was, if not easy in her mind, at least satisfied that there was no other course open to her but to keep silence and wait for her uncle's influence to do its work.
But Monsieur d'Antin had not had patience. The success attending his first efforts to gain Bianca's confidence had been his undoing. The constant companionship of the young girl, whose very youth and inexperience had kindled afresh his well-worn passions, had brought about its almost inevitable psychological result. Monsieur d'Antin began to lose his head, and to be unable, or at any rate unwilling, to place the restraint upon himself that a younger man would probably have done. He believed that Bianca would certainly in the end be compelled by force of circumstances to see that a marriage with Silvio Rossano was impossible for the heiress of the Acorari. It was true that she might come to realize this, and yet make up her mind to marry some other young man who might present himself—some flaccid, Roman youth with empty pockets, but the possessor of a spurious title which would render him, in the eyes of the little, but strangely snobbish Roman world, an eligible husband for Donna Bianca Acorari. But Baron d'Antin felt comfortably convinced that even should this contingency arise, he still held in his hand the trump-card which would win him the game. If such a young man were to present himself—well, a few words spoken in a few Roman drawing-rooms, a hint or two dropped at the clubs of what had recently occurred at the Villa Acorari, a suggestion that the Princess Montefiano was anxious to marry her step-daughter in order to prevent her making amésalliancein a quarter in which she had already compromised herself—and the young man's family would at once break off negotiations.
But there had come a day when Monsieur d'Antin, in the course of a walk with Bianca in the parco at Montefiano, had allowed his passion momentarily to get the better of him, and in that moment Bianca had understood all. She had entertained no suspicions since that instant—only the certainty that she was the object of Monsieur d'Antin's desires. Indignation rather than fear, or even aversion, had been her first sensation—indignation at the cowardice of this elderly hypocrite who had tricked her into giving him her confidence. Monsieur d'Antin probably never knew how near he had been to receiving a blow in the face from Bianca's clinched fist, as, with a few scathing words of anger and disgust, she had left him and almost run back to the terrace, where Princess Montefiano was sitting reading in the shade under the castle.
Nor had this episode been all that had occurred during the last few days to confirm Bianca Acorari's suspicions and make her doubly uneasy in her mind.
It so happened that, while wandering through some of the disused apartments of the castle, in the wing opposite to that occupied by the princess and herself, she had overheard a portion of a conversation between domestics, certainly not intended for her ears. Her attention was arrested by the mention of her own name in a loud and rather excited female voice; and approaching nearer to the room whence the voices proceeded, she saw her own maid, Bettina, and a girl whom she recognized as thefattoreFontana's daughter, engaged in mending some linen. They were also, apparently, occupied in a discussion of which she herself was the object, and the agent's daughter appeared to be taking her part with some vigor.
"It was a shame," Bianca heard the girl exclaim, "that theprincipessinashould be forced to marry an old man like the baron, when there was abel giovanottowho loved her and whom she loved. For her part, if she were the Principessina Bianca she would box the baron's ears—uno, due—so! and marry the lad she loved. What was the use of being a princess if one could not do as one chose?"
Then had followed some words in a lower tone from Bettina, the sense of which Bianca could not catch, but which appeared to have the effect of still further arousing Concetta Fontana's indignation.
"Ah, the poor girl!" Bianca heard her reply. "They shut her up here in this dreary place, and they will keep her here until she lets that old he-goat have his own way. And the priest is at the bottom of it—oh, certainly, the priest is at the bottom of it! It is useless to tell me. I have heard him and the Signor Barone talking together—and I know. If one could ever approach theprincipessinato get a word with her, I would warn her that it is a trap they are laying for her—just as though she were a bird, the poor child!"
Bianca Acorari turned away, sick at heart. The servants, then, and the people about Montefiano, knew for a fact what she had never even suspected. She had regarded Monsieur d'Antin's attempt to make love to her as odious and cowardly, and also, perhaps, as ludicrous—but she had not until then suspected that others were aware of his passion for her, and still less that her having been brought to Montefiano was part of a deliberately laid plan to force her to yield to that passion.
Concetta Fontana's words seemed suddenly to make everything clear to her, and to reveal Monsieur d'Antin's treachery in its full light. She understood now, or she thought that she understood. She had been purposely allowed to confide in her uncle, purposely thrown in his company, in the hope that she might in time consent to relinquish her love for Silvio as a thing out of the question.
And her step-mother? Of course her step-mother would do what the Abbé Roux counselled. She had always done so ever since Bianca could remember, and she always would do so. What the priest's motives might be for desiring that she should marry Baron d'Antin, Bianca did not stop to consider. Monsieur l'Abbé had always tried to interfere in her life; and the fact that he knew she wished to marry Silvio Rossano was quite sufficient to account for his determination to marry her to somebody else.
