Silvio smiled. "Yes," he said, simply, "I do."

Giacinta was silent for a moment. Silvio was strangely confident, she

thought. Perhaps she underrated Bianca Acorari's strength of character.

It might be that this girl was really in love with Silvio, and that her

character and Silvio's were alike in tenacity of purpose and loyalty.

At any rate, she had no right to judge Bianca until she knew her, or at

least had had some opportunity of observing how she behaved by Silvio

when the storm which they had brewed finally burst, which it certainly

must do very quickly.

"You are very sure of her, Silvio _mio_," she said, at length, with a

smile.

"Very sure," responded Silvio, tranquilly. "After all, Giacinta," he

continued, "what can the princess or her advisers do? They can but

refuse to allow the engagement, but Bianca and I shall not consider

ourselves the less engaged on that account. And when they saw that

opposition was useless, that Bianca intended to marry me, and me only,

they would have to give way. Otherwise, we should simply wait till

Bianca was of age."

"But pressure might be brought to bear upon her," objected Giacinta.

"Pressure!" exclaimed Silvio.

"Yes; there are many ways. She might be placed in a convent, for

instance. Such things have been done before now. Or they might force

her to marry somebody else."

"Or kill me! Go on, Giacinta," said Silvio, laughing. "We are not in

the Middle Ages, _cara mia sorellina_. In these days, when people

disappear, inquiries are made by the police. It is a prosaic system,

perhaps, but it has certain advantages."

"Silvio," exclaimed Giacinta, suddenly, "it is all very well for you to

laugh, but have you considered how isolated that girl is? She has

absolutely no relations on her father's side. Babbo says there are no

Acorari left, and that the old prince quarrelled with his first wife's

family--Donna Bianca's mother's people. She is alone in the world with

a step-mother who is entirely under the thumb of her priest."

"And with me," interrupted Silvio.

Giacinta glanced at him. "They will keep you at a safe distance," she

said, "if it does not suit the Abbe Roux that Donna Bianca should

marry."

"_Cristo!_" swore her brother, between his teeth. "What do you mean,

Giacinta? Do you know what you are implying?"

Giacinta Rossano's eyes flashed. She looked very like Silvio at that

moment.

"I know perfectly well what I am implying," she said, quickly. "You

have not chosen to trust me, Silvio, and perhaps you were right. After

all, I could not have done so much for you as that Frenchwoman has done.

God knows why she has done it!"

Silvio looked a little abashed. "How did you know about the

Frenchwoman?" he asked.

Giacinta laughed dryly. "Never mind how I know," she replied, "and do

not think I have been spying upon your actions. I have been making a

few inquiries about the Montefiano _menage_ on my own account--about

things that perhaps Mademoiselle Durand--is not that her name?--might

never be in a position to hear, as she does not live in the house."

"Ah!" exclaimed Silvio. "Go on, Giacinta."

"The princess," proceeded Giacinta, "must be a strange woman. From what

I can hear of her, I should doubt whether anybody knows her the least

intimately, except the Abbe Roux. Oh no, Silvio, I do not mean to imply

any intimacy of that nature between them," she added, hastily, suddenly

becoming aware of the expression on her brother's face. "She is, I

imagine, a curious mixture of worldliness and piety, but not worldliness

in the sense of caring for society. She would have made an excellent

abbess or mother-superior, I should think, for she loves power. At the

same time, like many people who love to rule, she is weak, and allows

herself to be ruled, partly because she is a fanatic as far as her

religion is concerned, and partly--well, partly, I suppose, because she

has a weak side to her nature."

Silvio looked at his sister, curiously.

"How did you learn all this?" he asked.

Giacinta shrugged her shoulders.

"You might ask--Why did I learn it?" she said. "I learned it because I

wished to analyze the kind of psychologic atmosphere into which you

might find yourself plunged!"

Silvio laughed. Giacinta often amused him; she was so like the

professor in some ways.

"Perhaps," continued Giacinta, "had it not been that Prince Montefiano

developed a conscience late in life, the princess would have been ruling

nuns at this moment instead of managing the Montefiano estates."

A quick look of intelligence passed across Silvio Rossano's face. They

were Romans, these two, of the sixth generation and more, and were

accustomed to the Roman conversational habit of leaving _i_'s to be

dotted and _t_'s to be crossed at discretion.

"Of course, she would not be very ready to give up her interest in

them," he said.

"Of course not," returned Giacinta. "Moreover," she added, "the priest

would do his best to prevent her from giving it up."

"_Si capisce_," said Silvio, briefly. "But how in the world do you know

all this, Giacinta?"

"Oh," she replied, "I know a good deal more! I know that the Abbe Roux

keeps his eye upon everything; that the princess does not spend a

thousand francs without consulting him. She is tenacious of her rights

to administer the Montefiano fiefs during Donna Bianca's minority, that

is true. But the real administrator is the Abbe Roux. There is another

person, too, with whom you ought to be brought into contact, Silvio--and

that is the princess's brother, Baron d'Antin. He is _niente di buono_,

so my informant tells me. But I do not imagine that Monsieur l'Abbe

allows him to have any great influence with his sister. Apparently he

comes here but seldom, and then only when he wants something. I do not

suppose that he would concern himself very much about you and Donna

Bianca."

"So you think all the opposition would come from the princess and that

infernal priest?" said Silvio.

"But naturally! They do not want the girl to marry--at any rate, before

she is of age. Why two or three years should make so much difference I

have no idea. I should like to find out, but it would not be easy."

"I cannot imagine how you have found out so much," said Silvio.

Giacinta laughed. "I have stooped to very low methods," she said, "but

it was for your sake, Silvio. If you must know, my maid has chosen to

engage herself to one of the Acorari servants, and she tells me all

these little things. Of course, she has told me considerably more than

I have told you, but, allowing for exaggerations and for all the

misconstructions that servants invariably place upon our actions, I

believe what I have told you is fairly correct. It is not very much,

certainly, but--rightly or wrongly--there appears to be an impression

that Donna Bianca is being purposely kept in the background, and that

neither the princess nor Monsieur Roux intends that she should marry.

Perhaps it is all nonsense and merely gossip, but it is as well you

should know that such an impression exists.

"May one ask what you and Donna Bianca mean to do next, Silvio?"

concluded Giacinta, a little satirically. "The proceedings up to now

have been--well, a little _all' Inglese_, as I think we agreed; and I do

not quite see how you propose to continue the affair."

A look half of amusement and half of perplexity came into Silvio's eyes.

"To tell you the truth, Giacinta," he said, "neither do I. Of course, I

must see Bianca again, and then we must decide when and how I am to

approach the princess. I shall have to tell my father, of course. The

usual thing would be for him to speak to Princess Montefiano."

"Poor Babbo!" exclaimed Giacinta. "It seems to me, Silvio," she added,

severely, "that you have landed us all in a _brutto impiccio_. I

certainly wish that I had never thought it would be good for your soul

to go to mass last Christmas Eve!"

*XI*

Monsieur d'Antin did not immediately return to the house after having

been an unobserved spectator of the parting scene between Bianca and her

lover.

His presence in the ilex groves of the Villa Acorari that afternoon had

been due to the merest chance--if, indeed, it were not one of those

malicious tricks so frequently performed by the power that we call Fate

or Providence, according to our own mood and the quality of the

practical jokes played upon us.

He had been spending the day at Genzano, where he had breakfasted with a

well-known Roman lady possessing an equally well-known villa lying

buried in its oak and chestnut woods. The breakfast-party had been a

pleasant one, and Monsieur d'Antin had enjoyed himself so much that he

felt disinclined to return to Rome as early as he had at first intended.

It would be agreeable, he thought, to drive from Genzano to the Villa

Acorari, spend two or three hours there, and drive back to Rome, as he

had been invited to do late in the evening, instead of returning by

train.

Monsieur d'Antin had duly arrived at the Villa Acorari about four

o'clock, only to find that the princess had gone to Rome for the day on

business, and was not expected back until six. Donna Bianca, the

servants told him, was at home, but she was in the gardens. Monsieur

d'Antin was not so disappointed as he professed to be on hearing this

intelligence. He would rest for a little while in the house, as it was

still very hot--and--yes, an iced-lemonade would be very refreshing

after his dusty drive from Genzano. Afterwards, perhaps, he would go

into the gardens and see if he could find Donna Bianca.

A stroll through the ilex walks with Bianca would not be an unpleasing

ending to his day among the Castelli Romani. Hitherto he had never been

alone with her, and he was not sorry that chance had given him an

opportunity of being so. The girl might be amusing when she was no

longer under supervision. At any rate, she was attractive to look upon,

and--oh, decidedly she sometimes had made him feel almost as though he

were a young man again. That was always a pleasurable sensation, even

if nothing could come of it. It was certainly a pity that he was not

twenty years younger--nay, even ten years would be sufficient. Had he

been so--who knows?--things might have been arranged. It would have

been very suitable--very convenient in every way, and would have kept

the Montefiano estates and titles in the family, so to speak. And

Bianca was certainly a seductive child--there was no doubt about it.

