Chapter VIII: Part 8

"That is well," replied Don Agostino, briefly. "And, above all, Silvio," he added, "do not confide in anybody. Do not move from Rome until you receive a letter from me bidding you come to Montefiano, or to some other place in its neighborhood that I will name in the letter. _Dunque, siamo intesi_? Then let us catch up with the others. It is growing late, and I must return to my hotel. You can bring me your letter to-morrow morning. I shall leave Rome by the eight-o'clock train, and it will be wiser for you to come only to the hotel, and not accompany me to the railway station. The less we are seen together now the better. It is a strange thing, but the accident of having met those two individuals to-night has made me feel uncomfortable."

"What harm can they do?" said Silvio, carelessly. "If Monsieur d'Antin had seen us together at Montefiano, then he might well have been suspicious; but here, in Rome, we are--"

"In Rome," interrupted Don Agostino, dryly; and he said no more than might be implied by a slight shrug of the shoulders and a quick gesture with the hands.

The professor and Giacinta had halted at this moment. By this time they had reached the upper end of the Forum, and a few paces more would bring them out into the Via S. Teodoro, close to the narrow flight of steps leading up to the piazza of the Capitol.

As soon as Don Agostino and Silvio joined them, Professor Rossano begged the former to return with them to Palazzo Acorari, but Don Agostino declined. It was time for him to go back to his hotel, he declared, and Silvio, rightly guessing that he did not wish to run any risks of again being seen with them, forebore from seconding his father's invitation. After bidding the professor and Giacinta a cordial farewell, Don Agostino stopped a passing cab, and directed the driver to the Albergo Santa Chiara, a modest little hotel near the Minerva, largely frequented by foreign priests and pilgrims.

"I will be with you at seven o'clock to-morrow morning," said Silvio to him as he got into the cab. Don Agostino nodded, and, raising his broad beaver hat, drove away.

"There," said the professor, jerking his head in the direction of the disappearing _botte_, "is another of them."

"Another of whom, Babbo?" asked Giacinta.

"Why, another honest man, with a head upon his shoulders, too, whom those priests across the Tiber have driven away!" replied Professor Rossano, angrily.

"Why did he leave the Vatican?" asked Silvio. "He would never tell me his story at Montefiano, but always said that you would remember it well enough."

"Remember it? Of course I remember it!" returned the professor. "At one time all Rome was talking of Monsignor Lelli. They declared at the Vatican that he had speculated and lent money on bad security from the funds intrusted to him; accused him, in short, of a carelessness almost equivalent to fraud. But everybody knew that he had been forced to use the money in the way it was used, and that he was afterwards disgraced when things went contrary to expectations. _Che vuoi?_"

Silvio said nothing. His thoughts were occupied with the letter he would write to Bianca Acorari that night, and he wondered how Don Agostino would find the means of giving it, or causing it to be safely delivered. It was a disappointment to him not to return to Montefiano on the morrow, but he could not but feel that Don Agostino was right in advising him to remain quietly in Rome. It would certainly not help matters were his only friend at Montefiano to be suddenly transferred to some other post; and Silvio knew enough of his world fully to realize how important a part intrigue and personal animosities played, not only at the Vatican, but also in every phase of Roman life.

The clocks were striking ten when they reached Palazzo Acorari, and though nobody thinks of going home at ten o'clock on a summer night in Rome, or anywhere else in Italy, Silvio Rossano accompanied his father and sister up the dimly lighted staircase to their apartment. The professor was anxious to continue the correction of his proofs, and Silvio was longing to begin his letter to Bianca Acorari.

Apparently, however, he had something else on his mind; for, after the professor had retired to his library, he followed Giacinta into her sitting-room, a little room opening off the drawing-room. Giacinta, who was tired after her walk, took off her hat and the light wrap she was wearing, and settled herself comfortably in an arm-chair; while Silvio, after lighting a cigarette, began to pace somewhat restlessly up and down the room. It was very evident that he had something to say, and Giacinta, who knew her brother's moods, sat waiting for it in silence.

"I am not going back to Montefiano with Don Agostino to-morrow," he began, presently.

"I did not know that you intended to do so," observed Giacinta.

"Of course I intended to do so!" Silvio returned. "However," he continued, "Don Agostino thinks it wiser that I should not return just yet, and I believe he is right. He is going to take a letter from me to Bianca."

Giacinta glanced at him with a smile. "No doubt you think he is right in that also," she observed.

Silvio laughed. "How like you are to Babbo, sometimes!" he exclaimed. "Yes, I think he is quite right. The only thing is, Giacinta--" and he paused, hesitatingly.

"That you would not know what to say in the letter?"

"Ah, no! Well, perhaps I do not know what to say. If it amuses you to think so, I am quite content. The question is, that I want to send something to Bianca--something that I value. You understand? I have given her nothing as yet--I have not even written to her. I want to send her something--with my letter--something that belonged to our mother. It is so easy to walk into a shop and buy a bit of jewelry, but it is not the same thing--"

"I understand," said Giacinta, quietly.

"And so," continued Silvio, a little hurriedly, "I thought that if I sent her one of our mother's rings--you have all her jewelry, Giacinta, have you not? You could spare me one of the rings, perhaps?"

