Part 22

She had not been in bed long before sleep came to her, for she was, in fact, more weary in body and mind than she had realized. For four or five hours she slept soundly enough, but after that her slumbers became disturbed by dreams. She dreamed that Silvio was near her, that she could see him but could not speak to him, and that he had some message for her, some letter which the Abbe Roux was trying to take from him. In her sleep she seemed to hear strange noises and her own name called softly at intervals. Suddenly she awoke with a start. A gleam of moonlight was shining through the window-curtains and half-closed _persiennes_. It made a broad track across the floor to the wall opposite her bed, and fell on the face of a picture hanging near the corner of the room--a portrait of that very Cardinal Acorari who had caused the Renaissance palace to be added to the Montefiano fortress, in order that he might have a villa in the Sabine Mountains in which to pass the hot summer months away from Rome. The moonlight glanced upon his scarlet robes and skull-cap and on his heavy countenance. Time had caused the flesh colors to fade, and the full mouth, with the sensual lips, looked unnaturally red against the waxy whiteness of the rest of the face.

Bianca lay and looked at the streak of moonlight on the floor. Presently her gaze followed the track until it rested on the picture. For some moments she looked at the portrait with a certain fascination. She had never seen it in the moonlight before; it looked ghostly. She had once seen a cardinal lying in state when she was a child, and the sight had frightened her. She was not at all frightened now, for she was no longer a child; but all the same, she could not take her eyes off the picture. She found herself wondering what relation she was to that old Cardinal Acorari--great-great-what? Granddaughter would not do, for cardinals, of course, never had children; certainly not cardinal-priests; and Cardinal Acorari had been bishop of Ostia and cardinal vicar of Rome.

Suddenly she sat up in her bed. Surely she had seen the face move? Yes; it had certainly moved; it was quite ten centimetres more to the right of the moonlight than it had been a moment ago. Now half the features were in shadow, and the cardinal's _biretta_ was half red and half black. _Sciocchezze_! Of course, it was the moon that had moved, not the picture; or, rather, she supposed it was the earth that had moved, or the sun! Something had moved, at any rate, but not the cardinal. And smiling at her own stupidity, Bianca withdrew her gaze from the picture, and, turning on her side, tried to compose herself to sleep once more. But it soon became evident that sleep would not return to her. She felt restless, and the night, too, was hot. Rising from her bed, she threw a light wrap over her shoulders and went to one of the windows, the curtains of which she drew gently aside; and then, taking care not to make any noise that could be heard in the room beyond, she opened the green _persiennes_ outside the window and leaned out. Not a breath of air was stirring, and the September night was oppressively warm. A silvery haze hung over the _macchia_ below the terrace, and far away, under the encircling mountains, Bianca could see the wreaths of mist rising in the valley of the Tiber. The two flanking wings of the palace stood out cold and white in the moonlight, while the double avenue of lofty cypresses on each side of the great night of stone steps leading down from the terrace into the park looked black and sombre in the nearer foreground.

The splashing of a fountain in the centre of the avenue, and the occasional cry of some bird, alone broke the intense stillness. Bianca rested her arms on the ledge of the window, gazing out upon the scene below her. The moonlight fell full upon her and glanced upon the tawny gold of her hair. For some moments she remained immovable. Then, with a gesture of passionate abandonment, she flung her white arms out into the silver night. "Silvio!" she whispered; "Silvio, not one word? Ah, my beloved, if you knew how I want you, if you knew the loneliness! Ah, but I will be patient, I will be brave, for your sake and for my own--only--_Dio!_--" She turned suddenly with a little cry. Surely she had heard her own name again, spoken very softly from somewhere within the room behind her. She looked hastily round, but could see nobody. Only her own shadow fell across the floor in the moonlight.

"_Eccellenza_! Donna Bianca!"

Ah, this time she was not mistaken! It was her name she had heard whispered, and the voice came from the cardinal's portrait. Bianca started back. For a second or two she felt fear. If she could only see the person who had called her, she would not be frightened, she was certain of that. Gathering her wrap round her she came forward into the room.

"I am Bianca Acorari," she said, in a low, clear voice. "What do you want with me, and how have you ventured to come here? Speak, or I will call for help."

"Ah, _per carita_! do not call--do not be afraid."

"I am not afraid," interrupted Bianca Acorari, quietly. "Why should I be afraid? Besides, it--you are a woman, are you not?"