That mouth, that hair, and the lines of the figure just shaping

themselves into maturity--Bah! they would make an older man than he feel

young when he looked at them. Yes, it was certainly a pity. Jeanne, no

doubt, would delay matters until--well, until those charms were too

fully developed. That was the worst of these Italian girls--they were

apt to develop too fast--to become too massive.

Monsieur d'Antin leaned back in an arm-chair in the cool, darkened

_salone_ of the Villa Acorari, and abandoned himself to these and

various other reflections of a similar nature. He found the mental

state a very pleasant one after his somewhat ample breakfast and hot

drive. There was something, too, in the subdued light of the marble

saloon, with its statues and groups of palms, and in the soothing sound

of a fountain playing in the court-yard without, that gently stimulated

such reflections.

At length, however, a striking clock had roused Monsieur d'Antin, and he

sallied forth into the gardens, directed by a servant to the broad,

box-bordered walk that led up the hill to the ilex groves where, as the

man informed him, Donna Bianca usually went.

Probably, had it not been for that self-same shower of rain which had

disturbed Bianca's meditations and caused her to seek the shelter of the

avenue and the casino, he would have found her sitting in the open space

near the fountains, where, as a matter of fact, Silvio Rossano had been

watching her for some little time, wondering how he should best accost

her. Silvio, concealed behind his tree, would certainly have seen

Monsieur d'Antin approaching, and would have waited for another

opportunity to accomplish his object. But, as usual, Puck or Providence

must needs interfere and cause the rain to descend more heavily just as

Monsieur d'Antin arrived at the fountains. Seeing that the avenue would

afford him shelter he had entered it, and, after waiting for a few

minutes, had bent his steps in the direction of the casino he observed

at the farther end of it. The sound of voices coming from within the

summer-house had caused him to stop and listen; and what he overheard,

although he could not entirely follow the rapid Italian in which its

occupants were speaking, was enough to tell him that Bianca Acorari was

one of the speakers, that the other was a man, and that love was the

topic of the conversation. Very quietly, and crouching down so as to be

invisible from the window of the casino, Monsieur d'Antin had stepped

past the half-closed door and concealed himself behind the little

building. Through the open window he had been able from his

hiding-place to hear every word that was said, and also to hear the

sounds which certainly could not be called articulate.

Monsieur d'Antin's face, during the quarter of an hour he spent behind

the casino, would have provided an interesting and instructive study to

anybody who had been there to see it; it would also have made the

fortune of any actor who could have reproduced its varied expressions.

Astonishment, envy, lust, and malicious amusement, all were depicted

upon his countenance in turn.

At last, when Bianca and her companion left the summer-house, Monsieur

d'Antin was able to see what manner of man he was who had had the good

fortune to arouse her passion. A single glance at Silvio, as the boy

stood in the centre of the avenue with the sunlight falling on his

well-built figure and comely face, explained the whole matter. If Bianca

had such a lover as this, all that he had just overheard was fully

accounted for. Nevertheless, a gust of envy, all the more bitter from

the consciousness of its impotence, swept through Monsieur d'Antin's

middle-aged soul.

He wondered who this good-looking lover of Bianca's might be. The lad

was a gentleman, evidently; but Monsieur d'Antin could not remember ever

having seen him in society in Rome. _Diable!_ but he had been right, as

usual. He, Philippe d'Antin, always was right about women. And this was

Jeanne's "child"--this girl who gave herself to be kissed, and told her

lover it was sweet to be hurt by him! Ah! he had heard that. The words

had made the blood leap in his veins.

He watched Silvio disappear through the tangled brush-wood growing

between the avenue and the park-wall, and Bianca's figure vanish in the

direction of the villa, before he finally emerged from his hiding-place.

Then he walked slowly several times up and down the avenue, thinking

about what might be the best use to make of his discovery. Should he

keep silence, and allow Bianca Acorari to compromise herself a little

more irrevocably, or should he speak to Jeanne at once? He wished he

had some means of knowing whether the meeting he had witnessed was a

first interview, or only one of many. Unluckily his knowledge of

Italian was not sufficient to enable him clearly to learn all he might

have learned from the lovers' conversation. If it were a first meeting

only, the matter could be the more easily nipped in the bud--and then--

Here Monsieur d'Antin paused. He hardly ventured, even to himself, to

cast the thoughts that were beginning to revolve in his mind into

concrete form.

The worst of it was that Jeanne must be utterly incompetent to deal with

anything of the nature of a love affair. He did not believe that in all

his sister's life she had ever known what love was. Certainly her

marriage with the Principe di Montefiano had not let her into the

mystery, for everybody knew that it was a marriage which had, so to say,

stopped short at the altar.

Who could tell, moreover, who this young fellow might be? It was

certainly not likely that he was a suitable match for Bianca, or the two

would not behave in so absolutely _bourgeois_ a manner. No; the boy was

much more probably some adventurer--some shopkeeper from Rome, with the

_faux airs_ of a gentleman about him. In this case the matter would be

very simple. It would not be a very easy thing to find a husband for a

girl who was known to have had a _liaison_ with a man out of her class;

and, this being so, Bianca Acorari would either have to remain single or

marry some man who would be willing to overlook such a scandal in her

past.

Thus reflecting, Monsieur d'Antin came to the conclusion that, for the

moment at all events, he would say nothing to his sister. The first

thing to be done would be to find out who this young man was.

Afterwards, it would be easier to decide how long the little love-idyl

he had assisted at that afternoon should be allowed to continue. If he

had to take anybody into his confidence before speaking to Jeanne, why

should the Abbe Roux not be that person?

That was a good idea--an excellent idea. The priest could manage

Jeanne, and, perhaps, he, Philippe d'Antin, could manage the priest. It

was possible, but he was not sure; for priests were--priests. In any

case, it would be as well to have the abbe on his side if he found he

was able to derive any personal benefit out of the _bouleversement_ that

must be the immediate result of the discovery of Bianca's conduct.

Yes, he would warn the Abbe Roux that it would be well to keep an eye on

Bianca's movements, and how she passed her hours at the Villa Acorari.

Of course the boy would come again--and small blame to him! And if

spying were to be done, it had better be done by the priest. In that

case he, Monsieur d'Antin, would not incur Bianca's odium as being the

destroyer of her romance.

Having arranged his programme to his satisfaction, Monsieur d'Antin

strolled back to the villa. He found Bianca in the saloon, and greeted

her with an airy good-humor.

"I have been looking for you in the gardens," he said. "They said you

were walking there--but where you have been hiding yourself I do not

know! Certainly I failed to discover the spot."

If Monsieur d'Antin had been so foolish as to allow himself to look at

the girl as he spoke, he would have seen the quick look of relief on her

face. As it was, he looked at his watch.

"The servants told me you were here," she replied. "How you did not find

me in the gardens, I cannot think. Did you go up to the ilex grove--the

wood at the top of the hill?"

The keen note of anxiety in her voice was not lost upon Monsieur

d'Antin.

"Yes," he returned. "I looked down the avenue, but I saw nobody. Then

it began to rain heavily, and I tried to get back to the house. But I

lost my way, and found myself--oh, close to the high road. So I took

refuge under a tree, and--here I am!"

Bianca laughed nervously. "What a dull way of spending the afternoon!"

she said. "But mamma will be back presently--she had to go to Rome.

You are going to stop for dinner, of course? Perhaps to sleep here?"

"Impossible!" said Monsieur d'Antin, consulting his watch again. "I

must drive back to Genzano. I told the _vetturino_ to wait."

"But mamma," said Bianca, "she will be so disappointed to miss you!

Surely you can stay to dinner?"

"Impossible," repeated Monsieur d'Antin. "I have promised to drive back

to Rome from Genzano with one of the secretaries of our legation, and we

were to start at seven o'clock. Make my excuses to my sister, and tell

her that I shall be back again soon to pay her a visit--oh, very soon.

But, my dear child, you look pale--you have been too much in the sun,

perhaps--"

"Do I?" asked Bianca, hastily. "It is nothing--my head aches a little.

Yes, I suppose it is the sun."

Monsieur d'Antin laughed merrily.

"No doubt!" he said. "His kisses are too warm just now--decidedly too

warm. You must beware of them, my dear child. Do not let him kiss you

too often, or he will spoil that delicate skin."

And laughing always, he bade Bianca good-bye, and went to the

entrance-door where a servant was engaged in trying to rouse his

slumbering driver.

*XII*

"The thing is absolutely incredible!"

It was the Abbe Roux who was speaking. He sat with his hands folded on

his lap. They were puffy hands, and looked unnaturally white against

the black background of his _soutane_.

Monsieur d'Antin sat a few paces away from him, smoking a cigarette.

The two had been in earnest conversation together in Monsieur d'Antin's

little apartment in the Via Ludovisi, where the Abbe Roux had arrived

half an hour before very much exercised in his mind as to why the

princess's brother should have made such a point of wishing to speak

with him in private.

Monsieur d'Antin looked at his visitor, and his face contracted with one

of his satirical little smiles.

