The professor glanced at him with a gleam of satirical amusement. He
fancied he had detected a note of irony in the other's voice, but in his
interpretation of it he was very wide of the mark.
And Don Agostino had found that the result of his conversation with
Silvio's father was exactly what Silvio himself had foretold. The
professor had dismissed the whole affair with airy good-humor as a
_pazzia_, a folly in which he had so far participated as to have made
formal overtures on his son's behalf for Donna Bianca Acorari's hand,
and of which he did not wish to hear anything more. If Silvio thought
the girl would make him a good wife, then by all means let him marry
her, if he could. If he could not, there were plenty of other girls to
choose from, and any one of them who married Silvio would be a great
deal luckier than she most probably deserved to be.
Don Agostino had very soon come to the conclusion that the professor
would place no serious obstacles in the way to hinder his son from
marrying Donna Bianca Acorari, should Silvio find means to accomplish
that object. During the remainder of their dinner at the Castello di
Costantino he threw himself, as it were, into Professor Rossano's humor,
and it soon became evident to Silvio and Giacinta that their father and
his guest were mutually enjoying one another's conversation. Giacinta,
indeed, was not a little astonished at hearing the professor discourse
so readily with a priest. But then, as she noted the facility with
which Monsignor Lelli met her father on his favorite ground, the
knowledge which he displayed of the scientific and political problems of
the day, the serene tolerance with which he would discuss questions
which she knew to be anathema to the ecclesiastical temperament, it was
at once revealed to her that this was no ordinary priest, whose mental
vision was limited by the outlook of the sacristy. The professor, as
the evening wore on, seemed to be in his element. From subject to
subject he flew with a rapidity which would have been bewildering had it
not been for the conciseness and pungency of the arguments he brought to
bear upon each of them. But Monsignor Lelli met him at every turn,
agreeing with him often, but often parrying his thrusts with rapier-like
stabs of keenest satire. The summer twilight was already fading into
dusk, and the moon was rising over the Aventine, casting long shadows
from the cypress-trees over the gardens and vineyards stretching away
beneath the terrace, and still the two continued their discussions.
People seated at little tables near them ceased from laughing and
talking, and turned round to listen, for the waiters had whispered that
the _signore_ with the beard was the famous Senator Rossano, and that
the priest was without doubt a cardinal who had dressed as an ordinary
priest lest he should be compromised by being seen in public in such
company.
Suddenly, in the midst of a more than usually brilliant sally, provoked
by some observation from his host, Monsignor Lelli stopped abruptly and
addressed an entirely irrelevant remark to Giacinta. Silvio, who
happened to be looking at him, saw his face change slightly as he looked
beyond the professor towards the door leading from the restaurant on to
the terrace. A small group of new arrivals was issuing from this door,
and its members began to make their way to a vacant table a short
distance from that occupied by the professor and his party.
Giacinta also had caught sight of the new-comers. "Look, Silvio!" she
exclaimed, in a low tone; "look, father, there is Princess Montefiano's
brother, Monsieur d'Antin, with those people!"
"Very well, Giacinta," returned the professor, vexed at the
interruption; "he can go to the devil! Go on with what you were
saying," he added to Don Agostino. "It was well put--very well put,
indeed--but I think that I have an argument--"
"_Caro senatore_," observed Don Agostino, tranquilly, "are you aware
that it grows late? We can continue our discussion as we return to the
city. _Signorina_," he continued, turning to Giacinta, "you are sitting
with your back to the view. Is it not beautiful, with the moonlight
falling on those ruins?"
He rose from his chair as he spoke, and motioned to Giacinta to
accompany him to the parapet of the terrace.
"Bring your father away," he said to her, in a low voice, "and Silvio.
It is as well for us not to be seen together."
"But Baron d'Antin does not know Silvio by sight," returned Giacinta,
"and I doubt if he knows either my father or me by sight. Do you know
him, _monsignore_?" she added.
"I have never seen him," said Don Agostino, "and it is not of him I am
thinking--but of the other, the young man who is with him. No, do not
look round, _signorina_! At present I think that we are unobserved. It
will be more prudent for me to leave you without any further ceremony.
We can meet again outside the restaurant."
"But who is he--that other one?" asked Giacinta, quickly.
"A person I would rather not meet," replied Don Agostino--"at least," he
added, "I would rather not be seen by him under the present
circumstances, _signorina_. I beg of you to explain to your father that
he will find me waiting for him outside," and, turning from her, Don
Agostino walked rapidly towards the door, having satisfied himself that
the new-comers were occupied with the head-waiter in ordering their
dinner, and that he could probably leave the terrace unobserved by them.
*XX*
On emerging from the restaurant, the Rossanos found Don Agostino
awaiting them.
"Giacinta told me I must pay the bill and come away," the professor said
to him. "For myself," he added, "I should have preferred to remain
another half-hour. That white wine is certainly good. May one ask,
_monsignore_, what made you leave us so suddenly? Did you discover a
cardinal of the holy office in disguise?"
Don Agostino laughed. "Not quite a cardinal," he replied, "but somebody
very near to a cardinal."
"Do you mean the man who was with Baron d'Antin--the young man?" asked
Silvio.
"Precisely," returned Don Agostino. "He is not quite so young as he
looks, however," he continued. "In fact, he must be certainly ten or
twelve years older. Do you know him, Silvio?"
"By sight, yes. I do not know who he is, but one sees him in the world
here in Rome--sometimes with English people--old ladies with odd things
on their heads, and their daughters who walk like _carabinieri_ pushing
their way through a crowd. _Diamine_, but how they walk, the English
girls! Everything moves at once--arms, shoulders, hips--everything! It
is certainly not graceful."
"Never mind the English girls, Silvio, since you are not going to marry
one," interrupted Giacinta. "Who is Baron d'Antin's friend,
_monsignore_?" she added.
Don Agostino hesitated. "His name is Peretti," he replied, "the
Commendatore Peretti. He is very intimate with the cardinal secretary
of state. Some people say that he supplies his eminence with useful
information which he acquires in the world outside the Vatican. He
gives Italian lessons, I am told, to Silvio's English ladies; also to
members of the embassies to the king."
"A spy, in fact," observed Silvio.
Don Agostino shrugged his shoulders. "_Mah!_" he ejaculated. "In any
case," he continued, "I did not particularly wish to be seen by him, for
it would at once be known at the Vatican that I had been in Rome in your
and your father's company, and--well, the less _quelli signori_ of the
Vatican interest themselves in your affairs, Silvio, the better for you.
For me it does not matter."
"It seems to me that it has mattered very much," growled the professor.
"And you think he did not see you?" said Silvio. "Ah, but you are
mistaken, Don Agostino. He did see you, and he pointed you out to Baron
d'Antin; and the baron saw me, too."
Don Agostino looked at him quickly.
