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