Chapter VI: Part 6

"A respectable company, truly, for my step-daughter to find herself in!" said Princess Montefiano--"a professor's son and a daily governess!"

The Abbe Roux sighed. "I fear," he said, "that this woman has played a very mischievous part, but I cannot be certain. It would be as well, perhaps, not to give her any explanations, but merely to inform her that you no longer require her for Donna Bianca. All these details, madame," he added, "you will learn later on, no doubt, from Donna Bianca herself. But for the moment, believe me, the less said to any one on the subject, the better."

"Yes, yes, I quite see that you are right, Monsieur l'Abbe," said the princess, hurriedly. "Your advice is always sound, and whenever I have not taken it I have always regretted the fact. There is one person, however, to whom I must give some explanation of my sudden move to Montefiano, and that is my brother. He was coming to spend a fortnight or so here."

"Ah, Monsieur le Baron," observed the Abbe Roux. "No, there would, of course, be no objection in your confiding in Monsieur le Baron. Indeed, it would be but natural to do so."

"Exactly," returned Princess Montefiano. "My brother is, after all, the child's uncle, so to speak."

The abbe smiled. "Scarcely, madame," he replied; "there is not the slightest connection between them."

"Of course not, really," the princess said, "but a kind of relationship through me."

"I think," observed the abbe, hesitatingly--"it has seemed to me that monsieur your brother takes a great interest in Donna Bianca. He has certainly been very quick to discern things in her which have escaped the notice of others."

Princess Montefiano directed a quick glance at him, and then she looked away.

"I am afraid," proceeded the priest, "that this affair will be quite a blow to him; yes, indeed, quite a blow. Monsieur le Baron, after all, is a comparatively young man, and--"

He hesitated again, and then stopped abruptly.

The princess glanced at him nervously.

"It is strange that you should say this, Monsieur l'Abbe," she said. "I have, I confess, sometimes thought, sometimes wondered-- Ah, but certain things cross one's mind occasionally which are better left unspoken!"

The Abbe Roux looked at her. "We may leave our present thoughts unspoken, Madame la Princesse," he said, with a smile. "I imagine," he continued, "that the same idea has struck both of us. Well, supposing such a thing to be the case, what then? There is nothing unnatural in the situation--nothing at all. A disparity of age, very likely; but, again, what is disparity of age? An idea--a sentiment. A man who has arrived at the years of Monsieur le Baron may be said to have gained his experience--to have had time _de se ranger_. Such husbands are often more satisfactory than younger men."

The princess checked him with a gesture.

"But it is an imagination!" she exclaimed--"a mere idea. I confess I have once or twice thought that my brother looked at Bianca in--in rather a peculiar way, you know--as if he admired her very much; and, yes, I have even made an excuse sometimes to send Bianca out of the room when he was calling on me. I did not think she should be exposed to anything which might put ideas into her head."

"It appears to me, madame, that your precautions were unnecessary," said the Abbe Roux, dryly. "The ideas, as we now know, were already there."

"Alas, yes!" sighed the princess. "But," she added, "do you really think that there can be anything in it, Monsieur l'Abbe? It seems too strange--too unnatural, I was about to say; but that would not be quite true, as you pointed out just now."

The Abbe Roux made a gesture with outspread hands.

"Madame," he said, "I know as much as you do of what may be in monsieur your brother's mind. It is probable, however, that he has some thoughts of the kind concerning Donna Bianca, or we should not both have suspected their existence. Does the idea shock you so much?" he added, suddenly.

"Yes--no," returned Princess Montefiano, confusedly. "I can hardly tell. Do not let us talk any more about it, Monsieur l'Abbe--not, at all events, at present. We have so much else to occupy our thoughts. Of course, I must let my brother know what has happened, and explain to him that I shall not be able to receive him here."

"Of course," assented the Abbe Roux. "I have no doubt," he added, "that Monsieur le Baron will be quite as pleased to pay his visit to you at Montefiano."

The princess apparently did not hear him. She stooped and picked up Professor Rossano's letter, which had fallen from her lap onto the floor.

"And this?" she asked, holding the missive out to the abbe. "What reply am I to send to this--if, indeed, any reply is necessary?"

"There is only one reply to make; namely, that the proposal cannot be entertained either now or at any future time," replied the abbe. "It is not necessary to enter into any explanations," he continued.

And, after discussing for some time longer with the princess the necessary arrangements to be made for moving to Montefiano with as little delay as possible, the Abbe Roux took his leave and returned by an afternoon train to Rome.

*XVI*

"I told you how it would be, Silvio," Giacinta Rossano said to her brother. "I don't see what else you could have expected."

"I did not expect anything else," returned Silvio, placidly. "At all events," he added, "we now know where we are."

Giacinta laughed dryly. "Do you?" she asked. "It appears to me that you are--nowhere! Nothing could be more explicit than Princess Montefiano's reply to Babbo's letter--and nothing could be more marked than the brief way she dismisses your proposals. I can assure you that Babbo is very much annoyed. I do not think I have ever seen him so annoyed about anything--unless it was when a servant we had last season lighted the fire with some proof-sheets he had left lying on the floor."

"It is not the slightest use his being annoyed," said Silvio.