Well, they should see that she, Bianca Acorari, was not to be forced to marry anybody against her will. She was not a foreigner, not a Belgian, thank Heaven—but an Italian—a Roman, the head of an ancient Roman house. And so her pride came to her rescue, as, indeed, it had often done before. And with it had come the courage to face her new difficulties. She could give her step-mother plainly to understand that she knew what steps had been taken and what plans had been made to compel her to abandon all idea of marrying the man she intended to marry. After that, the abbé and Monsieur d'Antin might do their worst. She had only to be firm and patient for three years, and then they could have no more power to interfere with her.
It had been a certain comfort to her to discover that there was one person at Montefiano, however humbly placed, who was her friend. Bettina, she knew well, had an eye only to her own interests, and would not hesitate to betray any confidences Bianca might be tempted to make to her, were she to consider it to her advantage to do so. She had several times noticed Concetta Fontana since her arrival at Montefiano, and had been struck by the honest and straightforward bearing both of the girl and of her father. Fontana himself, indeed, had been very marked in the deference and attention he paid to his young mistress. As a matter of fact, he regarded both the princess and Monsieur d'Antin in the light of foreign intruders, while for the Abbé Roux he felt nothing but the suspicion and dislike with which priests, as a general rule, Don Agostino always excepted, inspired him. The Principessina Bianca, on the contrary, he regarded as his liege lady, the daughter and representative of the princes of Montefiano whom he and his forefathers had served for several generations in one capacity or another.
Bianca Acorari could not have explained why the thought that the agent's daughter took a friendly interest in her was a consolation, but it certainly was so. She had scarcely spoken to the girl beyond wishing her "Good-morning" or "Good-evening" if they met in the passages or the courtyard of the castle.
As she sat alone in her room after the stormy scene with her step-mother, Bianca thought long and calmly over the situation in which that scene must inevitably have placed her. On the whole, she felt rather relieved than otherwise that it had taken place. The keeping up for so many weeks of a pretence that there was nothing unusual in the position between the princess and herself had become more than irksome; and Bianca would certainly not have submitted to Silvio's proposal being passed over in silence by her step-mother, had it not been for Monsieur d'Antin's assurances that nothing but harm would result were she to insist on discussing it.
Her amazement and indignation had been great, however, at hearing from her that it had been no other than Monsieur d'Antin himself who had been a witness to her interview with Silvio in the ilex grove of the Villa Acorari. She had always concluded that one of the servants of the place had been her step-mother's informant, and Monsieur d'Antin had never said anything to lead her to suppose the contrary. It was, of course, but another instance of his treachery and double-dealing towards her; but all the same, Bianca was glad to know the truth. She could understand the course of events more clearly now, and the last discovery, immediately following the remarks she had overheard from Concetta Fontana, pointed without doubt to the existence of some intrigue between her uncle and the Abbé Roux of which she was to be the victim. It was certainly as well that she had that day spoken plainly to her step-mother. In a day or two Monsieur d'Antin would return from Rome, and then she supposed there would be war to the knife.
Well, they should see that she would not give way—not one centimetre. Better to have open war to the knife than to continue to be surrounded by an atmosphere of intrigue and deception.
Ah, but if she could only have one line from Silvio, one word to assure her that he was faithful to her as she was to him! She could afford to wait patiently then—to wait, if need be, till three years were over and she was accountable to nobody for her actions. She could not doubt Silvio—not for one moment; but it was strange that he had not as yet discovered some means of communicating with her. Sometimes a deadly fear struck her that he had believed her step-mother's rejection of his offer to have been written with her knowledge and consent. It was more than likely that an attempt would have been made to induce him to believe this. But she put the thought away from her persistently. Silvio and she had known from the first that his offer would be declined—it had only been made, indeed, as a formality, and as being in accordance with the usages of society.
Nevertheless, she longed for some message, some word to comfort her and give her courage to face the weary months in front of her. Surely he would find some means of sending her this word! It seemed so long ago since his arms were round her and his lips lay upon hers—so long ago and yet she felt their pressure still. What had he said to her "I will marry no woman if I do not marry you." Ah, but she was sure of that—very sure. And so it was ridiculous to be afraid—cowardly to be afraid and not to trust in his word, that as soon as he could possibly do so with the certainty that his message would reach her, he would communicate with her as to what their next step should be.
XXIII
Don Agostino was sitting in his study the evening after his return to Montefiano from Rome. His housekeeper, Ernana, had waited upon him during his supper, and in the interval of carrying in the dishes from the kitchen had entertained him with all that had occurred in thepaeseduring his absence. Not very much had occurred; but then occurrences of any import at Montefiano were apt to be few and far between. The wife of the baker who supplied the house with bread had had a baby; and Ernana, counting up upon her fingers the number of months that had elapsed since the baker's marriage, could only get as far as the little finger of one hand, and shook her head accordingly. There had been a dispute in theosteriakept by Stefano Mazza, and Stefano's son, while attempting to put an end to it, had been stabbed. But it wasuna cosa di niente; and it served Stefano's son right, and would teach him that no good ever came of trying to interfere in other folks' quarrels. Nothing else had happened—at any rate, nothing that had reached Ernana's ears. But it certainly was very unfortunate about the baby, and a great pity that the baker had delayed his marriage so long; though, after all, he might have delayed it altogether, which would have been worse.
