The other lifted his eyebrows. "_Mah!_" he said. "Who knows?"

It had not suited Monsieur d'Antin's purpose to discuss Monsignor Lelli

any further with the host that evening. He reflected that whatever

Peretti might know about him, the Abbe Roux would know also, and

possibly considerably more. He wondered that the abbe had never

mentioned the fact that the parish priest at Montefiano had once been a

member of the papal court, or alluded to him in any way. It did not

surprise him that Monsignor Lelli should never have presented himself at

the castle, for he quite understood that the Abbe Roux would not allow

any opportunity of poaching over his ground on the part of a brother

cleric. Besides, there was a chapel in the castle, and mass, and the

Abbe Roux said the mass; at which latter thought Monsieur d'Antin

smiled, as if it afforded him some amusement.

And so he returned, the next day but one, to Montefiano, resolved to

lose no time in acquainting the Abbe Roux with the news that he had seen

Monsignor Lelli dining at a Roman restaurant in the company of the

Rossano family, and apparently on terms of intimate friendship both with

the Senator Rossano and with his son. There could be no kind of doubt

that this intimacy, so providentially discovered, might seriously

compromise the ultimate success of the scheme which had been so

carefully devised for compelling Bianca to give up all thoughts of young

Rossano, and accept what was offered to her in the place of his

presumptuous attachment. Nothing but a separation from her lover, which

should be complete in every detail, could accomplish this object; and if

Silvio Rossano had a friend at Montefiano, and that friend the

_parroco_, there could be no saying what means might not be resorted to

for the purpose of establishing the very communications between him and

Bianca which it was so imperative to render absolutely impracticable.

It was nearly mid-day before Monsieur d'Antin, who had taken the early

morning train from Rome to Attigliano, arrived at Montefiano, and he had

barely time to wash, and change his dusty clothes, before joining his

sister at breakfast. A glance at the princess's face showed him that

something had certainly occurred during his absence to upset her. The

Abbe Roux, who was also at the table, looked both preoccupied and cross.

Only Bianca appeared serene, and, to Monsieur d'Antin's surprise,

altogether contented. There was a light in her eyes and an expression

of scarcely suppressed happiness on her face that he never remembered to

have seen there, certainly not since he had been at Montefiano. It

reminded him of the look she had worn on the afternoon of his visit to

the Villa Acorari, when he had found her alone in the Marble Hall, fresh

from her stolen interview with her lover.

Expression and demeanor changed, however, as Monsieur d'Antin greeted

Bianca with an airy compliment on her appearance. His salutation was

scarcely replied to, and every subsequent attempt to draw her into

conversation failed ignominiously. The meal was decidedly not a

cheerful one, and it had scarcely concluded when Bianca got up from her

chair, and, making a slight courtesy to her step-mother, left the room

without a word. The Abbe Roux lifted his eyes to the ceiling with a

sigh, and the princess looked pained and uncomfortable. The

men-servants were already bringing in the coffee, and Monsieur d'Antin

was constrained to wait until they had served and retired before seeking

for an explanation of the state of the social atmosphere in which he

found himself.

The princess drank a few mouthfuls of her coffee, and left the table

almost as soon as the door had closed upon the servants.

"If you will excuse me, Philippe," she said to her brother, "I am going

to my room. I am nervous--unwell. That unhappy child--" Her voice

trembled, and it was evident that Princess Montefiano was very near to

tears. "Monsieur l'Abbe will explain to you," she continued; "he is

entirely in my confidence. You can talk together over your cigars, and

we will meet afterwards, when I am calmer."

She left the room hastily, and Monsieur d'Antin looked across the table

to the abbe.

"_Que diable!_" he exclaimed. "Might one ask what has happened?"

The Abbe Roux cleared his throat. "Let us go into the next room," he

said. "We can talk quietly there without being overheard by the

servants"--and he led the way into the apartment specially devoted to

his use.

"Ah, my dear monsieur," he said, as soon as they had shut the double

doors behind them, "it is not to be wondered at if Madame la Princesse

is upset! Since you have been away, Donna Bianca has made a scene--a

veritable scene, you understand. It appears that she has asserted her

fixed determination to marry this impossible young man, and has

announced that she will wait till she is her own mistress, if--"

"If what?" asked Monsieur d'Antin, as he paused.

"_Parbleu_! If her lover does not choose that she should marry him

before--the religious marriage, of course."

Monsieur d'Antin lit a cigarette.

"A girl's enthusiasm," he observed. "It will pass."

The abbe glanced at him. "I think not," he replied. "I have known

Donna Bianca since she was a child. When she has made up her mind to do

or not to do a thing, it is not easy to make her alter it. She is

undisciplined--completely undisciplined," he added, almost angrily.

"No doubt. It is all the more reason that she should learn what

discipline means. She will make a better wife for knowing it," and

Monsieur d'Antin chuckled softly.

"Ah, as to that, monsieur, there can be, I suppose, no question. But

what I have already told you is not all. The princess, perhaps, would

not have taken Donna Bianca's refusal to submit her will to the

direction of those who are her lawful guardians so deeply to heart, if

that had been all. She would have trusted to time and--and to Donna

Bianca's conscience, to make her step-daughter see reason and realize

that obedience is the first of all duties."

Monsieur d'Antin fidgeted uneasily in his chair. "I think, Monsieur

l'Abbe," he said, dryly, "that you and I can afford to dispense with

moralities, can we not?"

The abbe looked angry for an instant. Then he smiled. "Perhaps," he

replied. "After all, we have to regard Donna Bianca's position from a

business point of view."

"Precisely, my dear friend, from a business point of view. Let us

confine it to that, if you please. Let us assume, for example, that you

are--a layman. It will simplify matters very much."

The abbe looked at him suspiciously, and his black eyebrows contracted

disagreeably. He was never quite sure whether he were managing Monsieur

d'Antin or whether Monsieur d'Antin were managing him.

"It would appear," he observed, presently, "from what Donna Bianca has

said to Madame la Princesse, that you have introduced--what shall I

say!--a little too much sentiment into your business point of view."

Monsieur d'Antin smiled complacently.

"What would you have, my dear abbe?" he replied. "You know my little

secret. If I remember rightly, I confessed to you, and you gave me

absolution--is it not so? Yes. I admit that I have perhaps been a

little indiscreet, a little premature. But one cannot always control

one's feelings. The _soutane_ is one thing, and the pantalons are

another. You must make allowance for those who do not wear the

_soutane_."

"The question is," said the Abbe Roux, a little irritably, "that Donna

Bianca will have none of it."

"None of which, my dear friend?" asked Monsieur d'Antin, imperturbably.

"Of the _soutane_, or--"

The abbe laughed in spite of himself. "You have frightened her," he

said. "She understands; and she has told the princess--oh, told her

very plainly! It was a mistake. You should have waited--a month--six

months. Moreover, she has found out that it was you who saw her and

young Rossano together at the Villa Acorari; and now she feels that you

have deceived her throughout the whole business. She will never forgive

that. It would have been better to have told her that it was through

you the affair became known, that you had felt bound to warn Madame la

Princesse of what you believed to be a great peril threatening her

step-daughter. Now, Donna Bianca has said that even if she is kept here

for three years it will make no difference; that she will not be made

love to by you; and that you are a liar and a coward."

Monsieur d'Antin started up from his chair.

"Monsieur l'Abbe!" he exclaimed, furiously.

"Oh, I am quoting Donna Bianca's words. You cannot be surprised that

madame your sister should be upset. It is now three days ago--that

little scene--and the girl has scarcely spoken a word to the princess

since. She is hard--hard as a piece of stone when she chooses to be so.

Now, I ask you, what is to be done? She will wait three years, six

years, if necessary, or she will find some means of running away with

her lover--who knows? But she will never allow you to approach her,

Monsieur le Baron; of that I am convinced."

Monsieur d'Antin swore, softly. "She must give way!" he exclaimed. "It

is a mere question of time. The girl has a spirit, that I do not deny,

but it can be broken. Bah! it is not worth while _de se faire de la

bile_ about a girl's sentimental passion for a good-looking young man

who has once kissed her, and whom she will never see again. We have only

to remain firm, and all will turn out as we propose. It will take time,

perhaps, but from a business point of view--always from a business point

of view, my dear Monsieur l'Abbe--time is exactly what we wish to gain,

is it not? I admit that, from the other point of view--mine, you

understand--delay is not so satisfactory."

The abbe looked up quickly. "Ah, certainly," he said, eagerly, "you are

perfectly right; to gain time is everything! And if Donna Bianca does

not mind waiting for her lover, well, from a business point of view,

delay will be very advantageous."

Monsieur d'Antin lit another cigarette.

"To you," he said, quietly. "To you, dear Monsieur l'Abbe; but, as I

said before, to me not quite so much so. There is my part of the bargain

to be considered, is there not? And if I am not to marry Donna Bianca

Acorari, I confess that I do not particularly care whether she marries

young Rossano or goes into a convent. All the same, I do not imagine

that she will go into a convent."

Monsieur d'Antin paused, and looked steadily at his companion. His

voice and manner were suaveness itself; nevertheless, the abbe was

conscious that his words implied something very like a threat.

"Of course," he replied, "there is your part of the question to be

considered. I do not forget it. But what you want is not so easy to

obtain. I fear that Donna Bianca, even were she finally to renounce all

hopes of Rossano, would never be induced to listen to your proposal to

take his place. Besides, I very much doubt if Madame la Princesse would

go so far as to attempt to force upon her step-daughter an alliance

apparently so distasteful to her. No, Monsieur le Baron, I speak

frankly. Donna Bianca's sudden assertion of the course she intends to

adopt has materially altered the situation. Who has any influence over

her? Certainly not the princess, certainly not myself, to whom she

never addresses a word if she can avoid doing so. The only person who,

until recently, seemed to have gained her confidence, was yourself.

What has caused her to declare, as she has declared, that she will not

allow you to approach her, you must know better than I. In the mean

time, the field is as clear to you as it was before, and we will hope

that this little outburst on the part of Donna Bianca may not be of much

importance. At least, you must admit that I have done my best to

further your object. You owe it entirely to me if the princess, against

her own inclinations, was persuaded to countenance that object."

"But, my dear Monsieur l'Abbe," returned Monsieur d'Antin, airily, "I

fully realize the efforts you have made on my behalf. Why not? As to

Donna Bianca having taken me _en grippe_, well, I assure you that I

rather enjoy it. I like a woman to show some fight. I shall do my best

to remove the bad impression I have made. Apparently, she enjoys it

also. I never saw her look so animated as she did to-day. The little

scene with my sister, that you tell me of, must have acted as a

tonic--and no doubt she will be the better for it, and more amenable to

reason. Do not let us talk any more about it for the present. Apropos,

how do your little matters of business progress? I think you told me

before I left that my sister had some trouble with the agent here, and

that you had advised her to dismiss him?"

The abbe frowned. "Yes," he said, curtly, "the man is dismissed, and I

have another _fattore_ ready to take his place. But there is some

little difficulty. It appears that the people are angry at his

dismissal. I am told it has created great ill-feeling in Montefiano.