"But you told me that Monsieur d'Antin did not know you by sight," he
exclaimed.
"I thought he did not know me, because I did not know him by sight,"
returned Silvio; "but I was mistaken," he added. "It is true that I
never saw Monsieur d'Antin before to-night, to my knowledge, but he has
seen me. I saw that he knew me by the expression in his eyes when he
looked at me, and I am quite sure that he whispered my name to his
friend--Peretti, is it?"
"Ah!" said Don Agostino, "it is certainly unfortunate that they should
have seen us together. One never knows--"
"They looked at me in such a way that for two _soldi_ I would have gone
up to them and asked what they wanted of me--and then there would have
been a row. Yes, Giacinta, for two _soldi_ I would have boxed both
their ears--a _soldo_ for each of them," and Silvio's eyes began to
flash ominously.
"Less than a _soldo_," observed his father, quietly. "They have four
ears, Silvio. That would be at the rate of two _centesimi_ and a half
for each ear. All the same, I am glad you did not do it."
"I thought he would have done it," said Giacinta, in an undertone to Don
Agostino, "but I made him come away at once."
Don Agostino looked grave. "I do not understand," he said to Silvio.
"How could Monsieur d'Antin know you if you had never seen him before?"
"_Che ne so io?_" answered Silvio, carelessly--"and what does it
matter?" he added, with a laugh. "He probably knows now that I should
like to break his head, just as I know that he would like to break
mine."
"Not for anything that he would find inside it," interposed the
professor, dryly. "_Via_, Silvio, what is there to wonder at if Baron
d'Antin looks at you with some curiosity? He has probably heard his
sister speak of you as a lunatic!"
Silvio and Don Agostino glanced at each other. The latter laid his hand
on Professor Rossano's arm. "_Caro senatore_," he said, "we shall do
well not to discuss these things here. Let us walk back to Palazzo
Acorari; or, still better, let us prolong our walk a little and go to
the Forum. I honestly admit that by daylight I detest the Forum--the
archaeologists have turned it into a hideous affair. But by moonlight
it is another matter. I think Domeneddio must have made the moonlight
in order to allow the Romans to forget for a few hours that
archaeologists exist."
Professor Rossano laughed. "Let us go to the Forum, by all means," he
observed. "There will be no archaeologists at this hour. They will all
be calling one another idiots and impostors elsewhere--perhaps in the
_salon_ of the Countess Vitali."
It was not to be supposed that the professor and Giacinta would walk
from the Castello di Costantino to the Foro Romano; although Don
Agostino, accustomed to long expeditions on foot in the Sabines, and
Silvio, who could walk the whole day provided that he were carrying a
gun, would have thought nothing of doing so. Professor Rossano however,
seldom used his legs if he could avail himself of any other means of
locomotion, and on the first opportunity he stopped a passing _botte_
and directed the driver to set them down at the Colosseum. Guttural
shouts from a party of German tourists about to enter the building
caused the professor to turn away from it with an impatient shrug of the
shoulders. Much as he admired the scientific and philosophical
attainments of the Germans, in common with most Italians he disliked
them intensely as a nation. The offending Teutons disappeared into the
Colosseum as Professor Rossano and his companions walked slowly towards
the arch of Titus. The ruins in the Forum looked ghostly and unreal in
the moonlight. In front, the great square mass of the Capitol loomed
grimly, while from the dark, cypress-crowned Palatine on their left came
the mournful cries of owls flitting to and fro in the roofless halls of
the palace of the Caesars.
"You are sure that Baron d'Antin recognized you?" Don Agostino asked of
Silvio, who had stopped to light a cigar, while his sister and the
professor walked on a little ahead of them.
"As sure as I am that you were recognized by your little spy, Peretti,"
Silvio replied. "What puzzles me," he added, "is how he could know me."
"It is not very strange, considering that you live in Palazzo Acorari."
"But I am sure that I have never seen him," insisted Silvio. "After
all," he continued, "it does not matter very much; and I do not suppose
it matters if Peretti recognized you."
"Except that the accident of his having seen me in your company might
lead to my being moved from Montefiano to some other still more remote
place," said Don Agostino, quietly.
Silvio looked blank. "Why should it do that?" he asked.
Don Agostino smiled. "One never knows," he said. "The Princess
Montefiano has no doubt many friends at the Vatican. If it were
suggested to her that I was on friendly terms with you and your family,
she might very easily bring about my removal from Montefiano. I wish we
had not gone to the Costantino, Silvio. I have a presentiment that our
encounter with Monsieur d'Antin and that little busybody, Peretti, may
add to our difficulties."
"At any rate," said Silvio, "we will return to Montefiano to-morrow, Don
Agostino, and I must find some means of communicating with Bianca. We
know now that Baron d'Antin is in Rome and not at Montefiano.
Probably," he added, "he has understood by this time that Bianca would
not be induced to listen to him."
"If he has," observed Don Agostino, "the fact is not likely to make him
feel very friendly towards a more successful suitor. No, Silvio, be
guided by me; and do not do anything in a hurry. Remember that if it
were discovered that you are living with me at Montefiano, I should
certainly be removed from my duties there, of that I am quite sure; and
my removal would be a misfortune. Perhaps I can do more for you at
Montefiano than you can do for yourself--yet."
"But if you never go to the castle," began Silvio.
"I have never been as yet," returned Don Agostino, "but that does not
mean to say that I am never going there. Besides, sooner or later what
happens in the castle will be talked about in the _paese_. It is a mere
question of time. And what is talked about in the _paese_ sooner or
later is talked about to Ernana," he added, with a smile. "How, for
instance, do you suppose I knew that Monsieur d'Antin proposed to marry
Donna Bianca Acorari? I do not often listen to Ernana's gossip, for if
she were encouraged she would doubtless tell a great deal, and some of
it would probably be true--not much, but some of it."
Silvio gave an impatient exclamation.
"How can the princess tolerate the idea of such a marriage?" he burst
out, angrily. "I can understand her objecting to me--but surely it is
more natural that her step-daughter should marry a young man than that
old--"
"Precisely!" interrupted Don Agostino. "You have exactly defined the
situation. I, too, understand the objection to you--from a worldly
point of view--as a husband for Donna Bianca Acorari. But you are not
the only young man in the world, my dear Silvio. There are many others,
possessing better social qualifications, from whom the princess could
select a husband for her step-daughter. It was assuredly not necessary
to fall back upon Baron d'Antin, even in order to get rid of you! No,
there must be some other reason for sacrificing the girl--for indeed I
call it a sacrifice. It seems to me, Silvio, that we should discover
that reason before you attempt to communicate again with Donna Bianca.
Until we know it, we are working in the dark. I have my suspicions what
the reasons may be; but they are at the best but vague suspicions, which
probably I have no right to entertain."
