Chapter III: The Woof

I

Don Tita Fantuzzo, archpriest of Velo d'Astico, said Mass as usual at half-past seven; and, after some lengthy prayers in the sacristy, proceeded down the stairs leading from the church to the parsonage, where he met his sister-in-law, Signora Bettina Pagan, _veuve_ Fantuzzo, and the chaplain, Don Emanuele Costi de Villata. These two were going down together, or, rather, not together, for the chaplain was a few steps ahead; but his progress was impeded by the sense of the presence behind him, while Signora Bettina was hindered by a feeling of obsequiousness towards the presence before, and also somewhat by the mere knowledge of her position as rear-guard.

"What are you marching in single file for, like a pair of cart-horses?" inquired the jovial archpriest, pausing close behind his sister-in-law. "'Se casco mi, Caschemo tuti tri!' ('Tumble me, Tumble all three!'). Lines by the poet Zanella," he quoted merrily.

Behind her black veil Signora Bettina's vermilion nose took on a deeper hue, while a fleeting smile lit up Don Emanuele's watery eyes, a sign rather of deference for a superior's wit than of any appreciation of it.

"Cape!" muttered Signora Bettina. This invocation in dialect of a favourite crustacean inhabitant of the sea was an ejaculation that was often upon her lips, and, in the present case, expressed a gentle self-justification and the fitting reverence that had forbidden her advancing at the chaplain's side. On reaching the parsonage door the latter stepped aside to the right and Signora Bettina to the left, while the archpriest, hastening his steps and murmuring, "Here I am! Here I am!" passed in in triumph, with a great flapping of priestly robes.

They assembled in the little dining-room of the parsonage, where coffee stood ready for the archpriest and for Signora Bettina, who was in the habit of going to Communion every day. Don Emanuele had said his Mass at five, and now sought permission to withdraw under pretext of studying. The archpriest detained him.

"Don't study so much. You will only muddle your brain," said he.

The other, who was clever at feigning, appeared to yield simply from a sense of deference, whereas, in reality, this little formality had been privately arranged with his superior, and he began talking of a certain sick person he had visited that morning. The archpriest, meanwhile, was taking his coffee and milk in an old chipped basin, and dipping into it some broken bits of yesterday's bread. Signora Bettina was having her coffee in a similar basin, but with some of those Pandoli for which the town of Schio is famous.

"I am ashamed to be eating these biscuits, Don Tita," said she, raising one to her mouth.

"Be ashamed, then, to your heart's content," replied the excellent Don Tita, laughing. "Shame is a virtuous sentiment." And as she still hesitated, in red-faced silence, to bite off the top of the biscuit, he added, laughing still: "Go ahead! Go ahead! Aren't you a native of Dolo, and is that not Dolo bread?"

"Poor Dolo!" cried Signora Bettina, turning with a smile to Don Emanuele, and speaking in Italian now. "What ever am I to do? The archpriest cannot forgive me for having been born there."

"Just as he cannot forgive me for having been born at Udine," the chaplain replied, smiling also.

"I should think not!" Don Tita exclaimed. "Udine indeed! Fountains without water and an aristocracy without manners!"

Now, Don Emanuele was not only a native of Udine but came of a noble family as well; but Don Tita, of course, was only jesting. His face, his person, his bearing, and his language, all pointed to the young chaplain's gentle birth and education. In appearance he was in all things the reverse of Don Tita. Don Tita, short and rubicund, with a merry face, as heavy as his own witticisms, and eyes that twinkled, despite his honest piety, inspired rather by worldly shrewdness than by celestial yearnings, was most careless in his dress, anything but scrupulous as regards cleanliness, and familiar and simple in manner, sometimes even to the point of rudeness.

In Don Emanuele, tall and slender, one saw the future prelate. He had the face of an ascetic--a lofty brow beneath a delicate and perfect arch of light hair, thin cheeks, deep-sunk eyes under bushy brows; the eyes themselves of a pale blue, with mysterious pupils and irises moist, as it were, with meekness, and, like windows of painted glass, open to light but closed upon the soul. In his bearing and gestures there was a precocious dignity and sense of just measure. His language also was studied and cautious. He spoke softly, in a cold, slightly nasal voice and with aristocratic enunciation. It was said that in his early youth he had wished to join a religious Order, but that his bishop, for some reason unknown, had dissuaded him. It was also said that his family had strongly desired him to seek an appointment in connection with the _curia_ in Rome, but that it had been his own ardent wish to devote himself, for a time at least, to the cure of souls, at a distance from his family and in a different diocese.

Inwardly, also, Don Tita and Don Emanuele were dissimilar, but less so than outwardly. Don Tita was more complex. Don Tita's spirit might be compared to his face, whose fundamental hardness was concealed by flexible muscles and soft flesh; or, less gruesomely, to a green, flowery field, where the rock is not a hand's breadth below the surface; or to certain small, soft mountain peaches, in which the teeth are quickly brought into contact with the uncompromising stone. On the surface he was all good nature, verbal acquiescence, and willingness to accommodate; but his heart was hard and cold with a religious conscience that was stereotyped by antiquated doctrines and dominated by tradition, the letter of the law, and the authority of the hierarchy. It was a conscience full of conviction, and a slave to the desire to perform his religious duty everywhere, at all times, and at whatever cost. But to Don Tita charity towards his neighbour was merely a duty imposed by a stern external law. Obedient to the gospel, he was generous in bestowing alms, but he neither loved nor esteemed the poor. The most grievous sins of his flock, above all, any public exhibition of disrespect for the sacerdotal office, irritated rather than grieved him, and made his hands itch--his heavy hands, that were not unskilled in a certain form of oratory. As to his morals, they were of a scrupulous, almost mistrustful purity. A man of many prayers, he despised mysticism, which he looked upon as sentimentality, except when met with in the saints or in their writings; for to him the saints were especial beings, men born with the nimbus decreed to them by canonisation after death.

