Chapter IV: Part 4

It was an unheard of proceeding. Verily, as Monsieur d'Antin had said, Bianca was no child--unless, indeed, she was more childish than her years warranted. Any behavior more diametrically opposed to all the rules and customs that so strictly regulate the actions of a young girl in Italy could scarcely be conceived.

Silvio Rossano himself was taken aback at her confidence in him. Her demeanor was so natural, however, and her manner, after the first surprise of seeing him had passed, had become so self-possessed, that he never for an instant misunderstood her.

Bianca seated herself upon a dilapidated chair--the only one, indeed, having its full complement of legs that the casino contained.

"Mademoiselle Durand said that if I--if we ever met, you would perhaps ask me for my advice," she said, gravely. "I cannot understand why you should think any advice of mine could help you. Perhaps she made a mistake, and you are here by accident."

Silvio almost laughed at her gravity, but she spoke with a certain dignity of manner which contrasted very charmingly with her fresh, girlish beauty.

"No," he said quietly, "I am not here by accident, Donna Bianca. I am here to see you--to tell you--"

"Ah, yes, I know!" interposed Bianca, hurriedly. "It is very sad, and, believe me, I am very sorry for you--very sorry."

Silvio's bronze face grew suddenly white.

"Sorry!" he exclaimed. "That means you can give me no hope--that you think me presumptuous--"

Bianca glanced at him. "I can give no opinion," she replied; "but I think--" and she paused, hesitatingly.

"Yes?" asked Silvio, eagerly. "What do you think, Donna Bianca?"

"That if I were a man," returned Bianca, slowly, "I would marry whom I chose, no matter how many difficulties stood in my way--that is to say," she added, "if I knew the woman whom I cared for cared for me."

"Ah," exclaimed Silvio, quickly, "but supposing you didn't know?"

"Then I should ask her," said Bianca Acorari, bluntly.

Silvio started violently. Then he came and stood beside her.

"Donna Bianca," he said, in a low, eager voice, "do you know what you are saying?"

Bianca looked at him a little wonderingly. She could not but notice his agitation. "Certainly I do," she replied. "You see, Monsieur Silvio," she added, and then stopped in confusion. "I beg your pardon," she said, blushing violently. "I am very rude--but I have so often heard Mademoiselle Durand speak of you as 'Monsieur Silvio,' that I fear--I am afraid--"

Silvio Rossano's head began to swim. He looked at her and said nothing. Then he swore at himself for being a fool and losing his opportunities.

"You see," proceeded Bianca, picking up the train of her thoughts again, "I am afraid I am not like other girls. I have lived most of my life alone, and I suppose I have odd ideas. When I am of age, I shall certainly please myself--but until then, I have to please other people. Of course, I know that a man is obliged to speak to a girl's parents before he can tell her that he loves her. But I am quite sure that if I were a man and wanted to know if my love were returned, I should ask the person I loved."

Silvio looked at her curiously.

"And is that your advice to me, Donna Bianca?" he said. "You advise me to ask the girl I love--whom I have loved ever since I first saw her seven months ago, though I have scarcely spoken to her in my life--whether she returns my love?"

"If I were in your place--yes," returned Bianca. "Why not, Mons--Signor Rossano?"

Silvio drew a long breath.

"It is what I came here this afternoon to do," he said, quietly.

Bianca looked at him with a bewildered expression. The blood left her face and she became very pale.

"What--you came here to do?" she repeated, slowly--"here? I do not understand."

"Ah, no? You do not understand? Then I will take your advice--I will make you understand." The words came to his lips fast enough now.

"Dear," he burst out, "you shall understand. I love you! Do you know what it means--love? I have loved you ever since that night--that Christmas night--when you looked into my eyes with yours. Do you understand now? I know I have no right to love you--no right to ask you to be my wife--for you are Donna Bianca Acorari, Princess of Montefiano, and I am--nobody. But this is what I have come to ask you--only this--whether you love me? If you do, I swear by God and by the Son of God that I will marry you, or I will marry no woman. If you do not love me, or will not love me, send me away from you--now, at once."

Bianca Acorari sprang up from her chair.

"Me?" she exclaimed. "You love me? Ah, but it is absurd--how can you love me? You are mad--or dreaming. You have forgotten. It is she you love--that other one--"

Silvio seized her hand almost roughly.

"Bianca!" he said, hoarsely, "what, in God's name, do you mean? I love you--you only. I have never looked at another woman--I never knew what love meant till I saw you."

Suddenly Bianca began to tremble violently. In a moment Silvio's arms were round her, and he was pressing hot, passionate kisses to her lips.

"Bianca!" he exclaimed. "Tell me--for God's sake, tell me--"

With a quick gesture she yielded herself wholly to him, drawing his face to hers and running her hands through his close, curly hair.

"Silvio," she whispered, "ah, Silvio! And it was I all the time! I thought--Mademoiselle Durand pretended that it was somebody else--some girl like me--and all the time I wondered why I cared--why I was angry--"

His arms were round her again, and he crushed her to him, while his lips blinded her eyes.

"Ah, Silvio _mio_," she sighed, "it is too much--you hurt me--ah, but it is sweet to be hurt by you--"

Suddenly she wrenched herself from him, crimson and trembling.

"God!" she exclaimed. "What have I done--what must you think of me? I did not know love was like that. It--hurts."

Silvio laughed aloud in the very intoxication of his joy.

"Beloved," he said, "that is only the beginning."