"They are as much yours as mine," answered Giacinta. "Babbo gave the jewelry into my charge; you know there are pearls and other things. Wait, and I will bring you the case from my room, and then you can see for yourself."

She got up from her chair and went into the next room, returning presently with an old case covered with faded red velvet and fastened with heavy clasps of gilded metal.

"Ecco!" she said, holding out to Silvio an elaborately ornamented key, also heavily gilded. "You must turn it three times in the lock before it will open the box. In the upper tray there are the rings, and below are the pearls."

"The pearls can remain where they are," observed Silvio. "You will want them when you marry," he added, as he unlocked and opened the case. "I will take this ring," he continued, pointing to an old "marquise" ring, on which a sapphire was mounted in the centre of a cluster of white Brazilian diamonds. "The rest you will keep, but this one I will send to Bianca and tell her that it belonged to my mother. You do not mind, Giacinta?"

With a sudden movement Giacinta turned and kissed him. "Why should I mind?" she exclaimed; "only--"

"Only what?" asked Silvio, as she paused.

"Only I wish you had sought for a wife elsewhere," she continued, earnestly. "Those people--they will despise you, because they are noble and we are not. You will never be allowed to marry Donna Bianca Acorari, Silvio! Never, I tell you! That priest and Baron d'Antin, they will never permit it. The girl will not be allowed to marry anybody, unless it be Monsieur d'Antin. You will see."

"_Sciocchezze!_" exclaimed Silvio, contemptuously. "What have I often told you, Giacinta?" he continued. "Bianca and I can afford to wait until she is her own mistress. If they were to attempt to force her to marry Baron d'Antin or anybody else, then we would go away and get some priest to marry us. The civil marriage could wait. I have told you so a hundred times."

Giacinta was silent for a moment. Then she said, suddenly:

"I am glad you are not going back to Montefiano. It was wise of Don Agostino, as you call him, to advise you to remain here."

"Oh, but I shall go back there very soon," returned Silvio. "In a few days Don Agostino will write to me to come. You see, Bianca must be protected from that old baron. She will be glad to know that I am near her, even if we cannot see each other."

"Do not go, Silvio!" Giacinta exclaimed, almost passionately. "You will be mad to go! Ah, but I saw Baron d'Antin's expression when he recognized you! I could see that he recognized you--and you, you looked at him as if you would have struck him."

Silvio laughed. "And I could have struck him--very hard," he replied, "for he stared at me in an insolent manner. Of course, I shall return to Montefiano, Giacinta, whenever Don Agostino writes to me that I can do so. I cannot imagine what you are afraid of."

Giacinta smiled slightly. "After all," she said, "I hardly know myself! But there is some mystery--something I do not understand. I am afraid that it is money--that they want to keep Donna Bianca's money. Oh, not the princess! She is only a fool. But these others, the Abbe Roux and Monsieur d'Antin, they are not fools. And if it is money, and you stand in their way--well, who knows what people will not do for money? They might murder you at Montefiano, and who would be the wiser?"

Silvio laughed again. "Scarcely, Giacinta _mia_," he replied. "If they tried to put me out of the way, several people would be the wiser, and some of them--Don Agostino, for instance--would make awkward inquiries. _Via!_ we are not in the Middle Ages; and the son of the Senator Rossano is not a completely obscure person who could be made away with with impunity. I assure you that you need not be alarmed. Now I must go and write my letter, for at seven o'clock to-morrow morning I have to be at the Albergo Santa Chiara, for Don Agostino leaves Rome at eight. _Buona notte_, Giacinta, _e buon riposo_, and do not get foolish ideas into your head, or you will lie awake."

And so saying, Silvio went off to his own room, taking with him the ring he had selected from his mother's jewel-case.

*XXI*

Bianca was walking slowly up and down the terrace beneath the castle of Montefiano. Every now and then she would pause and lean over the low stone parapet, gazing thoughtfully into the deep ravine below, or across the ridges of the Sabines to the towns and villages perched upon their rocky eminences commanding the upper valley of the Tiber. It was late in the afternoon, and cool enough upon the terrace, which was sheltered from the westering sun by the shadow of the mass of building above it.

More than a month had passed since she had been brought to Montefiano, and no word had come to her from Silvio. That a letter should not have reached her in the ordinary way, did not surprise her. She had very rarely received a letter in her life, save, perhaps, some words of greeting at Easter or at the New Year; and under the circumstances it was not very likely that any missive could arrive for her by the post without being intercepted and confiscated by those who were so evidently determined to guard against any renewal of communication between her and her lover.

The days had passed slowly enough at Montefiano. The great suite of rooms on the _piano nobile_ of the palace had been put into a certain order, as the princess had directed; but the furniture sent from Palazzo Acorari at Rome made a sorry show of comfort in the huge rooms of the Montefiano fortress. Indeed, it was only the corners of the living-room which could be made habitable--little oases, as it were, in a desert of marble floors, of walls from which faded damask was hanging in tattered strips, and upon which hung mirrors that had long ago ceased to reflect, or such pictures as the late prince had left as not being worth the trouble and expense of being moved to Rome to be sold to foreign collectors.