He had a fair knowledge of theology, and was not entirely destitute of literary culture; he had been Professor of Classics in the seminary, although, indeed, he knew no Greek. His reading consisted exclusively of newspapers, magazines, and Catholic books. Only Italian printed matter came to the parsonage for him, but for Don Emanuele there came the _Stimmen aus Maria Laach_, and other foreign publications, principally German. This strong food was not for the excellent Don Tita, but nevertheless filled him with admiration for Don Emanuele's powers of mastication. Admiration, not envy, for Don Tita was not ambitious, and was satisfied with his lot, his only desire being, perhaps, promotion to a parish in the city, that he might escape from the mountains that oppressed him, and where he might enjoy the society of old friends and colleagues. This was the height of his ambition. But as to Don Emanuele, nephew of a cardinal, son of a privy-chamberlain to his Holiness, and brother of one of the noble-guardsmen, Don Tita believed him destined to great things. If the humble chaplain of Riese had become Sovereign Pontiff, why should not a chaplain, favoured by fortune as was Don Emanuele, achieve the same greatness? The archpriest's bearing towards the younger man was difficult to define. He really stood somewhat in awe of him, but he sought to hide this sentiment beneath a display of jocose familiarity. He felt Don Emanuele's superiority, and was never entirely at his ease with him. He believed him to be a tower of knowledge because he spoke German, nevertheless he was convinced that, as a preacher, he, Don Tita, surpassed him. His vanity was flattered by the fact that he had such a chaplain, but there were times when he could not help thinking that the parsonage would be a pleasanter place without Don Emanuele.

Don Tita would perhaps have been happier without his chaplain, because Don Emanuele did not speak the dialect, because his manners were refined, and because he was the living negation of all that is jovial. But in the main both were hewn from the same stone. In Don Tita, however, there was need of much scraping before the natural rock was reached, whereas Don Emanuele was a smooth and highly-polished monolith. Notwithstanding his knowledge of the diabolical German language, he was far less clever than the archpriest. The son of an Austrian woman of rank, he had learnt French and English from his sisters' _bonnes_ and governesses. It was said that his progress in theology was slow, notwithstanding his persistent application. But many visits to Rome, where he had been the guest of his uncle the Cardinal--a man of genius, extremely sociable, and surrounded by friends--had done for him what long immersion in good Bordeaux may do for certain insipid biscuits. This great personage, the family divinity, had been a sun to his asteroid of a nephew, and, all unconsciously and unintentionally, had attracted him to his own orbit from the time that the asteroid was still studying grammar. It is true the lad already displayed, both in face and character, a singular predisposition for high ecclesiastical office. At ten he was a little man fully equipped with all the manners and graces of the best society, a stranger to all games and boyish friendships, orderly, respectful, quaintly discreet in his infrequent discourses, measured in his expressions of affection towards his relatives, regulating such expressions according to their different degrees of relationship, devout, and self-contained. His mother, the Cardinal's sister, and a very pious woman, was at once proud of this son and disappointed in him. It was a joy to her to know that he was sincerely religious, and an anxiety to know nothing further concerning him. The Cardinal had never been like this--his was an open nature. When little Emanuele was between six and eight, to all who asked him what he was going to be when he grew up he would answer promptly, "A bishop"; between eight and twelve the answer was, "A priest," but between twelve and fourteen he would only repeat obstinately, "I don't know, I don't know!" The honest answer at that time would have been, "A cardinal." Still, he was no hypocrite nor was he consciously ambitious. He honestly felt himself called to enter the Church, and he persuaded himself that his birth and connections providentially predisposed him to rise to dignity and power in her service, and that this lofty sentiment sanctified certain ambitious longings whose voices he had heard within him in early days, not without certain pricks of conscience. By degrees these longings had become so enveloped in the mantle of pious yearnings as to be completely hidden from his conscience. The mantle was both wide and heavy. Don Emanuele's religious zeal was not inferior to that of Don Aurelio, his religious convictions were no less deep, his life and thoughts no less pure, no less free from any stain of concession to lustful tendencies. But his conception of God, and, above all, his conception of the Church was different. Divine paternity was to him rather a formula in which he believed than a truth which he felt and which was precious to him. With his lips he called Him Father, while in his heart he felt Him to be a monarch. Don Emanuele's grandfather had been the imperious and formidable tyrant of his noble family, upon which he had forced his own austere asceticism, and a fear of God that in his children and grandchildren was irrevocably confused with a fear of himself. In Don Emanuele's mind the idea of God had shaped itself in accordance with his grandfather's imperiousness and piety. His God was a species of infinite grandfather, holy and terrible. For him the Church was the only hierarchy, and was, in a way, his grandfather's house, where there was perpetual entertainment of priests and friars, as celestial beings superior to poor humanity.

The archpriest alone in all the countryside knew exactly under what circumstances Don Emanuele had come from Udine to be chaplain of Val d'Astico. It had been the will of the Cardinal that his nephew should devote himself, not to the career of the prelacy, but to the cure of souls, at a distance from his family and his aristocratic connections, in a diocese where his name was completely unknown. The archpriest had heard this from the Bishop of Vicenza. Don Emanuele himself had never mentioned it to him; indeed, he never spoke either of himself, his family, or his future plans. He even seemed unwilling to speak of the Cardinal. By dint of much effort, the archpriest had succeeded in eliciting from him some information concerning the Cardinal, and had concluded that the nephew had more reverence than affection for his uncle. He therefore refrained from mentioning the Most Eminent, save at Christmas, New Year, Easter, and on the eve of the festival of St. John, his Eminence's patron saint. On these occasions he would say: "By the way, Don Emanuele ... when you write to Rome, if you think best ... you understand ... my most humble...." Or sometimes his words would be only: "By the way, when you write...." And he would complete the phrase with a respectful bending of head and body, and an obsequious spreading of hands.

