should do, madame--a necessary precaution against any further
communication passing between Donna Bianca and young Rossano. I believe
that Mademoiselle Durand continues giving Donna Bianca lessons, does she
not? I think you told me that she was at Albano, and that you had
arranged for her to come here two or three days weekly."
"Ah!" exclaimed Princess Montefiano, "Mademoiselle Durand! Do you mean
to say that she has been the go-between in this affair?"
"I know nothing for certain," replied the abbe, "but I have been told
that young Rossano and she are on intimate terms--that they walk
together in Rome--"
"A respectable company, truly, for my step-daughter to find herself in!"
said Princess Montefiano--"a professor's son and a daily governess!"
The Abbe Roux sighed. "I fear," he said, "that this woman has played a
very mischievous part, but I cannot be certain. It would be as well,
perhaps, not to give her any explanations, but merely to inform her that
you no longer require her for Donna Bianca. All these details, madame,"
he added, "you will learn later on, no doubt, from Donna Bianca herself.
But for the moment, believe me, the less said to any one on the subject,
the better."
"Yes, yes, I quite see that you are right, Monsieur l'Abbe," said the
princess, hurriedly. "Your advice is always sound, and whenever I have
not taken it I have always regretted the fact. There is one person,
however, to whom I must give some explanation of my sudden move to
Montefiano, and that is my brother. He was coming to spend a fortnight
or so here."
"Ah, Monsieur le Baron," observed the Abbe Roux. "No, there would, of
course, be no objection in your confiding in Monsieur le Baron. Indeed,
it would be but natural to do so."
"Exactly," returned Princess Montefiano. "My brother is, after all, the
child's uncle, so to speak."
The abbe smiled. "Scarcely, madame," he replied; "there is not the
slightest connection between them."
"Of course not, really," the princess said, "but a kind of relationship
through me."
"I think," observed the abbe, hesitatingly--"it has seemed to me that
monsieur your brother takes a great interest in Donna Bianca. He has
certainly been very quick to discern things in her which have escaped
the notice of others."
Princess Montefiano directed a quick glance at him, and then she looked
away.
"I am afraid," proceeded the priest, "that this affair will be quite a
blow to him; yes, indeed, quite a blow. Monsieur le Baron, after all,
is a comparatively young man, and--"
He hesitated again, and then stopped abruptly.
The princess glanced at him nervously.
"It is strange that you should say this, Monsieur l'Abbe," she said. "I
have, I confess, sometimes thought, sometimes wondered-- Ah, but
certain things cross one's mind occasionally which are better left
unspoken!"
The Abbe Roux looked at her. "We may leave our present thoughts
unspoken, Madame la Princesse," he said, with a smile. "I imagine," he
continued, "that the same idea has struck both of us. Well, supposing
such a thing to be the case, what then? There is nothing unnatural in
the situation--nothing at all. A disparity of age, very likely; but,
again, what is disparity of age? An idea--a sentiment. A man who has
arrived at the years of Monsieur le Baron may be said to have gained his
experience--to have had time _de se ranger_. Such husbands are often
more satisfactory than younger men."
The princess checked him with a gesture.
"But it is an imagination!" she exclaimed--"a mere idea. I confess I
have once or twice thought that my brother looked at Bianca in--in
rather a peculiar way, you know--as if he admired her very much; and,
yes, I have even made an excuse sometimes to send Bianca out of the room
when he was calling on me. I did not think she should be exposed to
anything which might put ideas into her head."
"It appears to me, madame, that your precautions were unnecessary," said
the Abbe Roux, dryly. "The ideas, as we now know, were already there."
"Alas, yes!" sighed the princess. "But," she added, "do you really
think that there can be anything in it, Monsieur l'Abbe? It seems too
strange--too unnatural, I was about to say; but that would not be quite
true, as you pointed out just now."
The Abbe Roux made a gesture with outspread hands.
"Madame," he said, "I know as much as you do of what may be in monsieur
your brother's mind. It is probable, however, that he has some thoughts
of the kind concerning Donna Bianca, or we should not both have
suspected their existence. Does the idea shock you so much?" he added,
suddenly.
"Yes--no," returned Princess Montefiano, confusedly. "I can hardly tell.
Do not let us talk any more about it, Monsieur l'Abbe--not, at all
events, at present. We have so much else to occupy our thoughts. Of
course, I must let my brother know what has happened, and explain to him
that I shall not be able to receive him here."
"Of course," assented the Abbe Roux. "I have no doubt," he added, "that
Monsieur le Baron will be quite as pleased to pay his visit to you at
Montefiano."
The princess apparently did not hear him. She stooped and picked up
Professor Rossano's letter, which had fallen from her lap onto the
floor.
"And this?" she asked, holding the missive out to the abbe. "What reply
am I to send to this--if, indeed, any reply is necessary?"
"There is only one reply to make; namely, that the proposal cannot be
entertained either now or at any future time," replied the abbe. "It is
not necessary to enter into any explanations," he continued.
And, after discussing for some time longer with the princess the
necessary arrangements to be made for moving to Montefiano with as
little delay as possible, the Abbe Roux took his leave and returned by
an afternoon train to Rome.
*XVI*
"I told you how it would be, Silvio," Giacinta Rossano said to her
brother. "I don't see what else you could have expected."
"I did not expect anything else," returned Silvio, placidly. "At all
events," he added, "we now know where we are."
Giacinta laughed dryly. "Do you?" she asked. "It appears to me that
you are--nowhere! Nothing could be more explicit than Princess
Montefiano's reply to Babbo's letter--and nothing could be more marked
than the brief way she dismisses your proposals. I can assure you that
Babbo is very much annoyed. I do not think I have ever seen him so
annoyed about anything--unless it was when a servant we had last season
lighted the fire with some proof-sheets he had left lying on the floor."
"It is not the slightest use his being annoyed," said Silvio.
"At least you must admit that it is not a pleasant position for a father
to be placed in," observed Giacinta. "He told me this morning, Silvio,"
she added, "that nothing could induce him to do anything more in the
matter. He says you have had your answer, and that the best thing you
can do is to try to forget all that has happened. After all, there are
plenty of other girls to choose from. Why need you make your life
unhappy because these Acorari will not have anything to say to you?"
"Princess Montefiano is not an Acorari," replied Silvio, obstinately.
"There is only one Acorari concerned in the matter, and she has
everything to say to me!"
Giacinta sighed. She knew by experience that it was of no use to argue
with this headstrong brother of hers when once an idea was fixed in his
mind.
"May one ask what you propose to do next?" she inquired, after a pause.
"Your communications in the shape of Mademoiselle Durand having been
cut, and Villa Acorari no doubt probably watched and guarded, I do not
see how you are going to approach Donna Bianca in the future. At any
rate, you mustn't count upon Babbo doing anything, Silvio, for he told
me to-day he did not wish to hear the subject mentioned any more. You
know what he is about anything disagreeable--how he simply ignores its
existence."
Silvio Rossano smiled. "I know well," he replied. "It is not a bad
plan, that of simply brushing a disagreeable thing to one side. But few
people are able to carry it out so consistently as Babbo does. In this
case, Giacinta, it is the best thing he can do. There is nothing to be
said or done, for the moment. When there is, you will see that Bianca
and I will manage it. It is certainly a bore about Mademoiselle Durand
having been told to discontinue giving her lessons at Villa Acorari."
Giacinta shrugged her shoulders. "Considering the subject chosen for
instruction, it is not to be wondered at if the princess thought they
had better cease," she remarked, dryly.
Silvio smiled. Knowing that Bianca Acorari loved him, nothing seemed to
matter very much. It had been the uncertainty whether she had observed
and understood his passion for her, and the longing to be sure that, if
so, it had awakened in her some response, which had seemed so difficult
to insure.
"Luckily," he said, "the princess played her card a day or two too late.
Bianca had my letter, and Mademoiselle Durand brought me back her answer
to it."
"Ah!" exclaimed Giacinta, "you never told me that you had corresponded
with each other since you met."
"I don't think you and I have discussed the subject since I told you of
our meeting," said Silvio. "I told Babbo."
"What did he say?"
"He said I was an imbecile--no, a pumpkin-head," answered Silvio, his
eyes twinkling with mirth. "Also, he said I was like a donkey in the
month of May, and that he did not wish to hear any more asinine
love-songs--and, oh, several other observations of the kind."
"His opinion is generally looked upon as being a very good one,"
observed Giacinta, tranquilly.