An indescribable atmosphere of dreariness seemed to pervade the interior of Montefiano, that dreariness which is produced by the sense of departed strength and grandeur. The apartments occupied by the princess and Bianca were entirely on one floor. A large vestibule formed the centre of the suite, approached by a double flight of stone steps leading up from the quadrangle or inner court of the palace. On one side of this hall were high double doors opening into an immense drawing-room, and opposite to them similar doors led into a gallery, at the farther extremity of which were two other sitting-rooms. Beyond these, again, was the princess's bedroom, and a smaller room beyond it, and at the end of the suite was Bianca's room, which could only be reached by passing through her step-mother's sleeping apartment. There were other rooms on the opposite side of the court-yard, which were occupied by the Abbe Roux and Monsieur d'Antin; while the servants inhabited a part of the house to get to which endless corridors and unused chambers had to be traversed. If life at the Palazzo Acorari and at the villa near Velletri had been quiet, it was amusing compared with that led by the princess and her step-daughter at Montefiano. Even the horses and the carriage had been left behind at Rome. Except a daily walk about a few acres of brushwood and coppices behind the castle--an enclosed piece of ground dignified by the name of a park, access to which was only possible by descending a damp, moss-grown flight of steps at the end of the terrace--Bianca never left the immediate precincts of the old dwelling, half palace and half mediaeval fortress, of which she was nominally the mistress.

The Abbe Roux had been quite right when he had declared that no convent could afford a more secure retreat from the world than the castle of Montefiano. The little town, nestling beneath the grim, battlemented walls and flanking round towers on the southern side of the building, might have been a hundred miles away, for not a sound from it ever penetrated to that part of the castle in which the princess and Bianca lived, nor was so much as a roof-top visible. The cries of the jackdaws, or the scream of a hawk during the daytime, or, after dusk, the melancholy note of the little gray owls haunting the _macchia_, the monotonous croaking of the frogs in a swampy piece of ground in its recesses, were the only sounds audible, except that of the bell of Cardinal Acorari's clock over the Renaissance facade, tolling the passage of the hours and half-hours, as it had tolled them for over two centuries.

They had been some weeks at Montefiano, and the princess had never spoken to Bianca on the subject of what she termed the imprudent attempt of an adventurer to lead her into an entanglement in which she might have seriously compromised herself. Perhaps Princess Montefiano had never before felt how far removed from Bianca she was, how little sympathy and confidence existed between her and her step-daughter, as during the period immediately following the discovery of what, in her conversations with the Abbe Roux and with her brother, she called Bianca's indiscretion. She felt that she did not understand the girl; and, more keenly than she had ever done before, she felt conscious that Bianca regarded her as a foreigner. Had it been consistent with her sense of duty, Princess Montefiano would very readily have relegated the office of explaining to her step-daughter the gravity of her offence against all the rules that should guide the conduct of a young girl, and the utter impossibility of any alliance being tolerated between the heiress and representative of Casa Acorari and the son of a professor, however illustrious that professor might be. But to whom could she relegate the task? Certainly not to the Abbe Roux, although the subject was one in which fatherly advice from a priest would surely be better than any advice, save that of a mother, and she was not the girl's mother--all the difficulty lay in that point. But to expect Bianca to open her heart to the Abbe Roux, or to tolerate any open interference from him in her actions, was, as the princess had learned from experience, an altogether hopeless idea. The situation was certainly embarrassing, all the more so because Bianca shut herself up in an impenetrable reserve. She had accepted the sudden move to Montefiano without making any comment, or uttering any protest. Under any other circumstances, Princess Montefiano would have attributed this attitude to that apathy which she had until lately honestly believed to be one of Bianca's characteristics. Unluckily, recent events had conclusively proved this belief to be an illusion. As Monsieur d'Antin had pointed out to his sister, in language admitting of no misconstruction, young girls who were apathetic did not allow young men to make love to them in a manner that had--well, certainly nothing of apathy about it. And the princess had sighed and shaken her head. She felt herself to be out of her depth. Her experiences of love had been limited to the short period of married life passed with the Principe di Montefiano, experiences which of necessity were very limited indeed. As was her invariable practice when confronted by any difficulty, she had sought counsel of the Abbe Roux, and the abbe had readily understood and sympathized with her in her embarrassment. He could not offer to speak to Donna Bianca and point out to her the grave dangers, both worldly and spiritual, to which she had exposed herself, and the still greater unhappiness which was certainly in store for her were she to continue in her present unfortunate state of mind. Donna Bianca, he reminded the princess, had shown too plainly her want of confidence in him, both as a priest and as an individual, to allow of his making any attempt to force that confidence. But there was another person to whom, perhaps, she would be more communicative, and who might possibly succeed in distracting her thoughts from their present object. Donna Bianca had, at all events, shown symptoms of being more at her ease with Monsieur le Baron than she had with himself, or even--madame must pardon his frankness--with her step-mother. Why not, the Abbe Roux had concluded, refrain from pointing out to Donna Bianca the impossibility of the situation into which she had drifted until Monsieur d'Antin had endeavored to make her see matters in a different light? It might well be, considering the obvious sympathy which had existed between Monsieur le Baron and Donna Bianca, that the former might succeed where he himself would certainly, and Madame la Princesse possibly, fail. In the mean time, a rigorous seclusion at Montefiano would not cease to be advisable. The very dulness of this seclusion, the gradual certainty that no communication with young Rossano would ever be permitted, would doubtless soon break down Donna Bianca's obstinacy; while very probably the young man himself would realize the hopelessness of his suit and turn his attentions elsewhere.