II

"Madre Santa! How he talks!" cried Signora Bettina, turning a very red face to the chaplain, upon the archpriest's outburst concerning the aristocracy of Udine. The unruly member of Don Tita's flock had made a mistake when he fastened upon Signora Bettina the title of the "female Holy Ghost." She had not the slightest ambition to inspire either her brother-in-law or Don Emanuele, and was intent only upon her own sanctification. At the age of fifty-two she had become the widow of Dr. Fantuzzo, and being childless and well provided for, had arranged to occupy an apartment in the spacious parsonage at Velo d'Astico from the end of April to the beginning of November of each year, for which apartment she paid rent to the archpriest. She had her own kitchen, and took only her morning coffee with Don Tita. She was of a good family of Dolo, and had remained faithful to certain habits of life differing somewhat from those of the archpriest, and notwithstanding her profound respect for the clergy, she was jealous of her liberty. That she might be preserved from her neighbour was, indeed, one of the fundamental characteristics of her extremely fervent piety. Signora Bettina desired and prayed that, for the greater glory of God, her good neighbour might be encouraged in the path of righteousness, and that her bad neighbour might be converted, but she would have neither of them hanging about the house--she would have no "bother"! She would look after her own soul, let others look after theirs. When her right hand succoured the poor her left hand remained in ignorance of the fact, but so also did her heart. Her heart was eager only to acquire mortgages on celestial estates, and on these terms, and through the agency of her brother-in-law, she was more willing to allow her loans to the Almighty to take the form of surplices, copes, altar-clothes, sacred vessels, Masses, and Requiems than that of deeds of charity. But her heart had not always been thus. In her early youth it had been a heart full of secret and dangerous vagaries. The late Dr. Fantuzzo, however--a good-natured creature enough, but coarse and pleasantish and an inveterate drinker--had disillusioned her. Sprung from a deeply religious family, she had one day been terrified by being brought face to face with a temptation such as she had never dreamed of. She took refuge in fervent asceticism, and in all such external practices as were best adapted to surround her with an invulnerable reputation. Aided by an uncompromising theologian, who was mistrustful of all mysticism, her wavering earthly flames were gradually transformed into one great blaze, nominally the love of God, but really the desire for her own salvation. The world, always severe in its judgment of pious persons, might easily have set her down as a born egotist. But is the world capable of judging? Different social surroundings and a simpler spiritual training might not have smothered those harmless affections that had gladdened childhood and youth. In this imperviousness to friendship she resembled the chaplain rather than Don Tita. The merry Don Tita was quick to make friends, and found it easy to adapt himself to every one. Don Emanuele had never had a friend; in the midst of a merry crowd he seemed like a crow, dazed by the noise of a flock of cocks and hens. But Don Emanuele had not yet found his peace, and Signora Fantuzzo had. She had no other temptations save of eating three biscuits with her morning coffee, instead of two, of telling the archpriest to stop wiping his pen on his hair, now that it was white, and of praying that the Lord might see fit to destroy the cobbler's scandalous cat. She was more like Don Emanuele than Don Tita, and in fact, without drawing any comparisons, which she would have scrupled to do, she felt for Don Emanuele a respect and admiration she would have shrunk from uttering, and cherished a secret reverence for him, whereas her open demonstrations of reverence were directed mainly towards the archpriest. In speaking of the latter, Signora Bettina might sometimes smile; in speaking of Don Emanuele, never.

* * * * *

When she had finished her coffee Signora Fantuzzo reached for her black veil which lay on the table.

"Well," said she, "Don Tita----"

This was her usual formula of departure. Don Tita stretched out his hand, with fingers widespread.

But the archpriest had no intention of letting her go, and burst into a long string of "No, no, no," and "Sit down, sit down!"

The servant entering at that moment to remove the tray, Don Tita ordered her to be gone, and as a greater precaution against interruption, he withdrew to the study beyond, followed by the chaplain and Signora Bettina, who was in great trepidation in case she were about to be involved in some "bother."

The archpriest's joke led her to suppose that it was simply a matter of advice, but even this would be a "bother." In fact, not even to herself did she confess her horror of "bother," believing that this horror was only for such doubts as her conscience might inspire, and, after all, every "bother," be it in advice or deed, must bring with it some scruple of conscience. In the past one of her spiritual directors had recommended a certain book, well calculated to further the progress in her soul of an incipient paralysis of all scruple.

"The fact of the matter is, my dear Bettina," the archpriest began, "that, were it not for the glory of God and the good of our neighbour, we would not trouble you. Is not that so, Don Emanuele?"

Don Emanuele, who had kept his eyes fixed upon the archpriest as if to control and direct his language, into which there frequently crept expressions that were ill-advised and good-naturedly imprudent, showed both in his glance and bearing so evident a desire to help, that the archpriest immediately took advantage of it.

"Do you wish to explain?" he asked. "Then do."

Promptly withdrawing once more into his cold shell of prelatical composure, Don Emanuele spoke, confident of not spoiling, as the archpriest might have done, a certain piece of delicate machinery which had been set in motion, perhaps not over much for their neighbour's good, but certainly, from the chaplain's point of view at least, very much for the glory of God. He believed himself more clever than the archpriest, because he had studied the grammar of subtleties, but he was mistaken. The archpriest was clever by nature, unconsciously clever, and his purposes were served by the very imprudence and carelessness of his language. It made him appear a simple creature to such as had but slight knowledge of him, and there was perhaps no one in all the countryside who really knew him well, save Signor Marcello and Donna Fedele, who had the power of reading character in a very short space of time.

"Well," said Don Emanuele, "it is a question of saving a poor girl."

"Ah! yes, I can fancy what it is then," said Signora Bettina, her face lighting up with satisfaction beneath a veneer of compunction. "I can fancy."

The subject, indeed, was a thorny one and painful to handle, but the "bother" would be but slight. Her servant's younger sister was undergoing siege by a private of the Royal Foot Artillery.

"Ah, I know!" she went on with a sigh. "I am sorry to say I know. I heard only yesterday, and had, indeed, intended to speak to the archpriest about it."

"You are on the wrong scent--the wrong scent, my girl!" muttered Don Tita, his deep and serious tones saying plainly, "This is quite another matter."

"Perhaps she does know. She may perhaps know," observed Don Emanuele sweetly, addressing the archpriest. "The matter has to do with the young person--the young lady who lives with Signor Trento, and who was to have married his son."

The archpriest had his eyes fixed upon his sister-in-law to see what her expression would be. It was not promising.

"Good gracious! I don't know her!" said she.