But Bianca shook her head. "I must be very wicked," she said. "I did not know I was quite so wicked. Silvio," she added, looking at him, shyly, "for the love of God, go! It is getting late. At any moment they may be coming to look for me. No--not again--"

"But I must speak with you here to-morrow--the day after," urged Silvio.

"Yes," said Bianca, hurriedly. "I must think," she added. "We must confide everything now to Mademoiselle Durand. Ah, Silvio, you should not have loved me--I shall bring you unhappiness."

Silvio looked at her gravely. "If we are true to each other," he said, "everything must come right. Even if we have to wait till you are of age and free to do as you choose, that is not a very long time."

They had left the casino as Silvio was speaking, and Bianca glanced uneasily down the avenue. Not a soul was visible. The rain had cleared away, and the sun, sinking westward, was streaming into the darkest recesses of the ilex grove. No sound broke the stillness except the splashing of the fountains, and now and again the notes of birds announcing that the hot hours were passed and the cool of evening was approaching.

Bianca turned and laid her hands on Silvio's. "Go, beloved," she said. "We must not be seen together--yet."

Silvio drew her to him once more. "Do you know," he said, "that you have never told me whether you will marry me or not?"

Bianca Acorari looked at him for a moment. Then she answered, simply:

"If I do not marry you, Silvio, I will marry no man. I swear it! Now go," she added, hastily--"do not delay a moment longer. I will communicate with you through Mademoiselle Durand."

"After all," said Silvio, "even if we have to wait three years--"

Bianca stamped her foot on the turf.

"Silvio," she exclaimed, "if you do not go, now--at once--I will not marry you for six years."

She turned away from him and sped down the avenue, while Silvio vanished through the undergrowth.

And the ilex grove was left in possession of the spirits of Pan and his _Luperci_; also in that of Monsieur d'Antin, who, with a little chuckle, stepped from behind the casino and emerged into the sunlight.

*X*

"You do not congratulate me, Giacinta."

Silvio and his sister were sitting alone together after a late dinner which was practically merely a supper. In the summer months in Rome, to be compelled by fashion to sit down to a meal at the pleasantest hour in all the twenty-four is a weariness to the flesh and a vexation to the spirit. Entirely in opposition to all the orthodox ideas inculcated by the guide-books and received by the British tourist, the Romans do not labor under the delusion that death stalks abroad with the sunset, and that deadly diseases dog the footsteps of those who wander through the streets or gardens when the shadows of evening are beginning to fall.

Those whose duties or inclinations keep them in Rome during the summer months do not, as a rule, complain of their lot, knowing full well that of all the larger Italian cities, and, indeed, of all southern capitals, it is on the whole by far the coolest and healthiest.

The Rossano family, like the majority of Romans, adapted their hours to the various seasons, and dinner, which was at any time from half-past seven to half-past eight in winter, became supper at nine or so in summer.

This evening the professor, as was his usual habit on fine nights at this season of the year, had gone out immediately after supper to smoke his cigar and read his evening papers, seated outside one of the _caffe's_ in Piazza Colonna, where a band would be playing till between ten and eleven o'clock.

He had never again alluded to the subject of Silvio having presumably fallen in love. Indeed, he had forgotten all about it immediately after he had startled Silvio by accusing him of it. Giacinta, however, had by no means forgotten it. Silvio's silence, or rather his marked disinclination to discuss either Bianca or anything to do with Casa Acorari, only increased Giacinta's suspicions that he was at work upon his plans in his own way. That he would abandon his determination to make Bianca Acorari's acquaintance she never for a moment contemplated, knowing his strength of will. It was, in Giacinta's eyes, a most unlucky infatuation. In all probability, Donna Bianca Acorari's future husband had been chosen long ago, not by the girl herself, of course, but by the princess and her friends. Silvio's appearance on the scene as a suitor must infallibly lead to trouble, for the difference in their social position was too great to be overcome, except by a very much larger fortune than Silvio could ever hope to possess.

Giacinta Rossano's pride was aroused. It would be intolerable to feel that her brother was regarded as not good enough to be the husband of an Acorari, or of anybody else, for that matter. Knowing Silvio's contemptuous indifference to merely hereditary rank, she wondered that he did not realize the false position into which he was apparently doing his best to put himself. That Donna Bianca Acorari would fall in love with Silvio, if any reasonable opportunity were given her, Giacinta had very little doubt. Any woman might fall in love with him, if it were only for his good looks. But what would be gained if Donna Bianca did fall in love with him? There would be a great _disturbo_--a family consultation--probably a dozen family consultations--a great many disagreeable things said on all sides, and after the girl had had one or two fits of crying, she would give up all thoughts of Silvio, and allow herself to be engaged to some man of her own world. And, in the mean time, Silvio's life would be wrecked, for he would never stand the mortification of a refusal on the part of Princess Montefiano to regard him as a suitable husband for her daughter. He would probably become soured and embittered, and as likely as not take to wild habits. Altogether, Giacinta Rossano had a very unfavorable opinion of the whole business. She devoutly wished that the fates had led her father to choose any other apartment than the second floor of Palazzo Acorari; for in that case Silvio would certainly not have gone to mass at the Sudario on Christmas Eve, and lost his heart and his common-sense when he got there.

This process of reasoning was scarcely logical, perhaps--but Giacinta had quite made up her mind that the midnight mass was responsible for the whole affair. She believed that if Silvio had happened to see Donna Bianca Acorari for the first time under more ordinary circumstances, he would not have thought twice about her. Besides, to fall in love with a person in church, she considered, was certainly improper, and very likely unlucky.