Silvio looked at him keenly.
"What are they?" he asked, briefly.
Don Agostino hesitated. "I said that I had probably no right to
entertain them," he repeated. "I do not wish to wrong anybody, but it
has sometimes struck me that possibly there may be money
difficulties--that it would not be convenient to the administrators of
the Montefiano estates were Donna Bianca to marry a stranger."
"Money difficulties!" repeated Silvio. "You mean that perhaps Bianca's
property has been interfered with--that she would not be as rich as she
was supposed to be when she comes of age? Is that what you mean, Don
Agostino?"
"Partly--yes."
Silvio's eyes gleamed blue in the moonlight. "_Magari!_" he exclaimed,
simply.
Don Agostino looked at him for a moment, and then he smiled.
"You would be glad?" he asked.
"Of course I should be glad--I should be delighted," returned Silvio.
"If it were not for her money," he continued, "it would all have been so
simple--do you not see what I mean? Of course there are the titles--but
anybody can have titles. I know a cab-driver in Naples who is a
_marchese_, an absolutely genuine _marchese_, of Bourbon creation. But
the money makes it another affair altogether."
"The money makes it another affair altogether," repeated Don Agostino;
"that is very true." He spoke more as though talking to himself than to
Silvio.
"Perhaps," continued Silvio, "if the princess and her Belgian confessor
could be made to understand that I do not want Bianca's money--that I
have enough of my own both for her and for myself--they would not be so
anxious to marry her to that old baron. So you see, Don Agostino, my
reason for being glad if there has been some mismanagement of the
Montefiano properties."
Don Agostino looked at him with a smile.
"Yes, Silvio," he said, "I see your reason--it is one that I should have
expected from you. But it is not a good reason."
Silvio glanced at him with surprise.
"Not a good reason!" he repeated. "And why not? It seems to me to be a
very natural reason. I want Bianca Acorari herself. I do not want her
money, and I would not accept one of her titles."
"It is a very natural reason, yes--for a _galantuomo_," returned Don
Agostino, "but it is not one that will appeal to those who are not
_galantuomini_. You must remember that dishonest people do not easily
credit others with honesty. In this case I cannot help suspecting--it
is a suspicion only--that Monsieur d'Antin has some hold over his
sister, and perhaps also over the Abbe Roux. Moreover, you must
recollect that Donna Bianca has evidently aroused--well, a certain
passion in him; and the passion of an elderly man for a young girl--"
Silvio Rossano muttered something under his breath. It was not
complimentary to Baron d'Antin.
"It is no use to fly into a rage--none at all," proceeded Don Agostino,
tranquilly. "We must look at things as they are, and human nature is a
complicated affair. What we have to do is to find out, so to speak, all
the cards that Monsieur d'Antin holds in his hand. I do not wish to be
uncharitable, but it is scarcely credible that the princess would
encourage, or even tolerate, her brother's aspirations, were he not able
to bring some more convincing argument to bear upon her and the Abbe
Roux than the mere fact that he had conceived a sudden passion for her
step-daughter."
"Yes," said Silvio, thoughtfully; "I see what you mean. You are more
clever at reasoning than I am," he added.
Don Agostino smiled. "I am considerably older than you are, _ragazzo
mio_," he replied; "and," he continued, "I am not in love with Bianca
Acorari, though her welfare is very dear to me, for--for her mother's
sake." He paused, and Silvio saw him make the sign of the cross almost
imperceptibly.
"I think," Don Agostino continued, "that you would do well not to return
with me to Montefiano to-morrow. If Baron d'Antin knew that you were in
the neighborhood, and especially if he knew that you were in my
house--it would certainly not make things easier."
Silvio's face fell. "But what am I to do?" he exclaimed. "I had
meant--"
"Yes," interrupted Don Agostino, "let us hear what you had meant to do
at Montefiano--or rather, I will tell you. You had meant by some means
to obtain another interview with Donna Bianca--to persuade her to escape
with you, perhaps--and that I should marry you. In fact, you had a
whole romance in your head. Is it not true?"
Silvio laughed. "Something of the sort, I admit," he answered.
"Well," continued Don Agostino, decidedly, "it will not do; it will not
do at all. We are not characters in a novel, and we can afford to act
like ordinary human beings who are face to face with a difficulty, but
who are also not quite sure of their ground. In real life it is
wonderful how things settle themselves if we will only be patient and
allow them to do so. No; you are not the hero in a romance, and it is
not necessary for you to bring about a situation lest the public should
become tired of you. The situation will probably come of itself--_per
forza maggiore_."
"And am I to sit down and do nothing, and leave the field clear for
Baron d'Antin?" asked Silvio.
"For a short time--for a few days, perhaps--yes."
"But you forget," Silvio interrupted, quickly. "Bianca is expecting to
hear from me in some way. I promised her I would communicate with her.
That is now nearly a month ago, and as yet I have been unable to send
her a single word, for a letter would certainly never reach her--that is
to say, until I can find some trustworthy person who would give it to
her."
"Write your letter, and I will undertake that it reaches her," said Don
Agostino.
"You!" exclaimed Silvio.
"Yes; I will be your messenger. Yesterday I would not have undertaken
to help you so far. You can probably guess why, Silvio."
"Because you were not sure of me--that I was worthy of your help?"
"Oh, as to that, I was always sure from the first," said Don Agostino,
quietly. "I am very seldom mistaken in my first impressions of people
whom I care to study, and I studied you. But I was determined not to
act on my impressions until they should have been confirmed by your
father. I always told you as much, if you remember."
"And now they are confirmed? I am glad," said Silvio, simply.
Don Agostino smiled. "Amply," he replied, laying his hand
affectionately on Silvio's shoulder. "Be guided by me, _figlio mio_,"
he continued. "Remain quietly here in Rome until I tell you to come to
Montefiano. In the mean time, I will do all I can for you. It may be
very little, or it may be more than you think; I cannot tell as yet.
Write your letter to-night, and I will take it with me to-morrow
morning. You quite understand, however, that it may be some days before
I have an opportunity of conveying it safely to its destination, so you
must not be impatient."
"You will see that I shall be patient," said Silvio. "It was the
apparent impossibility of being able to communicate with Bianca that has
made me impatient. It was natural, for the weeks were passing, and
after what you told me about Baron d'Antin, I dared not leave Bianca
much longer without fulfilling my promise that she should hear from me.
However, now that I know that our affairs are in your hands, I will be
as patient as you please."
"That is well," replied Don Agostino, briefly. "And, above all,
Silvio," he added, "do not confide in anybody. Do not move from Rome
until you receive a letter from me bidding you come to Montefiano, or to
some other place in its neighborhood that I will name in the letter.