Silvio laughed outright. Giacinta's satirical remarks always amused
him, even when they were made at his expense. "It is certainly a
misfortune that Mademoiselle Durand is no longer to go to Villa
Acorari," he said. "I must say," he added, "she has proved herself to
be a most loyal friend--and an entirely disinterested one, too."
Giacinta glanced at him. "I suppose," she said, "that Mademoiselle
Durand likes a little romance. I believe most single women who are over
thirty and under fifty do."
"I suppose so," observed Silvio, carelessly. "She seemed quite upset
when she told me of the note she had received from Princess Montefiano.
I thought, of course, that she felt she had lost an engagement."
"But did the princess give a reason for dispensing with her services?"
asked Giacinta.
"No. The note merely said that as Donna Bianca's studies would not be
continued, there was no necessity for Mademoiselle Durand to come any
more to Villa Acorari. The princess enclosed money for the lessons
given--and that was all. But, of course, Giacinta," continued Silvio,
"I felt that Mademoiselle Durand had lost her engagement through
befriending me. Though the princess for some reason did not allude to
anything of the kind, I am sure she must know, or suspect, the part
Mademoiselle Durand has played."
"I should think so, undoubtedly," remarked Giacinta.
"And naturally," Silvio proceeded, "I felt very uncomfortable about it.
I did not quite know what to do, and I offered--"
"Yes?" said his sister, as he paused, hesitatingly.
"Well, Giacinta, you see, she had probably lost money through me, so I
offered to--to make her loss good, so to say."
"And then?"
"Oh, and then she was very angry, and said that I insulted her. After
that she cried. One does not like to see grown-up people cry; it is
very unpleasant. She said that I did not understand; that what she had
done was out of mere friendship and sympathy--for me and for Bianca. I
knew she had grown attached to Bianca, Giacinta; she had told me so once
before. After all, nobody who saw much of Bianca could help being fond
of her."
Giacinta looked at him for a moment or two without speaking.
"I am not surprised that she was angry," she said, at length. "As to
her being attached to Donna Bianca--well, it appears that even people
who have not seen much of her become attached to that girl. It is a
gift, I suppose. But all this does not tell me what you mean to do, now
you can no longer employ Mademoiselle Durand to fetch and carry for
you."
"We mean to wait," said Silvio, quietly. "Bianca and I are quite agreed
as to that. Three years are soon over, and then, if she still chooses
to marry me, neither the princess nor anybody else can prevent her. It
is the best way, Giacinta, for it leaves her free, and then none can say
that I took advantage of her inexperience."
"And in the mean time, if they marry her to somebody else?"
"But they will not. They cannot force her to marry. If they tried to do
so, then we would not wait three years, nor even three weeks."
"But you might know nothing about it, Silvio," said Giacinta. "And they
might tell her you had given her up, or that you were in love with some
one else--anything, in fact, to make her think no more about you."
Silvio smiled. "You are full of objections," he said; "but you need not
be uneasy. It is true that we no longer have Mademoiselle Durand to
depend upon, but we shall find other means of communicating with each
other. After all, shall we not be under the same roof here all the
winter and spring? The princess will not remain at the Villa Acorari
forever. No--if there should be any pressure put upon Bianca to make
her give me up against her will I shall very soon know it. We are
agreed on all those points. If the princess keeps quiet, we shall keep
quiet also. She has a perfect right to refuse her consent to Bianca
marrying me--for the present. But in course of time that right will no
longer hold good. While it does, however, Bianca and I have agreed to
respect it, unless, in order to protect ourselves, we are forced to set
it at defiance, get some priest to marry us, and delay the legal
marriage till afterwards. This is what I have explained to Babbo--and he
calls it the braying of donkeys in May. Well, at least the donkeys know
what one another mean, which, after all, is something gained--from their
point of view!"
Giacinta laughed, and then became suddenly grave again.
"Well, Silvio _mio_," she replied, "you seem to have settled everything
in your own mind, and I only hope it will all be as easy as you think.
So much depends on the girl herself. If you are sure of her, then, as
you say, three years soon pass. In the mean time, if I were you, I
would watch very carefully. As I have told you before, for some reason
which we know nothing of, it is not intended that the girl should marry;
and when I say they might marry her to somebody else, I do not believe
it."
Silvio shrugged his shoulders. "All the better for me," he observed;
and Giacinta, with a slight gesture of impatience, was about to reply,
when the professor entered the room.
*XVII*
The _sollione_ had ran his course. Already the vines on the slopes
below Montefiano were showing patches of ruddy gold among their foliage,
and the grapes were beginning to color, sometimes a glossy purple,
sometimes clearest amber. Figs and peaches were ripe on the fruit trees
rising from among the vines, and here and there tall, yellow spikes of
Indian-corn rattled as the summer breeze passed over them.
Solitary figures prowled about the vineyard with guns--no brigands, but
merely local sportsmen lying in wait for the dainty _beccafichi_ which
visit the fig-trees at this season and slit open the ripest figs with
their bills. In the evening a half-dozen of the plump little
brown-and-white birds will make a succulent addition to the dish of
_polenta_ on which they will repose. Perhaps, if fortune favor, a
turtle-dove, or even a partridge, may find its way into the oven for the
sportsman's evening meal. In the mean time, a few purple figs, from
which the sun has scarcely kissed away the chill of the night dew, a
hunch of brown bread and a draught of white wine from a flask left in
the shade and covered with cool, green vine leaves, form a breakfast not
to be despised by one who has been out with his gun since the dawn was
spreading over the Sabine hills and the mists were rolling back before
it across the Roman Campagna to the sea.
Who that has not wandered through her vineyards and forests, among her
mountains and by the side of her waters in the early hours of a summer
dawn, or the late hours of a summer night, knows the beauty of Italy?
Then the old gods live again and walk the earth, and nature triumphs.
The air is alive with strange whisperings: the banks and the hedgerows
speak to those who have ears to hear--of things that lie hidden and
numbed during the hot glare of the day.
The gray shadows lying over the _campagna_ were fast dissolving before a
light that seemed to change almost imperceptibly from silver into gold,
as the first rays of the rising sun stole over the Sabine mountains.
Across the plain, the summit of Soracte was already bathed in light,
while its base yet lay invisible, wreathed in the retreating mists. The
air was fresh with the scent of vines and fig-trees, and long threads of
gossamer, sparkling with a million dew-drops, hung from grassy banks
rising above a narrow pathway between the terraces of the vineyards.
A black figure suddenly appeared round an angle of the winding path.
Don Agostino Lelli, his cassock brushing the blossoms of wild geranium
and purple mallow as he passed, was making his way in the dawn of the
summer morning back to Montefiano. He had been sitting through the
night with a dying man--a young fellow whom an accident with a loaded
wagon had mortally injured. The end had come an hour or two before the
dawn, and Don Agostino had speeded the parting soul with simple human
words of hope and comfort, which had brought a peace and a trust that
all the rites enjoined by the Church had failed to do. Perhaps he was
thinking of the failure, and wondering why sympathy and faith in the
goodness of God had seemed to be of more avail at the death-bed he had
just left than ceremonies and sacraments.
His refined, intellectual countenance wore a very thoughtful expression
as he walked leisurely through the vineyards. It was not an anxious nor
an unhappy expression, but rather that of a man trying to think out the
solution of an interesting problem. As a matter of fact, he had been
brought face to face with a problem, and it was not the first time he
had been confronted by it.
He had, as in duty bound, administered the last sacrament of the Church
to a dying man who had made due confession to him. But he had known
perfectly well in his own mind that those sacraments had been regarded
by his penitent as little else than a formality to be observed under the
circumstances. He knew that if he had asked that lad when he was in
health whether he honestly believed the _santissimo_ to be what he had
been told it was, the answer would not have been satisfactory to a
priest to hear. He had asked the question that night, and two words had
been whispered back to him in reply--"_Chi sa?_"
They were very simple words, but Don Agostino felt that they contained a
truth which could not be displeasing to the God of Truth. Moreover, he
honored the courage of the lad more than he did that of many who dared
not confess inability to believe what reason refused to admit.
"Who knows?" he had said to himself, half-smiling, repeating the young
fellow's answer. And then he had added aloud, "You will know very
soon--better than any of us. Until then, only trust. God will teach you
the rest."
Afterwards, answered by the look on the dying lad's face, he had given
the sacrament.
And now Don Agostino was walking homeward in the peaceful summer dawn,
and if there was pity in his heart for the strong young life suddenly
taken away from the beautiful world around him, there was also some joy.
Even now the veil was lifted, and the boy--knew. Perhaps the simple,
human understanding, which could have no place in theology, had not led
him so far astray, and had already found favor in the eyes of Him who
gave it.