Giacinta had listened to Silvio's account of his meeting with Donna Bianca in the grounds of the Villa Acorari, complete details of which, it is hardly necessary to add, he did not give his sister, with something approaching consternation. She had never doubted that sooner or later Silvio would succeed in obtaining some interview with the girl, but she had certainly not expected to hear that Bianca Acorari was so ready to give everything he asked of her. She had thought that at first Bianca would be bewildered, and scarcely conscious of what love might be, and that it would require more than one meeting before Silvio would succeed in fully arousing a corresponding passion in her.

Evidently, however, from Silvio's words, reticent though he was when he touched upon Bianca's avowed love for him, it had been a case of love at first sight on both sides, and not only, as she had always hoped, on that of Silvio only. This, Giacinta felt, complicated matters considerably; and it was natural, perhaps, if, at the conclusion of Silvio's confidences, she remained silent, engrossed in her own reflections.

"You do not congratulate me," repeated Silvio, as her silence continued.

Giacinta hesitated. "I would congratulate you," she replied, "if I were sure that what you have done will be for your happiness. But as yet," she added, "there is nothing to congratulate you upon."

"How do you mean--nothing to congratulate me upon," said Silvio, with an unruffled good-humor that almost annoyed Giacinta, "when I tell you that she loves me--that she has promised to be my wife? Is not that reason enough for you to congratulate me? But, of course, I always told you I was sure she returned my love."

"You never told me anything of the kind," said Giacinta curtly. "Until this evening, I do not think you have mentioned Donna Bianca Acorari's name to me for three months."

"Have I not?" asked Silvio, carelessly. "Well, it was no good talking about the matter until I was sure of my ground, you know."

"And you are sure of it now?"

"But of course I am sure of it! Has she not promised to marry me?"

"Oh, that--yes," returned Giacinta; "but, Silvio, you know as well as I do that in our country engagements are not made like that. Bianca Acorari is not an English miss. It all reminds me of English novels I have read, in which young men always go for long walks with young girls, and come back to the five-o'clock saying that they are going to be married. This is just what you have done; but, unluckily for you, we are not in England."

Silvio laughed. Nothing could shake his serenity, for had not Bianca sworn that if she did not marry him, she would never marry?

"You forget," he said, "that Bianca and I can afford to wait. Even if Princess Montefiano makes difficulties, it is a mere question of time. In three years Bianca will be her own mistress, accountable to nobody for her actions."

Giacinta shook her head. "That is all very well, Silvio," she replied, "but a great many disagreeable things may happen in three years. Do you think that Donna Bianca loves you enough to keep her promise to you, whatever opposition she may encounter?"

Silvio smiled. "Yes," he said, simply, "I do."

Giacinta was silent for a moment. Silvio was strangely confident, she thought. Perhaps she underrated Bianca Acorari's strength of character. It might be that this girl was really in love with Silvio, and that her character and Silvio's were alike in tenacity of purpose and loyalty. At any rate, she had no right to judge Bianca until she knew her, or at least had had some opportunity of observing how she behaved by Silvio when the storm which they had brewed finally burst, which it certainly must do very quickly.

"You are very sure of her, Silvio _mio_," she said, at length, with a smile.

"Very sure," responded Silvio, tranquilly. "After all, Giacinta," he continued, "what can the princess or her advisers do? They can but refuse to allow the engagement, but Bianca and I shall not consider ourselves the less engaged on that account. And when they saw that opposition was useless, that Bianca intended to marry me, and me only, they would have to give way. Otherwise, we should simply wait till Bianca was of age."

"But pressure might be brought to bear upon her," objected Giacinta.

"Pressure!" exclaimed Silvio.

"Yes; there are many ways. She might be placed in a convent, for instance. Such things have been done before now. Or they might force her to marry somebody else."

"Or kill me! Go on, Giacinta," said Silvio, laughing. "We are not in the Middle Ages, _cara mia sorellina_. In these days, when people disappear, inquiries are made by the police. It is a prosaic system, perhaps, but it has certain advantages."

"Silvio," exclaimed Giacinta, suddenly, "it is all very well for you to laugh, but have you considered how isolated that girl is? She has absolutely no relations on her father's side. Babbo says there are no Acorari left, and that the old prince quarrelled with his first wife's family--Donna Bianca's mother's people. She is alone in the world with a step-mother who is entirely under the thumb of her priest."

"And with me," interrupted Silvio.

Giacinta glanced at him. "They will keep you at a safe distance," she said, "if it does not suit the Abbe Roux that Donna Bianca should marry."

"_Cristo!_" swore her brother, between his teeth. "What do you mean, Giacinta? Do you know what you are implying?"

Giacinta Rossano's eyes flashed. She looked very like Silvio at that moment.

"I know perfectly well what I am implying," she said, quickly. "You have not chosen to trust me, Silvio, and perhaps you were right. After all, I could not have done so much for you as that Frenchwoman has done. God knows why she has done it!"

Silvio looked a little abashed. "How did you know about the Frenchwoman?" he asked.

Giacinta laughed dryly. "Never mind how I know," she replied, "and do not think I have been spying upon your actions. I have been making a few inquiries about the Montefiano _menage_ on my own account--about things that perhaps Mademoiselle Durand--is not that her name?--might never be in a position to hear, as she does not live in the house."