There is a meddlesome _parroco_ here--"

"_Diable!_" exclaimed Monsieur d'Antin; "I had quite forgotten about

him."

"What? You know him?"

"No, my dear friend, no. But I happened to see him two or three

evenings ago in Rome, and in whose company do you suppose he was? You

will never guess. Well, he was dining at a restaurant with Professor

Rossano and his son and daughter."

The Abbe Roux gave an exclamation of surprise.

"_Lelli_! Dining with the Rossanos? Are you sure that it was he?"

"Absolutely sure. I was dining with Peretti--you know whom I mean?--and

Peretti knew Monsignor Lelli perfectly well. He left the restaurant

very soon after he saw us."

"Lelli!" repeated the Abbe Roux, with a scowl. "Yes, he is the priest

at Montefiano. Peretti will have told you his story. He fell into

disgrace at the Vatican--in fact, he embezzled money, and rather than

have a public scandal, he was sent here to get him out of the way. What

was he doing with the Rossanos?"

"Eating his dinner," replied Monsieur d'Antin, tranquilly; "at least, if

you call such a thing a dinner. _Ciel!_ what filth one eats in a Roman

restaurant, even in the best of them. Oh, la, la! Yes, your _parroco_

was dining with the Rossano family. It would appear that he is an

intimate friend."

"No doubt," observed the abbe, with a sneer. "Lelli was always hand and

glove with all the _canaille_ in Rome of the literary and scientific

world. He is simply a free-thinker--nothing more nor less. It does not

at all surprise me that he should be a friend of Professor Rossano."

"But it is a little unfortunate that a friend of the Rossanos should be

cure at Montefiano, is it not?" asked Monsieur d'Antin.

The abbe started. "Assuredly," he said. "You are right. It is a

danger. For the moment I did not think of it. Yes, it might be a grave

danger. Moreover, the man is mischievous. He is always siding with the

peasants. Only yesterday I heard that he had declared Fontana's--the

agent's--dismissal to be an injustice. We do not want men of that sort.

They spoil the people and make them discontented."

"It is clear that he is very intimate with Professor Rossano and his

son," returned Monsieur d'Antin, "and in his position here at Montefiano

as parish priest, what is to prevent him from inducing one of the people

about to deliver some letter or some message to Donna Bianca? And once

she realizes that she can receive communications from the outside world,

all our precautions will be useless. The knowledge that she could do so

would make her more obstinate than ever in her determination not to give

up young Rossano."

The abbe frowned. "Leave it to me, monsieur," he replied. "Lelli will

not succeed in entering the castle of Montefiano, however much he may be

the village priest. I put a stop to any idea of the kind long ago.

Indeed, it was necessary to warn the princess against him. She had

never heard his history, and I discovered--oh, two or three years

ago--that he was getting money out of her for the poor; and, moreover,

that he was always urging Fontana to appeal for a reduction in the

rents. Of course, directly the princess realized that he had been sent

to Montefiano in disgrace, and heard all the scandal concerning his

removal from the Vatican, she ceased to allow him to interfere between

the people and the administration of the estates. No, I do not think we

need fear Monsignor Lelli."

"At least it will do no harm to be on our guard," insisted Monsieur

d'Antin.

"Oh, as to that, of course! Moreover, should there be any cause to

suspect that he was helping young Rossano, it would not be difficult to

obtain his removal. There are many hill villages which are even more

isolated than Montefiano--in the Abruzzi, for instance. And I do not

imagine that the Holy Father cares where Lelli is, so long as he is

safely out of the way until it pleases Providence to remove him

altogether." And the Abbe Roux laughed harshly.

Monsieur d'Antin yawned. "I shall go to my room," he said, throwing

away his cigarette and rising from his chair. "Travelling on one of

these horrible Italian railways is bad enough at any time, with the dirt

and the unpunctuality, but in hot weather it is doubly fatiguing. Then

it appears to me, my dear friend," he added, "that notwithstanding Donna

Bianca's charming display of petulancy, we remain as before. A little

stricter discipline, perhaps--a little more precaution against any

possible interference on the part of this _monsignore_, is it not so?"

"Precisely, monsieur--and patience, always patience!"

"Ah!" observed Monsieur d'Antin. "It is an admirable quality--but the

exercising of it is apt to become monotonous."

*XXV*

The evening before Monsieur d'Antin's return to Montefiano from Rome,

Bianca Acorari had dined alone. The princess had been invisible most of

the day. Although she appeared at breakfast, she had retired to her

room later on in the afternoon, a victim to a violent nervous headache,

the result, as Bianca was only too well aware, of the agitation she had

been in ever since the scene on the previous day. The Abbe Roux had

announced at breakfast that he should be away until late that evening,

having, as he explained, to go to Orvieto to visit a friend who lived

near that city. As Bianca sat alone at dinner, she felt grateful to the

abbe for having had the tact to absent himself. She did not feel

inclined for a _tete-a-tete_ meal with anybody, and certainly not with

the Abbe Roux.

To say the truth, her step-mother's evident distress had made Bianca

almost regret that she had allowed herself to speak so plainly as she

had done the day before. Resolute and strong-willed as she could be

when she chose, her nature was both sensitive and warm-hearted; and

although she would not have retracted one word that she had said, or

retreated one inch from the attitude she had taken up, she felt sorry

and disturbed in her mind at the pain she had evidently occasioned the

princess. After all, it was not unnatural that her step-mother should

consider it to be her duty to impede by every means in her power a

marriage of which she disapproved. It was not unnatural, either, that

she should disapprove. Bianca, whose sense of justice was unusually

strong, would have scorned to be unjust to any individual simply because

she happened not to be in agreement with that individual. She was quite

aware, too, that her conduct had been certainly not in accordance with

that which was considered fitting to a young girl in any position. She

should, of course, have refused to allow Silvio to speak a word of love

to her until he should first have gained the consent of her step-mother.

No doubt she had been wrong--immodest, perhaps, as her step-mother had

said--but all the same, she was glad she had not repulsed Silvio that

day in the ilex grove. Glad, did she say? But that was an untruth. She

had never thought of repulsing him, could not have done so, for she

wanted love. She had wanted it for so long, and she had understood that

Silvio had it to give her. And she wanted somebody whom she could love,

not merely some one towards whom she was perpetually being told she

should be dutiful. No, it was absurd to say she was glad she had

listened to him, and had let him tell her his love in his own way. It

was worse than absurd--it was a lie told to herself. Ever since that

Christmas night when she had seen him in the church of the Sudario, she

had understood that she loved, and that he loved her. And she had never

thought of repulsing him. She had thought only of the moment when she

should hear him tell her of his love; when she should feel his arms

around her and his lips on hers; when she could show him that she, too,

knew what love was.

From which reflections it was evident that Monsieur d'Antin had been

right in his diagnosis of Bianca Acorari's temperament, and in coming to

the conclusion that his sister and the Abbe Roux would be preparing for

themselves a disillusion if they continued to regard her as little more

than a child.

Bianca retired to her room early that night. It was certainly not

cheerful to sit alone in the drawing-room after dinner, trying to read a

book by the light of one or two old-fashioned moderator lamps, which

only served to cast gloomy shadows into the corners of the vast

apartment. The princess had caused a pianoforte to be sent from Rome;

for the Erard which stood at one end of the drawing-room was reduced by

age and damp to a compass of some two octaves of notes which, when

played upon, produced sounds that were strange but scarcely musical;

while the upper and lower octaves of the key-board had ceased to produce

any sound whatever, save a spasmodic, metallic tapping as the hammer

struck the broken wires. Bianca used to touch the instrument sometimes,

and wonder whether it had belonged to her mother, and if her hands had

pressed the yellow keys. She knew that her mother had passed the last

year or two of her life at Montefiano, and that she herself had first

seen the light there.

But to-night she was not in the humor for either reading or playing the

piano. She felt weary, mentally and bodily; for, after the excitement

of the discussion the previous day with her step-mother, reaction had

set in. She was depressed, and, a thing very unusual to her, nervous.

An almost intolerable sensation of loneliness haunted her. It seemed

strange to think that a few hundred metres away, down in the _paese_,

people were talking and laughing and living their lives. She was not

living hers; life was going on all around her, but she had no part or

share in it. Ah, if only she could hear something from Silvio!--hear of

him, even--she would not feel quite so lonely. She would feel sure

then, though they were separated, though probably they would be divided

for months and years to come, that they were together in their thoughts;

that he was faithful and true to her, as she was struggling with all her

force to be faithful and true to the promise she had made him there,

under the ilex-trees at the Villa Acorari.

Passing quietly through her step-mother's apartment, lest she should be

perhaps already asleep, Bianca was about to enter her own room, when the

princess called to her.

"Come here, _figlia mia_," she said, gently, "I am not asleep."

Bianca approached the bed and remained standing by it. Princess

Montefiano took her hand and held it in hers for a moment.

"You think me very cruel, do you not, Bianca?" she said; "like the cruel

step-mothers in the fairy-tales," she added, with a little attempt at a

laugh. "Well, some day you will understand that if I am unkind, it is

for your good. But there is something else I want to say to you. I do

not intend to discuss the other matter--the Rossano matter. I shall

never change my opinion on that point--never! And so long as you are

under my authority, so long shall I absolutely forbid any question of a

marriage between you and a son of Professor Rossano, and communication

of any sort to pass between you. What I wish to say to you is this.

Because I will not consent to your marriage with this young Rossano, you

must not think that I wish to influence you or compel you to listen to

my brother. That would not be my idea of what is my duty towards you as

my husband's child, for whose happiness I am responsible, both before

God and before the world. You must understand that you are free,

Bianca, absolutely free to do as you choose as regards accepting or not

the affection my brother offers you. It may be, perhaps, that when you

are in a more reasonable frame of mind, and have realized that under no

circumstances would you be allowed to marry out of your own sphere in

life--and certainly not the son of an infidel professor, who, no doubt,

shares his father's abominable principles and ideas--you will hesitate

before throwing away my brother's love."

Bianca shook her head. "It is useless to think of that," she said, "and

it is useless to tell me that under no circumstances shall I marry

Silvio Rossano. Unless one of us dies, I shall marry him. I have

nothing more to say than what I said yesterday, and nothing to unsay.

You ask me if I think you unkind. No; I do not think that."

"Surely," exclaimed the princesse, almost wistfully--"surely you can

understand that in all this miserable business I am only doing what my

conscience tells me to be my duty towards you!"

Bianca withdrew her hand. "Yes," she said; "I quite understand. I have

always understood." Then, wishing her step-mother good-night, she bent

down and kissed her, and passed into her own room, gently closing both

of the double set of doors which separated the two apartments.

She had not been in bed long before sleep came to her, for she was, in

fact, more weary in body and mind than she had realized. For four or

five hours she slept soundly enough, but after that her slumbers became

disturbed by dreams. She dreamed that Silvio was near her, that she

could see him but could not speak to him, and that he had some message

for her, some letter which the Abbe Roux was trying to take from him.