_Dunque, siamo intesi_? Then let us catch up with the others. It is
growing late, and I must return to my hotel. You can bring me your
letter to-morrow morning. I shall leave Rome by the eight-o'clock
train, and it will be wiser for you to come only to the hotel, and not
accompany me to the railway station. The less we are seen together now
the better. It is a strange thing, but the accident of having met those
two individuals to-night has made me feel uncomfortable."
"What harm can they do?" said Silvio, carelessly. "If Monsieur d'Antin
had seen us together at Montefiano, then he might well have been
suspicious; but here, in Rome, we are--"
"In Rome," interrupted Don Agostino, dryly; and he said no more than
might be implied by a slight shrug of the shoulders and a quick gesture
with the hands.
The professor and Giacinta had halted at this moment. By this time they
had reached the upper end of the Forum, and a few paces more would bring
them out into the Via S. Teodoro, close to the narrow flight of steps
leading up to the piazza of the Capitol.
As soon as Don Agostino and Silvio joined them, Professor Rossano begged
the former to return with them to Palazzo Acorari, but Don Agostino
declined. It was time for him to go back to his hotel, he declared, and
Silvio, rightly guessing that he did not wish to run any risks of again
being seen with them, forebore from seconding his father's invitation.
After bidding the professor and Giacinta a cordial farewell, Don
Agostino stopped a passing cab, and directed the driver to the Albergo
Santa Chiara, a modest little hotel near the Minerva, largely frequented
by foreign priests and pilgrims.
"I will be with you at seven o'clock to-morrow morning," said Silvio to
him as he got into the cab. Don Agostino nodded, and, raising his broad
beaver hat, drove away.
"There," said the professor, jerking his head in the direction of the
disappearing _botte_, "is another of them."
"Another of whom, Babbo?" asked Giacinta.
"Why, another honest man, with a head upon his shoulders, too, whom
those priests across the Tiber have driven away!" replied Professor
Rossano, angrily.
"Why did he leave the Vatican?" asked Silvio. "He would never tell me
his story at Montefiano, but always said that you would remember it well
enough."
"Remember it? Of course I remember it!" returned the professor. "At
one time all Rome was talking of Monsignor Lelli. They declared at the
Vatican that he had speculated and lent money on bad security from the
funds intrusted to him; accused him, in short, of a carelessness almost
equivalent to fraud. But everybody knew that he had been forced to use
the money in the way it was used, and that he was afterwards disgraced
when things went contrary to expectations. _Che vuoi?_"
Silvio said nothing. His thoughts were occupied with the letter he
would write to Bianca Acorari that night, and he wondered how Don
Agostino would find the means of giving it, or causing it to be safely
delivered. It was a disappointment to him not to return to Montefiano
on the morrow, but he could not but feel that Don Agostino was right in
advising him to remain quietly in Rome. It would certainly not help
matters were his only friend at Montefiano to be suddenly transferred to
some other post; and Silvio knew enough of his world fully to realize
how important a part intrigue and personal animosities played, not only
at the Vatican, but also in every phase of Roman life.
The clocks were striking ten when they reached Palazzo Acorari, and
though nobody thinks of going home at ten o'clock on a summer night in
Rome, or anywhere else in Italy, Silvio Rossano accompanied his father
and sister up the dimly lighted staircase to their apartment. The
professor was anxious to continue the correction of his proofs, and
Silvio was longing to begin his letter to Bianca Acorari.
Apparently, however, he had something else on his mind; for, after the
professor had retired to his library, he followed Giacinta into her
sitting-room, a little room opening off the drawing-room. Giacinta, who
was tired after her walk, took off her hat and the light wrap she was
wearing, and settled herself comfortably in an arm-chair; while Silvio,
after lighting a cigarette, began to pace somewhat restlessly up and
down the room. It was very evident that he had something to say, and
Giacinta, who knew her brother's moods, sat waiting for it in silence.
"I am not going back to Montefiano with Don Agostino to-morrow," he
began, presently.
"I did not know that you intended to do so," observed Giacinta.
"Of course I intended to do so!" Silvio returned. "However," he
continued, "Don Agostino thinks it wiser that I should not return just
yet, and I believe he is right. He is going to take a letter from me to
Bianca."
Giacinta glanced at him with a smile. "No doubt you think he is right
in that also," she observed.
Silvio laughed. "How like you are to Babbo, sometimes!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, I think he is quite right. The only thing is, Giacinta--" and he
paused, hesitatingly.
"That you would not know what to say in the letter?"
"Ah, no! Well, perhaps I do not know what to say. If it amuses you to
think so, I am quite content. The question is, that I want to send
something to Bianca--something that I value. You understand? I have
given her nothing as yet--I have not even written to her. I want to
send her something--with my letter--something that belonged to our
mother. It is so easy to walk into a shop and buy a bit of jewelry, but
it is not the same thing--"
"I understand," said Giacinta, quietly.
"And so," continued Silvio, a little hurriedly, "I thought that if I
sent her one of our mother's rings--you have all her jewelry, Giacinta,
have you not? You could spare me one of the rings, perhaps?"
"They are as much yours as mine," answered Giacinta. "Babbo gave the
jewelry into my charge; you know there are pearls and other things.
Wait, and I will bring you the case from my room, and then you can see
for yourself."
She got up from her chair and went into the next room, returning
presently with an old case covered with faded red velvet and fastened
with heavy clasps of gilded metal.
"Ecco!" she said, holding out to Silvio an elaborately ornamented key,
also heavily gilded. "You must turn it three times in the lock before
it will open the box. In the upper tray there are the rings, and below
are the pearls."
"The pearls can remain where they are," observed Silvio. "You will want
them when you marry," he added, as he unlocked and opened the case. "I
will take this ring," he continued, pointing to an old "marquise" ring,
on which a sapphire was mounted in the centre of a cluster of white
Brazilian diamonds. "The rest you will keep, but this one I will send
to Bianca and tell her that it belonged to my mother. You do not mind,
Giacinta?"
With a sudden movement Giacinta turned and kissed him. "Why should I
mind?" she exclaimed; "only--"
"Only what?" asked Silvio, as she paused.
"Only I wish you had sought for a wife elsewhere," she continued,
earnestly. "Those people--they will despise you, because they are noble
and we are not. You will never be allowed to marry Donna Bianca
Acorari, Silvio! Never, I tell you! That priest and Baron d'Antin,
they will never permit it. The girl will not be allowed to marry
anybody, unless it be Monsieur d'Antin. You will see."
"_Sciocchezze!_" exclaimed Silvio, contemptuously. "What have I often
told you, Giacinta?" he continued. "Bianca and I can afford to wait
until she is her own mistress. If they were to attempt to force her to
marry Baron d'Antin or anybody else, then we would go away and get some
priest to marry us. The civil marriage could wait. I have told you so
a hundred times."
Giacinta was silent for a moment. Then she said, suddenly:
"I am glad you are not going back to Montefiano. It was wise of Don
Agostino, as you call him, to advise you to remain here."