"Ah!" exclaimed Silvio. "Go on, Giacinta."

"The princess," proceeded Giacinta, "must be a strange woman. From what I can hear of her, I should doubt whether anybody knows her the least intimately, except the Abbe Roux. Oh no, Silvio, I do not mean to imply any intimacy of that nature between them," she added, hastily, suddenly becoming aware of the expression on her brother's face. "She is, I imagine, a curious mixture of worldliness and piety, but not worldliness in the sense of caring for society. She would have made an excellent abbess or mother-superior, I should think, for she loves power. At the same time, like many people who love to rule, she is weak, and allows herself to be ruled, partly because she is a fanatic as far as her religion is concerned, and partly--well, partly, I suppose, because she has a weak side to her nature."

Silvio looked at his sister, curiously.

"How did you learn all this?" he asked.

Giacinta shrugged her shoulders.

"You might ask--Why did I learn it?" she said. "I learned it because I wished to analyze the kind of psychologic atmosphere into which you might find yourself plunged!"

Silvio laughed. Giacinta often amused him; she was so like the professor in some ways.

"Perhaps," continued Giacinta, "had it not been that Prince Montefiano developed a conscience late in life, the princess would have been ruling nuns at this moment instead of managing the Montefiano estates."

A quick look of intelligence passed across Silvio Rossano's face. They were Romans, these two, of the sixth generation and more, and were accustomed to the Roman conversational habit of leaving _i_'s to be dotted and _t_'s to be crossed at discretion.

"Of course, she would not be very ready to give up her interest in them," he said.

"Of course not," returned Giacinta. "Moreover," she added, "the priest would do his best to prevent her from giving it up."

"_Si capisce_," said Silvio, briefly. "But how in the world do you know all this, Giacinta?"

"Oh," she replied, "I know a good deal more! I know that the Abbe Roux keeps his eye upon everything; that the princess does not spend a thousand francs without consulting him. She is tenacious of her rights to administer the Montefiano fiefs during Donna Bianca's minority, that is true. But the real administrator is the Abbe Roux. There is another person, too, with whom you ought to be brought into contact, Silvio--and that is the princess's brother, Baron d'Antin. He is _niente di buono_, so my informant tells me. But I do not imagine that Monsieur l'Abbe allows him to have any great influence with his sister. Apparently he comes here but seldom, and then only when he wants something. I do not suppose that he would concern himself very much about you and Donna Bianca."

"So you think all the opposition would come from the princess and that infernal priest?" said Silvio.

"But naturally! They do not want the girl to marry--at any rate, before she is of age. Why two or three years should make so much difference I have no idea. I should like to find out, but it would not be easy."

"I cannot imagine how you have found out so much," said Silvio.

Giacinta laughed. "I have stooped to very low methods," she said, "but it was for your sake, Silvio. If you must know, my maid has chosen to engage herself to one of the Acorari servants, and she tells me all these little things. Of course, she has told me considerably more than I have told you, but, allowing for exaggerations and for all the misconstructions that servants invariably place upon our actions, I believe what I have told you is fairly correct. It is not very much, certainly, but--rightly or wrongly--there appears to be an impression that Donna Bianca is being purposely kept in the background, and that neither the princess nor Monsieur Roux intends that she should marry. Perhaps it is all nonsense and merely gossip, but it is as well you should know that such an impression exists.

"May one ask what you and Donna Bianca mean to do next, Silvio?" concluded Giacinta, a little satirically. "The proceedings up to now have been--well, a little _all' Inglese_, as I think we agreed; and I do not quite see how you propose to continue the affair."

A look half of amusement and half of perplexity came into Silvio's eyes.

"To tell you the truth, Giacinta," he said, "neither do I. Of course, I must see Bianca again, and then we must decide when and how I am to approach the princess. I shall have to tell my father, of course. The usual thing would be for him to speak to Princess Montefiano."

"Poor Babbo!" exclaimed Giacinta. "It seems to me, Silvio," she added, severely, "that you have landed us all in a _brutto impiccio_. I certainly wish that I had never thought it would be good for your soul to go to mass last Christmas Eve!"

*XI*

Monsieur d'Antin did not immediately return to the house after having been an unobserved spectator of the parting scene between Bianca and her lover.

His presence in the ilex groves of the Villa Acorari that afternoon had been due to the merest chance--if, indeed, it were not one of those malicious tricks so frequently performed by the power that we call Fate or Providence, according to our own mood and the quality of the practical jokes played upon us.

He had been spending the day at Genzano, where he had breakfasted with a well-known Roman lady possessing an equally well-known villa lying buried in its oak and chestnut woods. The breakfast-party had been a pleasant one, and Monsieur d'Antin had enjoyed himself so much that he felt disinclined to return to Rome as early as he had at first intended. It would be agreeable, he thought, to drive from Genzano to the Villa Acorari, spend two or three hours there, and drive back to Rome, as he had been invited to do late in the evening, instead of returning by train.

Monsieur d'Antin had duly arrived at the Villa Acorari about four o'clock, only to find that the princess had gone to Rome for the day on business, and was not expected back until six. Donna Bianca, the servants told him, was at home, but she was in the gardens. Monsieur d'Antin was not so disappointed as he professed to be on hearing this intelligence. He would rest for a little while in the house, as it was still very hot--and--yes, an iced-lemonade would be very refreshing after his dusty drive from Genzano. Afterwards, perhaps, he would go into the gardens and see if he could find Donna Bianca.