"You think so, my dear abbe?" he said, dryly. "That is because you are

so infinitely superior to the weaknesses of the flesh. To me, on the

contrary, the thing is perfectly credible; it is even natural. But we

must endeavor to save Donna Bianca Acorari from the consequences this

particular weakness would entail. I am glad I decided to confide in you

before speaking to my sister. Of course, had Bianca been her own child,

it would have simplified matters considerably; but as it is, I am sure

you will agree with me, my dear abbe, that we must help my sister in

this very difficult position."

The Abbe Roux unfolded his hands and began rubbing them gently together.

"Certainly, Monsieur le Baron, certainly," he replied. "It is, indeed, a

duty to assist the princess in this--this exceedingly painful affair."

He paused, and looked at Monsieur d'Antin inquiringly, as though to

intimate that he was only waiting to hear how the latter proposed to

act.

Monsieur d'Antin proceeded with some deliberation to light another

cigarette.

"I felt convinced that you would agree with me," he said, at length. "I

am quite aware--my sister has often told me, indeed--what confidence she

has in your judgment. I regard it as very fortunate that she has so

reliable a counsellor. A woman left in her position needs some man at

her side who will give her disinterested advice; and you, of course,

Monsieur l'Abbe, enjoy two great advantages. In the first place, you

have the influence of your sacred calling, which, as we both know, my

sister regards with extreme reverence; and, in the next place, though a

foreigner by birth, you are as much at home in Italy and with Italians

as though you were one of themselves."

The Abbe Roux bowed. "Madame la Princesse has, indeed, chosen to honor

me by asking my advice occasionally on matters quite apart from my

profession," he replied.

Monsieur d'Antin blew a cloud of smoke into the air. There was, perhaps,

the faintest suspicion of impatience in the action.

"Precisely," he returned. "Knowing this, I feel that we can discuss the

peculiar situation in which Donna Bianca has placed herself--or, I

should rather say, in which an unscrupulous young man has placed her--as

two men of the world. Is it not so? My sister," he continued, without

giving the priest time to reply, "would naturally merely look at the

affair from the moral point of view. She would be deeply scandalized by

it, and shocked at what she would regard almost as depravity in one whom

she has hitherto considered to be still a child. All that is very

well--but we men, my dear abbe, know that there are other things to be

thought of in these cases of indiscretion on the part of young girls."

"The deception," said the Abbe Roux, shaking his head; "the princess

will feel the deception practised by her step-daughter very acutely."

Monsieur d'Antin tapped a neatly shod foot on the floor.

"Dear Monsieur l'Abbe," he observed, gently, "let us ignore the

deception as being one of those moral points of the case which, I think,

we have agreed to leave out of our discussion. The question is, does my

sister wish Donna Bianca to marry, or does she not?"

"Most decidedly not!" exclaimed the Abbe Roux, hastily, almost angrily.

Monsieur d'Antin glanced at him. "I do not necessarily allude to Donna

Bianca's marriage with this unknown lover," he returned, "but to her

marriage in the abstract."

The other hesitated.

"The princess, I believe, considers that it would be very unadvisable

for Donna Bianca to marry too young," he said. "She has her good

reasons, no doubt," he added--"women's reasons, Monsieur le Baron, with

which you and I need not concern ourselves."

Monsieur d'Antin laughed softly.

"It appears to me," he said, "that Donna Bianca has proved them to be

mere ideas, not reasons. I do not think my sister need be uneasy on

that score. I should say, on the contrary, that in this instance

marriage was advisable--very advisable indeed. You have often, I have

no doubt, had to recommend it to your penitents, Monsieur l'Abbe."

The Abbe Roux spread out his hands with a deprecatory gesture. "In the

present case," he said, "there are, I believe, other considerations

which madame your sister, as guardian to Donna Bianca Acorari, has to

take into account."

Monsieur d'Antin nodded his head. "I understand," he observed.

"Pecuniary considerations."

The abbe looked at him. "In a sense--yes," he said. "The prince," he

continued, "was not a man of business."

"So I have always heard," remarked Monsieur d'Antin.

"He left his affairs in a very involved state. The princess, since she

has had the management of them, has been endeavoring to bring them into

better order during Donna Bianca's minority."

"I understand," said Monsieur d'Antin again. "So that," he added, "it

is, from a business point of view, very desirable that Donna Bianca

should not marry before she is twenty-one."

"Exactly!" assented the abbe. "From a business point of view it is more

than desirable, it is important," he added. "In the event of Donna

Bianca's marrying, even as a minor, she would bring to her husband the

Montefiano properties, and their administration by madame your sister

would cease. These were the terms of the prince's will."

"It is perfectly clear," observed Monsieur d'Antin. "My sister and I

have never discussed these matters," he continued. "There would have

been no object in her talking to me about them, for I am absolutely

ignorant of Roman customs where landed property is concerned. As I say,

it is fortunate that she has had you to advise her as to how to act for

the best in her step-daughter's interest. I fully understand the

situation, however; or, if I do not, you will correct me--is it not so?

_Bien_! I will proceed to explain myself--with your permission."

The abbe bowed silently.

"For business reasons, into which it is unnecessary to enter in detail,

it is not convenient that Donna Bianca Acorari should marry for, at all

events, three years. But surely, my dear Monsieur l'Abbe, it would very

much depend upon whom she married, whether these business calculations

were upset or not? An accommodating husband--or one who was in a

position to be independent of any fortune his wife might bring him, need

not necessarily, so far as I can see, interfere with arrangements you

may have thought it wise to suggest to my sister for the better

administration of her step-daughter's property."

Monsieur d'Antin looked penetratingly at his visitor as he said these

words, and the abbe returned his gaze. Then something like a smile

crossed the faces of both men simultaneously.

"No doubt," the priest replied, tranquilly, "very much would depend upon

the husband. But I do not see your argument, monsieur," he continued.

"You surely are not suggesting that Donna Bianca's very deplorable

entanglement with a young man, whose identity, I must remind you, is as

yet unknown to us, should be permitted to go on? The very fact of this

individual meeting your niece--"

"Not my niece, Monsieur l'Abbe--not my niece!" interrupted Monsieur

d'Antin. "The accident of Donna Bianca Acorari's father having married

my sister _en secondes noces_, does not make that young lady any

relation to me."

"Pardon!" said the abbe; "I forgot. Of course, as you say, Donna Bianca

is absolutely no relation to you--not even a connection, indeed."

"Precisely--not even a connection," repeated Monsieur d'Antin. "But

pray proceed--"

"I was about to say," resumed the abbe, "that no young man of good

family would place a young girl in such an unheard-of position as to

make love to her before speaking to her relations. The man is no doubt

some adventurer."

"That," said Monsieur d'Antin, "I must leave to you to ascertain. As I

have just observed, I am no relation of Donna Bianca Acorari. I

therefore prefer not to interfere further than to utter a private

warning to those who have the right to move in the matter as to what has

accidentally come to my knowledge."

"It will not be difficult to identify the individual whom you saw in

Donna Bianca's company," said the priest. "As you remarked, he is sure

to repeat his visit to the Villa Acorari. For this reason I should be

inclined to say nothing to the princess until we have ascertained who it

is with whom we have to deal."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Monsieur d'Antin. "I thoroughly agree with you.

You will admit, however, my dear abbe, that the matter is serious. For

instance, what is to prevent the young couple from taking the law into

their own hands and running away? If the young man is merely an

adventurer, he might persuade Donna Bianca to take such a step. There

has been an example of the kind in Rome not so very long ago, if I am

not mistaken."

"There is nothing to prevent them from doing so, certainly," replied the

Abbe Roux. "They could get themselves married ecclesiastically, no

doubt, but not legally. It would hardly be worth an adventurer's while

to burden himself with a wife over whose fortune he would have no legal

rights."

"He might prefer to establish rights over her person," said Monsieur

d'Antin, dryly. "Young men--are young men; and this one, unless I am

greatly mistaken, thinks more of Donna Bianca's face than her fortune."

The Abbe Roux shrugged his shoulders. "He seems to be on the high road

to establish those rights already," he observed, "if one is to judge by

what you overheard. The blessing of the Church is not invariably sought

in cases of this kind," he added.

Monsieur d'Antin chuckled. "True," he replied, "the girl is

inexperienced, and of a temperament--oh, but of a temperament--" He

paused abruptly.

The abbe looked at him quickly. Then he smiled a curious little smile

not altogether in keeping with his clerical attire.

"Ah," he said, "I think, Monsieur le Baron, that you have had occasion

to remark on this--this delicate subject before, have you not? The

princess mentioned to me some time ago that you had told her you thought

she was mistaken in believing her step-daughter to be still a child.

You have evidently been studying Donna Bianca attentively. After all,

she is a very attractive young lady, and is developing greater beauty

every few months. But your warning to Madame la Princesse has turned

out to be singularly justified by subsequent events. One sees that you

have an insight into female character, Monsieur le Baron."

Monsieur d'Antin looked at him suspiciously for a moment, and then he

laughed good-humoredly.