"Oh, but I shall go back there very soon," returned Silvio. "In a few
days Don Agostino will write to me to come. You see, Bianca must be
protected from that old baron. She will be glad to know that I am near
her, even if we cannot see each other."
"Do not go, Silvio!" Giacinta exclaimed, almost passionately. "You will
be mad to go! Ah, but I saw Baron d'Antin's expression when he
recognized you! I could see that he recognized you--and you, you looked
at him as if you would have struck him."
Silvio laughed. "And I could have struck him--very hard," he replied,
"for he stared at me in an insolent manner. Of course, I shall return
to Montefiano, Giacinta, whenever Don Agostino writes to me that I can
do so. I cannot imagine what you are afraid of."
Giacinta smiled slightly. "After all," she said, "I hardly know myself!
But there is some mystery--something I do not understand. I am afraid
that it is money--that they want to keep Donna Bianca's money. Oh, not
the princess! She is only a fool. But these others, the Abbe Roux and
Monsieur d'Antin, they are not fools. And if it is money, and you stand
in their way--well, who knows what people will not do for money? They
might murder you at Montefiano, and who would be the wiser?"
Silvio laughed again. "Scarcely, Giacinta _mia_," he replied. "If they
tried to put me out of the way, several people would be the wiser, and
some of them--Don Agostino, for instance--would make awkward inquiries.
_Via!_ we are not in the Middle Ages; and the son of the Senator Rossano
is not a completely obscure person who could be made away with with
impunity. I assure you that you need not be alarmed. Now I must go and
write my letter, for at seven o'clock to-morrow morning I have to be at
the Albergo Santa Chiara, for Don Agostino leaves Rome at eight. _Buona
notte_, Giacinta, _e buon riposo_, and do not get foolish ideas into
your head, or you will lie awake."
And so saying, Silvio went off to his own room, taking with him the ring
he had selected from his mother's jewel-case.
*XXI*
Bianca was walking slowly up and down the terrace beneath the castle of
Montefiano. Every now and then she would pause and lean over the low
stone parapet, gazing thoughtfully into the deep ravine below, or across
the ridges of the Sabines to the towns and villages perched upon their
rocky eminences commanding the upper valley of the Tiber. It was late
in the afternoon, and cool enough upon the terrace, which was sheltered
from the westering sun by the shadow of the mass of building above it.
More than a month had passed since she had been brought to Montefiano,
and no word had come to her from Silvio. That a letter should not have
reached her in the ordinary way, did not surprise her. She had very
rarely received a letter in her life, save, perhaps, some words of
greeting at Easter or at the New Year; and under the circumstances it
was not very likely that any missive could arrive for her by the post
without being intercepted and confiscated by those who were so evidently
determined to guard against any renewal of communication between her and
her lover.
The days had passed slowly enough at Montefiano. The great suite of
rooms on the _piano nobile_ of the palace had been put into a certain
order, as the princess had directed; but the furniture sent from Palazzo
Acorari at Rome made a sorry show of comfort in the huge rooms of the
Montefiano fortress. Indeed, it was only the corners of the living-room
which could be made habitable--little oases, as it were, in a desert of
marble floors, of walls from which faded damask was hanging in tattered
strips, and upon which hung mirrors that had long ago ceased to reflect,
or such pictures as the late prince had left as not being worth the
trouble and expense of being moved to Rome to be sold to foreign
collectors.
An indescribable atmosphere of dreariness seemed to pervade the interior
of Montefiano, that dreariness which is produced by the sense of
departed strength and grandeur. The apartments occupied by the princess
and Bianca were entirely on one floor. A large vestibule formed the
centre of the suite, approached by a double flight of stone steps
leading up from the quadrangle or inner court of the palace. On one side
of this hall were high double doors opening into an immense
drawing-room, and opposite to them similar doors led into a gallery, at
the farther extremity of which were two other sitting-rooms. Beyond
these, again, was the princess's bedroom, and a smaller room beyond it,
and at the end of the suite was Bianca's room, which could only be
reached by passing through her step-mother's sleeping apartment. There
were other rooms on the opposite side of the court-yard, which were
occupied by the Abbe Roux and Monsieur d'Antin; while the servants
inhabited a part of the house to get to which endless corridors and
unused chambers had to be traversed. If life at the Palazzo Acorari and
at the villa near Velletri had been quiet, it was amusing compared with
that led by the princess and her step-daughter at Montefiano. Even the
horses and the carriage had been left behind at Rome. Except a daily
walk about a few acres of brushwood and coppices behind the castle--an
enclosed piece of ground dignified by the name of a park, access to
which was only possible by descending a damp, moss-grown flight of steps
at the end of the terrace--Bianca never left the immediate precincts of
the old dwelling, half palace and half mediaeval fortress, of which she
was nominally the mistress.
The Abbe Roux had been quite right when he had declared that no convent
could afford a more secure retreat from the world than the castle of
Montefiano. The little town, nestling beneath the grim, battlemented
walls and flanking round towers on the southern side of the building,
might have been a hundred miles away, for not a sound from it ever
penetrated to that part of the castle in which the princess and Bianca
lived, nor was so much as a roof-top visible. The cries of the
jackdaws, or the scream of a hawk during the daytime, or, after dusk,
the melancholy note of the little gray owls haunting the _macchia_, the
monotonous croaking of the frogs in a swampy piece of ground in its
recesses, were the only sounds audible, except that of the bell of
Cardinal Acorari's clock over the Renaissance facade, tolling the
passage of the hours and half-hours, as it had tolled them for over two
centuries.