Princess Montefiano had not received this suggestion without considerable misgivings. Her brother's interest in Bianca had certainly not diminished since the day when she had discovered that the Abbe Roux shared her suspicions that this interest was not altogether platonic. She was in some ways a sensitive woman, always thinking what people might or might not say of her and her actions. Ever since her marriage to the late Prince Montefiano, she had been haunted by a nervous dread lest she should be supposed to neglect his daughter; and though she scarcely realized it herself, it had been this feeling, rather than any affection for Bianca, that had made her almost timidly anxious not to fail in anything which she might conceive to be her duty towards the girl. Bianca, however, had realized when quite a child, with all that quick intuition which children share with other animals, that however kind her step-mother might be to her, it was a kindness certainly not born of love. Strangely enough, it would never have entered Princess Montefiano's head that her step-daughter was capable of detecting the difference. Like many conscientious people, she was quite satisfied by the constant reflection that she was doing her duty. That Bianca was not equally satisfied with and duly appreciative of the fact, she had long ago accustomed herself to attribute to the girl being possessed of a cold and indifferent nature.

After duly considering the abbe's advice, Princess Montefiano had decided to act upon it. It was true that, should he be correct in his calculations that a policy of seclusion and of a quiet but determined ignoring of the pretensions of the Rossano family would result in Bianca's submission, everything would be gained. At the same time, the world would think it strange, and not altogether seemly, that the girl should marry a man old enough to be her father, and who was also the brother of her father's second wife. But, as the abbe had pointed out, similar marriages, though possibly unusual, were not unheard of; and in Rome there had certainly been instances in which they had turned out satisfactorily to all parties. Moreover, even were the world to criticise her for allowing Bianca to contract such an alliance, criticism, as the Abbe Roux rightly insisted, would instantly cease were it suspected that the affair had been arranged in order to prevent the heiress of the Acorari from marrying a man who was not of her own social condition, but who had presumed to ask for her hand.

Altogether it had seemed better to the princess to take the unbiased advice of a man of the world, who was at the same time a priest, and to wait patiently to see whether Bianca would not in time come to her senses, and be glad to accept the devotion of a man of her own order, even if there was some disparity of age between him and her.

Matters had not, however, gone quite so smoothly as Monsieur l'Abbe had anticipated. For the first few days after his arrival at Montefiano it had appeared as if Bianca rather welcomed Baron d'Antin's attentions to her than otherwise. The princess even began to ask herself whether, after all, the Abbe Roux had not been right when he had hinted that her step-daughter's clandestine love-affair with a young man must not be taken too seriously--that Donna Bianca was of a temperament which demanded certain things--oh, but certain things that one husband could supply as well as another. Princess Montefiano had felt somewhat shocked at the idea. Nevertheless, when she observed that Bianca seemed to take pleasure in her brother Philippe's society, and that she was less silent and reserved when talking to him than she was at other times, she wondered whether the Abbe Roux had not read the girl's nature accurately, and she began to congratulate herself on having listened to his advice.

It was with not a little anxiety and disappointment, therefore, that Princess Montefiano noticed a sudden but unmistakeable change in Bianca's demeanor towards Monsieur d'Antin. Whereas she had always been ready to talk to him, she now seemed anxious to avoid him. If he addressed her at meals, she would answer in monosyllables, or perhaps not at all. Her manner betrayed an uneasiness and suspicion whenever she was in company, and at times would become almost sullen. If he proposed to walk with her on the terrace, or in the park, instead of consenting almost with alacrity, as she had usually done, she would answer coldly that she was not going out.

This state of things had lasted some days, and one evening at dinner Monsieur d'Antin suddenly announced his intention of going to Rome the following morning, as he had some business to do there.

The princess, who happened to glance at Bianca, saw an expression of intense relief pass over her countenance. The look surprised and then shocked her. It was the look that some trapped animal might give when just set at liberty.

Nothing more was said at that moment, however, and very soon after dinner Bianca went to her own room. The next morning Monsieur d'Antin left early, in order to catch a train which would enable him to reach Rome by twelve o'clock.

At the mid-day breakfast Bianca and her step-mother were alone together, for the Abbe Roux, as the princess explained, was occupied with the _fattore_ on business.

"It is very annoying," she observed, presently, to Bianca, when the servants had brought in the coffee and left the room. "I have had to discharge Fontana--the agent, you know."

Bianca looked up from a fig she was peeling. "Ah," she said, quickly, "what has he done?"

"It is rather a case of what he has not done," replied Princess Montefiano. "Monsieur l'Abbe," she continued, "has been occupying himself with going about the estate since we have come here. He finds everything in a very unsatisfactory condition, I am sorry to say. Apparently the _fattore_, this Fontana, has resented any inquiries being made into his management. Monsieur l'Abbe is quite sure Fontana has ruled here too long, and that it will be better to make a change. He knows of a man--"

"Of course!" interposed Bianca, dryly.