A stroll through the ilex walks with Bianca would not be an unpleasing ending to his day among the Castelli Romani. Hitherto he had never been alone with her, and he was not sorry that chance had given him an opportunity of being so. The girl might be amusing when she was no longer under supervision. At any rate, she was attractive to look upon, and--oh, decidedly she sometimes had made him feel almost as though he were a young man again. That was always a pleasurable sensation, even if nothing could come of it. It was certainly a pity that he was not twenty years younger--nay, even ten years would be sufficient. Had he been so--who knows?--things might have been arranged. It would have been very suitable--very convenient in every way, and would have kept the Montefiano estates and titles in the family, so to speak. And Bianca was certainly a seductive child--there was no doubt about it. That mouth, that hair, and the lines of the figure just shaping themselves into maturity--Bah! they would make an older man than he feel young when he looked at them. Yes, it was certainly a pity. Jeanne, no doubt, would delay matters until--well, until those charms were too fully developed. That was the worst of these Italian girls--they were apt to develop too fast--to become too massive.

Monsieur d'Antin leaned back in an arm-chair in the cool, darkened _salone_ of the Villa Acorari, and abandoned himself to these and various other reflections of a similar nature. He found the mental state a very pleasant one after his somewhat ample breakfast and hot drive. There was something, too, in the subdued light of the marble saloon, with its statues and groups of palms, and in the soothing sound of a fountain playing in the court-yard without, that gently stimulated such reflections.

At length, however, a striking clock had roused Monsieur d'Antin, and he sallied forth into the gardens, directed by a servant to the broad, box-bordered walk that led up the hill to the ilex groves where, as the man informed him, Donna Bianca usually went.

Probably, had it not been for that self-same shower of rain which had disturbed Bianca's meditations and caused her to seek the shelter of the avenue and the casino, he would have found her sitting in the open space near the fountains, where, as a matter of fact, Silvio Rossano had been watching her for some little time, wondering how he should best accost her. Silvio, concealed behind his tree, would certainly have seen Monsieur d'Antin approaching, and would have waited for another opportunity to accomplish his object. But, as usual, Puck or Providence must needs interfere and cause the rain to descend more heavily just as Monsieur d'Antin arrived at the fountains. Seeing that the avenue would afford him shelter he had entered it, and, after waiting for a few minutes, had bent his steps in the direction of the casino he observed at the farther end of it. The sound of voices coming from within the summer-house had caused him to stop and listen; and what he overheard, although he could not entirely follow the rapid Italian in which its occupants were speaking, was enough to tell him that Bianca Acorari was one of the speakers, that the other was a man, and that love was the topic of the conversation. Very quietly, and crouching down so as to be invisible from the window of the casino, Monsieur d'Antin had stepped past the half-closed door and concealed himself behind the little building. Through the open window he had been able from his hiding-place to hear every word that was said, and also to hear the sounds which certainly could not be called articulate.

Monsieur d'Antin's face, during the quarter of an hour he spent behind the casino, would have provided an interesting and instructive study to anybody who had been there to see it; it would also have made the fortune of any actor who could have reproduced its varied expressions. Astonishment, envy, lust, and malicious amusement, all were depicted upon his countenance in turn.

At last, when Bianca and her companion left the summer-house, Monsieur d'Antin was able to see what manner of man he was who had had the good fortune to arouse her passion. A single glance at Silvio, as the boy stood in the centre of the avenue with the sunlight falling on his well-built figure and comely face, explained the whole matter. If Bianca had such a lover as this, all that he had just overheard was fully accounted for. Nevertheless, a gust of envy, all the more bitter from the consciousness of its impotence, swept through Monsieur d'Antin's middle-aged soul.

He wondered who this good-looking lover of Bianca's might be. The lad was a gentleman, evidently; but Monsieur d'Antin could not remember ever having seen him in society in Rome. _Diable!_ but he had been right, as usual. He, Philippe d'Antin, always was right about women. And this was Jeanne's "child"--this girl who gave herself to be kissed, and told her lover it was sweet to be hurt by him! Ah! he had heard that. The words had made the blood leap in his veins.

He watched Silvio disappear through the tangled brush-wood growing between the avenue and the park-wall, and Bianca's figure vanish in the direction of the villa, before he finally emerged from his hiding-place. Then he walked slowly several times up and down the avenue, thinking about what might be the best use to make of his discovery. Should he keep silence, and allow Bianca Acorari to compromise herself a little more irrevocably, or should he speak to Jeanne at once? He wished he had some means of knowing whether the meeting he had witnessed was a first interview, or only one of many. Unluckily his knowledge of Italian was not sufficient to enable him clearly to learn all he might have learned from the lovers' conversation. If it were a first meeting only, the matter could be the more easily nipped in the bud--and then-- Here Monsieur d'Antin paused. He hardly ventured, even to himself, to cast the thoughts that were beginning to revolve in his mind into concrete form.

The worst of it was that Jeanne must be utterly incompetent to deal with anything of the nature of a love affair. He did not believe that in all his sister's life she had ever known what love was. Certainly her marriage with the Principe di Montefiano had not let her into the mystery, for everybody knew that it was a marriage which had, so to say, stopped short at the altar.