They had been some weeks at Montefiano, and the princess had never
spoken to Bianca on the subject of what she termed the imprudent attempt
of an adventurer to lead her into an entanglement in which she might
have seriously compromised herself. Perhaps Princess Montefiano had
never before felt how far removed from Bianca she was, how little
sympathy and confidence existed between her and her step-daughter, as
during the period immediately following the discovery of what, in her
conversations with the Abbe Roux and with her brother, she called
Bianca's indiscretion. She felt that she did not understand the girl;
and, more keenly than she had ever done before, she felt conscious that
Bianca regarded her as a foreigner. Had it been consistent with her
sense of duty, Princess Montefiano would very readily have relegated the
office of explaining to her step-daughter the gravity of her offence
against all the rules that should guide the conduct of a young girl, and
the utter impossibility of any alliance being tolerated between the
heiress and representative of Casa Acorari and the son of a professor,
however illustrious that professor might be. But to whom could she
relegate the task? Certainly not to the Abbe Roux, although the subject
was one in which fatherly advice from a priest would surely be better
than any advice, save that of a mother, and she was not the girl's
mother--all the difficulty lay in that point. But to expect Bianca to
open her heart to the Abbe Roux, or to tolerate any open interference
from him in her actions, was, as the princess had learned from
experience, an altogether hopeless idea. The situation was certainly
embarrassing, all the more so because Bianca shut herself up in an
impenetrable reserve. She had accepted the sudden move to Montefiano
without making any comment, or uttering any protest. Under any other
circumstances, Princess Montefiano would have attributed this attitude
to that apathy which she had until lately honestly believed to be one of
Bianca's characteristics. Unluckily, recent events had conclusively
proved this belief to be an illusion. As Monsieur d'Antin had pointed
out to his sister, in language admitting of no misconstruction, young
girls who were apathetic did not allow young men to make love to them in
a manner that had--well, certainly nothing of apathy about it. And the
princess had sighed and shaken her head. She felt herself to be out of
her depth. Her experiences of love had been limited to the short period
of married life passed with the Principe di Montefiano, experiences
which of necessity were very limited indeed. As was her invariable
practice when confronted by any difficulty, she had sought counsel of
the Abbe Roux, and the abbe had readily understood and sympathized with
her in her embarrassment. He could not offer to speak to Donna Bianca
and point out to her the grave dangers, both worldly and spiritual, to
which she had exposed herself, and the still greater unhappiness which
was certainly in store for her were she to continue in her present
unfortunate state of mind. Donna Bianca, he reminded the princess, had
shown too plainly her want of confidence in him, both as a priest and as
an individual, to allow of his making any attempt to force that
confidence. But there was another person to whom, perhaps, she would be
more communicative, and who might possibly succeed in distracting her
thoughts from their present object. Donna Bianca had, at all events,
shown symptoms of being more at her ease with Monsieur le Baron than she
had with himself, or even--madame must pardon his frankness--with her
step-mother. Why not, the Abbe Roux had concluded, refrain from pointing
out to Donna Bianca the impossibility of the situation into which she
had drifted until Monsieur d'Antin had endeavored to make her see
matters in a different light? It might well be, considering the obvious
sympathy which had existed between Monsieur le Baron and Donna Bianca,
that the former might succeed where he himself would certainly, and
Madame la Princesse possibly, fail. In the mean time, a rigorous
seclusion at Montefiano would not cease to be advisable. The very
dulness of this seclusion, the gradual certainty that no communication
with young Rossano would ever be permitted, would doubtless soon break
down Donna Bianca's obstinacy; while very probably the young man himself
would realize the hopelessness of his suit and turn his attentions
elsewhere.
Princess Montefiano had not received this suggestion without
considerable misgivings. Her brother's interest in Bianca had certainly
not diminished since the day when she had discovered that the Abbe Roux
shared her suspicions that this interest was not altogether platonic.
She was in some ways a sensitive woman, always thinking what people
might or might not say of her and her actions. Ever since her marriage
to the late Prince Montefiano, she had been haunted by a nervous dread
lest she should be supposed to neglect his daughter; and though she
scarcely realized it herself, it had been this feeling, rather than any
affection for Bianca, that had made her almost timidly anxious not to
fail in anything which she might conceive to be her duty towards the
girl. Bianca, however, had realized when quite a child, with all that
quick intuition which children share with other animals, that however
kind her step-mother might be to her, it was a kindness certainly not
born of love. Strangely enough, it would never have entered Princess
Montefiano's head that her step-daughter was capable of detecting the
difference. Like many conscientious people, she was quite satisfied by
the constant reflection that she was doing her duty. That Bianca was
not equally satisfied with and duly appreciative of the fact, she had
long ago accustomed herself to attribute to the girl being possessed of
a cold and indifferent nature.
After duly considering the abbe's advice, Princess Montefiano had
decided to act upon it. It was true that, should he be correct in his
calculations that a policy of seclusion and of a quiet but determined
ignoring of the pretensions of the Rossano family would result in
Bianca's submission, everything would be gained. At the same time, the
world would think it strange, and not altogether seemly, that the girl
should marry a man old enough to be her father, and who was also the
brother of her father's second wife. But, as the abbe had pointed out,
similar marriages, though possibly unusual, were not unheard of; and in
Rome there had certainly been instances in which they had turned out
satisfactorily to all parties. Moreover, even were the world to
criticise her for allowing Bianca to contract such an alliance,
criticism, as the Abbe Roux rightly insisted, would instantly cease were
it suspected that the affair had been arranged in order to prevent the
heiress of the Acorari from marrying a man who was not of her own social
condition, but who had presumed to ask for her hand.
Altogether it had seemed better to the princess to take the unbiased
advice of a man of the world, who was at the same time a priest, and to
wait patiently to see whether Bianca would not in time come to her
senses, and be glad to accept the devotion of a man of her own order,
even if there was some disparity of age between him and her.
Matters had not, however, gone quite so smoothly as Monsieur l'Abbe had
anticipated. For the first few days after his arrival at Montefiano it
had appeared as if Bianca rather welcomed Baron d'Antin's attentions to
her than otherwise. The princess even began to ask herself whether,
after all, the Abbe Roux had not been right when he had hinted that her
step-daughter's clandestine love-affair with a young man must not be
taken too seriously--that Donna Bianca was of a temperament which
demanded certain things--oh, but certain things that one husband could
supply as well as another. Princess Montefiano had felt somewhat
shocked at the idea. Nevertheless, when she observed that Bianca seemed
to take pleasure in her brother Philippe's society, and that she was
less silent and reserved when talking to him than she was at other
times, she wondered whether the Abbe Roux had not read the girl's nature
accurately, and she began to congratulate herself on having listened to
his advice.
It was with not a little anxiety and disappointment, therefore, that
Princess Montefiano noticed a sudden but unmistakeable change in
Bianca's demeanor towards Monsieur d'Antin. Whereas she had always been
ready to talk to him, she now seemed anxious to avoid him. If he
addressed her at meals, she would answer in monosyllables, or perhaps
not at all. Her manner betrayed an uneasiness and suspicion whenever
she was in company, and at times would become almost sullen. If he
proposed to walk with her on the terrace, or in the park, instead of
consenting almost with alacrity, as she had usually done, she would
answer coldly that she was not going out.
This state of things had lasted some days, and one evening at dinner
Monsieur d'Antin suddenly announced his intention of going to Rome the
following morning, as he had some business to do there.
The princess, who happened to glance at Bianca, saw an expression of
intense relief pass over her countenance. The look surprised and then
shocked her. It was the look that some trapped animal might give when
just set at liberty.
Nothing more was said at that moment, however, and very soon after
dinner Bianca went to her own room. The next morning Monsieur d'Antin
left early, in order to catch a train which would enable him to reach
Rome by twelve o'clock.
At the mid-day breakfast Bianca and her step-mother were alone together,
for the Abbe Roux, as the princess explained, was occupied with the
_fattore_ on business.