Don Agostino listened in silence as he ate hisfritturaand salad. He rather agreed with Ernana as to the futility in this world of trying to play the part of a peacemaker, however advantageous having done so might prove to be in the world to come. As to the baby, he had heard about it before, at a very early stage of its creation; and he had nothing further to say regarding it than he had already had occasion to whisper from behind the grille of his confessional.
His supper over, and Ernana having retired into the kitchen to wash up, Don Agostino had betaken himself to his favorite arm-chair in his study, after carefully roasting the end of a Virginia cigar in the flame of a candle on his writing-table, and ascertaining that it drew satisfactorily. On that same writing-table lay the little packet containing the ring and letter which Silvio had intrusted to him, and which he had undertaken should, by one means or another, be conveyed safely into Bianca Acorari's own hands.
Don Agostino glanced at the packet more than once as he sat and smoked his cigar. A work by Professor Rossano was lying on his lap. He had taken the volume from his bookshelves in order to refresh his memory as to certain arguments propounded in it which had especially roused the indignation of the Sacred Congregation of the Index, some months after the work had appeared. As a matter of fact, however, he was thinking far more of how he should fulfil his promise to Professor Rossano's son, than of the learned senator's unorthodox propositions in print.
The more he thought over the strange combination of circumstances which had led him to interest himself in Silvio's case, the more he became convinced that he had been called upon to save the only child of the woman he had loved from unhappiness, and perhaps from worse. It was scarcely conceivable, he argued to himself, that the similarity between his own youthful love affair and that of Silvio should be a mere coincidence. Indeed, he had long ago rejected the idea as impossible, and to one of his nature, partly philosophical but also largely mystical, there was nothing incongruous or improbable in the thought that his departed love remembered his devotion to her, and was calling upon him from her place in the world beyond the veil to shield her child from evil, and bidding him labor to procure her the happiness which had been denied to her mother.
And Don Agostino did not doubt that a woman who loved Silvio Rossano, and could call him her husband, would be happy. He had never doubted it from the first day that he had talked with Silvio, when the boy had been, as it were, but a chance acquaintance. Much knowledge of human nature had made Don Agostino singularly quick at reading both countenances and character, and experience had taught him that his first impressions, especially of a man, were very seldom wrong impressions.
He had not been satisfied, however, until he had learned from Silvio's father all that the professor had to tell him concerning his son. As Don Agostino had said to Silvio, that "all" was only what he had felt convinced that he should hear. It had told him that the lad was a good son and a good brother, that he had proved himself to be worthy of trust, as well as clever and hard-working, and Don Agostino knew enough of matrimony to realize that such men, when they loved, and if they were loved, made good husbands.
He could not doubt Silvio's love for Bianca Acorari; nor had he any reason to think that Silvio was deceiving himself as to its depth and sincerity. The professor, to be sure, had declared that it was a case of love at first sight—only he had defined it more cynically, if somewhat less gracefully—and had argued that similar affections were not apt to be of very long duration. This argument, however, had not appealed to Don Agostino as being by any means conclusive. When he had first met Bianca Negroni, Bianca Acorari's mother, he had fallen in love with her there and then, and that love had dominated his whole life. It had not, it was true, been realized, but had it been realized he knew that it would have endured the test of supreme satisfaction—that test which, in love, is the severest of any. He would not have been what he was—theparrocoof Montefiano! Nor was there anything unnatural or improbable in Bianca Acorari having fallen in love at first sight with Silvio. Such things might not occur with the colder natures of the north, perhaps, or they might occur but rarely. But in the south, among the Latin races, Don Agostino knew very well that such a thing was very far from being uncommon. All the same, however desirable it may be that Bianca Acorari and Silvio should find happiness in living their lives together, Don Agostino did not see how the affair could be managed. None knew better than he how hard a thing to break down, especially among the Roman "nobility," was the prejudice of caste. Money, indeed, provided there was enough of it, could always break it down; but otherwise the line between the so-called aristocracy and thebourgeoisiewas irremediably fixed.
Don Agostino was revolving all these thoughts in his mind, when he was suddenly disturbed by the sound of the bell at the entrance-door. Somebody, no doubt, was ill, and had sent to summon him, for it was nearly nine o'clock, and no one would be likely to wish to see him on any other business at so late an hour. A moment or two passed, and then Ernana hurried into the room. It was Sor Beppe, she explained, Signor Fontana, who wished to speak with Don Agostino—if the hour was not too inconvenient.