In her sleep she seemed to hear strange noises and her own name called

softly at intervals. Suddenly she awoke with a start. A gleam of

moonlight was shining through the window-curtains and half-closed

_persiennes_. It made a broad track across the floor to the wall

opposite her bed, and fell on the face of a picture hanging near the

corner of the room--a portrait of that very Cardinal Acorari who had

caused the Renaissance palace to be added to the Montefiano fortress, in

order that he might have a villa in the Sabine Mountains in which to

pass the hot summer months away from Rome. The moonlight glanced upon

his scarlet robes and skull-cap and on his heavy countenance. Time had

caused the flesh colors to fade, and the full mouth, with the sensual

lips, looked unnaturally red against the waxy whiteness of the rest of

the face.

Bianca lay and looked at the streak of moonlight on the floor.

Presently her gaze followed the track until it rested on the picture.

For some moments she looked at the portrait with a certain fascination.

She had never seen it in the moonlight before; it looked ghostly. She

had once seen a cardinal lying in state when she was a child, and the

sight had frightened her. She was not at all frightened now, for she

was no longer a child; but all the same, she could not take her eyes off

the picture. She found herself wondering what relation she was to that

old Cardinal Acorari--great-great-what? Granddaughter would not do, for

cardinals, of course, never had children; certainly not

cardinal-priests; and Cardinal Acorari had been bishop of Ostia and

cardinal vicar of Rome.

Suddenly she sat up in her bed. Surely she had seen the face move?

Yes; it had certainly moved; it was quite ten centimetres more to the

right of the moonlight than it had been a moment ago. Now half the

features were in shadow, and the cardinal's _biretta_ was half red and

half black. _Sciocchezze_! Of course, it was the moon that had moved,

not the picture; or, rather, she supposed it was the earth that had

moved, or the sun! Something had moved, at any rate, but not the

cardinal. And smiling at her own stupidity, Bianca withdrew her gaze

from the picture, and, turning on her side, tried to compose herself to

sleep once more. But it soon became evident that sleep would not return

to her. She felt restless, and the night, too, was hot. Rising from her

bed, she threw a light wrap over her shoulders and went to one of the

windows, the curtains of which she drew gently aside; and then, taking

care not to make any noise that could be heard in the room beyond, she

opened the green _persiennes_ outside the window and leaned out. Not a

breath of air was stirring, and the September night was oppressively

warm. A silvery haze hung over the _macchia_ below the terrace, and far

away, under the encircling mountains, Bianca could see the wreaths of

mist rising in the valley of the Tiber. The two flanking wings of the

palace stood out cold and white in the moonlight, while the double

avenue of lofty cypresses on each side of the great night of stone steps

leading down from the terrace into the park looked black and sombre in

the nearer foreground.

The splashing of a fountain in the centre of the avenue, and the

occasional cry of some bird, alone broke the intense stillness. Bianca

rested her arms on the ledge of the window, gazing out upon the scene

below her. The moonlight fell full upon her and glanced upon the tawny

gold of her hair. For some moments she remained immovable. Then, with

a gesture of passionate abandonment, she flung her white arms out into

the silver night. "Silvio!" she whispered; "Silvio, not one word? Ah,

my beloved, if you knew how I want you, if you knew the loneliness! Ah,

but I will be patient, I will be brave, for your sake and for my

own--only--_Dio!_--" She turned suddenly with a little cry. Surely she

had heard her own name again, spoken very softly from somewhere within

the room behind her. She looked hastily round, but could see nobody.

Only her own shadow fell across the floor in the moonlight.

"_Eccellenza_! Donna Bianca!"

Ah, this time she was not mistaken! It was her name she had heard

whispered, and the voice came from the cardinal's portrait. Bianca

started back. For a second or two she felt fear. If she could only see

the person who had called her, she would not be frightened, she was

certain of that. Gathering her wrap round her she came forward into the

room.

"I am Bianca Acorari," she said, in a low, clear voice. "What do you

want with me, and how have you ventured to come here? Speak, or I will

call for help."

"Ah, _per carita_! do not call--do not be afraid."

"I am not afraid," interrupted Bianca Acorari, quietly. "Why should I be

afraid? Besides, it--you are a woman, are you not?"

"_Eccellenza_--yes! It is I, Concetta Fontana, and I bring a message--a

letter. Ah, but I have been waiting for an hour before I dared speak.

I called you, but you were sleeping, and then, when I saw you at the

window, I was frightened--"

The white face of Cardinal Acorari disappeared noiselessly into the

wall, and Concetta's form occupied its place. She carried in her hand a

small oil-lamp; and, balancing herself for an instant, she dropped

lightly down the three or four feet from where the picture had hung, to

the floor.

Bianca rushed towards her. "Concetta!" she exclaimed. Then she tottered

a little, and, dropping into a chair, began to sob convulsively.

In a moment Concetta was by her side and had thrown her arms round her.

"For the love of God, _eccellenza_, do not cry!" she exclaimed. "Do not

make a sound--the princess--she might hear. Yes, it is

Concetta--Concetta who has brought you this--who will do anything for

you," and she thrust Silvio's packet into Bianca's hand.

Bianca looked at it for a moment as if she scarcely understood her.

Then she tore it open eagerly. A smaller packet fell from it to the

floor, but Bianca let it lie there. Her eyes had caught sight of the

letter in which it was enclosed, and she wanted that and nothing else.

Hurriedly unfolding it, she darted to the window again and held the

closely written sheets to the moonlight. "Ah, Silvio!" she exclaimed,

"I knew, I knew!"

Concetta, practically, lighted a candle, and waited in silence while

Bianca devoured the contents of her lover's letter. Every now and then

she cast anxious glances towards the princess's apartment. Then, when

Bianca had finished feverishly reading through the letter for the first

time and was about to begin it again, she stooped, and picking up the

packet from the floor, gave it to her.

Bianca undid the paper, and, opening the little box inside, took out the

ring.

"Ah, look!" she said. "Look what he sends me--his mother's ring! Look

how the diamonds sparkle in the moonlight, Concetta--and the

sapphire--how blue the sapphire is! Blue, like--"

She stopped suddenly, and a hot wave of color mounted to her face.

Replacing the ring in its case, she thrust it and the letter into her

bosom.

Then she turned to Concetta quickly.

"How did you come here, and why should you do this thing for me?" she

asked, almost fiercely. "Are you sent to lay a trap for me? Speak!"

Concetta Fontana flung herself upon her knees, and taking Bianca's hand,

covered it with kisses. "No, no," she exclaimed. "I have come because

my father sent me--my father and Don Agostino--because you are the

_padrona_--not--not that other one--the foreigner. _Eccellenza_, you

have no right to mistrust me. I swear to God that there is no deceit,

no trap. Nobody knows of the secret passage--only my father and I. My

father could not come here--in the dead of night--so I came."

"The secret passage!" repeated Bianca, wonderingly.

Concetta pointed to the hole in the wall where the cardinal's portrait

had been. "It is there," she said, "and it runs the whole length of the

_piano nobile_ and down into the entrance-court. See!" Going to the

aperture, she pressed a spring concealed in the groove, and slowly,

noiselessly, the picture of Cardinal Acorari glided back into its

original position.

"I can come and go when I please," said Concetta, with a smile, "so the

_principessina_ is no longer a prisoner who cannot communicate with the

world outside. Oh, and there are those outside who mean to help

her--Don Agostino, and my father, and others besides. We will not have

our _padrona_ shut up in the castle of Montefiano to please a foreign

priest. _Sicuro!_ very soon--in a few days perhaps--the _principessina_

will understand that she is at Montefiano--among her own people."

Bianca scarcely heard Concetta Fontana's latter words.

"Who is Don Agostino?" she asked, suddenly. "Silvio--this letter--says

that the packet will be brought or conveyed to me by Monsignor Lelli."

"Don Agostino--Lelli--it is all one," replied Concetta. "He is our

_parroco_, _eccellenza_; and he is good, oh, he is good! If all priests

were like Don Agostino--_mah_!"

Bianca took out her letter again. As yet she could hardly realize her

happiness. A few minutes ago she had felt utterly alone, almost without

hope, save the hope that her own courage and her trust in Silvio gave

her. Now the world seemed different. She had got her message from that

great world outside, which until just now had seemed so far away from

her own--that world where life and love were waiting for her.

Suddenly she turned to Concetta and took both the girl's hands in hers.

"Forgive me," she said, softly; "I was wrong to doubt you, but I think I

have begun to suspect everybody lately. When one has once been

deceived, it is not easy to trust again."

Concetta's eyes flashed. "Who has dared to deceive you, _signorina_?"

she asked, hastily. "Not--" she pointed to the letter Bianca was still

holding against her heart.

Bianca smiled. "No, Concetta; ah, no, not he! How could he deceive me?

I was thinking of somebody else--somebody here at Montefiano. But it

does not matter. I do not care at all now. Indeed, I do not think that

I shall care about anything again. Ah, Concetta, some day you will know

that I am grateful for what you have done to-night. I shall not forget.

I shall ask you what I can do for you in return, when I am really

Principessina di Montefiano."

Concetta looked at her quickly. "It will not be difficult to repay me,"

she said; "but I don't want repayment, _eccellenza_; it is not for

repayment I mention it. But, some day, if you will remember that my

father has been dismissed from your service because he would not consent

to an injustice being done in your name to the people, that will be

repayment enough."

Bianca started. "Of course!" she exclaimed. "I recollect. Your father

has been dismissed from his post, has he not? Well, when I have power

to recall him, he shall be recalled. It is enough for me to know that

he has been dismissed by Monsieur l'Abbe Roux to suspect that he has

been unjustly treated. But what do you mean by injustice to the people

done in my name, Concetta? I do not understand."

Concetta hesitated. "You will understand very soon, perhaps," she

replied, mysteriously. "But do not be alarmed, _eccellenza_, it is not

you with whom the people are angry. They know you cannot help what is

being done, although it may be done in your name. _Basta!_ if you have

no further orders for me, I will go. It is nearly morning, and I have

been here too long. If the princess were to awake and think of coming

into your room--"

"She never comes into my room after I have wished her good-night," said

Bianca, "and you must not go yet, Concetta--at least, not before I have

given you a letter which you will take back to Monsignor Lelli--Don

Agostino--for me. You will do that, will you not?"

"_Altro_! But, _eccellenza_, do not be long writing your letter. If I

were to be found here--well--" and Concetta shrugged her shoulders

significantly.

Bianca suddenly looked round the room in despair. "_Madonna mia!_" she

exclaimed, "I have nothing to write with--no ink or paper--only a little

pencil."

"The pencil must serve for this time, _signorina_," said Concetta.

"To-morrow you can bring some writing-materials here and hide them in

the passage outside, for I will show you how to work the spring.

Anything you place in the passage is as if Domeneddio had it in his own

pocket. But for to-night write a few words on the blank half-sheet of

that letter you have, and early to-morrow morning I will give it myself

to Don Agostino."

Bianca looked at her doubtfully. She was loath to part with even a

scrap of paper that had come from Silvio. But time pressed, and if she

did not return an immediate reply to his missive, Silvio would think it

had been intercepted. She sat down and wrote a few lines hurriedly,

and, folding up her half-sheet of paper, confided it to Concetta's

keeping.