If she supposed she had found a safe refuge through her declaration of ignorance, her illusion was short-lived.

"Nonsense!" said the archpriest.

"It would be easier if you were acquainted with her," Don Emanuele observed thoughtfully. "Do you not know her at all? Not even slightly?"

"By sight. Oh yes, by sight!" Signora Fantuzzo replied with flushed cheeks. But Don Emanuele, who was well informed, held his peace, as one who deems it better policy to insist by silence.

"I may have spoken to her once," Signora Bettina conceded, her face aflame.

"That is good," said the archpriest.

"But I shall not speak to her again--not again--certainly not again!"

Poor Bettina appeared terrified, and kept repeating, "Ah, no, no, no!" until the archpriest demanded impatiently: "Why not? What has she done to you?" She replied that the person in question made her feel timid, terribly timid. But this was far from being the true reason. Leila had found herself seated beside her one day in church, when poor Bettina was sporting a headgear of such an outlandish description as to excite the mirth of a group of summer visitors, consisting of eight or ten young girls, each one more flighty than the other. Seeing this, Leila immediately took poor Signora Fantuzzo under her protection. She offered her own seat, recaptured a whole flight of saints that had escaped from the Signora's prayer-book, left the church when she did, and found an opportunity of saying a few pleasant words concerning the archpriest's sermon. For some unknown reason the young girl's courtesy completely upset poor Bettina. It was as if, together with a wave of strong attraction, there flowed over her once more those vague emotions of her youth that had once filled her with terror. To become the Signorina's friend, to come in contact with a youthful spirit, a spirit well versed in love and the ways of the world, to taste of both once more, even though it be through another--such was the temptation that had spoken faintly within Signora Bettina's bosom. But it had been sufficiently strong to send her hastening into the parsonage crying, "Enough, enough, enough!" her throat a cavern overflowing with ejaculations expressive of her firm determination never again to approach that most dangerous person.

"It would of course be better if she could speak to her," said Don Emanuele, looking at the archpriest, "but it does not seem to me to be essential."

"No so po!--I don't know!" The three truly masterly monosyllables seemed to signify that he saw no way of reaching the desired goal if his sister-in-law persisted in refusing to approach the Signorina. As a matter of fact neither the archpriest nor the chaplain really intended to bring about an interview. Their tactics were to lead up skilfully to a proposal that should appear and be agreed to as a compromise. But Don Emanuele had gone too fast, and the archpriest's _No so po_ had been a delicate and artistic turn of the brake. Don Emanuele saw this and retreated with a _Perhaps_, that was charged with doubt and with regret as well as with suggestions of yielding and exhortation.

As both lapsed into silence after this, Signora Bettina, hoping that the hour of her release had now come, straightened her shoulders as if about to rise, and uttered another:

"Well."

"Wait, my girl," said the archpriest, stopping her by a gesture, and turning to Don Emanuele, he added:

"We may as well tell her everything. Then she can make up her mind what to do. Do you agree?"

Don Emanuele, remembering the lesson he had just received from one he looked upon as having more to learn than to teach, raised his two hands that rested on his knees, spreading them like a pair of fans, and murmured in his turn:

"I don't know."

Don Tita's tone now became decided.

"Yes, yes! Tell her," he said. "Tell her."

Then Don Emanuele drew his tunic about his legs with an almost feminine gesture, and began:

"It is a very simple matter."

But it was evidently a very complex matter, and he did not know where to begin.

"The Signorina's parents are still living," said he. "Her father, you know----"

And the chaplain drew a long and soft breath in a manner as if to signify that of the father there was good to be said and evil as well, and that, having added the two together, the sum total was that--it would be best to say nothing.

"The mother, on the other hand----" he went on.

"Ah! the mother," Don Tita put in in a deep bass voice laden with satisfaction, and wagging his head as if silently denying that anything evil could be said of her.

"Mercy on us, Don Tita!" Signora Bettina gasped in utter amazement, fixing her eyes on her brother-in-law, for in the past she had heard accounts of a very different nature.

The chaplain hastened to pacify her.

"No," he began. "In times past, indeed, there may have been room for comment. Yes, indeed, there were certain indiscretions.... Now she is a woman who is making amends, a woman whose one thought is for pious works and deeds of charity, who lives in Milan, leading a most edifying life, and who is well known to many excellent men among the clergy. It is true she is separated from her husband, but there may be some good reason for that, or perhaps some misunderstanding. After God and the Church her one thought is for her daughter. She can have no direct communication with her because Signor Trento, a hard-hearted man who may or may not be truly religious, will not allow it. At this moment she is trembling for her daughter. I heard of this in a letter I received the other day from a priest, a most worthy priest, who comes in contact with her."

"Have you the letter about you?" the archpriest broke in. "You had better read it."

Don Emanuele glanced apologetically at his superior.

"To tell the truth," said he, "it is a letter of a very private----"

"Well, well!" cried Don Tita. "Never mind, then, never mind."

The chaplain continued:

"This priest writes that Signora da Camin has discovered that a young man from Milan, who is well known there, and who bears a notorious reputation, has been staying at Signor Trento's for some days and is still there."

"An unhappy creature!" murmured Don Tita. "A most unenviable individual!"

He said this in the tone of one who registers an irreparable and unhappy fact.

Signora Bettina struck in timidly to say she thought she had seen the young man in church on the preceding Sunday. Don Emanuele sighed, but did not speak.

"Yes, yes," said the archpriest, "very likely you did see him. He goes to church, but he is worse than those who do not. Headstrong, my girl, and a friend of that other headstrong fellow the priest of Lago. He is one of those who want to change everything in our religion."

Signor Bettina emitted a whistling sound, sucking the air in sharply as if she had burnt her tongue. Once more Don Emanuele sighed.

"Alas! yes," said he. "And this mother is living in agony lest her child should become interested in the young man, and lest the young man--the girl being good-looking and possessed of great expectations----"

"The Lord save us!" Don Tita exclaimed. "If he should worm himself in here----"

Signora Bettina repeated her whistling noise.

"Now," Don Emanuele went on, "the priest who writes to me has been able to discover, through what seems to me a special dispensation of Divine providence, that----"

There was a pause.