And Don Agostino looked at the landscape around him, waking up to a new
day and laughing in the first rays of a risen sun. As he looked he
crossed himself, and the lad who had been summoned from all this beauty
was followed to his new home by a prayer.
Suddenly Don Agostino's meditations were interrupted by the report of a
gun fired some yards in front of him, immediately succeeded by a
pattering of spent shot among the leaves on the bank above him. He
called out quickly, in order to warn the unseen _cacciatore_ of his
propinquity; for there was a sharp bend in the pathway immediately ahead
of him, and he by no means wished to receive the contents of a second
barrel as he turned it. A reassuring shout answered him, and he
quickened his pace until, after turning the corner, a brown setter came
up and sniffed at him amicably, while its owner appeared among the vines
close by.
Don Agostino lifted his hat in response to the sportsman's salutation
and regrets at having startled him.
"I was safe enough where I was, _signore_," he said, smiling; "but it
was as well to warn you that there was somebody on the path. I did not
wish to be taken for a crow," he added, with a downward glance at his
_soutane_.
The _cacciatore_ laughed. "Your reverence would have been even safer as
a crow," he replied; "but indeed there was no danger. I was firing well
above the path at a turtledove, which I missed badly. But it is better
to miss than to wound."
Don Agostino looked at the speaker, and there was approval in his
glance, either of the sentiment or of the appearance of the
sportsman--perhaps of both.
"_Sicuro_," he replied, "it is better to miss than to wound. For my
part, I should prefer always to miss; but then I am not a sportsman, as
you see. All the same, I am glad you _cacciatori_ do not always
miss--from the point of view of the stomach, you know. The _signore_ is
from Rome, I conclude?"
The other hesitated for a moment.
"From Rome--yes," he replied,
Don Agostino glanced at him again, and thought how good-looking the
young man was. A gentleman, evidently, by his manner and bearing--but a
stranger, for he had certainly never seen him in Montefiano.
"I," he said, "am the _parroco_ of Montefiano--Agostino Lelli, _per
servirla_."
The young _cacciatore_ started slightly, and then he hesitated again.
Courtesy necessitated his giving his own name in return.
"And I, _reverendo_," he replied, after a slight pause, "am Silvio
Rossano, of Rome."
Don Agostino looked surprised.
"Rossano?" he said. "A relative, perhaps, of the Senator Rossano?"
"My father," replied Silvio. "Your reverence knows him?"
"_Altrocche_!" exclaimed Don Agostino, holding out his hand. "Your
father is an old friend--one of my oldest friends in days gone by. But
I have not seen anything of him for years. _Che vuole_! When one lives
at Montefiano one does not see illustrious professors. One sees
peasants--and pigs. Not but what there are things to be learned from
both of them. And so you are the son of Professor Rossano? But you
have not come to Montefiano for sport--no? There is not much game about
here, as no doubt you have already discovered."
He glanced at Silvio's game-bag as he spoke. Three or four _beccafichi_
and a turtle-dove seemed to be its entire contents.
Silvio looked embarrassed, though he had felt that the priest's question
must come. His embarrassment did not escape Don Agostino, who jumped at
the somewhat hasty conclusion that either this young man must be hiding
from creditors, or else that he must be wandering in unfrequented places
with a mistress. In this latter case, however, Don Agostino thought it
improbable that he would be out so early in the morning. It was, no
doubt, a question of creditors. Young men went away from Montefiano
when they could scrape up enough money to emigrate, but he had never
known one to come there.
Silvio's answer tended to confirm his suspicions concerning the
creditors.
"I did not come to Montefiano for the sport, certainly," he said; "and,
indeed, I am not living in Montefiano itself. I am staying at
Civitacastellana for the moment."
"Civitacastellana!" exclaimed Don Agostino. "Pardon my curiosity, my
dear Signor Rossano, but how in the world do you occupy yourself at
Civitacastellana--unless, indeed, you are an artist? It is a beautiful
spot, certainly, with its neighboring ravines and its woods, but--well,
after Rome you must find it quiet, decidedly quiet. And the inn--I know
that inn. One feels older when one has passed a night there."
"I cannot call myself an artist," said Silvio, laughing, "though I
certainly draw a great deal. I am an engineer by profession, and
Civitacastellana is--well, as you say, a very quiet place. Sometimes
one likes a quiet place, after Rome."
"Ah, yes, that is true," returned Don Agostino, thoughtfully. "I, too,
have come to a quiet place after Rome, but then I have been in it more
than ten years. I think the change loses its effect when one tries it
for so long a time."
Silvio glanced at him. He had at once realized that this was no
ordinary village priest, scarcely, if at all removed from the peasant
class. The quiet, educated voice, the polished Italian, the clear-cut,
intellectual features, all told their own tale quickly enough. And this
Don Lelli was an old friend of his father. Silvio was well aware that
his father did not number very many priests among his friends, and that
the few whom he did so number were distinguished for their wide learning
and liberal views.
"You know Rome, _reverendo_?" he inquired, with some curiosity, though
he knew well enough that he was talking to a Roman.
Don Agostino smiled. "Yes," he replied, "I know Rome. That is to say,"
he added, "if anybody can assert that he knows Rome. It is a
presumptuous assertion to make. Perhaps I should rather say that I know
one or two features of Rome."
"You no doubt studied there?"
"Yes, I studied there. I was also born there--like yourself, no doubt.
We are both _Romani di Roma_--one cannot mistake the accent."
"And it was then you knew my father, of course," said Silvio.
"When I was a seminarist? No, some years after that period of my life.
I knew your father when--well, when I was something more than I am now,"
concluded Don Agostino, with a slight smile.
"When you were a parish priest in the city?" asked Silvio.
"When I was at the Vatican," replied Don Agostino, quietly.
"At the Vatican!" Silvio exclaimed.
Don Agostino laughed quietly. "Why not?" he returned. "You are thinking
to yourself that members of the pontifical court are not usually sent to
such places as Montefiano. Well, it is a long story, but your father
will tell it you. He will not have forgotten it--I am quite sure of
that."
They had walked on together while they were talking, and presently
emerged on the steep road leading up the hill to Montefiano. From this
point Silvio could see the little town clustering against the face of
the rock some mile or so above them, and the great, square castle of the
Acorari dominating it.
"You have been to Montefiano?" Don Agostino asked his companion.
"Yes," answered Silvio, "several times. But," he added, "the
Montefianesi do not seem very communicative to strangers."
Don Agostino laughed. "They are unaccustomed to them," he said, dryly;
"but they are good folk when once you know them. For the rest, there is
not much for them to be communicative about."
"Has the castle no history?"
"It has much the same history as all our mediaeval and renaissance
strongholds--that is to say, a mixture of savagery, splendor, and crime.
But the Montefianesi would not be able to tell you much about it. I
doubt if nine out of every ten of them have ever been inside it."
"But it is inhabited now," said Silvio, quickly.
Don Agostino glanced at him, struck by a sudden change in the tone of
his companion's voice.
"Yes," he replied, "for the first time for many years. The princess and
her step-daughter, Donna Bianca Acorari, are there at present."
"You know them, of course, _reverendo_?"
"I have not that honor," replied Don Agostino. "My professional duties
do not bring me into communication with them, except occasionally upon
paper. But," he continued, "will you not come to my house? You can see
it yonder--near the church, behind those chestnut-trees. It is getting
late for your shooting, and I dare say you have walked enough. I have
to say mass at six o'clock, but this morning I shall be late, for it is
that now. Afterwards we will have some coffee and some eggs. We have
both been occupied for the last few hours, though in different ways; and
I, for one, need food."
Silvio accepted the invitation with alacrity, and they proceeded to
mount the long hill together.
"I thought," he observed, presently, "that you would certainly be
acquainted with Princess Montefiano."
"Are you acquainted with her?" asked Don Agostino, somewhat abruptly.
"No," replied Silvio, "except by sight. My father lives in Palazzo
Acorari in Rome--we have the second floor."
Don Agostino said nothing, and they walked on for some minutes in
silence. The heat of the sun was by this time becoming considerable,
and both of them felt that they would not be sorry to arrive at their
journey's end. Twenty minutes more brought them to the little piazza in
front of the church, and here Don Agostino paused.
"I must say the mass at once," he said; "the people will have been
waiting half an hour or more. There," he added, "is the house. You can
go through the garden and wait for me if you do not care to assist at
the mass."