"At least you must admit that it is not a pleasant position for a father to be placed in," observed Giacinta. "He told me this morning, Silvio," she added, "that nothing could induce him to do anything more in the matter. He says you have had your answer, and that the best thing you can do is to try to forget all that has happened. After all, there are plenty of other girls to choose from. Why need you make your life unhappy because these Acorari will not have anything to say to you?"

"Princess Montefiano is not an Acorari," replied Silvio, obstinately. "There is only one Acorari concerned in the matter, and she has everything to say to me!"

Giacinta sighed. She knew by experience that it was of no use to argue with this headstrong brother of hers when once an idea was fixed in his mind.

"May one ask what you propose to do next?" she inquired, after a pause. "Your communications in the shape of Mademoiselle Durand having been cut, and Villa Acorari no doubt probably watched and guarded, I do not see how you are going to approach Donna Bianca in the future. At any rate, you mustn't count upon Babbo doing anything, Silvio, for he told me to-day he did not wish to hear the subject mentioned any more. You know what he is about anything disagreeable--how he simply ignores its existence."

Silvio Rossano smiled. "I know well," he replied. "It is not a bad plan, that of simply brushing a disagreeable thing to one side. But few people are able to carry it out so consistently as Babbo does. In this case, Giacinta, it is the best thing he can do. There is nothing to be said or done, for the moment. When there is, you will see that Bianca and I will manage it. It is certainly a bore about Mademoiselle Durand having been told to discontinue giving her lessons at Villa Acorari."

Giacinta shrugged her shoulders. "Considering the subject chosen for instruction, it is not to be wondered at if the princess thought they had better cease," she remarked, dryly.

Silvio smiled. Knowing that Bianca Acorari loved him, nothing seemed to matter very much. It had been the uncertainty whether she had observed and understood his passion for her, and the longing to be sure that, if so, it had awakened in her some response, which had seemed so difficult to insure.

"Luckily," he said, "the princess played her card a day or two too late. Bianca had my letter, and Mademoiselle Durand brought me back her answer to it."

"Ah!" exclaimed Giacinta, "you never told me that you had corresponded with each other since you met."

"I don't think you and I have discussed the subject since I told you of our meeting," said Silvio. "I told Babbo."

"What did he say?"

"He said I was an imbecile--no, a pumpkin-head," answered Silvio, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "Also, he said I was like a donkey in the month of May, and that he did not wish to hear any more asinine love-songs--and, oh, several other observations of the kind."

"His opinion is generally looked upon as being a very good one," observed Giacinta, tranquilly.

Silvio laughed outright. Giacinta's satirical remarks always amused him, even when they were made at his expense. "It is certainly a misfortune that Mademoiselle Durand is no longer to go to Villa Acorari," he said. "I must say," he added, "she has proved herself to be a most loyal friend--and an entirely disinterested one, too."

Giacinta glanced at him. "I suppose," she said, "that Mademoiselle Durand likes a little romance. I believe most single women who are over thirty and under fifty do."

"I suppose so," observed Silvio, carelessly. "She seemed quite upset when she told me of the note she had received from Princess Montefiano. I thought, of course, that she felt she had lost an engagement."

"But did the princess give a reason for dispensing with her services?" asked Giacinta.

"No. The note merely said that as Donna Bianca's studies would not be continued, there was no necessity for Mademoiselle Durand to come any more to Villa Acorari. The princess enclosed money for the lessons given--and that was all. But, of course, Giacinta," continued Silvio, "I felt that Mademoiselle Durand had lost her engagement through befriending me. Though the princess for some reason did not allude to anything of the kind, I am sure she must know, or suspect, the part Mademoiselle Durand has played."

"I should think so, undoubtedly," remarked Giacinta.

"And naturally," Silvio proceeded, "I felt very uncomfortable about it. I did not quite know what to do, and I offered--"

"Yes?" said his sister, as he paused, hesitatingly.

"Well, Giacinta, you see, she had probably lost money through me, so I offered to--to make her loss good, so to say."

"And then?"

"Oh, and then she was very angry, and said that I insulted her. After that she cried. One does not like to see grown-up people cry; it is very unpleasant. She said that I did not understand; that what she had done was out of mere friendship and sympathy--for me and for Bianca. I knew she had grown attached to Bianca, Giacinta; she had told me so once before. After all, nobody who saw much of Bianca could help being fond of her."

Giacinta looked at him for a moment or two without speaking.

"I am not surprised that she was angry," she said, at length. "As to her being attached to Donna Bianca--well, it appears that even people who have not seen much of her become attached to that girl. It is a gift, I suppose. But all this does not tell me what you mean to do, now you can no longer employ Mademoiselle Durand to fetch and carry for you."

"We mean to wait," said Silvio, quietly. "Bianca and I are quite agreed as to that. Three years are soon over, and then, if she still chooses to marry me, neither the princess nor anybody else can prevent her. It is the best way, Giacinta, for it leaves her free, and then none can say that I took advantage of her inexperience."

"And in the mean time, if they marry her to somebody else?"

"But they will not. They cannot force her to marry. If they tried to do so, then we would not wait three years, nor even three weeks."

"But you might know nothing about it, Silvio," said Giacinta. "And they might tell her you had given her up, or that you were in love with some one else--anything, in fact, to make her think no more about you."