Who could tell, moreover, who this young fellow might be? It was certainly not likely that he was a suitable match for Bianca, or the two would not behave in so absolutely _bourgeois_ a manner. No; the boy was much more probably some adventurer--some shopkeeper from Rome, with the _faux airs_ of a gentleman about him. In this case the matter would be very simple. It would not be a very easy thing to find a husband for a girl who was known to have had a _liaison_ with a man out of her class; and, this being so, Bianca Acorari would either have to remain single or marry some man who would be willing to overlook such a scandal in her past.

Thus reflecting, Monsieur d'Antin came to the conclusion that, for the moment at all events, he would say nothing to his sister. The first thing to be done would be to find out who this young man was. Afterwards, it would be easier to decide how long the little love-idyl he had assisted at that afternoon should be allowed to continue. If he had to take anybody into his confidence before speaking to Jeanne, why should the Abbe Roux not be that person?

That was a good idea--an excellent idea. The priest could manage Jeanne, and, perhaps, he, Philippe d'Antin, could manage the priest. It was possible, but he was not sure; for priests were--priests. In any case, it would be as well to have the abbe on his side if he found he was able to derive any personal benefit out of the _bouleversement_ that must be the immediate result of the discovery of Bianca's conduct.

Yes, he would warn the Abbe Roux that it would be well to keep an eye on Bianca's movements, and how she passed her hours at the Villa Acorari. Of course the boy would come again--and small blame to him! And if spying were to be done, it had better be done by the priest. In that case he, Monsieur d'Antin, would not incur Bianca's odium as being the destroyer of her romance.

Having arranged his programme to his satisfaction, Monsieur d'Antin strolled back to the villa. He found Bianca in the saloon, and greeted her with an airy good-humor.

"I have been looking for you in the gardens," he said. "They said you were walking there--but where you have been hiding yourself I do not know! Certainly I failed to discover the spot."

If Monsieur d'Antin had been so foolish as to allow himself to look at the girl as he spoke, he would have seen the quick look of relief on her face. As it was, he looked at his watch.

"The servants told me you were here," she replied. "How you did not find me in the gardens, I cannot think. Did you go up to the ilex grove--the wood at the top of the hill?"

The keen note of anxiety in her voice was not lost upon Monsieur d'Antin.

"Yes," he returned. "I looked down the avenue, but I saw nobody. Then it began to rain heavily, and I tried to get back to the house. But I lost my way, and found myself--oh, close to the high road. So I took refuge under a tree, and--here I am!"

Bianca laughed nervously. "What a dull way of spending the afternoon!" she said. "But mamma will be back presently--she had to go to Rome. You are going to stop for dinner, of course? Perhaps to sleep here?"

"Impossible!" said Monsieur d'Antin, consulting his watch again. "I must drive back to Genzano. I told the _vetturino_ to wait."

"But mamma," said Bianca, "she will be so disappointed to miss you! Surely you can stay to dinner?"

"Impossible," repeated Monsieur d'Antin. "I have promised to drive back to Rome from Genzano with one of the secretaries of our legation, and we were to start at seven o'clock. Make my excuses to my sister, and tell her that I shall be back again soon to pay her a visit--oh, very soon. But, my dear child, you look pale--you have been too much in the sun, perhaps--"

"Do I?" asked Bianca, hastily. "It is nothing--my head aches a little. Yes, I suppose it is the sun."

Monsieur d'Antin laughed merrily.

"No doubt!" he said. "His kisses are too warm just now--decidedly too warm. You must beware of them, my dear child. Do not let him kiss you too often, or he will spoil that delicate skin."

And laughing always, he bade Bianca good-bye, and went to the entrance-door where a servant was engaged in trying to rouse his slumbering driver.

*XII*

"The thing is absolutely incredible!"

It was the Abbe Roux who was speaking. He sat with his hands folded on his lap. They were puffy hands, and looked unnaturally white against the black background of his _soutane_.

Monsieur d'Antin sat a few paces away from him, smoking a cigarette. The two had been in earnest conversation together in Monsieur d'Antin's little apartment in the Via Ludovisi, where the Abbe Roux had arrived half an hour before very much exercised in his mind as to why the princess's brother should have made such a point of wishing to speak with him in private.

Monsieur d'Antin looked at his visitor, and his face contracted with one of his satirical little smiles.

"You think so, my dear abbe?" he said, dryly. "That is because you are so infinitely superior to the weaknesses of the flesh. To me, on the contrary, the thing is perfectly credible; it is even natural. But we must endeavor to save Donna Bianca Acorari from the consequences this particular weakness would entail. I am glad I decided to confide in you before speaking to my sister. Of course, had Bianca been her own child, it would have simplified matters considerably; but as it is, I am sure you will agree with me, my dear abbe, that we must help my sister in this very difficult position."

The Abbe Roux unfolded his hands and began rubbing them gently together.

"Certainly, Monsieur le Baron, certainly," he replied. "It is, indeed, a duty to assist the princess in this--this exceedingly painful affair."

He paused, and looked at Monsieur d'Antin inquiringly, as though to intimate that he was only waiting to hear how the latter proposed to act.

Monsieur d'Antin proceeded with some deliberation to light another cigarette.

"I felt convinced that you would agree with me," he said, at length. "I am quite aware--my sister has often told me, indeed--what confidence she has in your judgment. I regard it as very fortunate that she has so reliable a counsellor. A woman left in her position needs some man at her side who will give her disinterested advice; and you, of course, Monsieur l'Abbe, enjoy two great advantages. In the first place, you have the influence of your sacred calling, which, as we both know, my sister regards with extreme reverence; and, in the next place, though a foreigner by birth, you are as much at home in Italy and with Italians as though you were one of themselves."