Silvio, however, declared that he wished to be present, and Don Agostino
led the way into the church. Half a dozen peasant women and one or two
old men formed the congregation, and Silvio sat down on a bench near the
altar, while Don Agostino disappeared into the sacristy to vest himself.
The mass did not take long, and at its conclusion Don Agostino beckoned
to his guest to follow him into the sacristy, whence a passage
communicated with the house. By this time Don Agostino was fairly
exhausted. He had eaten nothing since the evening before, and his long
walk and sad vigil through the night had left him weary both in body and
mind. His mass over, however, he was at liberty to eat and drink; and
the _caffe e latte_, fresh-laid eggs, and the rolls and butter his
housekeeper had prepared were most acceptable. Even Silvio, who had
already breakfasted on figs and bread, needed no pressing to breakfast a
second time.
The food and rest quickly revived his host's strength, and very soon
Silvio could hardly believe that he was sitting at the table of a parish
priest in the Sabina. Don Agostino proved himself to be a courteous and
agreeable host. He talked with the easy assurance of one who was not
only a man of God, but also a man of the world. Silvio found himself
rapidly falling under the spell of an individuality which was evidently
strong and yet attractive. As he sat listening to his host's
conversation, he wondered ever more and more why such a man should have
been sent by the authorities of the Church to live, as he had himself
expressed it, among peasants and pigs in a Sabine town. He was scarcely
conscious that Don Agostino, while talking pleasantly on all sorts of
topics, had succeeded in quietly eliciting from him a considerable
amount of information concerning himself, his profession, and, indeed,
his personality generally. And yet, so it was. Monsignor Lelli had not
occupied an official position in the Vatican for some years without
learning the art of being able to extract more information than he gave.
In this instance, however, Don Agostino's curiosity concerning his guest
was largely due to the favorable impression Silvio's good looks and
frank, straightforward manner had made upon him; as well as to the fact
that he was the son of a man for whose learning he had a deep
admiration, and with whom he had in former years been very intimate.
The more he talked to Silvio, the more he felt his first impressions had
not been wrong. He would have liked very much to know, all the same,
why this handsome lad was wandering about the neighborhood of
Montefiano. He shrewdly suspected that a few birds and a possible hare
were not the true inducement; and that, unless he were hiding himself,
this young Rossano must have some other game in view.
The expression which had passed over Silvio's face on hearing that he
was not acquainted with the owners of Montefiano had not escaped Don
Agostino's notice. He had observed, moreover, that his young guest more
than once brought the conversation round to Princess Montefiano, but
that he never alluded to her step-daughter. Monsignor Lelli had been
young himself--it seemed to him sometimes that this had happened not so
very long ago--and he had not always been a priest. As he talked to
Silvio Rossano, he thought of the days when he had been just such
another young fellow--strong, enthusiastic, and certainly not
ill-looking. Meeting the frank glance of Silvio's blue eyes, Don
Agostino did not believe that their owner was hiding from anything or
from anybody. He felt strangely drawn towards this chance acquaintance,
the only educated human being, the only individual of his own class in
life with whom he had interchanged a word for months--nay, for more, for
it was now more than two years since some private business had taken him
to Rome, where he had seen one or two of his old friends.
Their light breakfast over, Silvio Rossano presently rose, and thanking
the priest for his hospitality, was about to depart. Don Agostino,
however, pressed him to remain.
"I do not have so many visitors," he said, with a smile, "that I can
afford to lose one so quickly. You will give me great pleasure by
staying as long as you can. It is hot now for walking, and if you are
returning to Civitacastellana, you can do that just as well in the
evening. I have a suggestion to make to you," he added, "which is, that
we should smoke a cigar now, and afterwards I will have a room prepared
for you, and you can rest till _mezzogiorno_, when we will dine. When
one has walked since dawn, a little rest is good; and as for me, I have
been up all the night, so I have earned it."
Silvio hesitated. "But I cannot inflict my company upon you for so
long," he said. "You have been already too hospitable to me, Don
Agostino."
Don Agostino rose from the table, and, opening a drawer, produced some
cigars. "I assure you," he replied, "that it is I who will be your
debtor if you will remain. As I say, I seldom have a visitor, and it is
a great pleasure to me to have made your acquaintance. I think,
perhaps," he continued, looking at Silvio with a smile, "that it is an
acquaintance which will become a friendship."
"I hope so, _monsignore_," replied Silvio, heartily, "and I accept your
invitation with pleasure."
"That is well," returned Don Agostino; "but," he added, laughing, "at
Montefiano there are no _monsignori_. There is only the _parroco_--Don
Agostino."
*XVIII*
Don Agostino was quite right when he said that a little rest after
walking since daybreak would be a good thing. Silvio, at any rate,
found it so, for he very soon fell fast asleep in the room that had been
prepared for him--so fast, indeed, that even the church-bells ringing
_mezzogiorno_ did not awaken him.
Don Agostino, fearing for the omelette his house-keeper had already
placed on the table as the first dish of the mid-day meal, had gone
up-stairs to rouse his guest, and, receiving no response to his knock,
had quietly entered the bedroom.
Silvio was lying as he had flung himself on the bed, after having
divested himself of most of his clothes. He lay on his back, with one
arm under his head and the hand half-buried in the short, curly hair, in
face and form resembling some Greek statue of a sleeping god, his
well-made, graceful limbs relaxed, and his lips just parted in a slight
smile.
Don Agostino stood and watched him for a moment or two. It seemed a
pity to rouse him--almost sacrilege to wake the statue into life.
"It is the Hermes of the Vatican," he said to himself, smiling--"the
Hermes reposing after taking a message from the gods. Well, well, one
must be young to sleep like that! I would let him sleep on, but then
Ernana will say that the dinner is spoiled," and he laid his hand gently
on Silvio's arm.
Apparently the sleeper was more sensitive to touch than to sound, for he
opened his eyes instantly, and then started up with a confused apology.
"It is I who should apologize for waking you," said Don Agostino; "but
it is past twelve o'clock, and my housekeeper is a tyrant. She is
afraid her dishes will be spoiled!"
Silvio sprang from the bed. "I will be ready in a few minutes," he
said; and before Don Agostino could beg him not to hurry himself, he had
filled a basin with cold water, into which he plunged his face as a
preliminary to further ablutions.
In ten minutes he had rejoined Don Agostino in the little dining-room,
and the two sat down to the dinner which Ernana had produced, not
without some grumbling at the delay, which, she declared, had turned the
omelette into a piece of donkey's hide.
Silvio did ample justice to her cookery, however, and indeed Don
Agostino's house-keeper looked with scarcely concealed admiration and
approval at him as she served the various dishes. She also wondered
what this _bel giovanotto_ was doing at Montefiano, and several times
came very near to asking him the question, being only restrained
therefrom by the thought that she would learn all she wanted to know
from Don Agostino so soon as the visitor should have departed.
After dinner, Don Agostino produced a bottle of old wine--such wine as
seldom comes to the market in Italy, and which, could it only travel,
would put the best French vintages to shame. Ernana served the coffee
and then departed to her kitchen, and Don Agostino proceeded to prepare
cigars by duly roasting the ends in the flame of a candle before handing
one of them to his guest to smoke.
"And so," he observed, presently, "you actually live in the Palazzo
Acorari at Rome. Your father, no doubt, knows the princess and Donna
Bianca?"
Silvio shook his head. "No," he replied. "You must remember--" he
added, and then paused, abruptly.
Don Agostino blew a ring of smoke into the air.
"What must I remember?" he asked, smiling at Silvio's obvious
embarrassment.
"You know my father's opinions," continued Silvio, "and perhaps you have
read some of his works. He is not--I speak with all respect--of the
_Neri_, and Princess Montefiano is, they say, a very good Catholic."
Don Agostino laughed. "Ah, I forgot," he said. "No, I never looked
upon your father as a good Catholic. It really was never any business
of mine whether he was so or not. But the princess--yes, I believe she
is very strict in her opinions, and your father is, very naturally, not
beloved by the Vatican party."
Silvio glanced at him. "You have read his books, Don Agostino?" he
asked.
"Certainly I have read them--all of them."
"And yet you continue to regard him as a friend?"
Don Agostino smiled. "Why not?" he asked. "I do not always agree with
his conclusions on certain subjects. If I did, I should not wear this
dress; it would be to me as the shirt of Nessus. But is it necessary
always to agree with one's friends? I think the best friends and the
best lovers are those who know how to disagree. However, we were
talking of Princess Montefiano. I can quite understand that she would
not desire to be on friendly terms with Professor Rossano."
"Or with any of his family," added Silvio, bluntly.