Silvio smiled. "You are full of objections," he said; "but you need not be uneasy. It is true that we no longer have Mademoiselle Durand to depend upon, but we shall find other means of communicating with each other. After all, shall we not be under the same roof here all the winter and spring? The princess will not remain at the Villa Acorari forever. No--if there should be any pressure put upon Bianca to make her give me up against her will I shall very soon know it. We are agreed on all those points. If the princess keeps quiet, we shall keep quiet also. She has a perfect right to refuse her consent to Bianca marrying me--for the present. But in course of time that right will no longer hold good. While it does, however, Bianca and I have agreed to respect it, unless, in order to protect ourselves, we are forced to set it at defiance, get some priest to marry us, and delay the legal marriage till afterwards. This is what I have explained to Babbo--and he calls it the braying of donkeys in May. Well, at least the donkeys know what one another mean, which, after all, is something gained--from their point of view!"

Giacinta laughed, and then became suddenly grave again.

"Well, Silvio _mio_," she replied, "you seem to have settled everything in your own mind, and I only hope it will all be as easy as you think. So much depends on the girl herself. If you are sure of her, then, as you say, three years soon pass. In the mean time, if I were you, I would watch very carefully. As I have told you before, for some reason which we know nothing of, it is not intended that the girl should marry; and when I say they might marry her to somebody else, I do not believe it."

Silvio shrugged his shoulders. "All the better for me," he observed; and Giacinta, with a slight gesture of impatience, was about to reply, when the professor entered the room.

*XVII*

The _sollione_ had ran his course. Already the vines on the slopes below Montefiano were showing patches of ruddy gold among their foliage, and the grapes were beginning to color, sometimes a glossy purple, sometimes clearest amber. Figs and peaches were ripe on the fruit trees rising from among the vines, and here and there tall, yellow spikes of Indian-corn rattled as the summer breeze passed over them.

Solitary figures prowled about the vineyard with guns--no brigands, but merely local sportsmen lying in wait for the dainty _beccafichi_ which visit the fig-trees at this season and slit open the ripest figs with their bills. In the evening a half-dozen of the plump little brown-and-white birds will make a succulent addition to the dish of _polenta_ on which they will repose. Perhaps, if fortune favor, a turtle-dove, or even a partridge, may find its way into the oven for the sportsman's evening meal. In the mean time, a few purple figs, from which the sun has scarcely kissed away the chill of the night dew, a hunch of brown bread and a draught of white wine from a flask left in the shade and covered with cool, green vine leaves, form a breakfast not to be despised by one who has been out with his gun since the dawn was spreading over the Sabine hills and the mists were rolling back before it across the Roman Campagna to the sea.

Who that has not wandered through her vineyards and forests, among her mountains and by the side of her waters in the early hours of a summer dawn, or the late hours of a summer night, knows the beauty of Italy? Then the old gods live again and walk the earth, and nature triumphs. The air is alive with strange whisperings: the banks and the hedgerows speak to those who have ears to hear--of things that lie hidden and numbed during the hot glare of the day.

The gray shadows lying over the _campagna_ were fast dissolving before a light that seemed to change almost imperceptibly from silver into gold, as the first rays of the rising sun stole over the Sabine mountains. Across the plain, the summit of Soracte was already bathed in light, while its base yet lay invisible, wreathed in the retreating mists. The air was fresh with the scent of vines and fig-trees, and long threads of gossamer, sparkling with a million dew-drops, hung from grassy banks rising above a narrow pathway between the terraces of the vineyards.

A black figure suddenly appeared round an angle of the winding path. Don Agostino Lelli, his cassock brushing the blossoms of wild geranium and purple mallow as he passed, was making his way in the dawn of the summer morning back to Montefiano. He had been sitting through the night with a dying man--a young fellow whom an accident with a loaded wagon had mortally injured. The end had come an hour or two before the dawn, and Don Agostino had speeded the parting soul with simple human words of hope and comfort, which had brought a peace and a trust that all the rites enjoined by the Church had failed to do. Perhaps he was thinking of the failure, and wondering why sympathy and faith in the goodness of God had seemed to be of more avail at the death-bed he had just left than ceremonies and sacraments.

His refined, intellectual countenance wore a very thoughtful expression as he walked leisurely through the vineyards. It was not an anxious nor an unhappy expression, but rather that of a man trying to think out the solution of an interesting problem. As a matter of fact, he had been brought face to face with a problem, and it was not the first time he had been confronted by it.

He had, as in duty bound, administered the last sacrament of the Church to a dying man who had made due confession to him. But he had known perfectly well in his own mind that those sacraments had been regarded by his penitent as little else than a formality to be observed under the circumstances. He knew that if he had asked that lad when he was in health whether he honestly believed the _santissimo_ to be what he had been told it was, the answer would not have been satisfactory to a priest to hear. He had asked the question that night, and two words had been whispered back to him in reply--"_Chi sa?_"

They were very simple words, but Don Agostino felt that they contained a truth which could not be displeasing to the God of Truth. Moreover, he honored the courage of the lad more than he did that of many who dared not confess inability to believe what reason refused to admit.

"Who knows?" he had said to himself, half-smiling, repeating the young fellow's answer. And then he had added aloud, "You will know very soon--better than any of us. Until then, only trust. God will teach you the rest."

Afterwards, answered by the look on the dying lad's face, he had given the sacrament.

And now Don Agostino was walking homeward in the peaceful summer dawn, and if there was pity in his heart for the strong young life suddenly taken away from the beautiful world around him, there was also some joy. Even now the veil was lifted, and the boy--knew. Perhaps the simple, human understanding, which could have no place in theology, had not led him so far astray, and had already found favor in the eyes of Him who gave it.

