Chapter X: Part 10

The reflection was not pleasing. He would have far preferred to be able to detect some trace of vulgarity in Bianca's presumptuous lover, and he could discover none. He was disagreeably conscious, too, of his own disadvantages as he looked at Silvio--of his years, of his figure, and of other details beside these.

But if the Rossano family, and especially Silvio, had occupied his attention and interest that evening, Monsieur d'Antin had been hardly less concerned with the personality of Monsignor Lelli. His companion had immediately detected the latter's presence and had pointed him out, at the same time rapidly explaining who he was and his past history at the Vatican.

The _commendatore_--he was _commendatore_ of the papal Order of St. Gregory--made it his business to know as much as he could find out about everybody in Rome, and his information--when it happened to be of sufficient interest, personal, political, or religious--having been for some time placed at the disposal of his patron at the Vatican, the cardinal secretary of state, had been duly paid for by the bestowal of a clerical order of chivalry. It was rumored that he had been the instrument of making more than one wealthy English and American convert to Catholicism among the fair sex; which, as he was not ill-looking, and occupied some of his spare time by giving Italian lessons in eligible quarters, was not improbable. At any rate, the _commendatore_ knew all about Monsignor Lelli and the history of his falling into disgrace at the Vatican, though he was very careful only to give Monsieur d'Antin the official version of the affair. The story did not interest Monsieur d'Antin very much. Moreover, as it turned upon political and financial matters, in which clerics and their money were concerned, he did not believe more than a very small proportion of what he was told. What interested him far more, was the fact that Monsignor Lelli had been sent to work out his repentance at Montefiano; and that he was undoubtedly on intimate terms with the Rossano family.

The departure from the restaurant of the Rossanos and the priest had not escaped the quick eye of the _commendatore_.

"He does not want it known that he is in Rome," he had whispered to Monsieur d'Antin, as Don Agostino disappeared from the terrace.

Monsieur d'Antin did not reply. He thought it far more probable that Monsignor Lelli did not wish to be seen in Silvio's society by anybody connected with the Montefiano household. He kept his own counsel, however, and allowed his companion to think that it was his appearance on the scene that had frightened the priest away. The time had not yet arrived for letting the outside world into the secret of Bianca Acorari's indiscretion.

"I shall certainly let them know at the Vatican that Lelli is in Rome," Peretti said to Monsieur d'Antin. "Who knows why he is here, instead of attending to his duties at Montefiano? I am almost sure it was to Montefiano he was sent, but I will make certain to-morrow, when I shall see the cardinal."

"Why did they choose Montefiano?" asked Monsieur d'Antin. "It is a dreary place; and whenever I have driven through the town, I have seen nothing but pigs and old women--very ugly old women."

Peretti laughed. "That is why he was sent there," he replied. "The Holy Father concluded that he was better fitted to deal with pigs and old women than with finance."

"How long will he be kept there?"

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.