Don Agostino gave him a scrutinizing glance.
"Ah," he said, "you mean that she visits the sins of the father upon the
son."
Silvio hesitated. There was something very sympathetic about this
priest--something that seemed to ask, almost to plead, for his trust and
confidence. And yet could he, knowing so little of him, dare to confide
to him why he was in the neighborhood of Montefiano? Certainly this Don
Agostino was a friend of his father, and, as such, might be disposed to
help him. Moreover, Silvio could not help seeing that his host was
disposed to like him for his own sake, and that for some reason or other
there was a current of sympathy between them, though as yet they were
almost strangers to each other.
Perhaps Don Agostino observed his companion's hesitation, for he spoke
again, and this time it was to ask a question which did not tend to
diminish it.
"I suppose," he said, "that you have seen Donna Bianca Acorari? I do
not ask you if you know her personally, after what you have just told
me; but no doubt, as you live under the same roof, so to speak, you know
her by sight?"
Silvio felt the color rising in his face, and felt, too, that Don
Agostino's eyes were fixed upon him with a strange intensity. Could it
be, he wondered, that the priest suspected the truth, or had, perhaps,
been warned about him by the princess herself? The thought was a
disagreeable one, for it made him mistrust his host's good faith, as Don
Agostino had distinctly denied any acquaintance with Princess
Montefiano. The expression of Don Agostino's face puzzled him. It
spoke of pain, as well as of curiosity, and he seemed to be anxiously
hanging upon the answer to his question. That the priest should be
curious, Silvio could well understand, but there was no apparent reason
why Bianca Acorari's name should call forth that look of pain on his
countenance.
"Yes," Silvio replied, guardedly. "I know Donna Bianca Acorari by
sight, extremely well."
Don Agostino leaned forward in his chair. "Ah," he exclaimed, eagerly,
"you know her by sight! Tell me about her. I saw her once--once
only--and then she was quite a little child. It was in Rome--years ago.
She is, no doubt, grown into a beautiful girl by now."
Silvio looked at him with surprise. The eagerness in his voice was
unmistakable, but there was the same strange expression of pain on his
face.
"But surely," he replied, "your reverence must have seen her here at
Montefiano, or, at least, others must have seen her who could tell you
about her?"
Don Agostino shook his head. "Nobody has seen her since her arrival
here," he said. "The castle is large, and the park behind it is very
extensive. There is no reason why its inmates should ever come into the
_paese_, and they never do come into it."
"But the servants--the household?"
"The servants were all brought from Rome. Most of the provisions also
are sent from Rome. There is practically no communication with the town
of Montefiano, and, except the _fattore_, I have heard of nobody who has
been admitted inside the castle walls since the princess and Donna
Bianca arrived."
"It is very strange," said Silvio.
"Yes," returned Don Agostino, "it is certainly strange. But," he added,
"you do not tell me of Donna Bianca--what she is like; whether she is
beautiful, as beautiful as--" he stopped abruptly and passed his hand
almost impatiently across his eyes, as though to shut out some vision.
"Beautiful?" repeated Silvio, in a low voice. "I do not know--yes, I
suppose that she is beautiful--and--and-- But why do you ask me?" he
suddenly burst out, impetuously, and the hot color again mounted to his
cheeks and brow.
Don Agostino suddenly turned and looked at him keenly.
"Why should I not ask you?" he replied, quietly. "You have seen her,"
he added, "and I--I am interested in her. Oh, not because she is the
Princess of Montefiano--that does not concern me at all--but--well, for
other reasons."
Silvio was silent. Indeed, he did not know how to answer. What he had
just heard confirmed his suspicions that Bianca was practically isolated
from the world, as though she were within the walls of a convent. He
had asked in Montefiano about the castle and its inmates, and had
learned absolutely nothing, save what might be implied by the shrugging
of shoulders.
Suddenly Don Agostino spoke again.
"And you?" he said, laying his hand for a moment on Silvio's--"forgive
me if I am inquisitive--but you, also, are interested in Donna Bianca
Acorari--is it not true?"
Silvio started. "I!" he exclaimed.
Don Agostino smiled. His agitation seemed to have passed, and he looked
at the boy beside him searchingly, but very kindly.
"If I am mistaken," he repeated, "you must forgive me; but if I am not,
I think that you will not regret telling me the truth."
Silvio looked at him steadily.
"It is true," he said, slowly, "that I am interested in Donna
Bianca--very much interested. You have been very good to me, Don
Agostino," he added, "and I will be quite open with you. I feel that
you will not betray a confidence, even though it may not be told you in
the confessional."
Don Agostino made a slight gesture, whether of impatience Silvio could
not quite be sure.
"A confidence between gentlemen," he said, "and, I hope, between
friends."
"Then," returned Silvio, quietly, "I will confide to you that it is my
interest in Donna Bianca Acorari which brings me to Montefiano."
"And she?" asked Don Agostino, quickly. "Is she--interested--in you,
Signor Rossano?"
Silvio blushed. "Please," he said, "do not address me so formally.
Surely, as an old friend of my father, it is not necessary! Yes," he
added, simply, "we are going to marry each other."
"_Diamine!_" ejaculated Don Agostino; and then he seemed to be studying
Silvio's face attentively.
"But what made you suspect this?" asked Silvio, presently; "for it is
evident that you have suspected it."
Don Agostino smiled. "I hardly know," he replied. "Your manner,
perhaps, when I mentioned Donna Bianca's name, coupled with the fact
that, though you asked me many questions about Montefiano and the
princess, you studiously avoided any allusion to her step-daughter. But
there was something besides this--some intuition that I cannot explain,
though I know the reason of it well enough. I am glad you have told me,
Silvio--I may call you Silvio, may I not? And now, as you have told me
so much, you will tell me all your story; and afterwards, perhaps, I
will explain to you why you will not regret having done so."
In a very few words Silvio related all there was to tell. Don Agostino
listened attentively, and every now and then he sighed, and Silvio,
glancing at him, saw the pained look occasionally flit across his
countenance.
"Of course," he said, as Silvio finished his story, "they have brought
the girl here to be out of your way, and they will keep her here. I
suspected something of the kind when I first heard that the princess was
coming to Montefiano. And when I saw you, an instinct seemed to tell me
that in some way you were connected with Bianca Acorari being here.
When you told me who you were, and that you lived in Palazzo Acorari, I
was certain, or nearly certain of it. You wonder why I am interested in
Donna Bianca, as I have only once seen her as a child, and why I should
wish to know what she is like now, do you not? Well, you have given me
your confidence, Silvio, and I will give you mine. Come with me into my
study," and Don Agostino led the way into a little room beyond the
dining-room, in which they were still sitting.
Silvio followed him in silence, greatly wondering what link there could
be between Bianca and this newly found friend who had so unexpectedly
risen up at Montefiano, where a friend was so badly needed.
Don Agostino went to the cabinet standing in the corner of his little
study, and, unlocking a drawer, took out the miniature, which he had not
again looked at since the day, now nearly two months ago, when he had
heard that the Princess Montefiano and her step-daughter were coming to
inhabit the castle.
"I asked you to tell me what Donna Bianca Acorari is like now," he said,
quietly. "At least," he added, "you can tell me if there is a
resemblance between her and this miniature." And, opening the case, he
placed it in Silvio's hand.
Silvio uttered an exclamation of astonishment as he looked at the
portrait.
"But it is Bianca--Bianca herself!" he said, looking from the miniature
to Don Agostino in amazement. "The same hair, the same eyes and mouth,
the same coloring. It is Bianca Acorari."
"No," interrupted Don Agostino, "she was Bianca Acorari afterwards.
Then, when the miniature was painted, she was Bianca Negroni."
"I do not understand," muttered Silvio, in bewilderment.
Don Agostino took the case from him. "She was Bianca Negroni then," he
repeated, in a low voice, as though speaking to himself. "She should
have been Bianca Lelli--my wife. We were engaged. Afterwards she was
called Bianca Acorari, Principessa di Montefiano."
Silvio looked at him in silence. He understood now.
"We were engaged," continued Don Agostino, "as you and her child are
engaged, without the consent of her family. They forced her to marry
Prince Montefiano. It was an unhappy marriage, as, perhaps, you have
heard."
Then he turned away, and gently, reverently, as though replacing some
holy relic in its shrine, put the miniature back into the drawer of the
cabinet.
"You can understand now," he said, quietly, "why I wished to know what
her child is like. As for you, Silvio--" he paused, and looked at
Silvio Rossano earnestly. "Well," he continued, "I have had one
intuition to-day which did not mislead me, and I think my second
intuition will prove equally true. I believe that you would make any
woman a good husband--that your character does not belie your face."