And Don Agostino looked at the landscape around him, waking up to a new day and laughing in the first rays of a risen sun. As he looked he crossed himself, and the lad who had been summoned from all this beauty was followed to his new home by a prayer.

Suddenly Don Agostino's meditations were interrupted by the report of a gun fired some yards in front of him, immediately succeeded by a pattering of spent shot among the leaves on the bank above him. He called out quickly, in order to warn the unseen _cacciatore_ of his propinquity; for there was a sharp bend in the pathway immediately ahead of him, and he by no means wished to receive the contents of a second barrel as he turned it. A reassuring shout answered him, and he quickened his pace until, after turning the corner, a brown setter came up and sniffed at him amicably, while its owner appeared among the vines close by.

Don Agostino lifted his hat in response to the sportsman's salutation and regrets at having startled him.

"I was safe enough where I was, _signore_," he said, smiling; "but it was as well to warn you that there was somebody on the path. I did not wish to be taken for a crow," he added, with a downward glance at his _soutane_.

The _cacciatore_ laughed. "Your reverence would have been even safer as a crow," he replied; "but indeed there was no danger. I was firing well above the path at a turtledove, which I missed badly. But it is better to miss than to wound."

Don Agostino looked at the speaker, and there was approval in his glance, either of the sentiment or of the appearance of the sportsman--perhaps of both.

"_Sicuro_," he replied, "it is better to miss than to wound. For my part, I should prefer always to miss; but then I am not a sportsman, as you see. All the same, I am glad you _cacciatori_ do not always miss--from the point of view of the stomach, you know. The _signore_ is from Rome, I conclude?"

The other hesitated for a moment.

"From Rome--yes," he replied,

Don Agostino glanced at him again, and thought how good-looking the young man was. A gentleman, evidently, by his manner and bearing--but a stranger, for he had certainly never seen him in Montefiano.

"I," he said, "am the _parroco_ of Montefiano--Agostino Lelli, _per servirla_."

The young _cacciatore_ started slightly, and then he hesitated again. Courtesy necessitated his giving his own name in return.

"And I, _reverendo_," he replied, after a slight pause, "am Silvio Rossano, of Rome."

Don Agostino looked surprised.

"Rossano?" he said. "A relative, perhaps, of the Senator Rossano?"

"My father," replied Silvio. "Your reverence knows him?"

"_Altrocche_!" exclaimed Don Agostino, holding out his hand. "Your father is an old friend--one of my oldest friends in days gone by. But I have not seen anything of him for years. _Che vuole_! When one lives at Montefiano one does not see illustrious professors. One sees peasants--and pigs. Not but what there are things to be learned from both of them. And so you are the son of Professor Rossano? But you have not come to Montefiano for sport--no? There is not much game about here, as no doubt you have already discovered."

He glanced at Silvio's game-bag as he spoke. Three or four _beccafichi_ and a turtle-dove seemed to be its entire contents.

Silvio looked embarrassed, though he had felt that the priest's question must come. His embarrassment did not escape Don Agostino, who jumped at the somewhat hasty conclusion that either this young man must be hiding from creditors, or else that he must be wandering in unfrequented places with a mistress. In this latter case, however, Don Agostino thought it improbable that he would be out so early in the morning. It was, no doubt, a question of creditors. Young men went away from Montefiano when they could scrape up enough money to emigrate, but he had never known one to come there.

Silvio's answer tended to confirm his suspicions concerning the creditors.

"I did not come to Montefiano for the sport, certainly," he said; "and, indeed, I am not living in Montefiano itself. I am staying at Civitacastellana for the moment."

"Civitacastellana!" exclaimed Don Agostino. "Pardon my curiosity, my dear Signor Rossano, but how in the world do you occupy yourself at Civitacastellana--unless, indeed, you are an artist? It is a beautiful spot, certainly, with its neighboring ravines and its woods, but--well, after Rome you must find it quiet, decidedly quiet. And the inn--I know that inn. One feels older when one has passed a night there."

"I cannot call myself an artist," said Silvio, laughing, "though I certainly draw a great deal. I am an engineer by profession, and Civitacastellana is--well, as you say, a very quiet place. Sometimes one likes a quiet place, after Rome."

"Ah, yes, that is true," returned Don Agostino, thoughtfully. "I, too, have come to a quiet place after Rome, but then I have been in it more than ten years. I think the change loses its effect when one tries it for so long a time."

Silvio glanced at him. He had at once realized that this was no ordinary village priest, scarcely, if at all removed from the peasant class. The quiet, educated voice, the polished Italian, the clear-cut, intellectual features, all told their own tale quickly enough. And this Don Lelli was an old friend of his father. Silvio was well aware that his father did not number very many priests among his friends, and that the few whom he did so number were distinguished for their wide learning and liberal views.

"You know Rome, _reverendo_?" he inquired, with some curiosity, though he knew well enough that he was talking to a Roman.

Don Agostino smiled. "Yes," he replied, "I know Rome. That is to say," he added, "if anybody can assert that he knows Rome. It is a presumptuous assertion to make. Perhaps I should rather say that I know one or two features of Rome."

"You no doubt studied there?"

"Yes, I studied there. I was also born there--like yourself, no doubt. We are both _Romani di Roma_--one cannot mistake the accent."