"You will tell Don Agostino that I shall send another letter to-morrow

by you," she said, "and you will thank him for all he is doing,

Concetta, from me. And tell him also that I shall write to him myself,

because--"

She hesitated for a moment, then, drawing herself up, she looked

Concetta full in the face. "Because my future husband wishes me to do

so," she concluded, quietly.

Concetta Fontana took her hand, and, raising it to her lips, kissed it.

"I will go to Don Agostino at seven o'clock this morning, before he says

his mass, and I will give him the letter. Ah, _signorina_, if the

Signorino Rossano is Don Agostino's friend, it is proof enough that,

speaking with respect, you have chosen your husband wisely. _Sicuro_!

Don Agostino is a good man. There are many at Montefiano who distrust

the priests; but there is nobody who does not trust Don Agostino. It is

I, Concetta, who say it to you--and I know. But look, _signorina_, the

dawn will soon be here. Let me go now--for who knows that her

excellency might not awake. You will not be frightened if you see the

picture move again? It will only be Concetta looking into the room to

make sure that you are alone."

Bianca turned to her quickly. "Ah, Concetta," she exclaimed, "I am so

happy--you do not know how happy! And I shall not forget what you have

done for me--you will see that I shall not forget. Yes--go--go! I am

not alone any longer now."

Concetta lifted up a chair and placed it under the picture. Then,

standing upon it, she pressed the spring concealed behind the heavy,

carved frame, and slowly, noiselessly, the portrait of Cardinal Acorari

slid back into the wall. Another moment, and Concetta was standing in

the aperture where the painted panel had been. "Sleep well now,

_signorina_," she whispered to Bianca, "and do not be afraid. There are

those watching that no harm shall come to you at Montefiano."

She drew back into the passage as she spoke, pressing the corresponding

spring on the other side of the wall as she did so; and once more the

cardinal looked down on Bianca from the spot where Concetta had been

standing but an instant before.

Bianca gazed at the picture for a few moments, and listened for any

faint echo of Concetta's footsteps. Not the slightest sound was audible

from the passage. Only the twittering of waking birds came through the

open window; and Bianca, turning away, went again to it and leaned out.

A faint breeze was stirring the trees in the macchia below the terrace,

and the drooping tops of the cypresses were swaying softly. The moon

was sinking behind the lofty ridges of Soracte, and away in the east the

violet sky of night was already streaked with the first pale messengers

heralding the coming of the dawn.

And Bianca leaned from the window and watched till the pearly whiteness

in the eastern sky deepened into rose red; till the wreaths of mist

floating away from the valley of the Tiber rose, and, clinging to the

mountain-sides, glided slowly upward till they caught the first golden

rays of the yet hidden sun.

From the woodland below came the distant notes of a reed-pipe, and then

a boy's voice singing one of the strange minor cadences learned,

probably, centuries ago of slaves from the East, and sung still by the

peasants and shepherds of the Latin province. In the present instance,

Bianca knew that the lad was no shepherd--for the sheep had not yet been

brought down from the higher pastures--but that he was engaged in the

less poetical occupation of tending pigs.

As she watched, a wave of golden light seemed to spread over the face of

the landscape below her, and the sun rose. And Bianca Acorari flung out

her arms once more; this time not in doubt and almost in despair, but in

a passion of joy, thankfulness, and love.

*XXVI*

The Caffe Garibaldi, which was situated in the main street of

Montefiano--a street that bore, as a matter of course, the name of Corso

Vittorio Emanuele--was doing an unusually brisk business. At each

little marble-topped table a group of excited men was sitting, each

member of which was talking at the top of his voice. Nobody was

listening to his neighbor; but then, as all the world knows, there are

occasions when no Italian ever does listen to his neighbor during a

discussion; the whole aim and object of each speaker being to talk the

other down. A considerable amount of wine was being drunk, and some of

it was new wine, the process of fermentation being scarcely over. No

doubt this fact accounted for much of the heat with which the sole topic

of conversation in the Caffe Garibaldi that evening was being discussed.

There was an argument, indeed, and, taking into consideration the number

of half-litres consumed and the quality of at any rate a large

proportion of the wine, it was perhaps as well that everybody was of the

same opinion, though each strove to express that opinion more forcibly

than his companion. A difference on the main issue in question would

have certainly led to quarrels, and quarrels would as likely as not have

resulted in the flow of other liquid than Stefano Mazza's red wine at

eight _soldi_ the litre.

In a room at the back of the _caffe_--a room wherein was to be found the

solitary billiard-table in Montefiano, and where the choicer and more

exclusive elements of Montefianese society were wont to gather--the

conversation was as animated and scarcely less noisy than in the portion

communicating directly with the street bearing the name of the Re

Galantuomo.

Stefano Mazza, the host, was himself attending to the wants of his

clients in this more select part of his premises; and Stefano Mazza was

a person of considerable weight in Montefiano, not only bodily but, what

was far more important, socially. The _sindaco_ of Montefiano himself,

with all the importance of bureaucracy at his back, was not so

influential a man as Stefano Mazza; for Mazza, so to speak, held the

_sindaco_ in the hollow of his hand, as he did a very considerable

proportion of the _sindaco's_ municipal councillors and of the

inhabitants of Montefiano generally. There were few, very few of the

Montefianesi, from officials to peasants, whose signatures to certain

pieces of paper bearing the government stamp and setting forth that the

signatories were in his debt to amounts ranging from thousands to tens

of _lire_, Stefano did not possess. He was, in short, the money-lender,

not only to Montefiano, but to a considerable portion of the

agricultural district surrounding it, and, as such, his opinion on most

questions was listened to with unfailing respect by all members of the

community.

On the whole, _strozzino_ though he was, Stefano was neither an unjust

nor a hard man. To be sure, he charged a six-per-cent. interest for the

money he loaned; but he was content with getting this interest and never

departed from his conditions. He had been known to wait for his money,

too, when, owing to bad seasons, some of his poorer clients were unable

to pay their interest at the proper dates. The consequence was that Sor

Stefano was regarded by his neighbors of all degrees as a personage with

whom it was to their advantage to stand well; the more so as even the

most prosperous among them could never tell when they might not want to

borrow his money, or renew a bill for money already advanced by him.

A sudden hail-storm which would devastate the crops or the vineyards in

the space of a few minutes; an unfortunate season with the lambs or the

pigs; a failure with the maize or the grain--and it was as likely as not

that Sor Stefano's assistance would have to be sought in order to tide

over the winter months; and often, too, in order to have the rent ready

for Sor Beppe, the _fattore_, when he should come to collect it.

It was certain, therefore, that nobody, not excepting Sor Beppe himself,

was so thoroughly acquainted with the financial conditions of the

tenants on the Montefiano estates as Stefano Mazza, the proprietor of

the Caffe Garibaldi. Moreover, Sor Stefano and Sor Beppe were good and

intimate friends, as their fathers had been before them. Sor Stefano,

indeed, had recently stood by the _fattore_ on more than one occasion,

when, after the rents had been farmed out to the new lessee, Sor Beppe

had been compelled to obey instructions from Rome and increase them,

thereby incurring the dislike of the small holders, who not unnaturally

regarded him as the primary cause of the extra burden laid upon them.

The news of Sor Beppe's dismissal from the office of _fattore_ had

stirred public opinion in and around Montefiano to its depths.

Notwithstanding its Corso Vittorio Emanuele, its Via Giordano Bruno, and

other outward and visible signs of a desire to tread the path of

independence and liberty, Montefiano was conservative enough in

maintaining its own traditions, and in not welcoming any changes in the

order of things to which it had become accustomed. For five-and-twenty

years Sor Beppe had been _fattore_ at Montefiano to Casa Acorari; while,

for fifty years before he succeeded to the post, it had been occupied by

Sor Pompilio, his father. This fact was in itself sufficient to cause

the news that another _fattore_ was to be appointed in the place of

Giuseppe Fontana to be received with astonishment and not a little

indignation.

When it became known, however, that Sor Beppe had been dismissed because

he had flatly declined to obey instructions of the administration in

Rome to raise the rents of certain small holdings without laying the

matter personally before the princess, popular indignation had increased

until it became a deep and bitter anger. As Sor Beppe had pointed out

to Don Agostino, it had been generally known in Montefiano for some time

that the _principessa's_ foreign priest was practically the head of the

administration to the Eccellentissima Casa Acorari; and during the last

few weeks, since the sudden arrival at the castle of the princess and

the Principessina Bianca, rumor had insisted that the new _affittuario_

of the Montefiano estate was no other than the priest himself. If this

were not so, it was argued, why did the new _affittuario_ never show

himself in the flesh, and why did the foreign _monsignore_ make a point

of personally examining every holding on the property? But that Sor

Beppe should be dismissed from a post that he had honorably filled for

five-and-twenty years because he would not lend himself to furthering

this interloper's schemes for enriching himself at the expense of the

poor, and of the good name of Casa Acorari, was an abominable thing.

Men and women had talked of nothing else in the streets of the _paese_

during the day, and at night the men flocked to the Caffe Garibaldi to

hear what Sor Stefano and the more influential members of the community

might have to say on the subject.

It was evident that these worthies had much to say; and, like their

inferiors in the social scale of Montefiano, they said it loudly and

decidedly. Such a thing could not be tolerated; and the voice of the

majority was in favor of forming a deputation that should wait upon

their excellencies at the castle and point out to them the injustice of

Sor Beppe's dismissal, and the ill-feeling among the peasants that

insistence on the raising of their rents would infallibly produce.

There was, indeed, a secondary motive in the minds of those who, headed

by Sor Stefano, had suggested the expediency of a deputation. For some

little time mysterious rumors had circulated in Montefiano--rumors of

which the Principessina Bianca was the central object. It was whispered,

especially among the women, that there was something going on in the

castle that was not satisfactory; that the _principessina_ had been

brought to Montefiano because she wanted to marry a _bel giovane_ in

Rome, whose only fault was that he had not a title; that instead of

being allowed to marry the man she loved she was being forced to receive

the attentions of the princess's brother--a worn-out foreign baron, old

enough to be the poor child's father. It was insisted that the

Principessina Bianca was unhappy, that she was practically a prisoner,

and that the priest was at the bottom of it all. Who circulated these

stories among the women, Sor Stefano knew perfectly well. It was certain

that they became more definite from day to day, and that by degrees a

very wide-spread feeling of suspicion had been aroused among all classes

at Montefiano that the Principessina Bianca was being made the victim of

an intrigue on the part of her step-mother's foreign advisers to possess

themselves both of her person and her estates.

Why, it was asked, was the _principessina_ never seen? The very few

people who had happened to see her at the castle had come away full of

enthusiasm concerning her beauty and her kindness of manner. When it

became known that Sor Beppe had been dismissed, these stories had been

repeated with greater insistence than ever. Probably the women had

determined to excite the compassion and indignation of their menkind on

the _principessina's_ behalf; for several of the leading peasants and

small farmers in and around Montefiano had openly talked of going to the

castle and demanding an interview with the Principessina Donna Bianca,

in order to see for themselves whether their young _padrona_ were in

reality exposed to the treatment they suspected.