Silvio looked at him with a quick smile.
"I will make her a good husband," he said, simply. The words were few,
but they appealed to Don Agostino more than any lover's protestations
would have appealed to him.
"And she?" asked Don Agostino, suddenly. "You are sure that she would
make you a good wife? If her nature is like her mother's she will be
faithful to you in her heart. I am sure of that. But she is her
father's daughter as well, and--well, he is dead, so I say no more. And
no doubt the knowledge that he had married a woman whose love was given
elsewhere accounted for much of his conduct after his marriage. We will
not speak of him, Silvio. But you are sure that you have chosen
wisely?"
"Oh, very sure!" exclaimed Silvio.
Don Agostino smiled--a somewhat pathetic smile. "I am very sure, also,"
he said. "It is strange," he added, thoughtfully, "that your story
should be an exact repetition of my own. Almost one would think that
she"--and he glanced towards the cabinet--"had sent me here to
Montefiano to help her child; that everything during these years had
been foreordained. I wondered, when they sent me to Montefiano, whether
it were not for some purpose that would one day be made clear to me; for
at Montefiano her child was born, and at Montefiano she died, neglected,
and practically alone."
Don Agostino sat down at his writing-table. He covered his eyes with
his hands for a moment or two, and above him the ivory Christ gleamed
white in the sunlight which filtered through the closed Venetian blinds.
"It is strange--yes," said Silvio, in a low voice; "and I, too," he
added--"I have felt some power urging me to tell you my story, and my
true reason for being here. But," he continued, "our case--Bianca's and
mine--is different from yours in one particular, Don Agostino."
Don Agostino looked up. "Yes," he replied; "Donna Bianca Acorari's
mother, though she had money, was not the heiress to estates and
titles."
"I did not mean that," returned Silvio. "I forgot it," he added. "I am
always forgetting it. Perhaps you do not believe me, but when I do
remember it I wish that Bianca Acorari were penniless and not noble.
There would be nothing then to keep us apart. No; I mean that, in her
case, there can be no forcing of another marriage upon her, because I am
very sure that Bianca would never submit."
Don Agostino glanced at him. "Are you so sure?" he asked. "That is
well. But, Silvio, we can hardly realize the pressure that may be
placed upon a young girl by her family."
"She has no family," observed Silvio, tranquilly. "It is true," he
continued, "that there is her step-mother, who is her guardian until she
is of age. But Bianca is not a child, _reverendo_. She will not allow
herself to be coerced."
Don Agostino looked at him for a moment and appeared to be considering
something in his mind.
"How come you to know her character so well?" he asked, presently. "How
can you know it? You guess at it, that is all."
Silvio shook his head. "Her character is written on her face," he said.
"Besides, when one loves, one knows those things."
Don Agostino smiled. "Yes," he observed, "or one thinks one knows them,
which does quite as well, so long as one is never undeceived. So," he
continued, "you think that the girl has sufficient strength of will to
resist any pressure that might be brought to compel her to marry
somebody else. That is well; for, unless I am mistaken, she has been
brought to Montefiano for no other purpose than to be exposed to
pressure of the kind."
Silvio started. "What do you mean?" he exclaimed. "I thought you said
you knew nothing of the princess and Donna Bianca--that nobody went
inside the castle. Do you mean to say that they are already trying to
coerce her in some way? But not by forcing her into another marriage.
Giacinta declares they do not want her to marry, and she knows."
"Giacinta?" said Don Agostino, inquiringly.
"My sister. Ah, I forgot; I have not spoken to you about her. She is
sure that a priest whom the princess confides in does not wish Bianca to
marry at all, for some reason--"
"Yes," interrupted Don Agostino; "the Abbe Roux--a Belgian."
"You know him?" asked Silvio, surprised.
"Oh yes, I know him," replied Don Agostino, dryly.
"Therefore," Silvio continued, "you see that I have not to fear anything
of that kind, as--as you had."
Don Agostino was silent.
Silvio looked at him inquiringly. "You think that I have?" he asked,
hastily.
"It is possible," returned Don Agostino. "I do not know for certain. I
have no means of knowing for certain," he added, "but I hear
rumors--suppositions. Perhaps they are purely imaginary suppositions.
In a small place like Montefiano people like to gossip, especially about
what they do not understand. Apparently the princess and her daughter
are not alone in the castle. A brother of the princess, Baron d'Antin,
is staying with them, and also the Abbe Roux, who says mass in the
chapel every morning. So, you see, my services are not required."
"Her brother!" said Silvio. "I did not know the Princess Montefiano had
a brother."
Don Agostino nodded. "Yes," he returned, "and--well, it is precisely
about this brother that people talk."
Silvio looked at him with amazement.
"About him!" he exclaimed. "What could there be to say about him and
Bianca? It is too ridiculous--"
Don Agostino interrupted him. "I should not call it ridiculous," he
said, "if the suppositions I have heard are true. I should rather call
it revolting."
"But it would be an unheard-of thing--an impossibility!" said Silvio,
angrily, and his eyes flashed ominously.
"No," Don Agostino observed, quietly, "it would be neither the one nor
the other, Silvio. Such alliances have been made before now--in Rome,
too. There is no consanguinity, you must remember. No dispensation
even would be required. But if it is true that such a crime is in
contemplation, the child must be saved from it--ah, yes, she must be
saved from it at all costs!"
Silvio suddenly grasped the priest's hand. "You will help me to save
her, Don Agostino!" he exclaimed. "For her own sake and for her
mother's sake--who, as you said a few minutes ago, perhaps sent you here
to protect her--you will help me to save her!"
Don Agostino, still holding Silvio's hand in his own, looked into his
eyes for a moment without speaking.
"I have seen you to-day," he said, at length, "for the first time, but I
trust you for your father's sake and also for your own. Yes, I will
help you, if I can help you, to save Bianca Acorari from being
sacrificed, for the sake of her mother, _anima benedetta_. But we must
act prudently, and, first of all, I have a condition to make."
"Make any condition you please," said Silvio, eagerly, "so long as you
do what I ask of you."
"Is your father aware that you are here--I mean, that you are in the
neighborhood of Montefiano?" asked Don Agostino.
Silvio shrugged his shoulders. "I cannot tell you," he replied. "My
sister, Giacinta, knows it, and she may have told him. My father, Don
Agostino, told me that he had done all he could in asking the consent of
the princess to an engagement between his son and her step-daughter, and
that, as this consent had been unconditionally refused, I must in future
manage my own affairs in my own way. This is what I am doing to the best
of my ability."
Don Agostino smiled slightly. "I understand," he said. "Well, Silvio,
my condition is that I should see your father and discuss the matter
with him before doing anything here. He will give you a good character,
I have no doubt, and will assure me that you would make Bianca Acorari a
good husband. I owe it to--well, you know now to whom, to make this
condition."
Silvio smiled. "Is that all, _reverendo_?" he asked. "It is a
condition very easily carried out," he added.
"We will go to Rome, you and I, to-morrow," said Don Agostino, "and for
to-night you will stop with me here. In the evening, when it is cooler,
we will go to Civitacastellana, and we will bring your things back with
us. No; I am doing you no kindness--I am doing a kindness to myself. As
I told you before, it is not often that I have a friend to talk to at
Montefiano, and in this case, well--"
Don Agostino did not complete his sentence. His gaze fixed itself upon
the cabinet before him, and Silvio understood all that he had left
unsaid.
*XIX*
Although Rome is supposed to be abandoned during the months of August
and September by all who can afford the time and the money to leave it,
there is always a certain number of people who from choice remain within
its walls throughout the summer, declaring, not without reason, that the
heat is felt far less in the vast, thick-walled palaces than in country
villas and jerry-built hotels.
Among this number was the Senator Rossano. He had fitted up for himself
a library in Palazzo Acorari, a long, high room looking to the north,
which, if difficult to keep heated in winter, was always deliciously
cool even on the hottest of summer days. Here he did the greater part
of his writing, and passed the weeks when Rome is deserted, both
pleasantly and profitably. Usually he was quite alone during these
weeks, for Giacinta as a rule went with friends to one or another of the
summer resorts in the Apennines or the north of Italy, or perhaps
southward to the fresh sea-breezes of Sorrento.