"Out with it, out with it!" cried Don Tita. "Courage! Very well, then, I will go on. It seems there is some sort of a mess between this fellow and a woman in Milan--a married woman, mind you."

Signora Bettina here indulged in repeated whistlings.

"The other night Don Emanuele and I were talking this over," Don Tita continued, "and wondering how we could get this piece of information to the girl. We thought and thought, but could find no way. But yesterday we came to the conclusion that the only way would be through you."

"Good Lord, Don Tita!"

The accent with which she pronounced this ejaculation was heartrending.

There was silence.

"We will say no more about it," the archpriest declared. "The girl will be ruined, but it will be through no fault of mine."

Signora Fantuzzo, who was seated beside the archpriest's writing-table, reached out for a book that lay upon it, and drawing it towards her, pretended to study it. She was the colour of a lobster.

"I really believe," Don Tita exclaimed, "that this sly puss knows more than she will tell!"

Signora Fantuzzo protested that she knew nothing at all, but the archpriest had little trouble in eliciting from her the information that the Trentos' cook, who was a friend of her servant's, had talked of the goings on at home since the arrival of the young man from Milan. She had spoken of the master's apparent uneasiness, of Teresina, the maid's, ill-humour, and of fits of weeping on the part of the Signorina. One morning the maid had rushed into the kitchen calling for very strong coffee, her eyes standing out of her head with fright, because the young lady had been foolish enough to shut the windows, with all the flowers she kept in her room at night, and was almost dead with the headache. The cook had said at the time:

"The girl wants to kill herself!" and the maid had answered, her eyes full of tears, "Who can say!"

"I believe," added the excellent Bettina, "that all this is because the young man was such a friend of her lover's, and reminds her of him."

"My good creature," said Don Tita, "you are a simpleton."

Meanwhile Don Emanuele was reflecting with a grateful heart how visibly favourable Providence was to his aims and to those of the archpriest. To tell the truth, neither the one nor the other had proposed making Signora Bettina the only and direct instrument of Providence in this matter. In their satisfaction at possessing a weapon against Don Aurelio's friend, the famous Alberti, they had planned that Signora Bettina should confide the story of Alberti's intrigue with the woman in Milan to her servant, who, as they well knew, was a friend of the Trentos' cook, and the cook, they hoped, would pass the scandal on to the maid. And here were their hopes being realised; here was the machinery already acting in the service of similar confidential reports.

"Then I understand," the future prelate began, with a guileless air, "that between your servant and the Trentos' cook----"

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in!" cried good-natured Don Tita.

The chaplain relapsed into silence, dropping his watery eyes, but otherwise giving no sign of his dissatisfaction at the interruption sanctioned by his superior. It was Signora Fantuzzo's servant, who had come to look for her mistress. Don Tita, his mind flooded with the light of a sudden inspiration, begged her to wait outside. "One moment, one moment only!" he cried. He himself rose and closed the door with a bang that--left it open! Then he began declaiming, confronted by the bewildered faces of the chaplain and Signora Bettina.

"Listen, sister-in-law, and you also, chaplain. You must not mention it, but I will tell you something. That young fellow from Milan who is at the Montanina and who is so intimate with the priest of Lago--do you know what a precious pearl he is? He is entangled with a woman in Milan, I tell you, and I know--a woman with a husband, children----"

"Goodness!" Bettina ejaculated. "Children also?"

"Well?" Don Tita retorted in a low tone. "She is married, isn't she?" And he resumed in a loud voice: "Let us hope the rascal has no designs upon that young girl who lives with old Trento! Supposing her mother should hear of this, poor woman!"

Hereupon Don Tita rose, and added softly, "That's done!" Casting at Don Emanuele the glance of a colleague in art who has proved himself a master, he crept to the door on tiptoe and flung it suddenly open, shouting, "Where is she ... ah! excuse me." For there the woman stood before him, half stunned by the sudden opening of the door. Signora Bettina rose, thankful to be free at last. The chaplain, not entirely convinced of the success of this brilliant strategy, was still pondering the matter, when the archpriest's servant rushed in, in a state of great excitement.

"The Fedele woman is here!"

Signora Vayla's Christian name was often mistaken among the peasants for her surname.

"What Fedele woman?" the dazed archpriest demanded.

"Don't you know? The one from Arsiero--the one with white hair."

Signora Bettina scurried away, the archpriest closed his eyes and puffed, as if he had been offered a glass of castor-oil, the chaplain murmured, "Archpriest!" and stood before his superior with clasped hands and eyes raised heavenward, which attitude signified an exhortation to the man to stand firm, and a prayer to the Lord to keep the man standing firm. Then, with bowed head, he also hastened away. The archpriest requested that Donna Fedele should be ushered in. He was convinced she had come to talk to him about Don Aurelio and of the people of Lago's determination to appeal, if need be, to his Holiness himself against the priest's dismissal.

III

Donna Fedele had driven over from the Villino delle Rose in the usual little hired carriage. Near the Posina Bridge she had met Massimo, and had said to him, laughing, "I am going to see the archpriest about the 'den.'" By a similar channel of communication to that which lay between the parsonage and the Montanina, certain interesting bits of news had reached her, and also, amongst others, the fact that at the parsonage her house had been labelled a "den" on account of Carnesecca's presence. She had answered Massimo's exhortation to "give him a piece of her mind" with a smile, a smile as sweet as her voice. But when the little carriage had turned to the left on the steep rise, the noble lines of her face assumed an expression of melancholy, which the meeting with Massimo had not a little to do with. She was worried as to the position of affairs at the Montanina. She saw, indeed, that Massimo was daily becoming more strongly attached, but she recognised too that Signor Marcello was anxious and Leila startlingly enigmatical. Leila impressed the older woman as a creature at war with herself, and withal so proud that nothing good could come from any attempt to influence her. Donna Fedele had won Teresina's confidence, and had heard from her about the flowers and the closed windows, which incident she felt should neither be made too much of nor entirely ignored. Teresina's idea was that the girl was in love, and was ashamed of her state of mind, feeling bound in honour to the memory of poor Signor Andrea and by Signor Marcello's trust in her. It was at present impossible to see clearly in the matter, and Donna Fedele could not rid herself of innumerable doubts, anxieties, and presentiments.