"Fontana!" exclaimed Don Agostino. "Of course, Ernana; bring Signor Fontana in here. And bring some wine, too, and glasses," and he rose from his chair to greet his visitor.
Sor Beppe entered the room hastily, and Don Agostino could see at a glance that he had not come at that hour, uninvited, merely to discuss the affairs of Montefiano. It was evident that Fontana was considerably upset in his mind, or else extremely angry. Don Agostino was not sure whether it was the one or the other, or perhaps both.
He quickly came to the conclusion, however, that it was both. Sor Beppe, indeed, was trembling with ill-suppressed excitement. He scarcely waited to return Don Agostino's greeting; but, after a hasty apology for disturbing him at such an hour, seemed at a loss for words to explain the object of his visit.
"You have heard?" he burst out at length.
Don Agostino motioned to him to sit down.
"I have heard nothing," he replied, quietly. "I only returned from Rome this morning—or, rather, early this afternoon. Is there anything wrong, Signor Fontana? You look disturbed."
"Anything wrong!" exclaimed Fontana. "There is this that is wrong. I am dismissed!"
Don Agostino started. "Dismissed?" he repeated. "Dismissed from what? I do not understand."
"Perbacco, it is very simple!" returned Sor Beppe, sullenly. "I am dismissed from my office. I am no longerfattoreto the Eccellentissima Casa Acorari at Montefiano. I have said it."
Don Agostino looked at him. "When, and why?" he asked, abruptly.
"When? Two days ago. The day your reverence went to Rome. Why? Because I am an honest man, and because I and my people have been faithful servants to Casa Acorari for a hundred years and more. Is it not reason enough?" and Sor Beppe laughed bitterly.
Don Agostino poured out a glass of wine and pushed it towards him. "Tell me how it has come about," he said. "If I am not mistaken," he added, looking at the agent keenly, "Casa Acorari has too much need of honest men just now to be able to spare one."
"Ah!" exclaimed Fontana, quickly, "you know that, too? You have heard it in Rome, perhaps?"
"I know nothing," replied Don Agostino. "I only guess. And I have heard nothing in Rome concerning the affairs of Casa Acorari—nothing, that is, connected with the estates. May I ask," he added, "apart from the reason you have just given, on what grounds you have been dismissed?"
Sor Beppe drank off his glass of wine.
"I will tell you,reverendo," he replied. "Some days ago I received instructions from the estate office in Rome that the rents of certain small holdings here at Montefiano were to be raised five per cent. I represented to the administration that the rents were already high enough, and that to increase them would certainly create much ill-feeling. The people can barely live like Christians and pay the rents they are paying,reverendo; and who should know it better than I, who have lived on the land for fifty years?"
Don Agostino nodded. "I know it, too," he observed. "Go on, Signor Fontana."
"I thought my protest had been accepted," continued Fontana, "as I heard no more from Rome. But four or five days ago that foreign priest, the Abbé Roux, as they call him, came into my office and asked what I meant by refusing to obey the instructions I had received from the administration. I replied that I had sent my reasons to the administration; and, moreover, that however many instructions to raise the rents in question might be sent to me from Rome, I should not obey them until I had explained the truth of the matter to the princess in person, and had received her orders as the Principessina Bianca's representative. Was I right,reverendo, or wrong?"
Don Agostino shrugged his shoulders. "You were right, decidedly, I should say," he replied; "but whether you were wise in your own interests is another matter."
"My interests have always been those of Casa Acorari," returned Sor Beppe, simply, "and it certainly is not to the interest of Casa Acorari to arouse ill-feeling among the tenants at Montefiano for the sake of a few hundred francs a year. That is what I intended to have explained to her excellency the princess."
"And why did you not explain it to her?"
"Because I was dismissed by thatmascalzoneof a priest!" exclaimed Fontana, angrily. "I beg your pardon, Don Agostino, I should have remembered that there are priests and priests."
Don Agostino smiled. "Yes," he observed, "for precisely the same reason that there are men—and men! So the Abbé Roux dismissed you in the princess's name, I conclude?"
"In her excellency's name—yes. Everything is done by the Abbé Roux in her name. For some time past I have beenfattoreat Montefiano only nominally. It is no longer any secret that the Abbé Roux is the chief administrator of the estate. Two years ago, as your reverence probably knows, the lease of the rents at Montefiano expired, and the holder of it offered to renew on the same terms. His offer was declined because the Abbé Roux had a friend, amercante di campagna, who offered to pay a rather larger annual sum. Since this man has farmed the rents they have been gradually increased, and now the people cannot pay and make enough out of theirtenuteto live decently."
Don Agostino leaned forward in his chair. "I did not know," he said. "I thought the same individual held the contract. To be sure, I did know that the rents have, in many cases, been raised of late. The peasants have grumbled, and I have heard you blamed for it."