It was in order to consult together concerning the suggested deputation

that the leading spirits of Montefiano had assembled at the Caffe

Garibaldi that evening. Notwithstanding the noise, and the totally

irrelevant side issues raised by many of his customers, it was clear to

Stefano Mazza that the general consensus of public opinion was on his

side. The dismissal of Sor Beppe should not be allowed to pass without

a protest being made to the _principessa_ in person; and at the same

time it should be clearly conveyed to her that any _fattore_ who should

be appointed to succeed Sor Beppe would find his task by no means easy,

inasmuch as the people would with truth conclude that he had been sent

to Montefiano to carry out changes which were obnoxious and unjust. Sor

Stefano, anxious to please all parties, had further suggested that the

deputation in question should insist upon the Principessina Bianca being

present when its members were received by her step-mother. Her

presence, he pointed out, would enable the representatives of the

Montefiano people to ascertain whether Donna Bianca was or was not aware

of what was being done in her name, whether it was true that she was

merely a victim of the unscrupulous designs of this Belgian priest, and

of another stranger who was, to all intents and purposes, her uncle.

Donna Bianca Acorari was their legitimate _padrona_, the daughter and

heiress of the princes of Montefiano; and as such her own people at

Montefiano had a right to approach her and hear from her own lips

whether all that was said concerning her was truth or fiction.

It was late that night when the Caffe Garibaldi put out its lights and

barred its doors after the last of Sor Stefano's clients had left the

premises. The chief point under discussion during the evening had been

settled, however, and it was unanimously decided that a deputation,

headed by the _sindaco_ and Sor Stefano, should send a letter to the

castle requesting to be received by the princess and the Principessina

Donna Bianca. Perhaps the _sindaco_ of Montefiano was the only one to

display some hesitation as to the advisability of the course determined

upon. He had no desire to compromise himself by lending his official

sanction to any movement which might end in disturbance and in possible

collision with the civil authorities. It was impossible to foretell

what might take place were the princess and her adviser to oppose the

wishes of the already suspicious and excited peasants, and refuse to

entertain the objections of the deputation to the dismissal of the

_fattore_, Giuseppe Fontana. The _avvocato_ Ricci, _syndic_ of

Montefiano, like many other petty Italian lawyers, nourished an ambition

to enter political life as a means whereby to fill his empty pockets at

the expense of those who might send him to join the large number of his

fellow-lawyers in the Chamber of Deputies. It was a somewhat exalted

ambition, no doubt; but the _avvocato_ Ricci, after all, was in no more

obscure a position than many another local attorney now calling himself

_onorevole_ and making the best of his opportunities as a deputy to rob

with both hands, until such time as he should either be made a minister

of state or fail to be re-elected by a disillusioned constituency.

It would certainly not add to his prospects were he, as _sindaco_ of

Montefiano, to compromise himself with the authorities of the Home

Office in Rome for the sake of some discontented peasants in his

commune, and he had already done his best that evening to throw cold

water on Sor Stefano's suggestions, and to dissociate himself from any

part in the movement in question. A few words, however, spoken in his

ear by Stefano Mazza, conveying a gentle but pointed allusion to certain

bills, more than once renewed which Sor Stefano happened to have in his

keeping, had effectually silenced the _sindaco_ Ricci's official

objections to making one of the proposed deputation to the castle.

The gathering at the Caffe Garibaldi had taken place on the very evening

of Concetta Fontana's delivery to Bianca Acorari of her lover's missive.

Concetta, indeed, knew well enough that the meeting was to take place,

and also what its object was. As a matter of fact, it was largely, if

not entirely, owing to her that public interest in Montefiano had been

aroused concerning the motives for the Principessina Bianca's

confinement--for so Concetta had not hesitated to qualify it--in the

castle and the park behind the castle. She had let fall mysterious

hints as to what she had seen and heard during the hours she was

employed in helping the _principessina's_ maid in mending the linen and

in other household duties; and her tales had certainly not lost in the

telling during the long summer evenings when the women of the _paese_

had little to do but to sit and gossip outside their doors.

Doubtless, like most gossip, the stories woven round Concetta Fontana's

suggestion would soon have been replaced by others of closer interest.

The premature appearance of the baker's baby, which had upset the ideas

of Don Agostino's house-keeper as to the fitness of things, had been for

some days relegated to an altogether secondary place; nor would the men

have paid much attention to the tales told them by their womenkind of

the treatment to which the Principessina Bianca was being subjected, had

it not been for Sor Beppe's sudden dismissal from office. It needed very

little to impress upon the farmers and peasantry on the _latifondo_

belonging to Casa Acorari that the latter circumstance was in direct

connection with the former; and that it had evidently been found

necessary to get rid of Giuseppe Fontana and replace him by another

agent who would be nothing more nor less than a tool in the hands of the

foreign priest who had already persuaded the princess to consent to

their rents being materially increased. It must be confessed that

Concetta Fontana had lost no opportunity of duly impressing her friends

and acquaintances with this plausible explanation of the reasons which

had led to her father's dismissal. She had conceived an enthusiastic

devotion to the Principessina Bianca almost from the first moment she

had seen her and Bianca had spoken a few kindly words to her. This

devotion had been further increased by realizing the loneliness of the

girl's position, by sympathy with her for her enforced separation from

the man she wished to marry, as well as by the discovery that Bianca was

being exposed to the joint intrigues of Monsieur d'Antin and the Abbe

Roux. The thought that her young _padrona_ had need of her devotion had

kindled Concetta's sense of loyalty, in which, as in that of her father,

there was much that was nothing short of feudal feeling for the young

head of the house of the Acorari of Montefiano.

Concetta, however, could hardly be blamed if, in addition to her genuine

desire to rescue Bianca Acorari from the fate into which she felt

convinced that Baron d'Antin and the Abbe Roux were trying to force her,

she hoped at the same time to benefit her father and bring about his

reinstatement. Sor Beppe had been, as it were, stunned by the suddenness

of the blow which had fallen upon him. As he had said to Don Agostino,

he was too old for transplantation. The interests of Casa Acorari had

been his interests ever since he could remember. However unsatisfactory

the late Principe di Montefiano might have been in other relations of

life--however neglectful he might have been of the fact that he was

taking all he could get out of his properties and was putting nothing

into them again--he had always been a just and considerate landlord

towards the people of the place from which he took his principal title,

and which had been the cradle of his race.

It was the thought of how the late Prince Montefiano would have

disapproved of the course taken by the Abbe Roux, and by the so-called

administration of the affairs of Casa Acorari, that made the injustice

of his dismissal all the harder for Sor Beppe to bear. If he had

received his dismissal at the hands of the Principessina Bianca, it

would have been bad enough; but to receive it from foreigners who, as he

more than suspected, were only bent upon filling their own pockets

during the _principessina's_ minority, was altogether intolerable. The

sympathy which had been shown him in the _paese_, and the general

indignation aroused by the facts which had led to his dismissal had

certainly been very pleasant to Sor Beppe's wounded feelings. He had

made no secret of his conviction that so soon as the Principessina

Bianca had the control of her affairs he would be reinstated, and public

opinion in Montefiano quickly exonerated Donna Bianca Acorari from all

responsibility in the matter. That such a thing had happened was, in

the eyes of the Montefianesi, only a further proof of the bad foreign

influence by which their young princess was surrounded.

Sor Beppe had carefully abstained from going to the Caffe Garibaldi that

evening. It was his custom to spend an hour or two there on most

nights, taking a hand at _tresette_ or playing a game of billiards. He

was aware, of course, of the discussion that was to take place on that

particular evening, and it certainly would not have been seemly for him

to be present. Moreover, there was no reason to suppose that his cause

would suffer by his absence from the gathering. He knew that his

friend, Stefano Mazza, would take care that this was not the case.

So, Sor Beppe had taken the opportunity of paying an evening visit to

Don Agostino. He had attempted to see him immediately after his

interview with the princess, when he had learned that she declined to

interfere in his dismissal, but Don Agostino had already departed for

Rome. After leaving Don Agostino, Sor Beppe had returned to his own set

of rooms in the castle--the home of so many years, which he would now

have to leave--and he had found Concetta awaiting him. The girl had

required no pressing to deliver the packet Don Agostino had intrusted to

her father. She had many times, she told him, wished to go to the

_principessina_ and offer to take some message for her to her lover--oh,

many times, if only to spite the baron and Monsieur l'Abbe, who thought

they had laid their plans so well. But she had not dared to take the

liberty. Now, of course, she had an excuse; and if Don Agostino was

interesting himself in the _principessina's_ love-affairs, it was

certainly a proof that the young man was worthy of her.

And Sor Beppe had accompanied Concetta to the disused room next to the

entrance-gate of the castle, where he kept his firewood and his coke,

and had seen her pass through the trap-door and mount the narrow stone

steps leading into the secret passage above. Then he had awaited her

return, not without some misgivings at the length of time which elapsed

before he saw her reappear.

Concetta returned from her expedition flushed and excited, and, indeed,

very nearly weeping. Her voice trembled as she recounted all that had

passed between the _principessina_ and herself; how she had watched the

_principessina_ standing at the window of her room, and had heard her

cry to her absent lover; and how the poor child had seemed almost dazed

when she gave her the packet, and had then broken down and cried in her,

Concetta's, arms.

She told her father how the _principessina_ was aware of his dismissal,

but evidently knew nothing of the raising of the rents and his refusal

to further acts of injustice, committed nominally in her interests; and

how she had declared that, when she had the power to do so, she would

reinstate him.

Sor Beppe listened attentively. "She is her father's daughter," he

said, when Concetta had concluded, "and she will not allow her people to

be wronged."

Concetta's eyes flashed. "And we," she exclaimed--"we will not allow

her to be wronged! _Vedete_, it is not the princess, she wants to do

her duty by the _principessina_--oh, I have heard that a hundred times

from the maid, Bettina. It is the Abbe Roux. He makes the princess

believe that her duty is to force the poor girl to do what he wants.

But he will go too far, and then we shall see is it not true, Babbo?"

Sor Beppe nodded. "He has gone too far already," he said. "Listen,

Concetta: the peasants are angry--very angry; and not the peasants only,

but also those who are more highly placed than they. There will

certainly be trouble if the increase in the rents is insisted upon.

Moreover, they suspect something, some foul play towards the

_principessina_, and it is as likely as not that there will be a

demonstration. Well, if there is, and the Abbe Roux, as you call him,

attempts to carry out his plans, I would not answer for the

consequences. They are patient, our people--very patient; but when

their patience is exhausted, they are not easy to manage. Why, in the

Castelli Romani, a few years ago, at Genzano and Ariccia, the peasants

held their own against the soldiers, and got what they wanted, too--but

there was blood spilled in the getting of it."

Concetta Fontana glanced at her father quickly.