"It is very annoying," she observed, presently, to Bianca, when the
servants had brought in the coffee and left the room. "I have had to
discharge Fontana--the agent, you know."
Bianca looked up from a fig she was peeling. "Ah," she said, quickly,
"what has he done?"
"It is rather a case of what he has not done," replied Princess
Montefiano. "Monsieur l'Abbe," she continued, "has been occupying
himself with going about the estate since we have come here. He finds
everything in a very unsatisfactory condition, I am sorry to say.
Apparently the _fattore_, this Fontana, has resented any inquiries being
made into his management. Monsieur l'Abbe is quite sure Fontana has
ruled here too long, and that it will be better to make a change. He
knows of a man--"
"Of course!" interposed Bianca, dryly.
The princess glanced at her. "It is very fortunate for you," she
observed, "and for me, that we have a shrewd man of business like
Monsieur l'Abbe to advise us. That is what you will never understand,
Bianca."
Bianca Acorari pushed her plate from her impatiently. "No," she said,
abruptly, "I shall never understand it. I think I should prefer priests
who were not shrewd men of business, and men of business who were not
priests."
The princess sighed. "When you are older, _figlia mia_," she remarked,
"you will understand many things better than you do at present. I am
sorry that you are vexed about Fontana. I am annoyed also, for I do not
like turning off an old servant who has been here many years. But we,
Monsieur l'Abbe and I, have to think of your interests."
Bianca raised her eyebrows. "Monsieur l'Abbe is, no doubt, very
disinterested," she observed; and then she relapsed into silence, idly
stirring her little cup of black coffee. Suddenly she rose from her
chair, and, crossing to the opposite side of the table, stood beside her
step-mother.
"How long do you--you and Monsieur l'Abbe--propose to keep me imprisoned
here at Montefiano?" she asked, abruptly.
The princess set down her coffee-cup hastily--so hastily, indeed, that
she spilled some of its contents.
"Bianca!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean? Imprisonment? That is an
altogether absurd expression to use. You are here because--well,
because I think it for your good that you should be here; and you must
remember that, until you are of age, I am your guardian."
"Until I am of age, or marry," interrupted Bianca.
"You cannot marry without my consent before you are of age," the
princess returned, quickly.
Bianca laughed--a hard little laugh.
"Without your consent, and that of Monsieur l'Abbe Roux," she replied.
"Oh, but I understand that very well. It is the reason why I am here.
No? A proposal of marriage was made to you for me, and you--you and
Monsieur l'Abbe--refused your consent. Why?"
Princess Montefiano gazed at her step-daughter with an amazement nearly
amounting to stupefaction. She had thought Bianca apathetic, perhaps
even sullen, and had believed that she would probably never speak of her
own accord about her love for Silvio Rossano. She had certainly not
calculated upon her suddenly assuming an aggressive attitude, and that
it was an aggressive attitude a glance at the girl's face, and the
quiet, determined tone of her voice, showed clearly enough.
For a moment or two the princess remained silent, astonishment and
indignation striving for mastery in her mind. It was not long before
indignation triumphed. The absolute disregard which Bianca had shown
for all the convenances had been bad enough; the manner in which she had
allowed herself to become entangled in a love-affair, to have words of
love spoken to her--and more than words, if Philippe was to be
believed--by the son of an infidel professor, as though she had been
some girl of the _borghesia_, was a horrible and an unheard-of thing.
Nevertheless, nothing, at least in Princess Montefiano's eyes, was so
culpable as want of submission to authority. All that intolerance of
disobedience and defiance, which would have made the princess so
admirable a mother-superior, arose within her at Bianca's words.
"I refused it--yes," she said, curtly. "We need not discuss the matter,
Bianca. I do not intend to reprove you for your want of confidence in
me, nor for your conduct. Your conscience should tell you how wrong,
how--I must use the term--immodest that conduct has been. Yes; the
proposal which the Professor Rossano had the insolence to make on behalf
of his son was refused by me, and that is enough. In the mean time, you
wish to know how long we remain here at Montefiano. The question is
easily answered. You will remain here as long as I consider it fit that
you should do so. You must learn to submit your will to those whom God
has placed in authority over you. I shall certainly not shrink from
doing what I know to be my duty towards you, although you have shown me
very plainly that it is likely to be a thankless task. You have never
given me your confidence, Bianca, never--not even when you were a
child."
The defiant look on Bianca's face melted suddenly.
"It was not my fault," she said, slowly; "at least, I do not think it
was my fault. I wanted to give it to you so often; but you did not love
me, even when I was a child. You did your duty by me, but duty is not
love; I understood that."
The princess knitted her brows, as though she were considering the
point.
"That is nonsense," she said, presently. "The duty of a parent to a
child, and of a child to a parent, is the same as love; and though I am
not your mother, I have always tried to behave towards you as though you
were my own child."
Bianca did not answer, but a little smile stole over her face and played
about her lips. The hardness was all gone now, and there was only
tenderness in her expression. Perhaps she was thinking that within the
last few weeks she had learned the difference between love and duty.
"No, Bianca," continued Princess Montefiano, "if you had wanted to give
me your confidence--if you had ever felt enough affection for me to make
you wish to give it me--there could be no reason why you should
persistently have withheld it. Nevertheless," she added, "your
ingratitude towards me will not deter me from doing my duty. You must be
protected against your own inexperience of the world, and against those
who would take advantage of that inexperience."
Bianca looked at her almost wistfully. "You think me ungrateful," she
said. "I am not that. But to confide in you meant confiding in
Monsieur l'Abbe. He has always come between you and me--oh, ever since
I was a child."
Princess Montefiano made a gesture of impatience. "If I have found
Monsieur l'Abbe worthy of my confidence and my esteem, it should be a
proof that he is also worthy of yours," she said. "You have a
rebellious nature, Bianca, and God will punish you for it, both in this
world and in the next."
A quick gleam of amusement flashed from Bianca's eyes. "How do you
know?" she asked.
The princess stared at her. Assuredly, she thought, Bianca became every
day more difficult to deal with.
"As to Monsieur l'Abbe," she said, preferring to leave her
step-daughter's question unanswered, "your dislike to him is
unreasonable--it is unreasonable and wrong. Setting aside his devotion
to your worldly interests, which, when you are of an age to understand,
you will appreciate better than you are able to do now, you owe him
respect as a priest, the respect due to his sacred calling. I am deeply
grieved at your attitude towards him; but there again your rebellious
nature is at fault. As to saying that he comes between you and me, that
is absurd. What does come between us is your own self-will--your own
arrogance."
Bianca looked at her step-mother steadily for a moment, and the hard
expression on her face returned.
"_E sia!_" she replied. "Do not let us discuss Monsieur l'Abbe Roux; it
is a waste of time. As you say, when I am of an age to understand his
devotion to my worldly interests I shall be able to appreciate them. I
am sorry that Fontana is dismissed," she continued. "To be sure, I have
only seen him a few times, but he appears an honest man."