"What would you have, my dear abbe?" he asked. "I am not such an old

man--yet; and I am not a priest. I have my little experiences--yes--and

I am not often mistaken about a woman," and Monsieur d'Antin slapped

himself encouragingly on the breast. "I will make you a little

confession, my friend," he continued, gayly. "It is of no consequence

that I am smoking a cigarette, and that you do not happen to have your

stole on--you can give me absolution all the same. I find my 'niece,'

as you choose to call her, charming--absolutely charming. It is a

thousand pities that she has so hopelessly compromised herself with this

mysterious young man, for if the story becomes known, when my sister

wants to find a husband for her it will not be such an easy matter to do

so. Ah, my dear Monsieur l'Abbe, had I only been younger, a very few

years younger, I would have come forward and said: 'I, Philippe d'Antin,

will marry you, and protect you from the evil tongues of the world. I

pardon your youthful indiscretion, and I make you the Baroness

d'Antin.'"

Monsieur d'Antin paused and looked at the Abbe Roux gravely. He

appeared to be almost overcome by a sense of his own magnanimity.

The abbe was apparently engrossed in his own thoughts. He sat silently

rubbing his hands together, and it was some moments before he spoke.

"I agree with you, monsieur," he said, presently. "It is not every man

who will marry a young lady who has placed herself in an equivocal

position. You are very generous. I offer you my congratulations on

your chivalrous spirit; and though, as you remark, I have not my stole

on, I shall respect your confidence. All the same, _nous sommes

toujours la_! Donna Bianca Acorari's marriage would not be advisable

for the present. The princess, I feel convinced, would not countenance

it."

"But, my dear abbe," exclaimed Monsieur d'Antin, "I assure you that I

thoroughly understand! I was merely stating what I should have been

prepared to do had I only been a slightly younger man. I do not conceal

the fact from you that I have a certain admiration for Donna Bianca,

which you, with your knowledge of frail human nature, will readily

pardon as a mere weakness of the flesh--is it not so? At the same time,

I should have been prepared to sacrifice myself in order to prevent any

scandal; and, moreover, perhaps there would not be the same objections

to me as a husband for Donna Bianca as there might be in the case of a

stranger. We should, so to speak, be keeping the Montefiano properties

in the family, should we not, Monsieur l'Abbe? and there would have been

no reason to fear that your and my sister's excellent schemes for the

benefit of the estates would not have had ample time to be realized.

However, these are mere _chateaux en Espagne_. We need not discuss so

unlikely a contingency any further. I consider that I have done my duty

in warning you, as my sister's confidential adviser and spiritual

director, as to what is taking place; and, as I have said, I must leave

it to you to take such steps as you think proper regarding when and how

the princess is to be made acquainted with the story. After what I have

confided to you of my personal feelings, I am sure you will understand

my determination not to mix myself up in the matter--unless I am wanted.

If I can be of any use eventually, you know, my dear Monsieur l'Abbe,

what I am prepared to do in order to protect Donna Bianca from any

scandal."

The Abbe Roux rose from his chair. "I think, Monsieur le Baron," he

said, "that you may safely leave this very delicate matter to me. The

first thing to be done is to find out who this young man may be. When I

have accomplished this, we can discuss what may be the best course to be

taken. For the moment, I shall say nothing to the princess. A day or

two's delay can do no harm, and may do good."

Monsieur d'Antin accompanied his visitor to the door of the staircase,

where he took leave of him. Then he returned to his sitting-room, and,

having closed the door, gave vent to quiet but genuine merriment.

*XIII*

Silvio Rossano had quickly made up his mind that, as was only fitting

and proper, he would tell his father without further delay of the

situation in which he and Bianca found themselves. It would be the

professor's duty to call on Princess Montefiano and make a formal

proposal on the part of his son for Donna Bianca's hand. That the

proposal would not be listened to by the princess, Silvio was convinced.

He had never attempted to deceive himself upon that subject, and less

than ever after hearing from Giacinta what she had learned. But, at all

events, once having sent his father as his ambassador, he would have

conformed to the usages of society, and would afterwards be free to take

his own line.

Mademoiselle Durand, to whom he had of course confided the successful

result of his interview with Bianca in the grounds of the Villa Acorari,

had counselled patience. There was no reason, she thought, why, with

the exercise of ordinary prudence, Silvio and the girl whom he now

looked upon as his betrothed wife should not repeatedly meet each other

in the same manner, and there was surely no necessity to be in a hurry

to explode the mine they had laid--more especially as it was not so easy

to calculate what the effects of the explosion might be. But Silvio was

firm. Had there been the slightest hope of being able to accomplish his

object in any other way, he would never, as he told Mademoiselle Durand,

have approached Bianca secretly, and already he blamed himself for

having placed the girl in so unusual a position. Now, however, that he

had heard from her own lips that Bianca returned his love, and since

they had mutually vowed to marry each other, or not to marry at all, he

would have no more concealment. If the princess refused to accept him

as a husband for her step-daughter, then he should feel that he and

Bianca were at liberty to carry out their future plans in their own way.

Mademoiselle Durand expostulated in vain. Silvio begged her to deliver

a letter to Bianca when she next went to the Villa Acorari. In this

letter he explained all his reasons for not risking another interview

with her until they should have learned the result of his father's visit

to the princess, and these reasons he put before Bianca in the simple,

straightforward way which was part of his nature. Mademoiselle Durand

promised to deliver the letter the very next day, and in the mean time

Silvio had carried his story to his father.

Professor Rossano had received his son's intelligence with a blank

dismay which was almost ludicrous; for never, surely, had a task for

which he was so absolutely ill-fitted been thrust upon him. At first he

had positively declined to interfere, or to be by way of knowing

anything at all about the matter. Silvio had chosen to fall in love in

an impossible quarter, and the best thing he could do was to fall out of

love again as quickly as possible. As to thinking that the Principessa

di Montefiano would allow her step-daughter and the last representative

of the Acorari to marry the son of the tenant of her second floor, that

was altogether an absurdity. Giacomelli had been quite right when he

said Silvio was in love, and would be taking false measurements in

consequence. He had taken them--deplorably false measurements.

"But," Silvio observed quietly, after the first stream of objection had

somewhat subsided, "I do not the least think the princess will consent

to our marriage."

"Then, may I ask, what is the use of sending me on a fool's errand?" the

professor retorted, witheringly.

"Nevertheless, whether she consents or not, Bianca Acorari and I shall

marry each other. All the same," continued Silvio, "if she gives her

consent, it will, of course, obviate a great many difficulties."

His father gazed at him with an expression half angry and half humorous.

"_Diamine!_" he observed, "I imagine that it would! It appears to me,

Silvio, you forget that marrying an heiress is not the same thing as

building a bridge. In the mean time, as I say, you wish to send me on a

fool's errand. Well, you may 'go out fishing!' These people are noble,

and I am not going to expose myself and my son to certain prejudices

which an old-fashioned woman like Princess Montefiano probably

entertains. Moreover, they are clericals--fervent Catholics--and when

people are fervent Catholics--_mah!_" and the professor shrugged his

shoulders.

Silvio laughed. "It is a mere formality, Babbo," he said, "and it is

the only thing I shall ask you to do in the matter. If you like, you

can go to the princess and say to her, 'My son has fallen in love with

your step-daughter, and means to marry her. I have told him he is an

imbecile, and that I will not give my consent; but he declares he will

marry her all the same.'"

"Oh, oh!" exclaimed the professor, "so you would marry without my

consent, would you? And pray, what would you live upon?"

"My wits."

"It seems to me that you are a pumpkin-head, and that you have lost

them," returned the professor. "Does Giacinta know of this folly?"

"She knows that I am going to marry Donna Bianca Acorari."

"The devil she does!" observed Professor Rossano. "Go and talk it over

with Giacinta, Silvio," he continued; "she is a sensible girl, and will

tell you that you are going to make a fool of yourself, and of your

family as well. As for me, I will have nothing to do with it. I have

no time to spend on such trifles."

"But if I have already talked it over with Giacinta?" said Silvio. He

knew very well how to manage his father. The professor would certainly

end by doing what either of his children asked him to do. It was his

method of carrying out his sense of parental duty. His children,

whenever he remembered to think about them, puzzled him considerably; or

rather, it puzzled him to know what was expected of him as a father.

Occasionally he would sit and look at Giacinta with much the same

expression on his face as may be seen on that of a retriever bitch whose

puppies are beginning to assert their independence. He often felt that

it was probably incumbent upon him to do something on her behalf, but he

did not at all know what it might be, and still less how to do it. In

Silvio's case things had been different. The boy had so early given

unmistakable proofs of having both the brains and the character to take

a line of his own in the world, that the professor had never had

seriously to think of possible responsibilities towards him.

This affair of Silvio's, however, would, as Professor Rossano was quick

to realize, need some careful handling on a father's part. He was very

fond of his children, notwithstanding all his apparent absorption in his

scientific occupations, and he was proud as well as fond of his son. He

might laugh at Silvio, and call him an "imbecile," and he might pretend

to regard his love for this Acorari girl as a foolish fancy that need

not be seriously discussed. But in his heart Professor Rossano was

uneasy. He knew that Silvio was not a susceptible lad, and that he had

hitherto appeared to be remarkably indifferent to women. But he knew,

too, his tenacity of character, and how when he had once fairly made up

his mind to attain some object he would pursue his purpose with an

energy that was almost dogged.

