Part 13

"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."