* * * * *

Waiting in the little salon of the parsonage, Signora Bettina and Don Emanuele strongly reminded the visitor of two frightened chickens, as they scurried past, hugging the wall, and she recalled so vividly a certain red wart above the archpriest's left eye, that always became inflamed when he was worried, that a laugh clutched her throat, and she had barely time to straighten her face before entering the study.

The wart was scarlet indeed, but her welcome was of the warmest. Worthy Don Tita appeared incapable of suppressing within himself--and he was, in truth, no weak vessel--a certain effervescent mixture of surprise, pleasure, and obsequiousness. But at this moment Don Tita was no hypocrite. Rising, he approached his visitor, crying eagerly, "Well, well, well! Who do I see, who do I see? Your servant, your very humble servant!" And this cordiality was not the result of any calculation. There was an unconquerable officiousness in his blood that instantly rendered him cordial and ceremonious in the presence of any person worthy of consideration. On such occasions he felt any differences of opinion that might separate him from such a person shrivel within him, as by a miracle, and in spite of himself he was bound to convey to that person, by means of words, gestures, and play of feature, that he was really much more of his or her opinion than that person might be inclined to think. Secretly, Donna Fedele was highly amused by the reception she had of course expected, especially when she reflected how different would be the scene that must follow. She also took a mischievous delight in accepting the archpriest's big chair, and in imagining herself a bishop in her violet skirt, and she longed to reach out her hand to the snuffbox that lay open on the table before her.

"I have come," she began, in that gentle, indolent manner of hers, "to show you that I try to be a Christian, if not a good Christian, at least a passable one."

The archpriest gave a loud laugh.

"That is good! That is good! But who doubts it, Signora? Tut, tut, tut! Who doubts it?"

Donna Fedele smiled, but while her lips were smiling her eyes widened and flashed with a vivid light.

"Ah! that is the question," said she, and there was a flash in her voice also.

Don Tita pretended not to understand, to have forgotten a certain occasion when Donna Fedele lent her grounds for a peasants' merry-making that had ended in some rather wild dancing, to have forgotten, too, a certain unwise sermon of his of which the lady had unnecessarily reminded him.

"Tut, tut, tut!" he repeated.

The sweet voice went on:

"You yourself have not always considered me such, and you do not at present, now that I have taken Pestagran into my house."

Don Tita became the colour of a raspberry.

"I?" he cried. "Quite the contrary! It is pure charity, Signora! Charity, charity! A priest's house was one thing, you see, but the house of a layman is another."

"It is a lay 'den,' then," Donna Fedele murmured under her breath.

The archpriest did not hear, and she went on to say, still blandly, that she had not known the clergy were less bound to perform deeds of charity than the laity. Don Tita's protests she met with a fixed stare and in silence.

Poor Don Tita, remembering that he had said that this lean lady was more of a _Carnesecca_ (a piece of dry flesh) than Gran Peste himself, and who was far from realising that had she known this Donna Fedele's amusement would have tempered her severity towards himself, was as one seated upon hot coals.

"But I am not here," she continued, "to discuss Pestagran, or anything connected with Pestagran."

"_Ben_, Signora! Good, good!"

The archpriest said "_Ben!_" relieving his feelings by a lapse into dialect, but in his heart he thought, "_Male_, Signora! Bad, very bad!" for although that first pill was swallowed, who could say what Madame Carnesecca might have in reserve?

"As you and I are both interested in the same person, I have come to ask you for some information that might perhaps, under certain circumstances, affect that person indirectly."

This time Donna Fedele spoke in a clear and rather loud voice, articulating her words carefully and looking resolutely at Don Tita. His face was filled with bewilderment. Who could this person be? Bettina? No, no--nor the chaplain either. Could it be Don Aurelio, after all?"

"It is true, is it not," Donna Fedele went on, "that you are much interested in the young girl who lives with Signor Trento?"

Don Tita, greatly relieved that Don Aurelio had not been sprung upon him, rubbed his hands together softly.

"I, Signora ... I interested...? No, no, Signora. Not at all, not at all."

"What do you mean by 'not at all,' when you are anxious to have her warned against a certain Alberti because he is carrying on an intrigue with a married woman?"

The archpriest made up his mind that Donna Fedele was indeed an incarnation of the evil one. He muttered, "What, what, what!" and, gathering his scattered wits together, whispered to himself, "The monster!" these words referring to his own servant, who alone could have listened, have heard, and have gossiped. But meanwhile he found no answer. Donna Fedele waited for a time, and then asked, with her gentle but pitilessly apathetic air, if he were going to admit or deny the accusation.

"I deny it," said Don Tita, recovering from the blow. "I can safely deny it, Signora. I deny having had any hand in the matter. I was already acquainted with the fact, Signora, but the secret was not my own."

Donna Fedele inwardly regretted having omitted to count the archpriest's "Signoras." Once before she had counted, or said she had counted, one hundred and one in half an hour. Presently she went on with her cold-blooded torture.

"You see, archpriest," she said, "as so much is known here concerning what is said and done in my house, it is only fair that I should know something of what is said and done here."

Donna Fedele was convinced that the archpriest's servant had orders to worm out of her gardener's wife all she could about her mistress, Don Aurelio, Carnesecca, and Massimo Alberti. The servant, on the other hand, had parted with some parsonage gossip in exchange. Then the gardener's wife told the story to the housemaid, and although Donna Fedele invariably scolded her maids for listening to gossip, she had not been able to stop her own ears, and, as a matter of fact, had opened them rather wide this time.

The colour of the wart spread over the whole surface of Don Tita's face.

"Ah! you must really excuse me, Signora," said he in an injured tone, "but as to that--that--oh! oh!----"

And he wagged his head as if it had been on a pivot, and knit his brows.