Added to these traits in Silvio's character, the professor knew the

gentleness and loyalty of his nature and his simple, affectionate

disposition. It would go very hard with the boy, he thought, if he were

deceived or played with by any woman upon whom he had really set his

affections. Notwithstanding his assertion that he would have nothing to

say or do in the matter, Professor Rossano had not the slightest

intention of allowing Silvio's life to be made unhappy if he could

prevent it. The boy had a career before him, and it should most

certainly not be wrecked by a priest-ridden woman and the daughter of so

poor a specimen of humanity as the late Principe di Montefiano was

reputed to have been. What Donna Bianca Acorari might be, the professor

neither knew nor cared. Though they lived under the same roof, he had

never set eyes upon the girl. She was probably bored to death with her

step-mother and her step-mother's pious practices, and had encouraged

the first good-looking young man she saw to make love to her, which

young man had unfortunately happened to be Silvio.

Perhaps Silvio guessed something of what was passing in his father's

mind. "I have already talked it over with Giacinta," he repeated, as

the professor remained silent. "She does not think, any more than I

think, that there is the slightest chance of Princess Montefiano

listening to any proposal coming from us."

"And why not, I should like to know?" exclaimed the professor with

sublime inconsistency.

"For various reasons," returned Silvio, suppressing an inclination to

laugh. "Giacinta knows more about Casa Montefiano than any of us," he

continued. "I told her some time ago how it was with me, and she has

been making some inquiries. It appears that there is a priest--the Abbe

Roux, they call him--"

"May the devil take him!" interrupted the professor. "He puts his nose

everywhere. When we took this apartment the princess had agreed to make

certain alterations, but the porter told my lawyer that the Abbe

Roux--well, never mind!--what were you going to say about him, Silvio?"

"Only that, as you say, he puts his foot everywhere. Giacinta has heard

that neither the princess nor he really wish Donna Bianca to marry at

all."

"Which means to say that the priest does not wish it, for some reasons

of his own--money reasons, probably. The princess will do what he tells

her to do, of course."

"Of course," repeated Silvio, dryly.

"And do you mean me to go and bribe the Abbe Roux?" asked the professor,

"for I shall most decidedly do nothing of the kind!"

"Oh, not at all!" returned Silvio, quietly; "I tell you, it does not

matter, Babbo. Bianca and I shall wait three years, unless we get tired

of waiting and run away with each other before. We could be married in

a church, you know, and the legal marriage might be postponed till she

was of age, but I think it would be better to wait the three years."

"_Diamine!_" ejaculated the professor, "but you seem to be very certain

of your arrangements, _figlio mio_, and of the girl."

Silvio nodded. "You see," he said, "I don't want to put her in any

false position, and if we ran away with each other before she is of age,

people would say I had done it in order eventually to get her money.

Besides, in the course of three years she will have ample time to be

quite sure that she has not made a mistake," added Silvio, with a smile.

The professor looked at him. "Yes," he said, "you are quite right, but

not many young men would be so thoughtful or so confiding. In the mean

time, you think--Giacinta thinks there is no chance of your being

allowed to pay your addresses to Donna Bianca Acorari, because, I

suppose, you would not be considered well-born enough nor rich enough.

You might be a contractor risen from nothing, or a _mercante di

campagna_ whose father had herded pigs, and, if you had money, no

objections would be made to your marrying into the Acorari or any other

family. _Figlio mio_, take my advice. Leave these people alone, and

take your wife from a class that has good brains and healthy blood, not

from these worn-out families of which the country has very little

further need. You are only preparing for yourself trouble and

disappointment."

Silvio shook his head. "I will marry Bianca Acorari, or I will marry

nobody," he said.

The professor shrugged his shoulders.

"That being the case," he observed, mildly, "what is the use of

discussing the matter any further? Why send me to the girl's

step-mother? It is a waste of time."

"You could write," suggested Silvio.

"Of course I should write!" returned his father testily. "You don't

suppose I should spend a whole day in going to Velletri and back on such

an affair, do you? All the same, I see why you think the formal

proposal should be made in the usual way. If it is declined by the

princess--as, of course, it will be--you and the girl will consider

yourselves to be justified in taking the matter into your hands--is it

not true?"

"Exactly," answered Silvio. "Moreover," he added, "I want to be certain

that Giacinta's informant is right, and that there is some reason why

Donna Bianca will not be allowed to marry either me or anybody else, if

it can be prevented."

The professor nodded his head slowly. "Depend upon it, the priest is at

the bottom of it," he said. "He is probably feathering his nest, or

somebody else's nest, well out of the Montefiano revenues, and does not

want any premature change in the situation. And that reminds me," he

added, laughing, "that you had better have been anybody's son than mine.

The priests--I mean those of the Abbe Roux type--regard me as a

freemason, a heretic, anything you please that is damnable,

because--well, because I believe Domeneddio to have given us minds in

order that we should use them. I am afraid, Silvio _mio_, that Donna

Bianca Acorari would never be allowed to marry the son of a senator, who

also happens to be a scientist in a modest way."

"I tell you again, Babbo," said Silvio, "that it doesn't matter. All I

want is to be refused by the princess, after a formal proposal has been

made in the recognized manner. That will quite satisfy me. Do you not

see, too, that we should be placing ourselves in a humiliating position

if we did not approach the Princess Montefiano? She has the right to

expect it, and by not conforming to the usage it would appear as though

we knew ourselves to be in an entirely different class; whereas we are

not that. We do not happen to possess a title, but for all that we can

show as good blood as the Acorari; while you are a senator, and your

name is known throughout Italy."

The professor passed his hand through his hair. "Yes," he replied, "I

believe you are right, Silvio. I imagine that you will very quickly be

satisfied if a refusal is all you want. But remember, I will have

nothing more to do with the matter after I have informed Princess

Montefiano that you wish to marry her step-daughter, and have conveyed

her answer to you. You are very obstinate, and I suppose you and this

girl are in love with each other. That being the case, you must make

fools of yourselves in your own way. Only, don't expect me to help you.

I am going to the Lincei."

And without waiting for Silvio to reply, Professor Rossano took up his

soft felt hat and his walking-stick, which were lying on a table near

him, and walked out of his study, leaving Silvio satisfied that he would

do as he had asked him.

*XIV*

Four days only had elapsed since the Abbe Roux's interview with Monsieur

d'Antin in the Via Ludovisi, when he received a telegram from Princess

Montefiano, begging him to come to the Villa Acorari at once, as she

wished to consult him on urgent business.

The abbe had endeavored to find out, by judicious inquiries from the

porter at Palazzo Montefiano, and from one or two servants who were left

in charge of the princess's apartments, whether any stranger who might

answer to Monsieur d'Antin's description of the young man he had seen

with Donna Bianca had ever presented himself there. He had intended

going to the Villa Acorari himself under some excuse of business, and,

without saying anything for the moment to Princess Montefiano, to cause

the grounds to be watched, and the intrusion of any stranger duly

reported to him. Indeed, he had determined, so far as time permitted,

to do a little watching on his own account. It was clearly advisable,

as Monsieur d'Antin had said, to know with whom one was dealing. It

might be, though it was not at all likely, that Bianca Acorari's Romeo

was a son of some well-known Roman house, living in _villeggiatura_ at

his family palace or villa in the neighborhood; and that the scene at

which Monsieur d'Antin had assisted was merely the escapade of some

thoughtless youth at a loss how to pass his time in the country.

It was curious that, in turning over in his mind all the possible men

who could have had any opportunity of seeing enough of Donna Bianca to

fall in love with her, the Abbe Roux never thought of the son of the

obnoxious senator who lived in Palazzo Acorari. As a matter of fact, he

had never seen Silvio Rossano, for he had never happened to encounter

him on the staircase or in the court-yard of Palazzo Acorari on the

occasion of his frequent visits there, though he was very well aware of

his existence.

It was, therefore, a pure coincidence that Silvio should happen to enter

the palace at the very moment when the abbe was in deep conversation

with the porter at the foot of the staircase. Probably the priest would

scarcely have noticed him, had it not been that Silvio had looked at him

with, as he fancied, some curiosity. Monsieur l'Abbe asked the porter

who Silvio was, and the man seemed surprised.

"That one?" he said. "Why, that is the _signorino_ of the second floor,

a _bel ragazzo_--is it not true, _monsignore_?"

The Montefiano establishment always gave the Abbe Roux the title of

_monsignore_, not being quite clear as to what an abbe might be.

"Ah, of course," returned the abbe, "the _signorino_ of the second

floor"--and he followed Silvio's retreating form with his eyes.

"_Un bel ragazzo davvero--proprio bello!_" he continued, giving Silvio a

prolonged look, as the latter turned the angle of the staircase, and

enabled the abbe to see his face distinctly. "He is always in Rome?" he

inquired, carelessly.

"Yes, the Signorino Rossano was living at home now," the porter

declared. "He was a very quiet young man--_molto serio_. Indeed, he,

the porter, had never seen him engaged in any adventures, unless--"

"Unless--what?" asked the abbe, smiling. "A young man cannot be

expected to be always _molto serio_," he added, leniently.