"It was not generally known that there had been any change," said Fontana. "I had my instructions not to talk about the matter, and I obeyed them. It was no affair of mine who farmed the rents; that is the business of the administration at Palazzo Acorari in Rome. My duty was to see that they were paid, and that the tenants cultivated the land properly. It is quite true—I have been called a hard man, especially lately. But there were very few complaints of any kind, and I think still fewer reasonable ones, before this change took place."
"And who is this friend of the Abbé Roux, who has taken over the lease of the rents?" asked Don Agostino.
Sor Beppe hesitated; then, looking round the room as though afraid of being overheard, he leaned forward and whispered:
"I do not know; I only suspect. But my belief is that the Abbé Roux's friend is—himself."
"Accidente!" ejaculated Don Agostino.
"Sicuro!" continued Sor Beppe. "I suspect it, but I have no means of proving it. One thing is certain, and that is, that the individual who received the rents has never presented himself in the flesh at Montefiano; whereas the Abbé Roux has presented himself very frequently. There is not a metre of land that he has not been over—not a farm or a cottage that he has not visited, inside and out—and always in the name of their excellencies,si capisce—so what could anybody say?"
Don Agostino remained silent for a moment.
"But you have appealed to the princess," he asked, presently, "and perhaps to Donna Bianca? It is true that she has no voice in the management of her affairs as yet, but she is thepadrona, when all is said and done."
"Of course I have appealed to the princess," replied Fontana. "I saw her personally, but the priest was always with her, listening to every word I said. She was very affable, very sympathetic; but, as she explained, the business matters of the administration lay in other hands than her own. She was merely acting in the interests of the Principessina Bianca, and could only take the advice of those who understood business matters better than she did herself. She regretted the present affair, oh, very much; but it was evident that I was not in accord with the administration of Casa Acorari, and therefore she could not do otherwise than confirm my dismissal from the post offattoreat Montefiano."
"And theprincipessina, Donna Bianca?" said Don Agostino, quickly.
Sor Beppe made an expressive gesture with both hands. "Theprincipessina," he repeated; "ma che vuole? Theprincipessina,poveretta, is like a fly in a spider's web. I have seen her half a dozen times, but never to speak to, except a few words of respect. Theprincipessina? Ah, no! As your reverence says, she has no voice in the management of her own affairs, none at all. And she never will have any, for before she is of age they will marry her to her uncle! Of course he is not her uncle really, but it is much the same."
Don Agostino drew his chair closer to the other, and at the same time poured out another glass of wine.
"Ah," he said, "so you believe that gossip? I had heard it, but it seemed incredible that it should be anything else but gossip."
"Do I believe it!" exclaimed Fontana. "Of course I believe it! My daughter Concetta works at the castle, and they all—all the household—talk of it. It seems that there is somebody else whom the poor child wants to marry—the son of some professor in Rome; but she will never be allowed to marry him. She will marry theprincipessa'sbrother; you will see."
"That she will not!" exclaimed Don Agostino, emphatically.
Sor Beppe drank half of his glass of wine.
"They have brought her here to Montefiano," he said, "and they will keep her here till she gives way. For the rest, the baron, as they call him, is madly in love with the girl—at least, he is—"
"I understand," Don Agostino, interrupted. "It is monstrous," he added—"a crime!"
"Altrocchè! Who knows what may be the motives?"
Don Agostino glanced at Sor Beppe quickly.
"The motives?" he repeated.
"Sicuro! Concetta has heard things—oh, but very strange things.Sa, reverendo, the castle is a curious building, and especially that part of it in which the family resides. There is not one of them who knows it; but we know it—I and Concetta.Diamine! We have lived in it for more than twenty years, so how should we not know it?Ebbene! Concetta has overheard things—conversations between the baron and that cursed priest, carried on when they thought themselves secure. At first she could not understand very clearly, for they talked in French; and Concetta understands a little French, but not much. She learned all she knows when she went to a family in Rome. Occasionally, however, the Abbé Roux and the princess spoke in Italian, and by degrees she has been able to learn a great deal of what is going on. The baron and the Abbé Roux are working together, I tell you; the one for lust, the other for money—or both for money.Che ne so io?"
Don Agostino looked at him steadily.
"Adagio, Signor Fontana!" he said, quietly. "These are very serious allegations to make. Are you sure that in your very natural indignation at being dismissed for no offence but that of doing what your conscience told you was just, you are not exaggerating? Your daughter may have been mistaken, and the things she overheard may not have applied to Donna Bianca at all. As to the Baron d'Antin, it is possible that he may have conceived a passion for Donna Bianca, who is, I believe, a very beautiful girl. After all, the fact, although perhaps somewhat repugnant, would not be unprecedented."