"And it was then you knew my father, of course," said Silvio.

"When I was a seminarist? No, some years after that period of my life. I knew your father when--well, when I was something more than I am now," concluded Don Agostino, with a slight smile.

"When you were a parish priest in the city?" asked Silvio.

"When I was at the Vatican," replied Don Agostino, quietly.

"At the Vatican!" Silvio exclaimed.

Don Agostino laughed quietly. "Why not?" he returned. "You are thinking to yourself that members of the pontifical court are not usually sent to such places as Montefiano. Well, it is a long story, but your father will tell it you. He will not have forgotten it--I am quite sure of that."

They had walked on together while they were talking, and presently emerged on the steep road leading up the hill to Montefiano. From this point Silvio could see the little town clustering against the face of the rock some mile or so above them, and the great, square castle of the Acorari dominating it.

"You have been to Montefiano?" Don Agostino asked his companion.

"Yes," answered Silvio, "several times. But," he added, "the Montefianesi do not seem very communicative to strangers."

Don Agostino laughed. "They are unaccustomed to them," he said, dryly; "but they are good folk when once you know them. For the rest, there is not much for them to be communicative about."

"Has the castle no history?"

"It has much the same history as all our mediaeval and renaissance strongholds--that is to say, a mixture of savagery, splendor, and crime. But the Montefianesi would not be able to tell you much about it. I doubt if nine out of every ten of them have ever been inside it."

"But it is inhabited now," said Silvio, quickly.

Don Agostino glanced at him, struck by a sudden change in the tone of his companion's voice.

"Yes," he replied, "for the first time for many years. The princess and her step-daughter, Donna Bianca Acorari, are there at present."

"You know them, of course, _reverendo_?"

"I have not that honor," replied Don Agostino. "My professional duties do not bring me into communication with them, except occasionally upon paper. But," he continued, "will you not come to my house? You can see it yonder--near the church, behind those chestnut-trees. It is getting late for your shooting, and I dare say you have walked enough. I have to say mass at six o'clock, but this morning I shall be late, for it is that now. Afterwards we will have some coffee and some eggs. We have both been occupied for the last few hours, though in different ways; and I, for one, need food."

Silvio accepted the invitation with alacrity, and they proceeded to mount the long hill together.

"I thought," he observed, presently, "that you would certainly be acquainted with Princess Montefiano."

"Are you acquainted with her?" asked Don Agostino, somewhat abruptly.

"No," replied Silvio, "except by sight. My father lives in Palazzo Acorari in Rome--we have the second floor."

Don Agostino said nothing, and they walked on for some minutes in silence. The heat of the sun was by this time becoming considerable, and both of them felt that they would not be sorry to arrive at their journey's end. Twenty minutes more brought them to the little piazza in front of the church, and here Don Agostino paused.

"I must say the mass at once," he said; "the people will have been waiting half an hour or more. There," he added, "is the house. You can go through the garden and wait for me if you do not care to assist at the mass."

Silvio, however, declared that he wished to be present, and Don Agostino led the way into the church. Half a dozen peasant women and one or two old men formed the congregation, and Silvio sat down on a bench near the altar, while Don Agostino disappeared into the sacristy to vest himself.

The mass did not take long, and at its conclusion Don Agostino beckoned to his guest to follow him into the sacristy, whence a passage communicated with the house. By this time Don Agostino was fairly exhausted. He had eaten nothing since the evening before, and his long walk and sad vigil through the night had left him weary both in body and mind. His mass over, however, he was at liberty to eat and drink; and the _caffe e latte_, fresh-laid eggs, and the rolls and butter his housekeeper had prepared were most acceptable. Even Silvio, who had already breakfasted on figs and bread, needed no pressing to breakfast a second time.

The food and rest quickly revived his host's strength, and very soon Silvio could hardly believe that he was sitting at the table of a parish priest in the Sabina. Don Agostino proved himself to be a courteous and agreeable host. He talked with the easy assurance of one who was not only a man of God, but also a man of the world. Silvio found himself rapidly falling under the spell of an individuality which was evidently strong and yet attractive. As he sat listening to his host's conversation, he wondered ever more and more why such a man should have been sent by the authorities of the Church to live, as he had himself expressed it, among peasants and pigs in a Sabine town. He was scarcely conscious that Don Agostino, while talking pleasantly on all sorts of topics, had succeeded in quietly eliciting from him a considerable amount of information concerning himself, his profession, and, indeed, his personality generally. And yet, so it was. Monsignor Lelli had not occupied an official position in the Vatican for some years without learning the art of being able to extract more information than he gave.

In this instance, however, Don Agostino's curiosity concerning his guest was largely due to the favorable impression Silvio's good looks and frank, straightforward manner had made upon him; as well as to the fact that he was the son of a man for whose learning he had a deep admiration, and with whom he had in former years been very intimate.

The more he talked to Silvio, the more he felt his first impressions had not been wrong. He would have liked very much to know, all the same, why this handsome lad was wandering about the neighborhood of Montefiano. He shrewdly suspected that a few birds and a possible hare were not the true inducement; and that, unless he were hiding himself, this young Rossano must have some other game in view.