"_Sicuro!_ especially so handsome a lad as the _signorino_. Naturally

the women made up to him. The French mademoiselle who came to the

_principessina_, for instance; he had met the _signorino_ and her

walking together--oh, more than once. Not that there was anything in

it, probably--for it was in the daytime he had met them--in the morning,

indeed--and who wanted to make love on an empty stomach?"

The Abbe Roux checked the porter's garrulity with a slight gesture, and

appeared to take but little interest in the matter.

Nevertheless, as he left Palazzo Acorari he wondered whether by any

chance this young Rossano could be the individual he was looking for.

His personal appearance answered to Monsieur d'Antin's description of

Donna Bianca's lover--and what more probable than that the two had met

repeatedly in this way in and out of the _palazzo_, and had managed to

communicate with each other? The Frenchwoman, of course! She had been

the channel of communication! The abbe thought that he must have been

very dull not to think at once of so simple an explanation of the

affair. But he had momentarily forgotten that Professor Rossano's son

was living at home. He had heard all about Silvio, and knew that he was

an engineer who was rapidly making a considerable reputation for himself

in his profession.

But the thing was absurd--preposterous! There could be no difficulty in

at once putting a stop to this young man's presumption. Moreover, the

princess would be horrified at the bare idea of her step-daughter

marrying the son of an infidel scientist who had ventured to attack

certain dogmas of the Church. At any rate, if the princess were not

properly horrified at the notion of such an alliance, he, the Abbe Roux,

would have little difficulty in making her so.

Altogether, it was perhaps very fortunate that Donna Bianca's lover had

turned out to be young Rossano and not somebody of higher rank, whose

proposals might not be so easy to dismiss as unsuitable. He must try to

get definite proof of Silvio Rossano being the suitor, however, and once

he had this proof in his hands, he could speak to the princess as

Monsieur d'Antin had proposed. And Monsieur d'Antin? The Abbe Roux

laughed softly to himself as he thought of Monsieur d'Antin. It was

certainly droll. Monsieur le Baron was--well, it was very evident what

he was. But he was shrewd, too! He wished to gratify two passions at

once. After all, his proposal was worthy of consideration; for if his

scheme were carried out, everybody's little passions might be gratified

and nobody would be the worse--except, perhaps, Donna Bianca Acorari.

Yes, it was certainly worth thinking about--this self-sacrifice offered

by Monsieur d'Antin. If the princess could be brought to see it, a

marriage between her step-daughter and her brother would, as Monsieur

d'Antin had frequently remarked, keep the Montefiano possessions in the

family, where it was very advisable from his--the abbe's--point of view

that they should be kept.

The Abbe Roux had not been virtually the manager of Donna Bianca

Acorari's future inheritance for nearly ten years without having

developed a very keen personal interest in it. The princess, as she

said of herself, was not, and never had been, a woman of business. If

she had displayed a certain amount of worldly acumen in inducing the

late Prince Montefiano to make her his wife, there had been, it is only

fair to say, no undue pecuniary motives in her manoeuvres. Her life was

a lonely one, with absolutely no interests in it except those supplied

by her religion. These, indeed, might have been wide enough--so wide as

to embrace all humanity, had Mademoiselle d'Antin's religion been other

than a purely egoistical affair. But, like many other ultra-pious

people of all creeds, she labored under a conviction that future

happiness was only to be purchased at the cost of much present

mortification. Her own soul, consequently, was a perpetual burden to

her; and so, although in a very much less degree, were the souls of

others. Hence, at one moment of Mademoiselle d'Antin's life, a convent

had seemed to be the most fitting place in which to retire, and she had

come to Rome almost persuaded that she had a vocation to save herself

and others, by a life of seclusion and prayer, from the future evils

which she honestly imagined a Divine Creator petty and vindictive enough

to be capable of inflicting on His creatures.

It was at this period that she happened to be thrown in the society of

Prince Montefiano, who had taken to appearing in the _salons_ of the

"black" world, perhaps as a sincere though tardy means of mortifying

that flesh which he had invariably indulged so long as it had been able

to respond to the calls made upon it.

Very soon after her marriage with the reclaimed sheep, Mademoiselle

d'Antin, now Principessa di Montefiano, had made the acquaintance of her

compatriot, the Abbe Roux--at that time acting as secretary to a leading

cardinal of the Curia, well-known for his irreconcilable and

ultramontane principles. It was, perhaps, an exaggeration to declare,

as did the gossips in the clubs, that the princess and the Abbe Roux

between them had wrestled so hard for the salvation of Prince

Montefiano's soul as to cause him to yield it up from sheer _ennui_. It

was certain, however, that he soon succumbed under the process, and that

the abbe became more than ever indispensable to his widow.

Prince Montefiano had, as the Abbe Roux soon found, left his affairs in

a very unsatisfactory state. The lands remaining in his possession were

heavily mortgaged, and a large proportion of the income derived from the

fief of Montefiano--the only property of any importance left was

swallowed up in payment of interest on the mortgages.

Like many other landed proprietors in the Roman province, the prince

farmed out his rents to a middle-man, who paid him a fixed sum yearly,

and took what he might be able to make out of the estate over and above

this sum as his own profit. An agent at Montefiano collected the rents,

in money or kind, from the tenants, and paid them over to this

middle-man, who was himself a well-to-do _mercante di campagna_ with a

fair amount of capital at his back, and this individual was bound to pay

in to the prince's account the sum agreed upon, whether the season and

the crops were bad or good. After Prince Montefiano's death, this

system had been continued, by the advice of the Abbe Roux, to whom the

princess--feeling herself to be at a disadvantage in dealing with

it--not only as a foreigner, but also as merely the second wife of her

husband and not the mother of his only child and heiress had very soon

confided the superintendence of all the business connected with the

estates.

The abbe, it is true, had, after the course of two or three years, made

a slight alteration in the system. On the expiration of the contract

with the middle-man who had hitherto farmed the rents, his offer to

renew on similar terms for a further number of years was not accepted.

The abbe had assured Princess Montefiano that, if she would intrust the

matter fully to him, he would find her a middleman who would pay a

larger yearly sum than had hitherto been given for the rights. The

princess had consented, and Monsieur l'Abbe had been as good as his

word. He produced an individual who offered some ten thousand francs a

year more than the _mercante di campagna_ had offered; and, as the abbe

pointed out, though not a very large addition to income, it was not a

sum to be thrown away in such critical times. This new arrangement had

worked so satisfactorily that, by degrees, the system was extended to

other portions of the Montefiano property, and not merely to the fief

which gave the princely title to its owners.

Abbe Roux had been perfectly frank with the princess when he proposed

this extension of the "farming" system to the whole of her

step-daughter's property. It would not, he declared, be possible,

unless it could be guaranteed, or, at any rate promised, that the

contracts should be renewable at the expiration of the legal period of

their validity. It was, as he explained, an offer of a decidedly

speculative nature on the part of his friend the middle-man, and one

which could only be made on the understanding that its tenderer should

not be disturbed in his contract until Donna Bianca Acorari should come

of age, which would give him some ten years' rights over the produce of

the estates in question. This proviso, the abbe assured Princess

Montefiano, was, in his opinion, fair enough. The risks of bad seasons

had to be taken into account; the inability of tenants to pay their

rents; the vicissitudes to which live stock was always liable; and many

other considerations of a similar nature. Moreover, there was the risk

that Donna Bianca might die, or that the mortgagees might foreclose and

sell land--risks, in fact, of every kind.

The princess had hesitated. The advantages of the proposal were obvious

if the few thousand francs' addition to yearly income was the only point

to be looked at. She did not, however, feel quite comfortable in her

mind as to whether she had any right to pledge Bianca not to interfere

or refuse to renew the contracts until she should be of age. Supposing

the girl were to marry before she was of age? In that case, according to

the prince's will, the estates were to be considered as Bianca's dowry,

and he had only added a stipulation (which, indeed, the Abbe Roux had

suggested), empowering his widow, Bianca's step-mother, to give or

withhold her consent in the event of a proposal of marriage being made

to his daughter while she was still a minor.

The princess had put her scruples clearly before her adviser. She meant

to do her duty by Bianca according to her lights, although these,

perhaps, were not very brilliant. The abbe, however, had pointed out

that Donna Bianca would be in an altogether unusual position for a young

girl when she was a few years older. She would be an heiress, not

perhaps to a very large fortune, but, at all events, to one worth

bringing to any husband, and also to titles which would descend to her

children, certainly one of which, moreover, she would have the right of

bestowing upon the man she married. It would be a mere question of

settling a certain ruined castle and village upon him which carried a

title with them, and of going through the necessary formalities required

by the Italian government before a title so acquired became legal and

valid. This being the case, the danger of Donna Bianca Acorari becoming

the prey of some needy fortune-hunter, or even of some rich adventurer

who would marry her for the sake of her titles, was undoubtedly great.

The danger would be great even when she was twenty-one, and might be

supposed to have gained some knowledge of the world and to know her own

mind. How much greater would it not be if she were to be allowed to

marry when she was seventeen or so?