Sor Beppe shook his head. "Concetta made no mistake," he replied, doggedly. "What she heard, she heard not once only, but many times. Donna Bianca is to marry the baron; and the princess believes by consenting to the marriage she will prevent theprincipessinafrom marrying the other—the son of the Roman professor. But in the mean time, Concetta tells me that theprincipessinahas found out the intrigue, and has realized that her uncle wants to make love to her. How Concetta has learned that, I do not know. Perhaps from the Principessina Bianca's maid—or perhaps she has heard Donna Bianca talking to herself in her own room."
Don Agostino turned his head with a movement of impatience. "One would imagine," he said, "that the walls of the castle had ears."
Sor Beppe glanced at him with a curious expression in his eyes. "The castle was not built yesterday," he observed, enigmatically.
Don Agostino looked round. "What do you mean to imply?" he asked, quickly.
The other laughed. "Only this," he replied; "that there are those who know their way about the castle of Montefiano better than its owners—better than its present owners, at all events. The late prince knew—oh, very well, if all the stories are true! But nobody in the castle now has an idea—except myself and my children—"
"An idea of what?" asked Don Agostino. "Andiamo, Signor Fontana, do not let us play at mysteries! It seems that your castle is a dangerous place for confidential conversations."
"And a convenient place for clandestine meetings," added Fontana. "It used to be said that the late prince found it so—blessed soul!"
The suspicion of a smile played round Don Agostino's lips. Then he seemed as though a sudden thought struck him, and he looked at his visitor inquiringly.
"What do you mean?" he exclaimed, almost sharply. "You need not be afraid that anything you say to me will be repeated in thepaese."
Sor Beppe got up from his chair. "Of course you do not understand," he said. "How should you? Well, I will tell you how it is that it is not always safe to talk secrets in the castle. One should know where one is—oh, decidedly! I will tell you something,reverendo, and then, perhaps, you will understand better. If I chose, this very night I could enter the sleeping apartment of theprincipessinawithout a soul being any the wiser—yes, even if all the doors of the rooms on thepiano nobilewere locked. No one would see me enter that wing of the castle or leave it. Concetta could do the same."
Don Agostino looked at him in amazement.
"Are you joking, my friend?" he exclaimed.
"Niente affatto! It is as I say. There is a secret passage in the inside wall, dividing the whole length of thepiano nobilewhich their excellencies occupy from the outer gallery. It is in the thickness of the wall itself, so nobody suspects its existence."
"Perbacco!" ejaculated Don Agostino. "And the entrance to the passage?"
"It is by a trap-door in the floor of a room in the basement—a little room close to the outer gateway, which has long been uninhabited. My own apartment opens out of it on one side, but the door of communication was blocked up years ago—before I can remember.Sicuro!the entrance to the passage is there, and a narrow staircase leads up to thepiano nobileabove."
"And the egress," asked Don Agostino, eagerly; "where is that, Signor Fontana?"
Sor Beppe's white teeth gleamed from behind his dark beard. "That is the strange part of it," he replied. "The passage leads directly into the room at the extreme end of thepiano nobile, the room in which theprincipessinasleeps. The princess's room is next to it, and there is no other means of entry visible, except by passing through this. No doubt the princess chose it for Donna Bianca's sleeping apartment as being more secure. But, as I say, anybody acquainted with the passage could enter it."
"By a trap-door in the floor?" Don Agostino asked.
Sor Beppe shook his head. "By a much more artistic contrivance," he replied—"absolutely artistic, you understand. On pressing a spring in the passage a door slides back noiselessly into a groove in the wall of the bedroom. Ah, but those who made it were artists! The door is covered by a picture, the frame of which is so contrived as completely to conceal the groove into which it slides. A person might inhabit the room for a lifetime and not be aware that there was any means of entering or leaving it, except through the adjoining apartment."
Don Agostino leaned back in his chair and gazed at Fontana in silence. What he had just heard did not very much surprise him. He knew an old Medicean villa in Tuscany in which a secret entrance existed almost similar to that described by Sor Beppe, although it was not in so serviceable a state as its counterpart at Montefiano appeared to be. Perhaps the late Prince Montefiano had restored and repaired this one for purposes of his own. However that might be, the main point was that here, under his hand, if Sor Beppe was not romancing, was the very opportunity he had been searching for, to convey Silvio's packet to Bianca Acorari. Don Agostino felt almost bewildered at the way in which difficulties, which appeared at one moment to be insurmountable, were removed. No doubt, he argued to himself, this fresh situation was nothing but a coincidence. There was no reason why a mediæval fortress such as Montefiano, to which a Renaissance palace has been attached, should not have a dozen secret passages concealed in its walls. But it was, at any rate, a very fortunate circumstance, and one which, cautiously made use of, might considerably assist the ends he had in view.
He looked at Fontana silently for a few moments as though trying to read the man's thoughts.
"What you have told me is very interesting," he observed, presently; "but I do not understand how your daughter comes to overhear what may be said while in the secret passage. She does not, I conclude, spend all her time in the vicinity of Donna Bianca's room; and even if she did, how could she hear through a stone wall?"
