Part 12

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."