The abbe reminded Princess Montefiano of the clause in her husband's

will leaving it to her discretion to accept or refuse any proposal made

for Donna Bianca's hand while the girl was a minor. Surely, he argued,

it was wiser, under the circumstances, to take full advantage of the

powers given her. So far as the guaranteeing of the contracts for the

farming of the rents until Donna Bianca was of age was concerned, this,

the abbe declared, was not only a safeguard and protection against Donna

Bianca making an undesirable marriage, but it should also, with good

management, enable the princess to spend more money on the improvement

of her step-daughter's property while it was under her control. Donna

Bianca would, therefore, be all the better off when she came of age--and

Madame la Princesse would feel, when that time arrived, that she had

been a faithful steward of her interests.

The princess was convinced, and more than convinced, by these arguments.

She had wondered how it was that she could even have entertained a doubt

as to the advisability of adopting Monsieur l'Abbe's proposals. It was

very true. Bianca would be placed in a very unusual position when she

arrived at a marriageable age. It could do no harm to delay her

marriage a year or two--and if, as Monsieur l'Abbe said, the scheme he

proposed would benefit the estates, she, the princess, should feel she

was not doing her duty by Bianca were she to oppose it.

All this had happened six or seven years ago, and Princess Montefiano

had not since had any reason to doubt the soundness of the advice she

then received. The sums required by the terms of the contract were paid

in half yearly by the "farmer" of the rents with unfailing regularity,

and a great deal of trouble and responsibility was lifted from her own

shoulders.

As for the Abbe Roux, he also had every reason to be satisfied with the

arrangement. It gave him no doubt a great deal of work to do which was

certainly not of a strictly professional character--but, as he told the

princess, having undertaken the supervision of her worldly affairs, and

having given her advice as to their conduct, he felt it to be his duty

personally to look into them. The _fattori_ on the different properties

had to be interviewed, and their accounts checked at certain seasons of

the year; and though all these matters were regulated by the head-agent

and administrator to the "Eccellentissima Casa Acorari" in the estates

office in Rome, nothing was finally approved of until it had been

submitted to the Abbe Roux, as directly representing their excellencies

the Principessa and the Principessina Bianca.

*XV*

On his arrival at the Villa Acorari, the Abbe Roux was at once ushered

into Princess Montefiano's private sitting-room, where she was waiting

him with evident anxiety. It was clear that something had occurred to

upset and annoy her, and the abbe was at once convinced that, as he had

suspected when he received her telegram, she had by some means

discovered her step-daughter's secret.

He was scarcely prepared, however, for what had really happened.

That morning's post had brought the Princess Montefiano a letter from

the Senator Rossano. To say that its contents had filled her with

amazement would be but a meagre description of her feelings. It was a

very short letter, but, like the learned senator's discourses, very much

to the point, and couched in a terseness of language very unusual in

Italian missives of so formal a character.

The professor briefly apologized for addressing the Princess Montefiano

personally, without having the honor of knowing her otherwise than as a

tenant in her house, but added that the personal nature of the matter he

had to lay before her must be his excuse. He then proceeded, without

any further circumlocution, to inform the princess that his only son,

Silvio, had fallen desperately in love with her step-daughter, Donna

Bianca Acorari; that his son had some reason to believe Donna Bianca

might return his attachment were he permitted to address her; and

finally, that he, the Senator Rossano, at his son's desire, begged to

make a formal request that the latter should be allowed to plead his own

cause with Donna Bianca. The princess had, not unnaturally, been

petrified with astonishment on reading this letter, and her amazement

had quickly been succeeded by indignation. The thing was absurd, and

more than absurd; it was impertinent. Evidently this young man had seen

Bianca going in and out of the Palazzo Acorari, and had imagined himself

to have fallen in love with her--if, indeed, it was not simply a

barefaced attempt to secure her money without love entering at all into

the matter.

Her first impulse had been to send for Bianca and ask her what it all

meant. On second thoughts, however, she decided not to mention the

subject to her until she had consulted the Abbe Roux. If, as was

probable, Bianca knew nothing about it, and the whole affair were only

the silly action of a boy who had persuaded his father that he was

desperately in love with a young girl upon whom he believed himself to

have made an impression, it would be very imprudent to put any ideas of

the kind into her head. No, the only wise course, the princess

reflected, was to hear what Monsieur l'Abbe might advise, though

naturally there could be but one answer to the Senator Rossano's letter.

Indeed, she would not reply to it in person. Such an impertinence

should be treated with silent contempt; or, if some answer had to be

given, she would depute the abbe to interview these Rossanos.

The door had hardly closed behind the servant who showed him into the

room when Princess Montefiano put the letter into the abbe's hands.

"Did you ever read anything so extraordinary in your life?" she asked

him. "Yes, it was about this I telegraphed to beg you to come to me.

It is an unheard-of impertinence, and I think the professor, senator--or

whatever he might be--Rossano must be a fool, and not the clever man you

say he is, or he would never have listened to this ridiculous son of

his."

Princess Montefiano was evidently thoroughly angry, as, indeed, from her

point of view, she had every right to be. The Abbe Roux read the letter

through attentively. Then he coughed, arranged his _soutane_, and read

it through a second time.

"Well?" asked the princess, impatiently. "Are you not as much amazed as

I am?"

The abbe hesitated for a moment. Then he said, quietly: "No, madame, I

am not amazed at all."

The princess stared at him. "Not amazed at all?" she re-echoed.

"But--"

"May I ask," he interrupted, "if you have spoken to Donna Bianca of

this--this offer?"

"Offer!" exclaimed the princess, scornfully. "I do not call it an

offer; I call it an insult--at least, it would be an insult if it were

not a stupidity. No, I have not as yet mentioned the subject to Bianca.

I thought I would wait until I had consulted with you. You see,

Monsieur l'Abbe, it is a delicate matter to discuss with a young girl,

because, if there is any love at all in the matter, it can only be a

case of love at first sight on the part of this youth--and for love at

first sight there is another name--"

The abbe smiled. "Exactly, madame," he said. "You are very wise not to

mention the senator's letter to Donna Bianca. It would be better that

she should never know it had been written. At the same time, if you

read the letter carefully, you will observe that the young man believes

his affection to be reciprocated."

The princess shrugged her shoulders. "The vanity of a youth who no

doubt thinks himself irresistible," she observed. "How could it be

reciprocated? I dare say he has seen Bianca driving, or, at the most,

passed her on the staircase."

"I am inclined to think," said the abbe, "that he has more reason than

this to believe Donna Bianca to be not indifferent to him."

Princess Montefiano started visibly.

"_Mon Dieu_, monsieur, what do you mean?" she exclaimed.

The Abbe Roux carefully refolded the letter, and, placing it in the

envelope, returned it to her.

"Madame la Princesse," he said, after a pause, "the subject, as you

observed just now, is a delicate one. I regret that I should be obliged

to give you pain. Even had I not received your telegram, I should have

felt it to be my duty to come to see you on this matter."

"You knew it, then?" asked the princess, more bewildered than ever.

"Yes, I knew it," replied the priest. "It came to my knowledge only

three or four days since. I fear, madame, that Donna Bianca has given

this young man every reason to feel himself justified in persuading his

father to address this letter to you. That does not excuse his

presumption--certainly not! But, as I say, it makes it more

reasonable."

Princess Montefiano turned to him with some dignity. "Monsieur l'Abbe,"

she said, "are you aware what your words imply? You are speaking of my

step-daughter, of Donna Bianca Acorari."

The Abbe Roux spread out his hands apologetically. "Alas, madame!" he

replied, "I am fully aware of it. But I consider it to be my duty to

speak to you of Donna Bianca. I think," he added, "that you have never

had cause to complain of my failing in my duty towards Casa Acorari, or

of any lack of discretion on my part, since you honored me with your

confidence."

"That is true," said Princess Montefiano, hurriedly; "I ask your pardon,

Monsieur l'Abbe. I am sure that whatever you may have to tell me is

prompted by your sense of the confidence I repose in you. But, Bianca!

I do not understand--"

"It is a very simple matter," interrupted the abbe. "A person of my

acquaintance was an accidental witness of an interview between Donna

Bianca and young Rossano--here in the grounds of the Villa Acorari--a

few days ago. It appears that there can be no doubt it was a lover's

interview, and probably not the first of its kind between these two

young people."

The princess turned a horrified gaze upon him.

"And you call that a simple matter!" she exclaimed, so soon as she could

find words.

The abbe shrugged his shoulders.

"Madame," he replied, "between two people who are young and

good-looking, love is always a simple matter! It is in its results that

complications arise."

"Monsieur l'Abbe!" exclaimed the princess.

"Precisely," he proceeded--"in its results. It is from these results

that we must try to save Donna Bianca."

Princess Montefiano seemed as though she were about to give way to

uncontrollable agitation.

"But it is impossible!" she cried. "Great God--it is impossible!

Bianca is little more than a child still. You do not mean to

suggest--what can I say? The thought is too horrible!"