The Abbe Roux bowed. "Madame la Princesse has, indeed, chosen to honor me by asking my advice occasionally on matters quite apart from my profession," he replied.

Monsieur d'Antin blew a cloud of smoke into the air. There was, perhaps, the faintest suspicion of impatience in the action.

"Precisely," he returned. "Knowing this, I feel that we can discuss the peculiar situation in which Donna Bianca has placed herself--or, I should rather say, in which an unscrupulous young man has placed her--as two men of the world. Is it not so? My sister," he continued, without giving the priest time to reply, "would naturally merely look at the affair from the moral point of view. She would be deeply scandalized by it, and shocked at what she would regard almost as depravity in one whom she has hitherto considered to be still a child. All that is very well--but we men, my dear abbe, know that there are other things to be thought of in these cases of indiscretion on the part of young girls."

"The deception," said the Abbe Roux, shaking his head; "the princess will feel the deception practised by her step-daughter very acutely."

Monsieur d'Antin tapped a neatly shod foot on the floor.

"Dear Monsieur l'Abbe," he observed, gently, "let us ignore the deception as being one of those moral points of the case which, I think, we have agreed to leave out of our discussion. The question is, does my sister wish Donna Bianca to marry, or does she not?"

"Most decidedly not!" exclaimed the Abbe Roux, hastily, almost angrily.

Monsieur d'Antin glanced at him. "I do not necessarily allude to Donna Bianca's marriage with this unknown lover," he returned, "but to her marriage in the abstract."

The other hesitated.

"The princess, I believe, considers that it would be very unadvisable for Donna Bianca to marry too young," he said. "She has her good reasons, no doubt," he added--"women's reasons, Monsieur le Baron, with which you and I need not concern ourselves."

Monsieur d'Antin laughed softly.

"It appears to me," he said, "that Donna Bianca has proved them to be mere ideas, not reasons. I do not think my sister need be uneasy on that score. I should say, on the contrary, that in this instance marriage was advisable--very advisable indeed. You have often, I have no doubt, had to recommend it to your penitents, Monsieur l'Abbe."

The Abbe Roux spread out his hands with a deprecatory gesture. "In the present case," he said, "there are, I believe, other considerations which madame your sister, as guardian to Donna Bianca Acorari, has to take into account."

Monsieur d'Antin nodded his head. "I understand," he observed. "Pecuniary considerations."

The abbe looked at him. "In a sense--yes," he said. "The prince," he continued, "was not a man of business."

"So I have always heard," remarked Monsieur d'Antin.

"He left his affairs in a very involved state. The princess, since she has had the management of them, has been endeavoring to bring them into better order during Donna Bianca's minority."

"I understand," said Monsieur d'Antin again. "So that," he added, "it is, from a business point of view, very desirable that Donna Bianca should not marry before she is twenty-one."

"Exactly!" assented the abbe. "From a business point of view it is more than desirable, it is important," he added. "In the event of Donna Bianca's marrying, even as a minor, she would bring to her husband the Montefiano properties, and their administration by madame your sister would cease. These were the terms of the prince's will."

"It is perfectly clear," observed Monsieur d'Antin. "My sister and I have never discussed these matters," he continued. "There would have been no object in her talking to me about them, for I am absolutely ignorant of Roman customs where landed property is concerned. As I say, it is fortunate that she has had you to advise her as to how to act for the best in her step-daughter's interest. I fully understand the situation, however; or, if I do not, you will correct me--is it not so? _Bien_! I will proceed to explain myself--with your permission."

The abbe bowed silently.

"For business reasons, into which it is unnecessary to enter in detail, it is not convenient that Donna Bianca Acorari should marry for, at all events, three years. But surely, my dear Monsieur l'Abbe, it would very much depend upon whom she married, whether these business calculations were upset or not? An accommodating husband--or one who was in a position to be independent of any fortune his wife might bring him, need not necessarily, so far as I can see, interfere with arrangements you may have thought it wise to suggest to my sister for the better administration of her step-daughter's property."

Monsieur d'Antin looked penetratingly at his visitor as he said these words, and the abbe returned his gaze. Then something like a smile crossed the faces of both men simultaneously.

"No doubt," the priest replied, tranquilly, "very much would depend upon the husband. But I do not see your argument, monsieur," he continued. "You surely are not suggesting that Donna Bianca's very deplorable entanglement with a young man, whose identity, I must remind you, is as yet unknown to us, should be permitted to go on? The very fact of this individual meeting your niece--"

"Not my niece, Monsieur l'Abbe--not my niece!" interrupted Monsieur d'Antin. "The accident of Donna Bianca Acorari's father having married my sister _en secondes noces_, does not make that young lady any relation to me."

"Pardon!" said the abbe; "I forgot. Of course, as you say, Donna Bianca is absolutely no relation to you--not even a connection, indeed."

"Precisely--not even a connection," repeated Monsieur d'Antin. "But pray proceed--"

"I was about to say," resumed the abbe, "that no young man of good family would place a young girl in such an unheard-of position as to make love to her before speaking to her relations. The man is no doubt some adventurer."

"That," said Monsieur d'Antin, "I must leave to you to ascertain. As I have just observed, I am no relation of Donna Bianca Acorari. I therefore prefer not to interfere further than to utter a private warning to those who have the right to move in the matter as to what has accidentally come to my knowledge."