The expression which had passed over Silvio's face on hearing that he was not acquainted with the owners of Montefiano had not escaped Don Agostino's notice. He had observed, moreover, that his young guest more than once brought the conversation round to Princess Montefiano, but that he never alluded to her step-daughter. Monsignor Lelli had been young himself--it seemed to him sometimes that this had happened not so very long ago--and he had not always been a priest. As he talked to Silvio Rossano, he thought of the days when he had been just such another young fellow--strong, enthusiastic, and certainly not ill-looking. Meeting the frank glance of Silvio's blue eyes, Don Agostino did not believe that their owner was hiding from anything or from anybody. He felt strangely drawn towards this chance acquaintance, the only educated human being, the only individual of his own class in life with whom he had interchanged a word for months--nay, for more, for it was now more than two years since some private business had taken him to Rome, where he had seen one or two of his old friends.

Their light breakfast over, Silvio Rossano presently rose, and thanking the priest for his hospitality, was about to depart. Don Agostino, however, pressed him to remain.

"I do not have so many visitors," he said, with a smile, "that I can afford to lose one so quickly. You will give me great pleasure by staying as long as you can. It is hot now for walking, and if you are returning to Civitacastellana, you can do that just as well in the evening. I have a suggestion to make to you," he added, "which is, that we should smoke a cigar now, and afterwards I will have a room prepared for you, and you can rest till _mezzogiorno_, when we will dine. When one has walked since dawn, a little rest is good; and as for me, I have been up all the night, so I have earned it."

Silvio hesitated. "But I cannot inflict my company upon you for so long," he said. "You have been already too hospitable to me, Don Agostino."

Don Agostino rose from the table, and, opening a drawer, produced some cigars. "I assure you," he replied, "that it is I who will be your debtor if you will remain. As I say, I seldom have a visitor, and it is a great pleasure to me to have made your acquaintance. I think, perhaps," he continued, looking at Silvio with a smile, "that it is an acquaintance which will become a friendship."

"I hope so, _monsignore_," replied Silvio, heartily, "and I accept your invitation with pleasure."

"That is well," returned Don Agostino; "but," he added, laughing, "at Montefiano there are no _monsignori_. There is only the _parroco_--Don Agostino."

*XVIII*

Don Agostino was quite right when he said that a little rest after walking since daybreak would be a good thing. Silvio, at any rate, found it so, for he very soon fell fast asleep in the room that had been prepared for him--so fast, indeed, that even the church-bells ringing _mezzogiorno_ did not awaken him.

Don Agostino, fearing for the omelette his house-keeper had already placed on the table as the first dish of the mid-day meal, had gone up-stairs to rouse his guest, and, receiving no response to his knock, had quietly entered the bedroom.

Silvio was lying as he had flung himself on the bed, after having divested himself of most of his clothes. He lay on his back, with one arm under his head and the hand half-buried in the short, curly hair, in face and form resembling some Greek statue of a sleeping god, his well-made, graceful limbs relaxed, and his lips just parted in a slight smile.

Don Agostino stood and watched him for a moment or two. It seemed a pity to rouse him--almost sacrilege to wake the statue into life.

"It is the Hermes of the Vatican," he said to himself, smiling--"the Hermes reposing after taking a message from the gods. Well, well, one must be young to sleep like that! I would let him sleep on, but then Ernana will say that the dinner is spoiled," and he laid his hand gently on Silvio's arm.

Apparently the sleeper was more sensitive to touch than to sound, for he opened his eyes instantly, and then started up with a confused apology.

"It is I who should apologize for waking you," said Don Agostino; "but it is past twelve o'clock, and my housekeeper is a tyrant. She is afraid her dishes will be spoiled!"

Silvio sprang from the bed. "I will be ready in a few minutes," he said; and before Don Agostino could beg him not to hurry himself, he had filled a basin with cold water, into which he plunged his face as a preliminary to further ablutions.

In ten minutes he had rejoined Don Agostino in the little dining-room, and the two sat down to the dinner which Ernana had produced, not without some grumbling at the delay, which, she declared, had turned the omelette into a piece of donkey's hide.

Silvio did ample justice to her cookery, however, and indeed Don Agostino's house-keeper looked with scarcely concealed admiration and approval at him as she served the various dishes. She also wondered what this _bel giovanotto_ was doing at Montefiano, and several times came very near to asking him the question, being only restrained therefrom by the thought that she would learn all she wanted to know from Don Agostino so soon as the visitor should have departed.

After dinner, Don Agostino produced a bottle of old wine--such wine as seldom comes to the market in Italy, and which, could it only travel, would put the best French vintages to shame. Ernana served the coffee and then departed to her kitchen, and Don Agostino proceeded to prepare cigars by duly roasting the ends in the flame of a candle before handing one of them to his guest to smoke.

"And so," he observed, presently, "you actually live in the Palazzo Acorari at Rome. Your father, no doubt, knows the princess and Donna Bianca?"

Silvio shook his head. "No," he replied. "You must remember--" he added, and then paused, abruptly.

Don Agostino blew a ring of smoke into the air.

"What must I remember?" he asked, smiling at Silvio's obvious embarrassment.

"You know my father's opinions," continued Silvio, "and perhaps you have read some of his works. He is not--I speak with all respect--of the _Neri_, and Princess Montefiano is, they say, a very good Catholic."

Don Agostino laughed. "Ah, I forgot," he said. "No, I never looked upon your father as a good Catholic. It really was never any business of mine whether he was so or not. But the princess--yes, I believe she is very strict in her opinions, and your father is, very naturally, not beloved by the Vatican party."