"Altro! Your reverence is quite right," returned Sor Beppe. "But that is easily explained, only I forgot to explain it. Every word spoken in certain of the apartments on thepiano nobilecan be distinctly heard by any one standing in the secret passage if,ben inteso, that person is in that part of it immediately outside the room in which the conversation takes place. It is managed very cleverly. One has only to know where to stand. For example, the passage runs the whole length of the dining-room. That was a wise thought of those who made it, for who knows what secrets the spies of the old Acorari may not have learned? Food and wine open men's mouths. And the room next to the dining-room,reverendo, is occupied by the Abbé Roux as his study. It is there that he and the baron sit and smoke at nights when their excellencies have retired to their rooms."
Don Agostino nodded. "As you say," he observed, "the castle of Montefiano is not a safe place for confidences."
"Or for rogues," added Sor Beppe.
"That depends," returned Don Agostino, dryly. "But why," he added, "did you not warn the princess of the existence of this secret entrance? Surely it is scarcely safe if people are aware of it."
"But nobody knows of it," replied Fontana. "All that the people know is that once upon a time there was supposed to be a secret communication between the castle and the town; and when I was a lad, it used to be said that the prince had availed himself of it for certain adventures, for everybody knew that he had an eye for every good-looking woman except his own wife."
"Never mind the prince," interrupted Don Agostino, abruptly. "Nobody else knows of the passage, you say?"
"They think it no longer exists," continued Sor Beppe. "I have always said that it was built up years ago. It was a lie, of course; but it was not necessary to let people think they could get into the castle unobserved. I forbade Concetta ever to mention it. As to naming the matter to the princess, I saw no necessity to do that. I would have told theprincipessinaof it if I had ever had the chance of speaking with her alone. But Concetta implored me not to mention it even to theprincipessina. It would make her nervous, she said, to sleep in a room with a sliding-door in the wall."
"Ah," remarked Don Agostino, "you would have mentioned it to Donna Bianca; then why not to the princess?"
Sor Beppe shrugged his shoulders. "She is not thepadrona—that other one," he said; "and, besides, she is only a foreigner, and a second wife. I would do anything to serve the Principessina Bianca—anything!—for she is an Acorari and Principessa di Montefiano. Who knows," he continued, angrily, "whether it is not because I am loyal to theprincipessinathat I am dismissed? I have only seen her a few times,reverendo, but I give you my word that I would rather have a smile and abuon giorno, from Donna Bianca than—well, I do not know what to say."
Don Agostino smiled. "I am glad to hear it," he said. "After all, it is very natural that you should feel so. Donna Bianca is yourpadrona."
"Was!" interrupted Sor Beppe, swallowing a curse in his beard at the same time.
"Ah! but let us wait, my friend," proceeded Don Agostino. "Perhaps the princess will discover that she has been ill-advised, and then you will be reinstated. In the mean time, you will not be doing either yourself or Donna Bianca Acorari any harm by continuing to be loyal to her. You may, perhaps, be able to serve her, to have an opportunity of showing your loyalty—who knows?"
Sor Beppe passed the back of his brown hand across his eyes. "Magari!" he said, warmly; "magari!if I could serve her!Poveretta, I fear she needs friends badly enough. It is all very fine of the Abbé Roux to talk about Donna Bianca being invilleggiaturaat Montefiano.Ma che villeggiatura! It is an imprisonment, pure and simple. Do I not know it—I? The poor child! She is shut up here to keep her away from her lover in Rome; the maid, Bettina, has said as much to Concetta. And there are strict orders that no one is to enter the castle—no stranger, that is. All the letters are taken to the princess, both the post that arrives and that which goes out. It would have been more humane to have put the girl into a convent. At any rate, she would have had companions, and there would presumably be no old he-goat to make love to her."
Don Agostino listened to Sor Beppe's flow of language with a certain amount of satisfaction. The man was evidently sincere in his devotion to Bianca Acorari, and it was pleasant to him, moreover, to hear that Bianca was one of those who were able to inspire personal devotion. That Fontana knew, or at least suspected, more than he divulged of the state of affairs at the castle, and of the intrigues of which Bianca formed the central figure, he had not the slightest doubt. Many whispers had already reached his ears as to the close watch which was being kept over the young princess, how she was always accompanied by either her step-mother or the Baron d'Antin, and how the baron was evidently deeply in love with her. He had often wondered how these rumors were spread, for he happened to know that there was little or no communication between the small household the princess had brought with her and the town of Montefiano. There were no young men-servants, indeed, to go out and gossip in theosteria; for Princess Montefiano had only brought hermaggior-domofrom Palazzo Acorari, a venerable person of sedate habits, and one scarcely less venerable man in livery; and neither of these had ever been known to leave the castle walls or to exchange a word with the Montefianesi.