The princess glanced at her. "It is very fortunate for you," she observed, "and for me, that we have a shrewd man of business like Monsieur l'Abbe to advise us. That is what you will never understand, Bianca."

Bianca Acorari pushed her plate from her impatiently. "No," she said, abruptly, "I shall never understand it. I think I should prefer priests who were not shrewd men of business, and men of business who were not priests."

The princess sighed. "When you are older, _figlia mia_," she remarked, "you will understand many things better than you do at present. I am sorry that you are vexed about Fontana. I am annoyed also, for I do not like turning off an old servant who has been here many years. But we, Monsieur l'Abbe and I, have to think of your interests."

Bianca raised her eyebrows. "Monsieur l'Abbe is, no doubt, very disinterested," she observed; and then she relapsed into silence, idly stirring her little cup of black coffee. Suddenly she rose from her chair, and, crossing to the opposite side of the table, stood beside her step-mother.

"How long do you--you and Monsieur l'Abbe--propose to keep me imprisoned here at Montefiano?" she asked, abruptly.

The princess set down her coffee-cup hastily--so hastily, indeed, that she spilled some of its contents.

"Bianca!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean? Imprisonment? That is an altogether absurd expression to use. You are here because--well, because I think it for your good that you should be here; and you must remember that, until you are of age, I am your guardian."

"Until I am of age, or marry," interrupted Bianca.

"You cannot marry without my consent before you are of age," the princess returned, quickly.

Bianca laughed--a hard little laugh.

"Without your consent, and that of Monsieur l'Abbe Roux," she replied. "Oh, but I understand that very well. It is the reason why I am here. No? A proposal of marriage was made to you for me, and you--you and Monsieur l'Abbe--refused your consent. Why?"

Princess Montefiano gazed at her step-daughter with an amazement nearly amounting to stupefaction. She had thought Bianca apathetic, perhaps even sullen, and had believed that she would probably never speak of her own accord about her love for Silvio Rossano. She had certainly not calculated upon her suddenly assuming an aggressive attitude, and that it was an aggressive attitude a glance at the girl's face, and the quiet, determined tone of her voice, showed clearly enough.

For a moment or two the princess remained silent, astonishment and indignation striving for mastery in her mind. It was not long before indignation triumphed. The absolute disregard which Bianca had shown for all the convenances had been bad enough; the manner in which she had allowed herself to become entangled in a love-affair, to have words of love spoken to her--and more than words, if Philippe was to be believed--by the son of an infidel professor, as though she had been some girl of the _borghesia_, was a horrible and an unheard-of thing. Nevertheless, nothing, at least in Princess Montefiano's eyes, was so culpable as want of submission to authority. All that intolerance of disobedience and defiance, which would have made the princess so admirable a mother-superior, arose within her at Bianca's words.

"I refused it--yes," she said, curtly. "We need not discuss the matter, Bianca. I do not intend to reprove you for your want of confidence in me, nor for your conduct. Your conscience should tell you how wrong, how--I must use the term--immodest that conduct has been. Yes; the proposal which the Professor Rossano had the insolence to make on behalf of his son was refused by me, and that is enough. In the mean time, you wish to know how long we remain here at Montefiano. The question is easily answered. You will remain here as long as I consider it fit that you should do so. You must learn to submit your will to those whom God has placed in authority over you. I shall certainly not shrink from doing what I know to be my duty towards you, although you have shown me very plainly that it is likely to be a thankless task. You have never given me your confidence, Bianca, never--not even when you were a child."

The defiant look on Bianca's face melted suddenly.

"It was not my fault," she said, slowly; "at least, I do not think it was my fault. I wanted to give it to you so often; but you did not love me, even when I was a child. You did your duty by me, but duty is not love; I understood that."

The princess knitted her brows, as though she were considering the point.

"That is nonsense," she said, presently. "The duty of a parent to a child, and of a child to a parent, is the same as love; and though I am not your mother, I have always tried to behave towards you as though you were my own child."

Bianca did not answer, but a little smile stole over her face and played about her lips. The hardness was all gone now, and there was only tenderness in her expression. Perhaps she was thinking that within the last few weeks she had learned the difference between love and duty.

"No, Bianca," continued Princess Montefiano, "if you had wanted to give me your confidence--if you had ever felt enough affection for me to make you wish to give it me--there could be no reason why you should persistently have withheld it. Nevertheless," she added, "your ingratitude towards me will not deter me from doing my duty. You must be protected against your own inexperience of the world, and against those who would take advantage of that inexperience."

Bianca looked at her almost wistfully. "You think me ungrateful," she said. "I am not that. But to confide in you meant confiding in Monsieur l'Abbe. He has always come between you and me--oh, ever since I was a child."

Princess Montefiano made a gesture of impatience. "If I have found Monsieur l'Abbe worthy of my confidence and my esteem, it should be a proof that he is also worthy of yours," she said. "You have a rebellious nature, Bianca, and God will punish you for it, both in this world and in the next."

A quick gleam of amusement flashed from Bianca's eyes. "How do you know?" she asked.