Silvio glanced at him. "You have read his books, Don Agostino?" he asked.

"Certainly I have read them--all of them."

"And yet you continue to regard him as a friend?"

Don Agostino smiled. "Why not?" he asked. "I do not always agree with his conclusions on certain subjects. If I did, I should not wear this dress; it would be to me as the shirt of Nessus. But is it necessary always to agree with one's friends? I think the best friends and the best lovers are those who know how to disagree. However, we were talking of Princess Montefiano. I can quite understand that she would not desire to be on friendly terms with Professor Rossano."

"Or with any of his family," added Silvio, bluntly.

Don Agostino gave him a scrutinizing glance.

"Ah," he said, "you mean that she visits the sins of the father upon the son."

Silvio hesitated. There was something very sympathetic about this priest--something that seemed to ask, almost to plead, for his trust and confidence. And yet could he, knowing so little of him, dare to confide to him why he was in the neighborhood of Montefiano? Certainly this Don Agostino was a friend of his father, and, as such, might be disposed to help him. Moreover, Silvio could not help seeing that his host was disposed to like him for his own sake, and that for some reason or other there was a current of sympathy between them, though as yet they were almost strangers to each other.

Perhaps Don Agostino observed his companion's hesitation, for he spoke again, and this time it was to ask a question which did not tend to diminish it.

"I suppose," he said, "that you have seen Donna Bianca Acorari? I do not ask you if you know her personally, after what you have just told me; but no doubt, as you live under the same roof, so to speak, you know her by sight?"

Silvio felt the color rising in his face, and felt, too, that Don Agostino's eyes were fixed upon him with a strange intensity. Could it be, he wondered, that the priest suspected the truth, or had, perhaps, been warned about him by the princess herself? The thought was a disagreeable one, for it made him mistrust his host's good faith, as Don Agostino had distinctly denied any acquaintance with Princess Montefiano. The expression of Don Agostino's face puzzled him. It spoke of pain, as well as of curiosity, and he seemed to be anxiously hanging upon the answer to his question. That the priest should be curious, Silvio could well understand, but there was no apparent reason why Bianca Acorari's name should call forth that look of pain on his countenance.

"Yes," Silvio replied, guardedly. "I know Donna Bianca Acorari by sight, extremely well."

Don Agostino leaned forward in his chair. "Ah," he exclaimed, eagerly, "you know her by sight! Tell me about her. I saw her once--once only--and then she was quite a little child. It was in Rome--years ago. She is, no doubt, grown into a beautiful girl by now."

Silvio looked at him with surprise. The eagerness in his voice was unmistakable, but there was the same strange expression of pain on his face.

"But surely," he replied, "your reverence must have seen her here at Montefiano, or, at least, others must have seen her who could tell you about her?"

Don Agostino shook his head. "Nobody has seen her since her arrival here," he said. "The castle is large, and the park behind it is very extensive. There is no reason why its inmates should ever come into the _paese_, and they never do come into it."

"But the servants--the household?"

"The servants were all brought from Rome. Most of the provisions also are sent from Rome. There is practically no communication with the town of Montefiano, and, except the _fattore_, I have heard of nobody who has been admitted inside the castle walls since the princess and Donna Bianca arrived."

"It is very strange," said Silvio.

"Yes," returned Don Agostino, "it is certainly strange. But," he added, "you do not tell me of Donna Bianca--what she is like; whether she is beautiful, as beautiful as--" he stopped abruptly and passed his hand almost impatiently across his eyes, as though to shut out some vision.

"Beautiful?" repeated Silvio, in a low voice. "I do not know--yes, I suppose that she is beautiful--and--and-- But why do you ask me?" he suddenly burst out, impetuously, and the hot color again mounted to his cheeks and brow.

Don Agostino suddenly turned and looked at him keenly.

"Why should I not ask you?" he replied, quietly. "You have seen her," he added, "and I--I am interested in her. Oh, not because she is the Princess of Montefiano--that does not concern me at all--but--well, for other reasons."

Silvio was silent. Indeed, he did not know how to answer. What he had just heard confirmed his suspicions that Bianca was practically isolated from the world, as though she were within the walls of a convent. He had asked in Montefiano about the castle and its inmates, and had learned absolutely nothing, save what might be implied by the shrugging of shoulders.

Suddenly Don Agostino spoke again.

"And you?" he said, laying his hand for a moment on Silvio's--"forgive me if I am inquisitive--but you, also, are interested in Donna Bianca Acorari--is it not true?"

Silvio started. "I!" he exclaimed.

Don Agostino smiled. His agitation seemed to have passed, and he looked at the boy beside him searchingly, but very kindly.

"If I am mistaken," he repeated, "you must forgive me; but if I am not, I think that you will not regret telling me the truth."

Silvio looked at him steadily.

"It is true," he said, slowly, "that I am interested in Donna Bianca--very much interested. You have been very good to me, Don Agostino," he added, "and I will be quite open with you. I feel that you will not betray a confidence, even though it may not be told you in the confessional."

Don Agostino made a slight gesture, whether of impatience Silvio could not quite be sure.

"A confidence between gentlemen," he said, "and, I hope, between friends."

"Then," returned Silvio, quietly, "I will confide to you that it is my interest in Donna Bianca Acorari which brings me to Montefiano."

"And she?" asked Don Agostino, quickly. "Is she--interested--in you, Signor Rossano?"