No doubt the rumors in question, and more particularly the rumors concerning Baron d'Antin, had been circulated by Concetta Fontana, and Don Agostino was not altogether sorry if this were really the case. It would be no bad thing were public opinion at Montefiano to be aroused to sympathy with Bianca Acorari and distrust of the princess's advisers. It was more than probable that Monsieur l'Abbé Roux, in bringing about Fontana's dismissal, had committed an impolitic act. Although thefattoremight have lost some of his popularity owing to recent events, he was, nevertheless, a native of the district, and well known throughout the Sabina.
"Does your reverence really think that the princess will reconsider my dismissal?" asked Sor Beppe, as Don Agostino did not speak. "You can understand," he continued, "that it is a hard thing for me. I am not an old man, that is true; but I am too old to be transplanted. Besides, we Fontana have served Casa Acorari for four generations or more, and it is a bitter thing to be turned away by a foreign woman and animbroglioneof a priest."
Don Agostino nodded sympathetically. "It is a hard thing, certainly," he replied, "and it is also, so far as I can see, an unjust thing. As to whether the princess will reconsider the matter, that I cannot tell you. You must remember that, as I think I have told you before, I have never seen the princess. But her rule will not last forever; and when Donna Bianca has the management of her own affairs, things may be very different. She is not a foreigner, and is not at all likely to be influenced by priests, I should say. Probably she will reward those who have been loyal to her, and her own people will come before strangers, unless I am very much mistaken."
Sor Beppe looked at him shrewdly. "I thought you said you did not know theprincipessina?" he said.
"Neither do I," answered Don Agostino, "but I know something about her."
"Perhaps you know her lover—oh, I do not mean that Belgian goat, but the other one?"
"Yes—I know him."
"Ah! And he is worthy of theprincipessina?"
"I feel convinced that he is thoroughly worthy."
"Then what is the objection? He has no money, perhaps?"
"He is not noble."
"Diamine!and what does that matter if he is worthy in other ways? I do not suppose he is acontadino."
"No," replied Don Agostino, smiling, "he is an engineer, and some day he will be a great man, I believe. His father is a great man already, the famous Senator Rossano. You have perhaps heard of him?"
"Altro! So it is he whom theprincipessinais in love with! Well,reverendo, is it not better than marrying that old baron with ink-pots under his eyes?"
Don Agostino laughed. "Certainly!" he replied. "But the baron and the Abbé Roux think otherwise. That is the difficulty; and what they think, the princess thinks."
"Si capisce!"
"Signor Fontana," said Don Agostino, suddenly, "you said just now that you would do anything for Donna Bianca. Were you in earnest?"
"And why not,reverendo?"
"Bene! You have the opportunity of proving your loyalty."
He rose from his chair, and, taking Silvio's packet from the writing-table, placed it in Sor Beppe's hands. "I have promised Signor Rossano, Donna Bianca's affianced husband, that this should reach her without delay. She has been waiting for it for weeks. Will you undertake that it shall be given into her hands, and into her hands only?"
Sor Beppe's eyes flashed. "I swear it!" he said. "Concetta shall give it to her this very night."
"Concetta? But is she to be trusted?"
"As much as I am to be trusted,reverendo. Concetta would do anything to serve theprincipessina. You need not be afraid. Donna Bianca shall have her lover's letter this very night. You can guess how?"
"Of course. But will she not be terrified at seeing your daughter enter her room in such a manner? Remember that the princess sleeps next door to her."
"Concetta will know what to do," returned Sor Beppe.
"Good. But there must be no failure—no risk of the packet falling into other hands, or its delivery being suspected."
"There will be none."
Don Agostino held out his hand. "You will not regret what you have undertaken," he said, "and you may be sure that theprincipessinawill not forget it, either. We must save her from a great unhappiness, my friend, and perhaps from, worse than that. Now, I must be inhospitable and ask you to go; for it is late, and you have to arrange matters with Concetta, who by this time is probably asleep. Who knows what led you to visit me this evening? I had been turning over in my mind every means I could imagine to insure that packet reaching Donna Bianca safely. It is certainly very strange."
Sor Beppe buttoned up the little parcel securely in the corner pocket of his coat. "To-morrow I will come again," he said, "and who knows that I shall not bring with me an acknowledgment from theprincipessinathat she has received the packet safely? Then you can write to her lover and tell him so. All the same, if I were that young man, I would come to Montefiano and take Donna Bianca away with me—even if I had to slit the throats of the baron and the Abbé Roux in the doing of it." And muttering a string of expletives under his breath, Sor Beppe passed out into the garden. Don Agostino let him out through the door, opening to the piazza in front of the church; and then, after standing for a few moments to watch his tall figure striding away down the white road towards the castle, he went slowly back into his house, bidding Ernana, whose curiosity as to Sor Beppe's visit had brought her out to the threshold, lock up the door and go to bed.