The princess stared at her. Assuredly, she thought, Bianca became every day more difficult to deal with.

"As to Monsieur l'Abbe," she said, preferring to leave her step-daughter's question unanswered, "your dislike to him is unreasonable--it is unreasonable and wrong. Setting aside his devotion to your worldly interests, which, when you are of an age to understand, you will appreciate better than you are able to do now, you owe him respect as a priest, the respect due to his sacred calling. I am deeply grieved at your attitude towards him; but there again your rebellious nature is at fault. As to saying that he comes between you and me, that is absurd. What does come between us is your own self-will--your own arrogance."

Bianca looked at her step-mother steadily for a moment, and the hard expression on her face returned.

"_E sia!_" she replied. "Do not let us discuss Monsieur l'Abbe Roux; it is a waste of time. As you say, when I am of an age to understand his devotion to my worldly interests I shall be able to appreciate them. I am sorry that Fontana is dismissed," she continued. "To be sure, I have only seen him a few times, but he appears an honest man."

The princess glanced at her, and her countenance displayed more displeasure than ever. "These business matters need not concern you for nearly three years to come," she said, coldly. "Your interests are in my hands, Bianca, as you very well know. Luckily for you, you have no voice in the management of your affairs. If you had, I fear you would very soon fall a prey to some adventurer like this--"

She stopped abruptly, a look on Bianca's face warning her that it would be more prudent not to complete her sentence. Nevertheless, Princess Montefiano was angry--seriously angry--and, though perhaps she scarcely realized it, alarmed. Her authority was very dear to her, and she clung to it more than she knew. She had always known there must come a time when that authority must cease; but she had certainly no intention of yielding it up before she was legally obliged to do so. Moreover, she felt perfectly assured that she divined the motives which lay behind Bianca's remark. Had she any doubts upon the point, they were speedily removed by her step-daughter's next words.

Whereas the princess was both angry and alarmed, Bianca Acorari showed no symptoms of being either the one or the other. She raised her head proudly, and a look came into her eyes that Princess Montefiano had seen on other occasions--a quiet, resolute look, which had generally preluded her own discomfiture when she had attempted to exercise her authority over her step-daughter beyond its justifiable limits.

"That is what I wanted to say to you," Bianca observed, calmly. "It is much better that you should understand. In three years' time I shall have the management of my own affairs. Well, three years is not a very long time. We, Silvio and I, can afford to wait; and at the end of three years, when I am of age, I shall marry him. But I will not marry Monsieur d'Antin--my uncle."

"Bianca!" exclaimed the princess, "you are either mad, or you are a wicked girl! For the sake of a disgraceful passion for a man in an inferior position of life to your own you rebel against those whom God has placed in authority over you. Yes, it is quite true, my brother loves you. I have suspected it for some time. And why should he not? At least, in marrying him you would be marrying a man of your own order, and not-- But what is the use of discussing the matter? You shall never marry this young Rossano with my consent--never, never, I tell you! and without my consent you cannot marry anybody."

Bianca smiled. "Never is a long time," she observed, tranquilly; "whereas, three years-- You quite understand," she added, after a pause, "I will marry Silvio Rossano, or I will marry nobody. You have chosen to refuse his offer, and you have a perfect right to do so. I, too, shall have my rights some day. But in the mean time you will tell my uncle that I do not wish for his society any more. I do not want his love. It--it disgusts me. Besides, he has deceived me."

The princess stared at her in dismay.

"Deceived you?" she repeated.

"He pretended to be my friend," answered Bianca, bitterly, "and, like an imbecile, I confided in him. Who else was there for me to confide in? He pretended to know Silvio, and that he would be able by degrees to remove your objections to our marriage. Well, it was all a lie. At first I did not understand; but now--" and Bianca gave a shudder which told, better than any words could have done, all that was passing in her mind of physical repulsion and disgust.

Princess Montefiano looked, as indeed she felt, sorely perplexed. A certain sense of justice made her sympathize with the girl. Although love was to her an unknown and unexplored element in life, she could not but recollect that when first she had suspected her brother's interest in Bianca not to be of a purely Platonic nature, the idea had shocked her as being almost an unnatural one.

At the same time, the Abbe Roux had never ceased to remind her of the gravity of the position in which Bianca had placed herself, of the hopeless manner in which her step-daughter would be compromised in the eyes of the world should it ever be known that she had formed an attachment for a man in whose company she had been alone and unprotected. By degrees Princess Montefiano had come to regard her brother's passion for Bianca as a possible safeguard, not only against the presumption of the Rossano family, but also against a scandal, for which she herself would certainly be blamed by the world, as being the result of a lack of proper supervision on her part towards her step-daughter. Not once, but many times, had the Abbe Roux descanted upon the generosity of Baron d'Antin in being ready to shield Bianca from any troubles which her folly might bring upon her in the future. Princess Montefiano had not stopped to reason that her brother's generosity might be exaggerated by the priest, and that he would receive a good return for it. There were certain things beyond her comprehension, mentally as well as physically, and passion was one of those things. People fell in love, of course; but, in Princess Montefiano's eyes, falling in love was a mere accident, necessary to the carrying-on of human society. She quite believed that she had loved the late Principe di Montefiano, and that he had loved her; and, in itself, this belief was harmless enough. The pity of it was that she was unable to realize any variations in the human temperament, or to understand that what had satisfied her, when at the mature age of five-and-thirty or so she had married a man considerably older than his years, would not be likely to satisfy Bianca. As to her brother's love for the girl, after the first impression caused by its discovery had passed, Princess Montefiano had been only too ready to accept the view of it that the Abbe Roux had more than once delicately hinted to her--namely, that it was a love similar to that of Bianca's father for herself--a placid, protective love, altogether disinterested, and admirable both from a worldly and a spiritual stand-point.