Silvio blushed. "Please," he said, "do not address me so formally. Surely, as an old friend of my father, it is not necessary! Yes," he added, simply, "we are going to marry each other."

"_Diamine!_" ejaculated Don Agostino; and then he seemed to be studying Silvio's face attentively.

"But what made you suspect this?" asked Silvio, presently; "for it is evident that you have suspected it."

Don Agostino smiled. "I hardly know," he replied. "Your manner, perhaps, when I mentioned Donna Bianca's name, coupled with the fact that, though you asked me many questions about Montefiano and the princess, you studiously avoided any allusion to her step-daughter. But there was something besides this--some intuition that I cannot explain, though I know the reason of it well enough. I am glad you have told me, Silvio--I may call you Silvio, may I not? And now, as you have told me so much, you will tell me all your story; and afterwards, perhaps, I will explain to you why you will not regret having done so."

In a very few words Silvio related all there was to tell. Don Agostino listened attentively, and every now and then he sighed, and Silvio, glancing at him, saw the pained look occasionally flit across his countenance.

"Of course," he said, as Silvio finished his story, "they have brought the girl here to be out of your way, and they will keep her here. I suspected something of the kind when I first heard that the princess was coming to Montefiano. And when I saw you, an instinct seemed to tell me that in some way you were connected with Bianca Acorari being here. When you told me who you were, and that you lived in Palazzo Acorari, I was certain, or nearly certain of it. You wonder why I am interested in Donna Bianca, as I have only once seen her as a child, and why I should wish to know what she is like now, do you not? Well, you have given me your confidence, Silvio, and I will give you mine. Come with me into my study," and Don Agostino led the way into a little room beyond the dining-room, in which they were still sitting.

Silvio followed him in silence, greatly wondering what link there could be between Bianca and this newly found friend who had so unexpectedly risen up at Montefiano, where a friend was so badly needed.

Don Agostino went to the cabinet standing in the corner of his little study, and, unlocking a drawer, took out the miniature, which he had not again looked at since the day, now nearly two months ago, when he had heard that the Princess Montefiano and her step-daughter were coming to inhabit the castle.

"I asked you to tell me what Donna Bianca Acorari is like now," he said, quietly. "At least," he added, "you can tell me if there is a resemblance between her and this miniature." And, opening the case, he placed it in Silvio's hand.

Silvio uttered an exclamation of astonishment as he looked at the portrait.

"But it is Bianca--Bianca herself!" he said, looking from the miniature to Don Agostino in amazement. "The same hair, the same eyes and mouth, the same coloring. It is Bianca Acorari."

"No," interrupted Don Agostino, "she was Bianca Acorari afterwards. Then, when the miniature was painted, she was Bianca Negroni."

"I do not understand," muttered Silvio, in bewilderment.

Don Agostino took the case from him. "She was Bianca Negroni then," he repeated, in a low voice, as though speaking to himself. "She should have been Bianca Lelli--my wife. We were engaged. Afterwards she was called Bianca Acorari, Principessa di Montefiano."

Silvio looked at him in silence. He understood now.

"We were engaged," continued Don Agostino, "as you and her child are engaged, without the consent of her family. They forced her to marry Prince Montefiano. It was an unhappy marriage, as, perhaps, you have heard."

Then he turned away, and gently, reverently, as though replacing some holy relic in its shrine, put the miniature back into the drawer of the cabinet.

"You can understand now," he said, quietly, "why I wished to know what her child is like. As for you, Silvio--" he paused, and looked at Silvio Rossano earnestly. "Well," he continued, "I have had one intuition to-day which did not mislead me, and I think my second intuition will prove equally true. I believe that you would make any woman a good husband--that your character does not belie your face."

Silvio looked at him with a quick smile.

"I will make her a good husband," he said, simply. The words were few, but they appealed to Don Agostino more than any lover's protestations would have appealed to him.

"And she?" asked Don Agostino, suddenly. "You are sure that she would make you a good wife? If her nature is like her mother's she will be faithful to you in her heart. I am sure of that. But she is her father's daughter as well, and--well, he is dead, so I say no more. And no doubt the knowledge that he had married a woman whose love was given elsewhere accounted for much of his conduct after his marriage. We will not speak of him, Silvio. But you are sure that you have chosen wisely?"

"Oh, very sure!" exclaimed Silvio.

Don Agostino smiled--a somewhat pathetic smile. "I am very sure, also," he said. "It is strange," he added, thoughtfully, "that your story should be an exact repetition of my own. Almost one would think that she"--and he glanced towards the cabinet--"had sent me here to Montefiano to help her child; that everything during these years had been foreordained. I wondered, when they sent me to Montefiano, whether it were not for some purpose that would one day be made clear to me; for at Montefiano her child was born, and at Montefiano she died, neglected, and practically alone."

Don Agostino sat down at his writing-table. He covered his eyes with his hands for a moment or two, and above him the ivory Christ gleamed white in the sunlight which filtered through the closed Venetian blinds.

"It is strange--yes," said Silvio, in a low voice; "and I, too," he added--"I have felt some power urging me to tell you my story, and my true reason for being here. But," he continued, "our case--Bianca's and mine--is different from yours in one particular, Don Agostino."

Don Agostino looked up. "Yes," he replied; "Donna Bianca Acorari's mother, though she had money, was not the heiress to estates and titles."