A timid "Con permesso" was heard, the door opened slowly, and there stood the culprit herself with coffee and biscuits for Donna Fedele. She was a little, fat old woman, with the voice of a goat and a cunning expression. She placed the tray upon the writing-table and glanced at her master, expecting him to rise, as usual, brandish the spoon, and vociferate, "How many lumps, Signora? How many lumps?" Her master did rise, but slowly and not at once, and he gave her a glance that made her tremble lest she had done wrong to bring the coffee. "Cape!" muttered the poor woman, who, like Signora Fantuzzo, was in the habit of appealing to that distant and invisible crustacean. The sight of this bewildered woman, ignorant of her position of _lupus in fabula_, and of Don Tita's face at being obliged to administer coffee and biscuits to an odious creature who had dared to be insolent to him, the thought of the scene that was bound to take place between master and servant as soon as she should have left--all this put the little demon of comedy that had his home in Donna Fedele's brain into such extreme good-humour, that instead of refusing the coffee, or at least the biscuits as her first impulse had prompted her to do, she partook of both, that she might better enjoy her laugh at Don Tita's sad plight and smile at her own part of it.

After the coffee and biscuits, however, she ceased tormenting the poor man. Donna Fedele, who was capable of fierce dislikes, felt only indifference for the archpriest. She believed him to be rather weak than deceitful, rather spoiled by an insufficient and unwholesome education than base by nature, possessing cunning indeed, but cunning of a coarse sort, that it was easy to fathom; and she recognised his good qualities, his disinterestedness, his sincere desire to serve God. When the servant had left the room she told him, very calmly, that she had serious reasons for wishing to know the truth concerning the accusations against young Alberti. Don Tita, who was quickly appeased, at first barricaded himself behind the assurance that the secret was another's; but he soon yielded to the temptation to gratify his interlocutress, and admitted that it was the chaplain's secret, and it would be terrible should the chaplain suspect that his secret was not well guarded. "He is my master, you see! A future cardinal! One centime's worth of cardinal already!" The archpriest often alluded to Don Emanuele in this way, when he believed he was addressing one not friendly disposed towards the chaplain. And this time, indeed, he was not mistaken, for there was no one in the world more uncongenial to Donna Fedele than the chaplain of Velo d'Astico. She asked at once to speak with him, and Don Tita hastened away to fetch him. Donna Fedele felt quite sure he would not be forthcoming, and, in fact, Don Tita returned, after a long enough absence, with a hang-dog expression, stammering that the chaplain was out.

"He will come back," said Donna Fedele, rising. Yes, Don Emanuele would Certainly come back, but hardly before noon. It was then half-past nine. Donna Fedele could not wait two hours and a half, and so, without explaining what she intended to do, she left the parsonage. She made inquiries of a peasant woman seated in the door of a cottage close by if she had seen Don Emanuele. "He has just gone past, Signora," the woman answered. "He went into the church."

Donna Fedele turned quickly, and was sure she saw the archpriest's tunic whisk into the parsonage, he very probably having been watching her movements from the doorway. Mounting the steps, she entered the church and saw the chaplain kneeling in the first row of benches, in front of the high altar, and praying fervently. Instinctively she raised her hand to the holy-water font, but before her fingers had touched the water she repented of her action and withdrew her hand, for her feelings at that moment were all too unchristian. That man, kneeling there with his face buried in his hands, filled her with wrath. For him to play the saint, he, the hard-hearted, malevolent creature! He was the secret enemy and denouncer of Don Aurelio, of that she had no doubt, now that she had discovered him plotting maliciously against Alberti, because he suspected him of heresy! Donna Fedele was ready to swear to this also, although she really knew nothing about it, and had come for the express purpose of discovering whether there was any solid foundation for the accusations against Alberti. She sat down on a bench in the shadow near the side door, and after a moment's hesitation, sank upon her knees. The ancient traditions of her house had made her an earnest believer. Her faith was simple; she did not trouble herself with religious contentions and often declared, like her father before her, she preferred the famous _foi de charbonnier_. But she detested everything that seemed to her deceit, hypocrisy, or perfidy, and at this moment a capricious impulse suggested to her to pray against the prayers of the priest bending low before the high altar. Kneeling down, she prayed, "O Lord! Listen to me, and not to him"; but hardly had she placed her arms upon the bench before her than she thought, "Perhaps he is not praying at all." He seemed to her a Pharisee, and she did not realise that she was putting herself in the position of the Pharisee of the parable and that, like him, she deserved condemnation. Her suspicion, moreover, was unjust. Don Emanuele was praying with all the strength of his soul, according to his nature and education, in the only way possible to him. In his own home no one had ever dared to ask the terrible grandfather for anything in the usual, direct way. A priest, or a favourite steward, or an old nurse had been made the go-between. Thus Don Emanuele prayed rather to His servants than to the Infinite Grandfather Himself. At the present moment he was praying to St. Louis Gonzaga as to a deified prince, who, standing upon the throne in all the pomp of state, surrounded by flowers and winged cherubims, should graciously bend his head in the suppliant's direction and command the demon to depart. Thus prayed poor Don Emanuele as best he might, horrified at the fierceness of unexpected temptation. And it may be that the Almighty, to whom all causes and all origins are known, judged him far less severely than did Donna Fedele, who would have brought about a rare muddle had her prayers for the confusion of the chaplain been answered. Soon afterwards, hearing some one enter the church, Don Emanuele, feigning to look around to see if his chair was empty, and having thereby caught sight of Donna Fedele, sat down and began to read his breviary. In his own way he heartily reciprocated Donna Fedele's dislike. The outspoken frankness, which her soft voice only rendered more irritating, offended him. Besides, he knew her to be the friend of Don Aurelio and of young Alberti, two persons whom he fervently abhorred, convinced, however, that it was their opinions and not themselves that he detested. Conscious of an ill-defined but profound antagonism between himself and Don Aurelio, and instinctively averse to him, he was naturally and conscientiously inclined to attribute to him ideas and opinions unworthy of any Catholic, to say nothing of a priest. The irreprehensibleness both of his words and actions was another source of irritation, for he believed Don Aurelio to be a hypocrite. As to Alberti, what he had read in the newspapers, together with what had been communicated to him from Milan, filled him with a sort of loathing for the man. Donna Fedele, the friend of both, could not differ from them to any great extent.