The princess glanced at her, and her countenance displayed more
displeasure than ever. "These business matters need not concern you for
nearly three years to come," she said, coldly. "Your interests are in
my hands, Bianca, as you very well know. Luckily for you, you have no
voice in the management of your affairs. If you had, I fear you would
very soon fall a prey to some adventurer like this--"
She stopped abruptly, a look on Bianca's face warning her that it would
be more prudent not to complete her sentence. Nevertheless, Princess
Montefiano was angry--seriously angry--and, though perhaps she scarcely
realized it, alarmed. Her authority was very dear to her, and she clung
to it more than she knew. She had always known there must come a time
when that authority must cease; but she had certainly no intention of
yielding it up before she was legally obliged to do so. Moreover, she
felt perfectly assured that she divined the motives which lay behind
Bianca's remark. Had she any doubts upon the point, they were speedily
removed by her step-daughter's next words.
Whereas the princess was both angry and alarmed, Bianca Acorari showed
no symptoms of being either the one or the other. She raised her head
proudly, and a look came into her eyes that Princess Montefiano had seen
on other occasions--a quiet, resolute look, which had generally preluded
her own discomfiture when she had attempted to exercise her authority
over her step-daughter beyond its justifiable limits.
"That is what I wanted to say to you," Bianca observed, calmly. "It is
much better that you should understand. In three years' time I shall
have the management of my own affairs. Well, three years is not a very
long time. We, Silvio and I, can afford to wait; and at the end of
three years, when I am of age, I shall marry him. But I will not marry
Monsieur d'Antin--my uncle."
"Bianca!" exclaimed the princess, "you are either mad, or you are a
wicked girl! For the sake of a disgraceful passion for a man in an
inferior position of life to your own you rebel against those whom God
has placed in authority over you. Yes, it is quite true, my brother
loves you. I have suspected it for some time. And why should he not?
At least, in marrying him you would be marrying a man of your own order,
and not-- But what is the use of discussing the matter? You shall
never marry this young Rossano with my consent--never, never, I tell
you! and without my consent you cannot marry anybody."
Bianca smiled. "Never is a long time," she observed, tranquilly;
"whereas, three years-- You quite understand," she added, after a
pause, "I will marry Silvio Rossano, or I will marry nobody. You have
chosen to refuse his offer, and you have a perfect right to do so. I,
too, shall have my rights some day. But in the mean time you will tell
my uncle that I do not wish for his society any more. I do not want his
love. It--it disgusts me. Besides, he has deceived me."
The princess stared at her in dismay.
"Deceived you?" she repeated.
"He pretended to be my friend," answered Bianca, bitterly, "and, like an
imbecile, I confided in him. Who else was there for me to confide in?
He pretended to know Silvio, and that he would be able by degrees to
remove your objections to our marriage. Well, it was all a lie. At
first I did not understand; but now--" and Bianca gave a shudder which
told, better than any words could have done, all that was passing in her
mind of physical repulsion and disgust.
Princess Montefiano looked, as indeed she felt, sorely perplexed. A
certain sense of justice made her sympathize with the girl. Although
love was to her an unknown and unexplored element in life, she could not
but recollect that when first she had suspected her brother's interest
in Bianca not to be of a purely Platonic nature, the idea had shocked
her as being almost an unnatural one.
At the same time, the Abbe Roux had never ceased to remind her of the
gravity of the position in which Bianca had placed herself, of the
hopeless manner in which her step-daughter would be compromised in the
eyes of the world should it ever be known that she had formed an
attachment for a man in whose company she had been alone and
unprotected. By degrees Princess Montefiano had come to regard her
brother's passion for Bianca as a possible safeguard, not only against
the presumption of the Rossano family, but also against a scandal, for
which she herself would certainly be blamed by the world, as being the
result of a lack of proper supervision on her part towards her
step-daughter. Not once, but many times, had the Abbe Roux descanted
upon the generosity of Baron d'Antin in being ready to shield Bianca
from any troubles which her folly might bring upon her in the future.
Princess Montefiano had not stopped to reason that her brother's
generosity might be exaggerated by the priest, and that he would receive
a good return for it. There were certain things beyond her
comprehension, mentally as well as physically, and passion was one of
those things. People fell in love, of course; but, in Princess
Montefiano's eyes, falling in love was a mere accident, necessary to the
carrying-on of human society. She quite believed that she had loved the
late Principe di Montefiano, and that he had loved her; and, in itself,
this belief was harmless enough. The pity of it was that she was unable
to realize any variations in the human temperament, or to understand
that what had satisfied her, when at the mature age of five-and-thirty
or so she had married a man considerably older than his years, would not
be likely to satisfy Bianca. As to her brother's love for the girl,
after the first impression caused by its discovery had passed, Princess
Montefiano had been only too ready to accept the view of it that the
Abbe Roux had more than once delicately hinted to her--namely, that it
was a love similar to that of Bianca's father for herself--a placid,
protective love, altogether disinterested, and admirable both from a
worldly and a spiritual stand-point.
It is possible that the late Principe di Montefiano's point of view
would have been different. But, fortunately, perhaps, for herself,
Mademoiselle Jeanne d'Antin had not made the acquaintance of her husband
until he had already, like King David and King Solomon, experienced
misgivings of a religious character, and hence the Abbe Roux's
_apologia_ for her brother's state of mind seemed to her to be perfectly
reasonable and satisfactory.
So Bianca's abrupt pause and little shiver of disgust passed unobserved
by the princess. It was evident to her that the girl did not realize
the generosity of Philippe's affection. Bianca was, no doubt,
contrasting him with that insolent young Rossano, and the thought added
to her irritation and displeasure.
"I do not think you understand, Bianca," she began, after hesitating for
a moment or two.
"I assure you that I understand well--perfectly well," returned Bianca,
dryly. "I am not a child any longer: for the matter of that, I do not
recollect ever having been a child, and it is useless to treat me as
though I were one. You may keep me here at Montefiano three years, if
you wish. It will be the same thing in the end. But I will not be made
love to by my uncle."
The princess rose from the table and began to walk rapidly up and down
the room.
"Bianca," she cried, "your language is disgraceful, indelicate!
Besides," she added, weakly, "he is not your uncle. It is absurd, and,
as usual, you are ungrateful. He wished to save you from the
consequences of your conduct. Oh, you need not think that he has said
anything to me of his motives. He is too much of a gentleman to do so.
But he has confided them to Monsieur l'Abbe, and Monsieur l'Abbe has
been profoundly touched. A disinterested affection is not such an easy
thing to find, _figlia mia_," she added, more gently. "Take care that,
in despising it, you do not throw away a great blessing."