This year, however, she had delayed her _villeggiatura_ later than
usual, and was still in Rome. The professor was engaged upon a new
scientific work, dealing with no less complicated a theme than the moral
responsibility of criminals for the crimes they happened to have
committed. Giacinta had been busily engaged in making a clear copy of
her father's manuscript. The wealth of detail and example which the
professor had brought to bear in order to support certain of his
theories did not, it must be owned, always form suitable reading for
even the comparatively young, and certainly not for an unmarried woman
of Giacinta's age.
But Professor Rossano did not trouble himself about such a trifle as
this. He regarded his illustrations as illustrations, mere accidents
necessary to his arguments; and it would never have entered into his
head that his daughter might not look at them from the same detached
point of view. As a matter of fact, Giacinta did so look at them;
consequently, no harm was done.
She was sitting with her father in his library, engaged in sorting some
papers. It was nearly five o'clock and the great heat of the day was
nearly over; in another hour or so she would insist on dragging the
professor away from his work, and making him accompany her in a drive
outside one of the gates of the city. She was contemplating some
suggestion of the kind when her father suddenly looked up from his
writing.
"I tell you what we will do this evening, Giacinta," he observed. "We
will go and dine at the Castello di Costantino. I have not been there
yet this summer. Perhaps we shall find some friends there. The
Countess Vitali--she often dines there at this time of year, and nobody
can be more amusing when she is in the vein. Her dry humor is most
refreshing; it is like something that has been sealed up in an Etruscan
tomb and suddenly brought to light with all the colors fresh upon it.
Yes, we will go to the Castello di Costantino, and you can tell the
servants we shall not eat here."
Giacinta was more than ready to fall in with the idea. She was about to
ring the bell in order to tell the servants not to prepare dinner, when
the door opened and Silvio walked into the room.
The professor gazed at him placidly.
"I thought that you were at Terni," he said.
"So I was," replied Silvio, smiling, "a fortnight ago. But I completed
my business there, and placed the order for the steel girders. Since
then I have been in the Sabina. I came from Montefiano this morning."
Giacinta started. "From Montefiano?" she exclaimed.
"From Montefiano--yes," repeated Silvio. "I have not been staying at
the castle there," he added, dryly.
"You have been committing some folly, I suppose," remarked the
professor, "and I do not wish to hear about it. You will have the
goodness, Silvio, not to mention the subject."
"I have been staying with a friend of yours, Babbo," Silvio replied,
laughing. "Don Agostino--"
"Don Agostino?" repeated his father. "The devil take your Don Agostino!
I do not know whom you mean."
"Monsignor Lelli, then," returned Silvio. "He has come to Rome with me,
and he is here--in the house. I left him in the drawing-room. I
suppose you will go there to see him; or shall I tell him that you hope
the devil may take him?"
The professor burst out laughing. "Lelli! Here?" he exclaimed.
"Certainly I will go. I have not seen him for years. I remember now,
of course--they sent him to Montefiano--those _imbroglioni_ at the
Vatican! And so you have been staying with Lelli? Well, at least you
have been in good company. I hope he has succeeded in putting a little
common-sense into your head."
He hurried out of the room to greet his old friend, leaving Silvio and
Giacinta alone together.
"I suppose," said the latter, "that you have seen Donna Bianca
again--otherwise I cannot imagine what you have found to do at
Civitacastellana for nearly a fortnight? I am told there is nothing to
see there."
"It is very picturesque," observed Silvio. "The river, and the
situation--"
"No doubt; but I never supposed you went there to look at the river.
When I heard it was only four or five miles from Montefiano, then I
understood! But who is this Monsignor Lelli, Silvio? I think I have
heard Babbo tell some story about him, but I have forgotten what it
was."
"He is the _parroco_ of Montefiano," replied Silvio, "and he used to be
at the Vatican some years ago. I do not know the story--he would not
tell it me; but Babbo knows it well, and we will ask him--the history of
his earlier life--that he did tell me. Imagine, Giacinta, he was
engaged to Bianca Acorari's mother. They forced her to marry the
Principe di Montefiano, and then he became a priest. But he never
ceased to love her, although he did become a priest; that I know."
Giacinta looked at him.
"And now?" she asked.
"Now he has come to ask Babbo for my character," answered Silvio,
smiling. "If he gets a good one, he will help me to marry Bianca. Do
you know, Giacinta, that they want to marry her to a brother of the
princess--a Baron d'Antin? Did you ever hear of anything so outrageous?
As Don Agostino--he will not be called _monsignore_--says, such a thing
must be prevented, and, of course, I am the proper person to prevent
it."
"Of course!"
"You must admit that it is strange, Giacinta, that Don Agostino should
have been engaged to Bianca's mother--and her name was Bianca also--just
as I am engaged to the daughter, and that he should be at Montefiano.
It seems like a destiny. As for this Baron d'Antin--"
"I have seen him several times," observed Giacinta. "He always stares
very hard. I asked the porter who he was. He is not so very old,
Silvio; he looks younger than the princess."
"You had better marry him," returned Silvio; "then you will become my
step-aunt by marriage as well as being my sister."
Giacinta laughed. "Don't talk nonsense," she said; "but tell me what
you and Monsignor Lelli propose to do. I never expected that you would
confide your love affairs to a priest. First of all a French governess,
and now a _monsignore_. You are certainly an original person, Silvio."
"Ah, but Don Agostino is not like most priests--"
"Because he has been in love himself?" interrupted Giacinta, laughing.
"Oh, not at all! There would be nothing unusual in that," answered
Silvio, dryly. "Priests are no different from other people, I suppose,
although they may profess to be so. No; Don Agostino is not like the
majority of his brethren, because he has the honesty to be a man first
and a priest afterwards. He does not forget the priest, but one hears
and feels the man all the time he is talking to one.
"As to what I am going to do, Giacinta," Silvio continued, tranquilly,
"I am going to marry Bianca Acorari, as I have told you before--"
"Very often," added Giacinta.
"But how I am going to do it, is certainly not quite clear at present.
I would have waited, and so would she; but how can we wait now that they
are trying to force her to marry this old baron in order to prevent her
from marrying me?"
"It is very strange," said Giacinta, thoughtfully. "I certainly
believed they did not intend her to marry at all--at any rate, for some
years."
"Ah, but that was before I appeared on the scene," observed Silvio.
"Now they are afraid of her marrying me, and so would marry her to
anybody who happened to be noble."
Giacinta shook her head. "There is some other reason than that," she
replied. "The princess could find scores of husbands for the girl
without being obliged to fall back on her own brother, who must be
nearly thirty years older than Donna Bianca. A marriage between those
two would be a marriage only in name."
Silvio stared at her. "What in the world do you mean, Giacinta?" he
exclaimed.
"Oh," she returned, hurriedly, "I don't mean--well, what you think I
mean! I meant to say that, supposing Bianca Acorari were married to
this old baron, everything would go on as before in Casa Acorari. It
would be, so to speak, merely a family arrangement, which would,
perhaps, be very convenient."
"_Perbacco_!" exclaimed Silvio, "but you have your head upon your
shoulders, Giacinta! I never thought of that. I thought it was simply a
scheme to marry Bianca as soon as possible, in order to get her away
from me. But very likely you are quite right. There is probably some
intrigue behind it all. We will hear what Don Agostino thinks of your
supposition--ah, here they come!" he broke off suddenly as his father
and Don Agostino entered the library together.
Silvio made the priest acquainted with his sister, and then turned to
the professor.
"I hope, Babbo," he said, "that you have given me a fairly good
character."
"I have explained that you are as obstinate as a mule," replied his
father.
Don Agostino laughed. "I have heard a few other things about you also,"
he said, laying his hand on Silvio's shoulder. "After all," he added,
"they were only things I expected to hear, so I might quite as well have
stopped at Montefiano instead of coming to Rome--except for the pleasure
of seeing an old friend again."
"Don Agostino will spend the evening with us," said Silvio to his
father, "and early to-morrow morning I am going back with him to
Montefiano."
Giacinta looked somewhat perplexed. "Do you know," she said, "we had
settled to dine at the Castello di Costantino this evening? You see,
Silvio, I had no idea you were coming back, and still less that we
should have a visitor--"
"But we will all go and dine at the Costantino," interposed the
professor, jovially. "Why not? We shall be a party of four--and four
is a very good number to sit at table, but not to drive in a _botte_--so
we will have two _botti_, and then nobody need sit on the back seat.
You will go with Silvio, Giacinta, and _monsignore_ and I will go
together."
Don Agostino hesitated for a moment. "It is a place where one may meet
people," he said, "and nobody knows that I am in Rome--"
"No, no," returned the professor, hastily, "you are not likely to meet
any one you know at the Costantino, unless it be Countess Locatelli--and
you certainly would not mind meeting her?"