It is possible that the late Principe di Montefiano's point of view would have been different. But, fortunately, perhaps, for herself, Mademoiselle Jeanne d'Antin had not made the acquaintance of her husband until he had already, like King David and King Solomon, experienced misgivings of a religious character, and hence the Abbe Roux's _apologia_ for her brother's state of mind seemed to her to be perfectly reasonable and satisfactory.

So Bianca's abrupt pause and little shiver of disgust passed unobserved by the princess. It was evident to her that the girl did not realize the generosity of Philippe's affection. Bianca was, no doubt, contrasting him with that insolent young Rossano, and the thought added to her irritation and displeasure.

"I do not think you understand, Bianca," she began, after hesitating for a moment or two.

"I assure you that I understand well--perfectly well," returned Bianca, dryly. "I am not a child any longer: for the matter of that, I do not recollect ever having been a child, and it is useless to treat me as though I were one. You may keep me here at Montefiano three years, if you wish. It will be the same thing in the end. But I will not be made love to by my uncle."

The princess rose from the table and began to walk rapidly up and down the room.

"Bianca," she cried, "your language is disgraceful, indelicate! Besides," she added, weakly, "he is not your uncle. It is absurd, and, as usual, you are ungrateful. He wished to save you from the consequences of your conduct. Oh, you need not think that he has said anything to me of his motives. He is too much of a gentleman to do so. But he has confided them to Monsieur l'Abbe, and Monsieur l'Abbe has been profoundly touched. A disinterested affection is not such an easy thing to find, _figlia mia_," she added, more gently. "Take care that, in despising it, you do not throw away a great blessing."

Bianca did not reply. She seemed to be thinking over her step-mother's last words. A note of kindness found an instant response in her. Princess Montefiano noticed her hesitation, and decided that the moment was opportune for pressing her point. It might quite well be, she thought, that Bianca was really unconscious of the equivocal position in which she might find herself placed before the world.

"You see, Bianca," she continued, gravely, "a young girl cannot act as you have done without laying herself open to very disagreeable things being said of her. Do you suppose that any man would wish to marry you were it to be known that--well, that any such episode as has occurred had happened to you? Most decidedly he would not. Nevertheless, my brother is ready to overlook what another would not overlook, on account of the affection he entertains for you. He knows that you were not to blame so much as that thoughtless young man who ventured to--to persuade you to give him an interview."

"He was not to blame," interrupted Bianca, quickly. "He would have gone away if I had told him to do so, but I did not tell him."

"It does not matter," continued the princess, hurriedly, anxious to avoid a discussion on the subject at that particular moment. "You may be sure that it was only an impudent attempt to compromise you. But the world would never take that into consideration. With my brother, however, it is different."

Unluckily, Princess Montefiano had struck a wrong chord.

"It was nothing of the sort," Bianca exclaimed, indignantly. "It is perfectly true that we met, there in the ilex grove at the Villa Acorari, and I suppose our meeting was seen, and that you were told of it."

"Of course," interrupted the princess. "My brother saw you. Did you not know it was he who heard voices in the casino, and then saw you and--and that young man emerge from it?"

Bianca started violently. "Liar!" she exclaimed, under her breath.

"It seems to me that it is a further proof of my brother's generosity," continued Princess Montefiano. "Knowing all the circumstances, he has from the first endeavored to shield you."

Bianca laughed a quiet but not very pleasant laugh.

"_Sicuro!_" she said. "It is a further proof of Monsieur d'Antin's generosity. It appears that everybody at Montefiano is disinterested--my uncle, Monsieur l'Abbe, everybody! But you will explain to them that I need no sacrifices. Ah, it is of no use to interrupt me now! I have learned all I wanted to know, and you--you will learn something from me--something final, definite. It is this: I will marry Silvio Rossano when I am Principessa di Montefiano and my own mistress, and until that time I will wait, unless--"

Princess Montefiano turned towards her, her face quivering with anger.

"Unless--what?" she asked.

"Unless he wishes me to marry him before," answered Bianca, quietly.

"You will not dare--"

Bianca laughed again, and threw her head up like a young horse.

"Dare!" she said, scornfully. "When I have given my word, I do not break it--and do you suppose that I shall break my word when I have given my love? Ah, no, _per esempio_! I am not so vile as that."

"Oh, but the girl is mad, possessed!" ejaculated Princess Montefiano.

Bianca looked at her almost indifferently.

"I think not!" she said, quietly--and then her eyes flashed with sudden contempt, as she added: "And as for Monsieur d'Antin, you will tell him from me that I have no need of the generosity of a coward and a liar."