"Do I not know it?" she replied. "Yes, the people are angry. Well, let

them be angry. Perhaps, if there is a demonstration, the princess will

understand that there is something wrong, and Monsieur l'Abbe will be

frightened. But the _principessina_ will not be frightened, I am sure of

that. She will know that it is only her own people, who will not be

ruled by strangers. To-day we shall know what has happened at the Caffe

Garibaldi," and Concetta smiled with a satisfied air. "As to the Abbe

Roux--" she added.

"Curse the _pretaccio_!" growled Sor Beppe, under his breath.

"He would be wiser to return to Rome," concluded Concetta, "if he does

not want to take _delle belle bastonate_ some fine day!"

*XXVII*

Punctually at half-past seven on the morning after Sor Beppe's nocturnal

visit to him, Don Agostino, robed in his vestments and accompanied by a

small but sturdy acolyte, who was to act as server at the low mass he

was about to celebrate, emerged from the sacristy of his church and

ascended the steps of one of the side altars. The attendance was not

large, the congregation consisting of a few peasant women and two old

men; for the day was not a _festa_, and, consequently, the population of

Montefiano was pursuing its usual occupations in the _paese_, or in the

fields and vineyards beyond it.

As Don Agostino, after having arranged the sacred vessels and adjusted

the markers in the missal to the proper pages, turned from the altar to

commence the opening portion of the mass, his quick eyes fell upon

Concetta Fontana, who was kneeling in the body of the church some little

way behind the group of women gathered round the marble balustrade in

front of the altar. It could not be said that Concetta was a frequent

attendant at the half-past seven o'clock mass, and her presence had

already excited whispered comments among the rest of the congregation,

who had at once recognized Sor Beppe's daughter.

The mass over, Don Agostino retired to the sacristy again to disrobe,

and thither, after a few minutes had elapsed, Concetta Fontana followed

him. Don Agostino was not surprised to see her. Indeed, he had risen

earlier than usual that morning in expectation of a visit either from

Fontana or his daughter. He had spent an hour or two in his garden

tying up refractory branches of his rose-trees and generally attending

to the needs of his fellow-beings of the vegetable world--for it was one

of Agostino's theories that any form of life was an attribute of the God

whom he worshipped as a God of sympathy and of love, and he regarded his

trees and his flowers as sentient beings who had a right to his

tenderness and care. It was certainly not a theory of which he spoke in

the world; but then most of us who are not content with looking only at

the binding of God's book of life probably have our little intimate

thoughts and theories which, knowing our world, we are prudent enough to

keep for our own use and enjoyment, and, perhaps, as stepping-stones on

the path we have to tread.

Concetta waited until she and Don Agostino were alone in the sacristy,

and then she gave him the folded sheet of paper that Bianca Acorari had

intrusted to her.

"To-morrow," she said, "the _principessina_ will send another letter by

me. There were no writing-materials in her room, so she could only send

a few lines, which your reverence will no doubt forward to their

destination."

Don Agostino took the paper and placed it carefully in his pocket-book.

"I shall send it to the Signorino Rossano to-day," he replied. "Donna

Bianca need have no fear of its not reaching him safely. So you took

the packet to her last night?" he continued. "You had no difficulty in

giving it into Donna Bianca's own hands?"

Concetta quickly related to him all that had passed between Bianca and

her the night before. "And I was to tell your reverence," she

concluded, "from the _principessina_, that she would write to you

herself, because her _fidanzato_ wished her to do so. Ah, but you

should have seen the proud way the _principessina_ drew herself up and

looked--a look that a queen might give--when she spoke of her

_fidanzato_!"

Don Agostino glanced at her with a smile. "You will be faithful to the

_principessina_, _figlia mia_?" he asked. "She needs friends, the poor

child."

"Faithful to her!" exclaimed Concetta. "I would do anything--anything,

for the _principessina_. Imagine if I was glad when my father came home

last night and told me I must take her the packet you had given him. I

had wanted to go to her, and to tell her that I would do anything she

bade me--oh, so often! But how could I venture? Besides, I was afraid

of frightening her if I appeared in her room from the cardinal's

portrait."

"But she was not frightened?" Don Agostino asked.

"_Niente affatto!_" returned Concetta, emphatically. "It was I who was

frightened when I saw her leaning out of the window in the moonlight and

calling to her lover. I feared she might be walking in her sleep, and

that she might throw herself down on the terrace. Ah, but she knows now

that there are those who are ready to help her--and she will know it

better in a few days' time."

Don Agostino looked at her. "How do you mean? Why should she know it

better in a few days than she does now?" he asked.

Concetta pursed up her lips. "She will know it," she repeated, "and so

will the principessa and the Abbe Roux. I am nothing--only a woman--but

there are men who will help her--all Montefiano, if it comes to that."

Don Agostino looked at her with greater attention. He had already heard

through Ernana something concerning the ill-feeling the dismissal of Sor

Beppe had aroused in Montefiano; and something, too, of the part the

Abbe Roux was supposed to have played in bringing about the _fattore's_

dismissal.

"What do you mean?" he repeated. "You may speak openly to me, _figlia

mia_," he continued, "for I also would do all I could to help Donna

Bianca Acorari and to protect her from any evil designs against her.

Moreover, Donna Bianca's _fidanzato_ is my friend, and his father and I

have been friends for many years. After all, it is I, is it not, who

have asked your father to convey that packet to the _principessina_?

And he told me of the means whereby it might be conveyed."

Concetta started. "Ah! he told you of the passage?" she exclaimed.

"Certainly," replied Don Agostino. "So you see," he added, "I am aware

that it is possible to communicate with Donna Bianca without the fact

being known to those who are trying to isolate her from the outer world.

If you have the _principessina's_ welfare at heart, as I am sure that

you have, you will take me entirely into your confidence, will you not?"

Concetta nodded. "I know nothing for certain as yet," she said, after

hesitating for a moment, "but the people are angry, _reverendo_, very

angry."

"Yes, I have heard something of that," said Don Agostino, as Concetta

paused. "They are angry at the rents having been raised, and at your

father's having been dismissed for his opposition to the increase. But

his dismissal has nothing to do with Donna Bianca's position, and the

people's anger will not help her, so far as I can see."

"Ah, but it will help her," replied Concetta, eagerly. "They are angry

about the rents and about my father, that is true; but they are also

indignant at the way in which the _principessina_ is shut up and not

allowed to see anybody. They have heard that she is in love with

somebody whom she is forbidden to see any more, and that the princess's

brother wants to force her to marry him instead. And they have put the

dots upon the i's, and believe that the foreign priest is at the bottom

of the whole affair. You must remember, _reverendo_, that we

Montefianesi look upon the _principessina_ as our _padrona_. We do not

want foreigners to interfere between us and the Principessina Bianca."

"I understand that perfectly well," Don Agostino observed, quietly.

"But how do the Montefianesi propose to remedy matters? After all,

Donna Bianca is a minor, and as such she is not yet her own mistress;

nor," he added, "can her people here, however devoted to her they may

be, make her so."

"But they can make the _principessa_ get rid of those who are advising

her badly," said Concetta. "I do not know what has been decided," she

continued, lowering her voice, "but last night there was a meeting at

the Caffe Garibaldi. Of course, my father would not be present, for it

was his dismissal that they were by way of discussing--that and the

raising of the rents. But I am certain that they will have talked about

other things besides these; and I know that Sor Stefano meant to propose

that a deputation should go to the princess and insist on the rents

being lowered to their original amount, and on my father being retained

as _fattore_."

"Precisely," interrupted Don Agostino. "But in what way will Donna

Bianca be helped by all this talk? That is what I do not understand,

_figlia mia_."

Concetta directed a shrewd glance at him. "In this way," she replied,

"Sor Stefano--oh, and many others, too--intend to see the Principessina

Bianca herself, and to explain to her that she and nobody else is

_padrona_ at Montefiano, and that they will hear from her own lips, when

they have explained matters to her, whether what has been done in her

name has her approval or not. This they will do, _reverendo_, not

because they do not understand that the _principessina_ is still a

child, so to speak, but because they intend Monsieur l'Abbe and the

baron to understand that their schemes are known and will not be

tolerated. _Mi spiego reverendo_?"

Don Agostino's face flushed and his eyes sparkled with an unusual

excitement.

"Do you explain yourself?" he said, repeating Concetta's last words.

"Certainly, you explain yourself very well. Ah, if your Montefianesi do

that, they will, indeed, be helping their _padrona_."

He paused suddenly, and his countenance became grave and preoccupied.

"And this deputation to the princess," he said, presently--"does your

father know of the proposal?"

"Certainly he knows of it," answered Concetta; "but naturally," she

added, "he can take no part in it. It is Sor Stefano who will be at the

head of it, or perhaps the _sindaco_--oh, and representatives chosen by

the _contadini_. And you, _reverendo_, you will surely be asked to join

it as the _parroco_. _Sicuro!_ it will all have been settled last

night; but as yet I have seen nobody, for until I had delivered the

_principessina's_ letter, as I promised her I would do, I could not be

easy in my mind."

Don Agostino's expression remained grave and thoughtful. That the people

of Montefiano should resent the interference of the Abbe Roux in their

relations with Casa Acorari was certainly natural, and might in the end

turn out to be a good thing for both Donna Bianca and Silvio. But Don

Agostino well knew the danger that must attend any demonstration of

hostility towards the princess and her advisers on the part of the

peasants. Such demonstrations were apt unexpectedly to assume serious

proportions. If the enraged _contadini_ felt that they had the moral

support of men like Sor Stefano, they might easily lose their heads,

and, should their demands be refused, attempt to enforce them by

measures which would necessitate the intervention of the civil

authorities, if not of the military. What military intervention too

frequently ended in, Don Agostino was fully aware, and he felt every

effort should be made to prevent the threatened demonstration assuming

any attitude that might furnish an excuse for obtaining it.

The question was, whether Princess Montefiano would consent to receive

this deputation, and to hear what its members had to say. Her decision

would evidently be inspired by the Abbe Roux, and the abbe's recent

action in causing the rents to be increased, and in the dismissal of an

old, popular official for venturing to oppose that increase, convinced

Don Agostino that the foreign priest, as the Abbe Roux was called, did

not understand the character of the people he was attempting to rule.

Don Agostino's experience of human nature made him at once realize the

danger of a misunderstanding on either side, in the present condition of

public opinion in Montefiano. The abbe might easily underrate the force

of that opinion and persuade the princess to decline to listen to, or

even to receive a deputation formed to protest against his policy. If

he were so to persuade Princess Montefiano, the situation would

infallibly become critical, and very likely perilous. All would then

depend on whether the Abbe Roux had the nerve and the tact to deal with

it, or whether he would oblige the princess to appeal to the authorities

to suppress the demonstration. In this latter case a collision would

become inevitable; and it was this collision between his people--for was

he not their _parroco_?--and the authorities, that Don Agostino was

determined to use all his influence to avert.

Concetta Fontana watched his countenance, as for a few moments Don

Agostino stood, apparently deep in thought.

"You would join the deputation, _reverendo_, would you not?" she asked

him, presently.

Don Agostino hesitated.