"On the contrary," said Don Agostino. "It is always a pleasure to meet
her--and to talk to her. Doubly so," he added, "after so long an exile
at Montefiano. I do not find the female society of Montefiano
very--what shall I say? sharpening to the intellect. My house-keeper is
occasionally amusing--but limited as to her subjects."
Silvio and his father both laughed. "At any rate, she gives you a
better dinner than you will get to-night," said the former.
A quarter of an hour's drive brought them to the Aventine, the most
unspoiled and picturesque of the seven hills of Rome, with its secluded
convent-gardens and ancient churches, its wealth of tradition and
legend. In no other quarter of Rome--not even in the Forum, nor among
the imperial ruins of the Palatine--does the spirit of the past seem to
accompany one's every step as on the almost deserted Aventine.
Especially as evening draws on, and the shadows begin to creep over the
vineyards and fruit-gardens beyond the city walls; as the scattered
ruins that have glowed rose-red in the rays of the setting sun now stand
out--purple masses against the green background of the _campagna_, and
Tiber reflects the orange and saffron tints of the sky, the dead present
seems to be enwrapped by the living past in these groves and gardens
hidden away on the Aventine and far removed from the turmoil and
vulgarity of modern Rome.
In those years the so-called Castello di Costantino was not the
well-known resort that it has recently become. It was, indeed, little
more than a somewhat superior _trattoria_, where one ate a bad Roman
dinner and drank good Roman wine on a terrace commanding one of the most
picturesque, as it is assuredly one of the most interesting, views in
the world. In those days it was not the scene of pompous gatherings in
honor of foreign or home celebrities, followed by wearisome speeches
breathing mutual admiration in hackneyed phrases. A few artists, a few
secretaries of embassies left to conduct international affairs while
their chiefs were in cooler climates; a few ladies of the Roman world
who happened to be still left in the city, these, and a family party or
two of the Roman _mezzo-ceto_, were its occasional visitors in the hot
summer evenings when it is pleasant to get away from the baked pavements
and streets of the town, and to breathe the fresh, sweet air stealing in
from the open country and the sea.
The terrace behind the restaurant was almost deserted, and Professor
Rossano selected a table at one corner of it, whence an uninterrupted
view could be obtained over a part of the city, and across the
_campagna_ to the Sabine mountains in the nearer background; while
between these and the Alban Hills the higher summits of the Leonessa
range glowed red against the far horizon as they caught the last rays of
the setting sun.
Monsignor Lelli cast a rapid glance around him as he seated himself at
the little table, while the professor discussed the ordering of the
dinner with the waiter. There was nobody, however, who would be likely
to know him by sight, and comment on his presence in Rome in quarters
where he would prefer it to remain unknown. A few couples, already
half-way through their meal, or smoking their cigars over a measure of
white wine, were the only visitors to the Castello di Costantino that
evening besides Professor Rossano and his party, and these were
evidently students either of art or of love.
"And so," observed Professor Rossano to his guest, as the waiter retired
with his order, "you have come to Rome to tell me that you mean to help
my son to make an idiot of himself. I suppose you are a little short of
something to occupy you at Montefiano?"
Don Agostino laughed. "There was certainly more to occupy me when I
lived in Rome," he said, dryly. "As for helping Silvio to make an idiot
of himself, I am inclined to think he would make a worse idiot of
himself without my assistance."
"_Grazie_, Don Agostino!" murmured Silvio, placidly.
"I wonder when they will call you back?" the professor said; "not," he
added, with a quick movement of the head towards the Vatican, "as long
as--"
"_Caro senatore!_" interrupted Don Agostino, deprecatingly.
"Of course--of course!" returned Professor Rossano, hastily. "I forgot
your _soutane_--I always did, in the old days, if you recollect. We
will talk of something else. It is always like that--when a man insists
upon his right to use his own reason and to think for himself--"
"I thought you proposed to talk of something else," suggested Giacinta,
mildly, to her father.
Don Agostino looked at her and laughed.
"He is the same as he was twenty years ago--our dear professor," he
said.
"You are quite right, Giacinta," returned Professor Rossano. "When I
think of the intellects--God-given--that have been warped and crushed in
the name of God, it makes me fly into a rage. Yes, it is certainly
better to talk of something else. All the same, Monsignor Lelli
understands what I mean. If he did not, he would still be at the
Vatican, and not at Montefiano."
"I am particularly glad that Don Agostino understands," interposed
Silvio.
"You!" exclaimed the professor, witheringly. "I have told you more than
once that you are a pumpkin-head. A fine thing, truly, to make my old
friend Monsignor Lelli a confidant of your love affairs! Not but what
you appear to have confided them to him at a tolerably early stage. It
is usually at a later stage that a priest hears of a love affair--is it
not so, _caro monsignore_?" he added, with a twinkle of amusement in his
brown eyes.
Don Agostino smiled. "Yes," he replied, "at a much later stage;" and
then he paused and glanced across the table at Giacinta.
The professor saw the look and misinterpreted it. "Oh," he observed,
carelessly, "my daughter knows all about Silvio's folly. But I do not
wish to hear anything more about that. You have asked me certain
questions about Silvio, and I have answered them, and that is enough.
If you choose to help the boy in making an idiot of himself, my dear
friend, I suppose you must do so, but I do not wish to know anything of
the matter. There will be disturbances, and I am too busy for
disturbances. I am preparing my work on criminal responsibility. It
will be followed by another volume on responsibility in mental diseases.
By-the-way, if I had the time I would study Silvio's case. It might be
useful to me for my second volume. No; Giacinta and I are decidedly too
busy to be troubled with Silvio's love affairs. Giacinta, you must
know, acts as my secretary and copies out my manuscripts."
Don Agostino raised his eyebrows slightly.
"All of them?" he asked.
"Certainly, all of them. Her handwriting is exceedingly clear, whereas
mine is frequently almost illegible. If it were not for Giacinta, I
should have to employ a typewriter."
Don Agostino said nothing, but he glanced again at the girl, and
wondered how much she understood of the professor's physiological
arguments, and of the examples upon which many of them were based. The
few minutes' conversation he had had alone with Professor Rossano had
speedily convinced him that the professor was both proud and fond of his
son. He had given Silvio the character which Don Agostino, a practised
reader of countenances and the natures those countenances reflected, had
felt sure would be given. At the same time, the professor had expressed
his opinion of his son's passion for Donna Bianca Acorari in very
decided terms, and had upbraided his old friend for encouraging the boy
in his folly. Don Agostino had not explained his motives for espousing
Silvio's cause. He had learned all he wanted to know, and was satisfied
that he had gauged Silvio's nature and character correctly. He felt,
indeed, an unconquerable aversion from explaining the motives which
prompted him to interest himself in a love affair between two headstrong
young people. Everybody knew why he had left the Vatican; but very few
people knew why, some four-and-twenty years ago, a good-looking young
fellow, by name Agostino Lelli, became a priest. Most of us have an
inner recess in our hearts--unless we are of that fortunate number who
have no hearts--a recess which we shrink from unlocking as we would
shrink from desecrating a tomb over which we are ever laying fresh
flowers. Something which he could scarcely define had impelled Don
Agostino to allow Silvio Rossano to glance into his jealously guarded
shrine. He felt as though he had received some message from his beloved
dead that the boy had a right to do so. He was convinced, moreover, in
his own mind that the living spirit of the woman he had loved was urging
him to save her child from the unhappiness that had fallen upon herself.
Perhaps he had brooded too long and too deeply over the strange change
of coincidences which had brought him and Silvio together--at the
strange similarity between his own life's story and that of his old
friend Professor Rossano's son, between the dead Bianca, Princess of
Montefiano, and the child who bore her name and bodily likeness. In any
case, it seemed to Don Agostino as though he were living over again
those far-off years in Venice; as though he saw in Silvio Rossano his
own youth, with all its hopes and all its joys, and yet with the same
dark shadows--shadows that only youth itself had prevented him from
realizing--threatening to overwhelm and destroy both.
"The boy is in earnest," he had said to Professor Rossano during their
conversation together before setting out for the Castello di Costantino.
"Cannot you see that he is in earnest?"
He spoke almost angrily, the more so, perhaps, on account of that
strange feeling which never left him--the feeling that he was pleading
his own cause and that of his dead.
"My dear friend," the professor had responded, with a slight shrug of
the shoulders, "when one is young and in love, one is always in
earnest--each time. Are you so old that you cannot remember? Ah, I
forgot, you had no experience of such things--at least, no official
experience."