Upon hearing her announced by the archpriest's servant the chaplain had concluded that she had come to plead Don Aurelio's cause. Now, however, he was aware that she had come about Alberti, that the archpriest's servant had been eavesdropping and gossiping, and that that wretched man had been true to himself and compromised him, the chaplain, instead. As soon as he caught sight of Donna Fedele he guessed her intentions, and as he read his breviary he was enveloping himself in an imaginary armour, plated with steel and bristling with points.

But as the placid lady showed no intention of raising the siege, he knelt down once more, buried his face in his hands, and having pictured to himself the moment of the attack, and decided upon his line of defence, he withdrew to the sacristy. Immediately, and as he had foreseen, Donna Fedele rose and followed him. Being unable to avoid the interview, the chaplain preferred that it should take place in the sacristy rather than at the parsonage or in the street.

Donna Fedele inquired icily if she might speak with him, her eyes veiled with haughty indifference. His equally cold answer was a silent bow of assent.

"I should prefer some other place," said she. He hesitated for an instant, and then proposed that she should wait for him in the church. They would go out together. He remained in the sacristy at least ten minutes longer, and then made a genuflection before the high altar that lasted two minutes more.

"I wish you to give me a piece of reliable information," said Donna Fedele, coming out of the church with him, and trembling with impatience.

"If I can," Don Emanuele answered gently but firmly--"if I can."

The Signora found it difficult to check an angry outburst.

"If you can, of course. But I know you can, and, being able to, you must."

"If I can," the chaplain repeated, still more gently and firmly--"if I can. What is it?"

Very red in the face, Donna Fedele observed that it was a delicate matter, and one not fit to be handled in the public square. Hereupon the priest pulled out his watch.

"I have to go to Mea," said he, with that air of gravity, impenetrability, and of compunction, and that _Dominus vobiscum_ tone which were unbearable to Donna Fedele. Once more she fumed.

"Very well. I will take you there. I have a carriage."

"I am sorry, Signora. I must go on foot."

It seemed to Donna Fedele that his short words, his knitted brow, and downcast eyes spoke of a shrinking, prompted by modesty, of a fear of giving scandal. She was on the point of calling him a fool to his face, but checked herself.

"I will walk also," said she. "The carriage can follow us."

Don Emanuele continued to wriggle for a while, but said no more. Two minutes ago Donna Fedele would not have believed herself capable of walking half a kilometre, but now her nerves were braced with sufficient energy to carry her all the way to Vicenza. At the Albergo del Sole she picked up her driver, who, immediately upon his arrival at Velo, had tied his horse to an iron railing, that he might be free to begin an imprudent struggle with a wine that was stronger than himself. As soon as they had crossed the square, the carriage following slowly at a short distance, the conversation began. The priest walked as if the soil burnt his feet, as if he were striving to tire out this woman who was persecuting him.

She told him openly and simply that, for particular reasons, she was very fond of young Alberti. She knew that he was said to hold unorthodox religious views. She hoped that this was not so, but, after all, his religious opinions were not a matter that concerned her. But now they were accusing him of immorality. This was a question upon which she could give an opinion, and, before judging, she wished and was determined to know the truth. The archpriest had told her that the chaplain was the one who knew. At this point the chaplain made a movement of acquiescence.

"Then you do know?" Donna Fedele exclaimed, stopping short. Don Emanuele stopped also. He hoped that, having had her answer, this terrible woman would turn back.

"I am sorry to say I do know," said he. "It is very serious. Immoral dealings with a person who is not free. Unfortunately, this is true, only too true!"

"But what authority have you for saying this?"

"Oh, my source of information is--is--is----"

He appeared unable to find an epithet sufficiently superlative to qualify the excellence of this source.

"Well? And the source--the source----!" Donna Fedele exclaimed impatiently.

"The thing is a fact," the chaplain retorted gravely and positively. "The thing is a fact, but I am not at liberty to reveal the source of my knowledge."

"At least tell me the name of this married woman."

"I cannot."

This, indeed, he was not able to do, and his words naturally were more full of conviction than ever. But Donna Fedele's patience was at an end.

"Do you know what I think?" said she. "That there is no source at all, and that this is a pure invention!"

"Think what you will," said the chaplain, who had grown very pale; and, touching his hat in sign of salutation, he started off rapidly along the road to Mea.

"Don Emanuele!" called the Signora. The driver, who was half tipsy, and who was standing near, his hand upon his horse's bridle, dropped the bridle and flew past Donna Fedele, shouting as he ran:

"Shall I catch him for you?"

"Stop!" cried Donna Fedele, but the drunken man already had the chaplain by the arm.

"Stop, my lad!" he commanded.

"No! Shame upon you!" cried Donna Fedele, coming up with the pair and ordering the driver back to his horse in a tone so peremptory that he obeyed at once.

"Now go!" said she, turning to the bewildered chaplain with such a disdainful air, with so much energy and such fire in her bearing that she seemed almost to have recovered the brilliancy of her youth. "Go on serving God by slandering your neighbour! Treat Alberti as you have treated the priest of Lago! Triumph! I am going back to my house, which you have called a 'den,' and I am better satisfied with myself and my 'den' than you will ever be with yourself and your palace when you are a cardinal." And she turned her back upon him.

"Siora!" (Signora) the driver declared tragically, placing his left hand on his breast, and waving his right, in which he clasped the whip. "If you say the word, priest or no priest, Gèsummaria! I will twist his neck!"

Where can Donna Fedele's little demon have been dozing? She did not even smile, but ordered the carriage to turn round, and got in, heedless of the driver's condition. She could not possibly have walked another step. All her strength was deserting her in a tremor that shook her from head to foot. The gentle wind of Val d'Astico, so pure and fresh, that made the trees sway and the shadows wave upon the white road, revived her somewhat. Having had a chance to relieve her feelings, she now felt a sort of pity for the chaplain. But presently she banished him from her mind, and fixed her thoughts on the Montanina, on her old friend's last, melancholy desire of a union between Leila and Alberti, of the inscrutability of these two young people, and of what the future might have in store.