"It depends," he replied. "You see, _figlia mia_," he continued, "we

must be careful that in trying to do good we do not bring about a great

deal of harm and unhappiness. I should like to talk with your father,

and to-day I will go to see Stefano Mazza. The _contadini_ are within

their rights--I do not deny that--and a grave injustice has been done,

both to them and to your father. _Sicuro!_ they are in the right, but

it should be the duty of those who have influence to prevent them from

doing anything to put themselves in the wrong. Yes, tell your father

that I should like to see him to-day. At _mezzogiorno_ he will find a

place ready for him if he likes to come to breakfast. We could talk

afterwards--while Ernana is washing the dishes. You will go to see

Donna Bianca again--as you did last night, will you not? You will tell

her that her letter goes to-day to her _fidanzato_, and that he will

receive it to-morrow morning in Rome. And you will tell her, also, that

I am awaiting the letter she is going to write to me; and when I have

it, I will answer her. In the mean time, _figlia mia_, be prudent--if

you wish to serve the Principessina Bianca. You and your father have

influence with the people--they wish you well. Talk to the women. It

is the women who can often lead the men--is it not? Anything that is

done must be done cautiously, moderately. There must be no folly--no

threats employed in order to enforce demands that in themselves are

just. You must tell the women that I, Don Agostino, will support all

that is done to obtain justice in a just way--but I will not countenance

any measures that may provoke disorder, and perhaps violence. Now go,

_figlia mia_, and give my message to your father this morning--and to

the Principessina Bianca when you think it safe to go again to her

apartment."

And Don Agostino, opening the door of the sacristy, accompanied Concetta

through the empty church, and then returned to his own house, and to his

morning coffee which Ernana always prepared for him after he had said

his early mass.

*XXVIII*

Silvio Rossano had quite made up his mind that some days must in all

probability elapse before Don Agostino might be able to find a safe

opportunity of conveying the letter and ring he had intrusted to him to

Bianca. When, therefore, he found on his table, on returning to Palazzo

Acorari as usual for breakfast, a notice from the post-office informing

him that a registered packet addressed to him was lying at the central

office, he did not suppose for a moment that the said packet had come

from Montefiano. Indeed, it was not until late in the afternoon that he

went to San Silvestro in order to get the packet, as he had some work to

do at home which he was anxious to complete. His heart gave a sudden

leap when he recognized Don Agostino's handwriting on the registered

envelope. The arcade running round the court-yard and garden of palms

at San Silvestro, thronged as it was with people asking for their

correspondence at the _poste-restante_, with soldiers and men of

business, priests and peasants, was certainly not the place to

investigate the contents of Don Agostino's missive, which would scarcely

have been registered had the contents not been important.

Silvio hurried out of the building, and, crossing the Corso, plunged

into the comparative quiet of the little side streets behind

Montecitorio, where he eagerly tore open the sealed envelope. There

were only a few lines written by Don Agostino himself, and Silvio,

hastily glancing at them, gathered that he had had an opportunity of

sending the letter and ring to Bianca Acorari by a safe hand, and that

her reply was enclosed. He added that he should write more fully in a

day or two, by which time he believed he should have something of

importance to communicate.

Bianca's letter, too, was short and hastily written in pencil on a

half-sheet of paper that Silvio recognized as having been torn from his

own lengthy epistle to her. Brief as this letter was, however, it told

him much that he was longing to know, and, indeed, repeated Bianca's

words to him in the garden of the Villa Acorari, with which she had

vowed that she would marry nobody if she did not marry him. But what

set his mind at ease more than anything else was her assurance that

means of communication were open to them. Bianca did not explain what

these means were, but told him that she would write him a long letter

the following day, and that he also could continue to write to her under

cover to Monsignor Lelli, as there was now no danger of his letters

being intercepted. This, at least, was a comforting piece of news, and

Silvio wondered how it had come about that Don Agostino had been able to

so quickly find the necessary channel of communication. It was scarcely

likely, he reflected, that Don Agostino would venture to go himself to

the castle at Montefiano after having been seen by Monsieur d'Antin in

his company.

He returned to Palazzo Acorari full of hope, and in better spirits than

he had been for many a day. The uncertainty of the last few weeks had

begun to tell upon him; and at the same time his complete separation

from Bianca Acorari had only increased his love, and had made him more

determined than ever to defeat the machinations of those who were trying

to break down Bianca's love for him. The first thing to be done was to

write to Bianca. She would be expecting to hear from him again, and to

know that he had received her pencilled note safely. Silvio shut

himself in his room and proceeded to write an epistle longer, if

anything, than that he had confided to Don Agostino. The contents were

much the same as the contents of other love-letters, and scarcely likely

to be of interest to any one except himself and the person to whom they

were addressed. Of course, he longed to see her again; and he implored

her not to lose any opportunity of allowing him to do so that could be

seized upon without risk to herself. He could always, he explained to

her, come to Montefiano at any moment, and Monsignor Lelli doubtless

would arrange that his presence in the place should be unsuspected.

It was useless, he felt, to attempt to form a plan, until he should have

heard again from her and from Don Agostino. He read the latter's note

again and again with great attention. It was evident that Don Agostino

had something more to communicate than he was able at that moment to

write. No doubt he was making sure of his ground before summoning

Silvio to Montefiano. In any case, there was nothing to do but to wait

patiently for further light upon the situation; and in the mean time he

might do more harm than good by suggesting any one of the expedients for

obtaining another meeting with Bianca that came into his head.

His letter written, he sought Giacinta's counsel as usual, and told her

of what that day's post had brought to him. Giacinta was duly

sympathetic. She had, indeed, long ago recognized that Silvio's passion

for Bianca Acorari was not to be diminished by any amount of practical

reasoning as to its folly. Perhaps the discovery that Monsignor Lelli,

whom her father held in such high esteem, not only approved of Silvio's

love for Donna Bianca, but had also undertaken to help him, so far as he

might be able, to remove the difficulties that stood in the way of his

marrying her, had caused Giacinta to take a less pessimistic view of her

brother's infatuation; at any rate, since Monsignor Lelli's visit she

had regarded the matter as one which must take its course, for better or

for worse, since not only was there no apparent likelihood of Silvio

being disheartened by the obstacles in his way, but it seemed that Donna

Bianca Acorari also knew her own mind, and had no intention of allowing

others to alter it for her.

The professor, too, had become decidedly less cynical on the subject of

his son's matrimonial aspirations since his conversation with Monsignor

Lelli. To be sure, he did not encourage Giacinta to talk about it; and

when she attempted to do so, he put the whole question quietly but

decidedly away from him, as he did any question threatening to lead to

social unpleasantness in private life. But Giacinta realized that her

father also had modified his views as to the folly of Silvio's devotion

to a girl whom he had seen only a few times in his life; and that,

though he did not intend to move any further in the affair than he had

already done, he was not so actively opposed to it as he had at first

shown himself to be.

Giacinta had always been doubtful as to whether Bianca Acorari would

have sufficient force of character to hold out against the pressure that

would certainly be brought to bear upon her in order to make her

relinquish all idea of becoming Silvio's wife. It was quite natural

that Silvio himself should entertain no doubts on the subject; but then

he was in love with Bianca, and she, Giacinta, was not so. But such

passages as Silvio chose to read to her from the brief note he had that

day received from Bianca finally removed all fears from her mind lest

her brother might be exposed to the disappointment and mortification of

finding that Donna Bianca had yielded to the influences by which she was

surrounded.

"You see, Giacinta," Silvio said, triumphantly, "I was right. I have

always told you that Bianca would never give way. And now, after being

shut up in that dreary hole for nearly six weeks, she takes the first

opportunity of repeating the promises she made to me at the Villa

Acorari. If she has to wait three years to marry me, _ebbene_, she will

wait three years--and nothing that they can say or do to her in the mean

time will make the slightest difference. Oh, I know what you will

say--that it is impossible to know what a person's character may be whom

one has only seen a few times, and only talked to once. But sometimes

two people know each other's character by instinct, by--by--oh, well, by

something or other, though God knows what the something is."

Giacinta laughed. "There may be a scientific explanation of the

phenomenon," she remarked; "perhaps Babbo will find one. No, Silvio,"

she continued, more gravely, "I confess I seem to have underrated Donna

Bianca's character. She is apparently as much in earnest as you are,

and I am glad she is so. It is at least a sign that, if you both

succeed in attaining your object, you should be happy together, and your

happiness is all that concerns me, Silvio _mio_."

"And Bianca's happiness," added Silvio, "that should concern you, too."

"It will concern me henceforth," returned Giacinta, "because, though I

do not know Donna Bianca, I understand now that her happiness and yours

is the same thing."

Silvio looked at her with a quick smile. "You will know Bianca some

day," he said, "and then you will see how right I was."

Two mornings afterwards, Silvio received a second letter from Bianca,

and from it he learned how it had happened that Don Agostino had so

quickly been able to communicate with her. Bianca told him many other

things as well; and among them was a piece of information which, while

it gave him a considerable amount of satisfaction, at the same time made

him uneasy and restless in his mind.

There was, she wrote, a threatening of disturbances among the people at

Montefiano in consequence of the Abbe Roux having persuaded her

step-mother to dismiss the _fattore_ and to consent to the rents being

raised. Bianca did not understand very well what was the matter, but it

was evident that the Abbe Roux and her step-mother feared that things

might become serious, for they had discussed in her presence the

advisability of asking for soldiers to be sent to Montefiano if there

was any more trouble with the _contadini_. Moreover, Concetta Fontana,

the _fattore's_ daughter, to whom Bianca had already alluded as being

her and Silvio's friend and channel of communication, had told her that

the people were angry because they suspected she was being kept as a

kind of prisoner at Montefiano until she should consent to marry Baron

d'Antin, and that her engagement to Silvio was perfectly well known in

the _paese_. The peasants were going to send a deputation to the castle,

and to insist not only on the increase in the rents being abandoned and

the agent, Fontana, reinstated in his post, but also, according to

Concetta, on seeing her, Bianca, and speaking with her as their

_padrona_.

The intelligence certainly carried with it food for reflection.

Silvio's first feeling on reading Bianca's words was one of

satisfaction. If it were known or suspected at Montefiano that Donna

Bianca Acorari was being kept in seclusion in order to force her to

marry a foreigner old enough to be her father; if it were supposed that

her property and interests were being tampered with by strangers for

their own benefit, at the expense of her own people, a situation might

easily develop which would compel Princess Montefiano to allow her

step-daughter to marry the man she wished to marry. It was certainly no

bad thing if Bianca were rescued from her present position by the force

of public opinion; and if her own people gathered round her, Monsieur

l'Abbe Roux and Monsieur le Baron d'Antin might very possibly find

themselves obliged to retire from the scene. If this occurred, it might

reasonably be hoped that the princess would listen to other counsels

than those by which she had hitherto been influenced.

So far, Silvio felt he had no cause to be otherwise than pleased at the

thought that Bianca's own people at Montefiano were likely to interfere

with the plans of the Abbe Roux and Monsieur d'Antin. His sense of

satisfaction, however, was quickly succeeded by a feeling of uneasiness.