And turning on her heel, Bianca walked slowly from the room without another word, leaving Princess Montefiano in a condition of speechless astonishment and dismay.

*XXII*

After leaving her step-mother, Bianca went to her own room, where she shut herself up in order to be able to think quietly. Although she felt that she had been by no means the vanquished party in the unexpected skirmish which had just taken place, she was far more ill at ease in her own mind than she had allowed herself to show to the princess. Whatever might be Bianca Acorari's faults, lack of courage, moral or physical, was certainly not among them; and during the time she had been at Montefiano, her courage and her pride combined had forbidden her to show any external sign of the doubt and uncertainty ever increasing in her heart as the days lengthened into weeks, and yet no word from Silvio Rossano had reached her.

That Silvio's father had written to her step-mother making a formal proposal of marriage on his son's behalf, and that this proposal had been indignantly rejected by the princess, Bianca was already well aware. Monsieur d'Antin had informed her of the fact a very few days after his arrival at Montefiano. It had been this information, indeed, and the kindly and sympathetic manner of its conveyance, that had caused Bianca to regard Monsieur d'Antin as the one person about her to whom she might venture to confide her hopes and difficulties. It had not been long, however, before vague and fleeting suspicions, which she had at first dismissed from her mind as not only absurd, but almost wrong to entertain, as to Monsieur d'Antin's motives for seeking her society, developed into certainties, before which she had recoiled with fear and disgust. Her instinct had very soon told her that there was more in her uncle's--for she had begun to regard him in that relationship--manner towards her than was justified by his professed compassion and sympathy. Sometimes, when alone with her, he had made certain observations which, although apparently in connection with her and Silvio's love for each other, had offended her sense, if not of modesty, at least of propriety and good taste. She could hardly explain to herself why they should have done so, but she was conscious that they did do so. Sometimes, too, she had surprised an expression on Monsieur d'Antin's countenance as he looked at her which had made her shrink from him, as she might have shrunk from some evil thing that meant to harm her. Her suspicions once aroused, Bianca had been quick to perceive that the more she was alone with Monsieur d'Antin, the more apt he became to assume a manner towards her which caused her no little embarrassment as well as distaste. The result had been an ever-growing feeling of distrust, which soon made her regret bitterly that she had ever allowed herself to talk to her uncle about Silvio, and latterly she had sought every pretext to avoid being alone with him. Sometimes, too, she reproached herself deeply for having disregarded her promise to Silvio that she would confide in nobody until he had an opportunity of again communicating with her. This promise, however, as she repeatedly told herself, had been given when they had still a channel of communication in the person of Mademoiselle Durand, and before she had become, to all intents and purposes, a prisoner at Montefiano. But now Mademoiselle Durand had utterly vanished from the scene--gone, as Monsieur d'Antin informed her, to Paris with the wife and children of a secretary of the French embassy in Rome, and Bianca had quickly realized that no communication, direct or indirect, from her lover would be allowed to reach her as long as she was within the walls of Montefiano.

Monsieur d'Antin, moreover, had certainly played the opening moves of his game very well, and a more experienced person than Bianca might have been deceived by them. He had extracted her confidence by impressing upon Bianca that he, and he alone, could by degrees overcome the objections that his sister entertained to an alliance with the Rossano family. He had explained to her how these objections came in reality much more from the Abbe Roux than from the princess, and that the latter would infallibly relent if the abbe's good-will could be secured. It had been Monsieur d'Antin, too, who had warned Bianca that her step-mother had decided, always by the Abbe Roux's advice, absolutely to ignore, at any rate for the present, the fact of her having met Silvio and allowed him to propose to her. He had carefully impressed upon her that any attempt on her part to overcome the princess's objections, any allusion, indeed, to the subject, would only result in failure; and that Bianca's best plan, in her own and her lover's interests, would be to maintain an absolute silence, except, of course, to himself. No questions, he told her, would be asked her by her step-mother, and no lectures on her conduct given to her. Therefore, there would be no need for her to give her confidence in a quarter where it was not demanded, and where the giving of it could only prejudice her cause. And everything had happened as Monsieur d'Antin had foretold. The princess had not made the slightest allusion to her step-daughter regarding the meeting in the grounds of the Villa Acorari, and, save for the sense of being continually guarded and watched, Bianca could not truthfully say to herself that her life at Montefiano differed in any particular degree from the life she had been accustomed from childhood to lead.

At first, when Bianca had finally decided to yield to her uncle's suggestions and confide in him, she had more than once asked him to assist her in sending or in receiving some communication from Silvio. But Monsieur d'Antin had always declared this to be impossible. He had explained plausibly enough that if his sister and the Abbe Roux were once to suspect him of such a course, all the influence he might be able to use with them in order to overcome their objections would be hopelessly destroyed. Moreover, his sister would certainly ask him to leave Montefiano, and then Bianca would be left without her only friend and sympathizer.

And so long as Monsieur d'Antin, counselling patience, had himself been patient, matters had progressed fairly well for the furtherance of the object he and the Abbe Roux had in view. Bianca was, if not easy in her mind, at least satisfied that there was no other course open to her but to keep silence and wait for her uncle's influence to do its work.