The Abbe Roux rubbed his hands gently together. "We will trust things

are not quite so serious as that," he said, slowly. "Indeed," he added,

"I do not for a moment believe that they are so. Nevertheless, my

informant declares that the interview between the two lovers was--well,

of a very passionate nature. I fear, madame, you have been mistaken in

looking upon Donna Bianca as merely a child."

The princess groaned. "That is what my brother has told me more than

once of late," she said.

"He has said the same to me," remarked the abbe. "Monsieur your brother

is, as one may say, a keen observer," he added.

"But what can we do?" exclaimed Princess Montefiano, almost

hysterically. "Good Heavens!" she continued; "how thankful I am that I

telegraphed to you! I can rely on your discretion, monsieur, as a

friend--as a priest!"

"As both, madame," returned the abbe, bowing. "The situation is

certainly a difficult one, and Donna Bianca, through her inexperience,

has no doubt placed herself in an equivocal position. Unfortunately,

the world never forgets an indiscretion committed by a young girl; and,

as I have said, there was a witness to Donna Bianca's last interview

with this young man. That is to say, this individual could hear, though

he could not see, all that passed between them."

"Ah! And who is this individual?" asked the princess, hastily. "Is he

a person whose silence can be bought?"

The Abbe Roux shook his head. "I am pledged not to reveal the name," he

replied. "I must beg of you, madame, not to ask me to do so. As

regards his silence, that is not to be bought--and even if it were, I

should not advise such a course. It would be equivalent to

admitting--well, that the worst construction could be placed on Donna

Bianca's unfortunate actions."

"Good Heavens!" repeated the princess. "What can be done? What course

can we pursue with that unhappy child? Ah! it is the mother's blood

coming out in her, Monsieur l'Abbe."

The abbe thought that the paternal strain might also be taken into

account; but he very naturally kept the reflection to himself.

"The responsibility is a terrible one for me," continued Princess

Montefiano. "If anything happens to Bianca, if she were to make a bad

marriage--and, still more, if there were to be any scandal about her,

people would say I had neglected her because she was not my own child--"

"Yes, madame," interposed the abbe, quietly, "but there must be no bad

marriage, and there must be no scandal. It will be my task to assist you

in making both things impossible."

"Yes, but how? She has put herself in the power of these Rossanos.

Probably the father is quite aware that the child has compromised

herself with his son by the very fact of meeting him alone and

secretly--otherwise he would not have ventured to write this letter.

And then, there is this, other person--your informant. Do you not see,

monsieur, that my step-daughter's good name is seriously compromised by

being at the mercy of people like these Rossanos, who are not of our

world? They would be quite capable of revenging themselves for my

treating their proposal with the contempt it deserves by spreading some

story about Bianca."

The abbe did not reply for a moment or two. "I do not think they will

do that," he said, presently. "The senator is too well-known a man to

care to place himself and his son in a false position. Though the

story, if it became known, would certainly be injurious to Donna Bianca,

it would not redound to the credit of the Rossanos. A young man with

any sense of honor does not place an inexperienced girl in such an

equivocal position. No--I should be much more afraid that, unless Donna

Bianca is removed from all possibility of being again approached by the

young Rossano, he will acquire such an influence over her that sooner or

later he will oblige her to marry him."

"But it would be an absolute _mesalliance_!" exclaimed Princess

Montefiano.

"Of course it would be a _mesalliance_, from the worldly point of view,"

said the abbe. "It would also be a crime," he added.

"A crime!"

"Yes, certainly, madame. Would you give a young girl, for whose

spiritual welfare you are responsible, to the son of Professor

Rossano--a man whose blasphemous writings and discourses have perverted

the minds and ruined the faith of half the youth of Italy? Why, Bruno

was burned for hazarding opinions which were orthodox in comparison with

the assertions made by Rossano on the authority of his miserable

science!"

The princess shuddered. "Of course!" she replied. "I forgot for the

moment whom we were discussing. No matter what might happen, I would

never give my consent to Bianca's marriage with a free-thinker. I would

rather see her dead, and a thousand times rather see her in a convent."

The Abbe Roux smiled. "Fortunately," he said, "there are other

solutions. Donna Bianca has shown very clearly that she has no vocation

for conventual life, and of the other we need not speak."

"I do not see the solutions you speak of," returned the princess, with a

sigh.

"There is only one which presents itself to my mind as being not only

simple, but absolutely necessary for the moment," said the abbe. "Donna

Bianca," he continued, looking at the princess gravely, "must be removed

where there can be no danger of her again seeing this young Rossano.

She is young, and evidently impressionable, and in time she will forget

him. It is to be hoped that he, too, will forget her. Do you

recollect, madame, my telling you that for a young lady in Donna Bianca

Acorari's position, anything that protected her against marrying before

she attained years of discretion was an advantage?"

The princess nodded. "I do, indeed," she replied. "I see now how right

you were. A young girl with the prospects Bianca has is always in

danger of falling a prey to some fortune-hunter, such as, no doubt, this

Rossano is."

"I hope," continued the abbe, "that my present advice to you will prove

as sound as the advice I gave you then, and as advantageous to Donna

Bianca's true interests. I, personally, am convinced that it will prove

so--and I offer it as the only solution I can see to the problem with

which we have to deal--I mean, madame, the problem of how to extricate

Donna Bianca from the position in which she has been placed, without

further difficulties arising. May I make my suggestion?" he added.

"Why, of course, Monsieur l'Abbe!" replied Princess Montefiano. "It is

what I asked you here to do--to give me your assistance in this very

painful matter.

"You must take Donna Bianca away from here, madame."

"Of course," said the princess; "I had already thought of that. But the

question is, where can I take her? To return to Palazzo Acorari is

impossible. She would be exposed to the probability of meeting this

young man every day. I cannot turn the Rossanos out of their apartment,

for, so far as I recollect, the lease has still two years to run. And if

I take Bianca to some other town, or to some sea-side place, what is to

prevent the young man from following us?"

"Very true," assented the Abbe Roux. "I also have thought of these

difficulties," he added. "I have considered the matter well, and it

seems to me that there is only one place in which Donna Bianca could

satisfactorily be guarded from further annoyance."

"And where is that?"

"Her own castle at Montefiano."

"Montefiano?" the princess exclaimed. "But, Monsieur l'Abbe,

Montefiano, as you well know, is practically deserted--abandoned. There

is, I believe, no furniture in the house."

"The furniture could be sent there," said the abbe. "There could be no

better place for Donna Bianca to remain for a few months, or until she

has forgotten this youthful love-affair. It would not be easy for a

stranger to obtain access to the castle at Montefiano without it being

known--and, as you are aware, madame, the domain is of considerable

extent. It would not be an imprisonment."

"I have only once been at Montefiano," said the princess, "and then only

for the day. It struck me as being a very dreary place, except,

perhaps, in the summer."

"The air is good," observed the abbe, a little dryly, "and, as I say, it

has the advantage of being out of the way. My advice would be to take

Donna Bianca there as soon as possible. In a week or ten days the rooms

could be made quite comfortable, and servants could be sent from Rome.

After all, there would be nothing strange in the fact of your having

decided to spend a few weeks at Montefiano, especially at this season of

the year."

"Perhaps you are right, monsieur," said the Princess Montefiano. "At

any rate," she added, "I can think of no better plan for the moment.

What distresses me now is that I do not know what to say to Bianca, or

how to say it. I cannot let her think that I know nothing of what has

happened--and I am still in the dark, Monsieur l'Abbe, as to--well, as

to how much has happened."

The abbe pondered for a moment. "I should be inclined, madame, not to

give Donna Bianca any definite reason for your visit to Montefiano. You

can scarcely tell her your real object in taking her there without

letting her know that young Rossano has made you a formal proposal for

her hand. You must remember she is quite unaware that her meeting with

him was observed, and she would, therefore, at once guess that you must

have had some communication from the Rossano family."

The princess looked doubtful. From the Abbe Roux she would, to quote

Shakespeare, "take suggestion as a cat laps milk." Nevertheless, to

pretend to Bianca that she was in complete ignorance of her conduct

seemed to be derogatory to her own position as the girl's step-mother

and guardian.

"I must certainly speak to Bianca sooner or later," she began.

"Then, madame," said the abbe, "let it be later, I beg of you. There

will be time enough when you are at Montefiano to explain to Donna

Bianca your reasons for your actions. If you go into the subject with

her now she may communicate with her lover, and warn him that she is

being taken to Montefiano. When she is once safely there, it will not

matter. It will, of course, be known that you are residing at

Montefiano, but Montefiano is not Villa Acorari. A convent itself could

not be a more secure retreat."

"Well," returned the princess, "perhaps you are right. But I must say I

do not like the idea of meeting Bianca as if nothing at all had

happened. It appears to me to be scarcely--scarcely honorable on my

part, and to be encouraging her in maintaining a deception towards me."

"_Chere madame_," said the Abbe Roux, blandly, "I fully understand your

scruples, and they do you credit. But we must remember the end we have

in view. This absurd love-affair between a boy and a girl--for it is,

after all, nothing more serious--must be put an end to in such a way as

to preserve Donna Bianca Acorari's name from any breath of scandal."

"Then," replied Princess Montefiano, "you advise me to say nothing to

Bianca at present."