Young as he was, he had some experience of what an uneducated mob, with

grievances real or fancied, might be capable of doing. He had witnessed

strikes in more than one part of Italy; and though it was true that, at

Montefiano, disturbances which might occur would be made by peasants and

not artisans, he knew how frequently it happened that the uneducated of

all classes and occupations lost their heads and went to lengths which

neither they nor their leaders perhaps ever contemplated. If Bianca

were right, and the rents at Montefiano had been raised through the

abbe's instrumentality, and a popular agent dismissed for venturing to

oppose the increase, then much would depend on the princess's attitude

towards the suggested deputation from her step-daughter's tenants.

Should her attitude be unconciliatory, who could tell whether the anger

and discontent of the peasantry might not be wreaked on Bianca herself,

in whose name these grievances had been inflicted?

Silvio remembered having seen the agent, Fontana, on one occasion during

the few days he had spent in the neighborhood of Montefiano; and he had

likewise heard Don Agostino mention him as a _fattore_ who was just

towards the people as well as honest to his employers. At a crisis such

as Bianca's letter pointed to as being imminent, the advice and services

of a man like Fontana would have been invaluable to Princess Montefiano;

for if the peasants were clamoring for his reinstatement, they certainly

would have been more likely to be influenced by him than by strangers.

The idea that Bianca Acorari might be exposed to any danger, however

problematical, was quite sufficient to render Silvio restless and

uneasy. He wondered whether Don Agostino had been thinking of possible

disturbances on the part of the peasants of Montefiano when he had

written that in a few days he might have something of importance to

communicate. To be sure, Don Agostino had not written again, and now

nearly three days had passed since Silvio had received his first letter,

enclosing the few lines Bianca had sent him by Concetta Fontana. He

would certainly, Silvio told himself, have written, or even perhaps

telegraphed, had anything alarming occurred at Montefiano. There was, it

would appear, nothing to be done except to wait for Don Agostino's

promised letter, or at least until Bianca herself should write again and

give him further particulars of how matters were going.

That evening the spell of damp, hot weather, which so often makes Rome

almost intolerable in the middle of September, broke. A heavy

thunder-storm passed over the city, accompanied by torrents of rain,

which descended in white sheets as if in the tropics. A steamy fog rose

from the ground, parched by the long summer drought. Masses of

inky-black clouds began to drift up from the sea; and at nightfall, long

after the storm had rolled away to the mountains, a continuous flicker

of lightning illumined the entire sky. In the caffes, or safely in the

shelter of their own houses, people congratulated one another that the

end of the heat had come, and that when the weather should mend again

the first breath of autumn would be felt in the lighter, crisper air.

Silvio dined at home that night with his father and Giacinta, and

afterwards, contrary to his usual custom, Professor Rossano did not go

to the Piazza Colonna for his cup of coffee and to read his evening

paper. The Piazza Colonna, indeed, would have been nothing but an

exaggerated puddle, with streams of muddy water running through it from

the higher level of Montecitorio; and, besides, it would have been

unwise to be abroad in the streets while the first rains after the

summer were falling--the only time during the whole year when a genuine

malarial fever, and not the "Roman fever" of the overfed and overtired

tourist, might possibly be picked up within the walls of Rome.

Dinner had been over some time, and they were smoking and talking

together in the drawing-room, when the hoarse cries of the news-venders

calling the evening papers came from the street without, and a few

minutes later a servant entered the room with copies of the newspapers,

which he gave to the professor. Giacinta took up a book and began to

read, while Silvio walked restlessly up and down the room, every now and

then going to the window to see if the rain had stopped.

The professor turned over the pages of his newspapers in a vain endeavor

to extract some news from them. There might be, and no doubt there

were, important events happening in the world, even in the month of

September--events more important, for instance, than the fall from his

bicycle of a student, or the drinking by a servant-girl of a solution of

corrosive sublimate in mistake for water. If there were more noteworthy

matters to chronicle, however, they had escaped the notice of the press

that evening. Professor Rossano was about to betake himself to other and

more profitable reading, when a paragraph containing a telegram dated

from Montefiano caught his eye and arrested his attention.

"So," he observed, suddenly, "it seems that our _padrona di casa_ has

got herself into trouble with the people at Montefiano, or, rather, I

suppose that meddlesome abbe has got her into trouble with them. Look,

Silvio," he added, pointing to the paragraph in question, "read this,"

and he handed the newspaper to his son.

Silvio took the paper quickly, and eagerly read the telegram. It was

very short, and merely stated that in consequence of disorder among the

peasantry on the estates belonging to Casa Acorari at Montefiano, and

the fear of these disorders assuming more serious proportions, military

assistance has been requested by the civil authorities; and that a

detachment of infantry would in all probability be despatched from

Civitacastellana if the situation did not become more satisfactory.

Silvio uttered an exclamation of dismay.

"What did I tell you, Giacinta?" he said. "I was certain from Bianca's

last letter that some mischief was brewing. Now there will probably be a

collision with the military authorities; and we all know what that

means."

"Well," observed the professor placidly, "it is no affair of yours,

Silvio, so far as I can see, if there are disturbances at Montefiano.

Not but what you have done your best to add to their number! All the

same," he continued, "it is a foolish thing, and a wrong thing, to drag

the soldiery into these disputes if their intervention can possibly be

avoided. I suppose the princess and the Abbe Roux are frightened. But

surely there must be a _fattore_ at Montefiano who can manage the

people?"

"That is the point," returned Silvio. "The princess has dismissed the

_fattore_ because he objected to the raising of the rents; and the

peasants are insisting on his being recalled."

The professor glanced at him. "It seems," he remarked, dryly, "that you

know all about it."

"No, I don't," answered Silvio, bluntly. "But I want to know all about

it," he added. "To-morrow I shall take the first train to Attigliano,

and I shall drive from there to Montefiano. Don Agostino will tell me

what it all means, and perhaps I shall see for myself what is going on."

"_Sciocchezze!_" exclaimed the professor. "Why the devil should you go

and interfere in the matter? It is no concern of yours, and you will

only get a bullet put into you by a soldier, or a knife by a peasant.

You are an imbecile, Silvio."

"But it does concern me," Silvio replied, obstinately, "and, imbecile or

not, by twelve o'clock to-morrow I will be at Montefiano. Who knows?

Perhaps I might be of use. In any case, I go there to-morrow. No,

Giacinta, it is perfectly useless to argue about it. I wish I had gone

at once, when I received Bianca's last letter. I can guess what has

happened. The princess has been advised not to receive the deputation

from the peasants, or she has received it and refused to grant what was

asked, and now the people are exasperated."

The professor shrugged his shoulders. "Of course you will go," he said.

"When people are in love they cease to be reasonable human beings, and

you have not been a reasonable human being--oh, not since Easter. It is

useless to talk to you, as useless as it would be to talk to a donkey in

spring," and Professor Rossano got up from his chair and walked off to

his library.

Giacinta looked at her brother as the door closed behind the professor.

"Do you suppose the disturbances at Montefiano are serious?" she asked.

"Who can tell?" responded Silvio. "Those things are apt to become

serious at a moment's notice. Anyhow," he continued, "I wish to be near

Bianca, in case of any danger threatening her. The people might think

she was responsible for the troops being summoned, and then, if any

casualty were to happen, they might turn upon her as well as upon others

at the castle. Of course I must go, Giacinta! Besides, who knows what

this business may not lead to? Of one thing you may be certain. If

Bianca is in any danger, I shall save her from it--I shall take her away

from Montefiano."

Giacinta stared at him. "You mean that you will make her run away with

you?" she asked.

Silvio shook his head. "I do not know," he replied. "It will all depend

upon circumstances. But if I asked her to come with me, she would come.

And there are those at Montefiano, Giacinta, who would help her to do

so."

Giacinta did not reply for a moment. Then she said again, quietly: "Of

course you will go, Silvio. After all," she added, "if I were a man,

and in your place, I should do the same."

*XXIX*

It was Sunday; and on Sunday and other feasts Don Agostino celebrated an

additional mass at the principal altar in the parish church of

Montefiano at half-past seven o'clock. This function was neither a high

mass nor a _messa cantata_, for, except on very special occasions, when

extraneous talent from Civitacastellana, or from some other larger

ecclesiastical centre in the neighborhood, was forthcoming, the

difficulties both musical and ceremonial of either form would have been

beyond the powers of the faithful at Montefiano satisfactorily to

surmount. The _funzione_, as it was generally called, at half-past nine

on a _festa_ was doubtless an inartistic and even an irreligious affair,

if regarded from the point of view of the purist in piety or musical

art. At intervals during the celebration of the mass, the organist

would rattle out from the wheezy pipes such stirring airs from popular

operas, comic and otherwise, as might seem to him likely to please the

saint to whom the day was dedicated.

This particular Sunday happened to fall within the octave of the 8th of

September, the day on which the Church commemorates the Nativity of the

Madonna, and, during the consecration and elevation of the sacred

elements at the mass, strains from "La Traviata" assisted the spiritual

aspirations of the kneeling worshippers. The remarkable infelicity,

under the circumstances, of the selection, certainly never suggested

itself either to the organist or to the congregation, and Don Agostino,

remembering that "to the pure all things are pure," was far too wise to

think of pointing it out afterwards in the sacristy. Nevertheless, his

sense of humor was acute, and not entirely to be suppressed, even when

he was ministering at the altar.

But to-day the organist's doubtful compliment to the Madonna passed

almost unnoticed by Don Agostino. He knew that his people gave of their

best to their religion; and, if that best were not of a standard to

satisfy more artistic or more pious conceptions, the fact did not

greatly concern him. The truth was that it was not the first time by

many that Don Agostino had heard selections from "La Traviata" at the

half-past nine o'clock mass, and on this occasion he had more important

matters to occupy his mind than the lack both of perception of the

fitness of things and of a sense of humor on the part of the organist.

A glance round the church as he had entered it and made his way to the

altar, showed him that there was scarcely a man, and certainly none of

the younger men, among the congregation. The fact was all the more

noticeable because Don Agostino invariably had a good attendance of men

at that mass. They did not, to be sure, penetrate very far into the

church, and the majority showed a determination to stand as near the

door as possible. But the great point was that they came; and they

came, moreover, not only to attend mass, but also to listen to the

short, practical address--it was certainly not a sermon, for Don

Agostino never built imaginary edifices on the foundation of a passage

from Scripture--to which they knew that ten minutes were sometimes

devoted by their _parroco_ before the canon of the mass was begun.

To-day, however, the male element was conspicuous by its absence, and

Don Agostino said mass in the presence of women and children only. That

very morning an answer had been sent by Princess Montefiano to the

request made by its leading members that she would receive a deputation

from the tenants on the Montefiano lands to protest against the raising

of their rents and the dismissal of Giuseppe Fontana, the _fattore_.

The answer had been brief and decided. The princess caused it to be

conveyed to the tenants and peasants that she would do nothing of the

kind. Any reasonable complaints would be received by the _ex-fattore_

Fontana's successor, and would be forwarded by him to the

administration, to the Eccellentissima Casa Acorari, for consideration.