"It will not be difficult to identify the individual whom you saw in Donna Bianca's company," said the priest. "As you remarked, he is sure to repeat his visit to the Villa Acorari. For this reason I should be inclined to say nothing to the princess until we have ascertained who it is with whom we have to deal."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Monsieur d'Antin. "I thoroughly agree with you. You will admit, however, my dear abbe, that the matter is serious. For instance, what is to prevent the young couple from taking the law into their own hands and running away? If the young man is merely an adventurer, he might persuade Donna Bianca to take such a step. There has been an example of the kind in Rome not so very long ago, if I am not mistaken."

"There is nothing to prevent them from doing so, certainly," replied the Abbe Roux. "They could get themselves married ecclesiastically, no doubt, but not legally. It would hardly be worth an adventurer's while to burden himself with a wife over whose fortune he would have no legal rights."

"He might prefer to establish rights over her person," said Monsieur d'Antin, dryly. "Young men--are young men; and this one, unless I am greatly mistaken, thinks more of Donna Bianca's face than her fortune."

The Abbe Roux shrugged his shoulders. "He seems to be on the high road to establish those rights already," he observed, "if one is to judge by what you overheard. The blessing of the Church is not invariably sought in cases of this kind," he added.

Monsieur d'Antin chuckled. "True," he replied, "the girl is inexperienced, and of a temperament--oh, but of a temperament--" He paused abruptly.

The abbe looked at him quickly. Then he smiled a curious little smile not altogether in keeping with his clerical attire.

"Ah," he said, "I think, Monsieur le Baron, that you have had occasion to remark on this--this delicate subject before, have you not? The princess mentioned to me some time ago that you had told her you thought she was mistaken in believing her step-daughter to be still a child. You have evidently been studying Donna Bianca attentively. After all, she is a very attractive young lady, and is developing greater beauty every few months. But your warning to Madame la Princesse has turned out to be singularly justified by subsequent events. One sees that you have an insight into female character, Monsieur le Baron."

Monsieur d'Antin looked at him suspiciously for a moment, and then he laughed good-humoredly.

"What would you have, my dear abbe?" he asked. "I am not such an old man--yet; and I am not a priest. I have my little experiences--yes--and I am not often mistaken about a woman," and Monsieur d'Antin slapped himself encouragingly on the breast. "I will make you a little confession, my friend," he continued, gayly. "It is of no consequence that I am smoking a cigarette, and that you do not happen to have your stole on--you can give me absolution all the same. I find my 'niece,' as you choose to call her, charming--absolutely charming. It is a thousand pities that she has so hopelessly compromised herself with this mysterious young man, for if the story becomes known, when my sister wants to find a husband for her it will not be such an easy matter to do so. Ah, my dear Monsieur l'Abbe, had I only been younger, a very few years younger, I would have come forward and said: 'I, Philippe d'Antin, will marry you, and protect you from the evil tongues of the world. I pardon your youthful indiscretion, and I make you the Baroness d'Antin.'"

Monsieur d'Antin paused and looked at the Abbe Roux gravely. He appeared to be almost overcome by a sense of his own magnanimity.

The abbe was apparently engrossed in his own thoughts. He sat silently rubbing his hands together, and it was some moments before he spoke.

"I agree with you, monsieur," he said, presently. "It is not every man who will marry a young lady who has placed herself in an equivocal position. You are very generous. I offer you my congratulations on your chivalrous spirit; and though, as you remark, I have not my stole on, I shall respect your confidence. All the same, _nous sommes toujours la_! Donna Bianca Acorari's marriage would not be advisable for the present. The princess, I feel convinced, would not countenance it."

"But, my dear abbe," exclaimed Monsieur d'Antin, "I assure you that I thoroughly understand! I was merely stating what I should have been prepared to do had I only been a slightly younger man. I do not conceal the fact from you that I have a certain admiration for Donna Bianca, which you, with your knowledge of frail human nature, will readily pardon as a mere weakness of the flesh--is it not so? At the same time, I should have been prepared to sacrifice myself in order to prevent any scandal; and, moreover, perhaps there would not be the same objections to me as a husband for Donna Bianca as there might be in the case of a stranger. We should, so to speak, be keeping the Montefiano properties in the family, should we not, Monsieur l'Abbe? and there would have been no reason to fear that your and my sister's excellent schemes for the benefit of the estates would not have had ample time to be realized. However, these are mere _chateaux en Espagne_. We need not discuss so unlikely a contingency any further. I consider that I have done my duty in warning you, as my sister's confidential adviser and spiritual director, as to what is taking place; and, as I have said, I must leave it to you to take such steps as you think proper regarding when and how the princess is to be made acquainted with the story. After what I have confided to you of my personal feelings, I am sure you will understand my determination not to mix myself up in the matter--unless I am wanted. If I can be of any use eventually, you know, my dear Monsieur l'Abbe, what I am prepared to do in order to protect Donna Bianca from any scandal."

The Abbe Roux rose from his chair. "I think, Monsieur le Baron," he said, "that you may safely leave this very delicate matter to me. The first thing to be done is to find out who this young man may be. When I have accomplished this, we can discuss what may be the best course to be taken. For the moment, I shall say nothing to the princess. A day or two's delay can do no harm, and may do good."

Monsieur d'Antin accompanied his visitor to the door of the staircase, where he took leave of him. Then he returned to his sitting-room, and, having closed the door, gave vent to quiet but genuine merriment.

*XIII*