"_Eccellenza_--yes! It is I, Concetta Fontana, and I bring a message--a letter. Ah, but I have been waiting for an hour before I dared speak. I called you, but you were sleeping, and then, when I saw you at the window, I was frightened--"

The white face of Cardinal Acorari disappeared noiselessly into the wall, and Concetta's form occupied its place. She carried in her hand a small oil-lamp; and, balancing herself for an instant, she dropped lightly down the three or four feet from where the picture had hung, to the floor.

Bianca rushed towards her. "Concetta!" she exclaimed. Then she tottered a little, and, dropping into a chair, began to sob convulsively.

In a moment Concetta was by her side and had thrown her arms round her.

"For the love of God, _eccellenza_, do not cry!" she exclaimed. "Do not make a sound--the princess--she might hear. Yes, it is Concetta--Concetta who has brought you this--who will do anything for you," and she thrust Silvio's packet into Bianca's hand.

Bianca looked at it for a moment as if she scarcely understood her. Then she tore it open eagerly. A smaller packet fell from it to the floor, but Bianca let it lie there. Her eyes had caught sight of the letter in which it was enclosed, and she wanted that and nothing else. Hurriedly unfolding it, she darted to the window again and held the closely written sheets to the moonlight. "Ah, Silvio!" she exclaimed, "I knew, I knew!"

Concetta, practically, lighted a candle, and waited in silence while Bianca devoured the contents of her lover's letter. Every now and then she cast anxious glances towards the princess's apartment. Then, when Bianca had finished feverishly reading through the letter for the first time and was about to begin it again, she stooped, and picking up the packet from the floor, gave it to her.

Bianca undid the paper, and, opening the little box inside, took out the ring.

"Ah, look!" she said. "Look what he sends me--his mother's ring! Look how the diamonds sparkle in the moonlight, Concetta--and the sapphire--how blue the sapphire is! Blue, like--"

She stopped suddenly, and a hot wave of color mounted to her face. Replacing the ring in its case, she thrust it and the letter into her bosom.

Then she turned to Concetta quickly.

"How did you come here, and why should you do this thing for me?" she asked, almost fiercely. "Are you sent to lay a trap for me? Speak!"

Concetta Fontana flung herself upon her knees, and taking Bianca's hand, covered it with kisses. "No, no," she exclaimed. "I have come because my father sent me--my father and Don Agostino--because you are the _padrona_--not--not that other one--the foreigner. _Eccellenza_, you have no right to mistrust me. I swear to God that there is no deceit, no trap. Nobody knows of the secret passage--only my father and I. My father could not come here--in the dead of night--so I came."

"The secret passage!" repeated Bianca, wonderingly.

Concetta pointed to the hole in the wall where the cardinal's portrait had been. "It is there," she said, "and it runs the whole length of the _piano nobile_ and down into the entrance-court. See!" Going to the aperture, she pressed a spring concealed in the groove, and slowly, noiselessly, the picture of Cardinal Acorari glided back into its original position.

"I can come and go when I please," said Concetta, with a smile, "so the _principessina_ is no longer a prisoner who cannot communicate with the world outside. Oh, and there are those outside who mean to help her--Don Agostino, and my father, and others besides. We will not have our _padrona_ shut up in the castle of Montefiano to please a foreign priest. _Sicuro!_ very soon--in a few days perhaps--the _principessina_ will understand that she is at Montefiano--among her own people."

Bianca scarcely heard Concetta Fontana's latter words.

"Who is Don Agostino?" she asked, suddenly. "Silvio--this letter--says that the packet will be brought or conveyed to me by Monsignor Lelli."

"Don Agostino--Lelli--it is all one," replied Concetta. "He is our _parroco_, _eccellenza_; and he is good, oh, he is good! If all priests were like Don Agostino--_mah_!"

Bianca took out her letter again. As yet she could hardly realize her happiness. A few minutes ago she had felt utterly alone, almost without hope, save the hope that her own courage and her trust in Silvio gave her. Now the world seemed different. She had got her message from that great world outside, which until just now had seemed so far away from her own--that world where life and love were waiting for her.

Suddenly she turned to Concetta and took both the girl's hands in hers. "Forgive me," she said, softly; "I was wrong to doubt you, but I think I have begun to suspect everybody lately. When one has once been deceived, it is not easy to trust again."

Concetta's eyes flashed. "Who has dared to deceive you, _signorina_?" she asked, hastily. "Not--" she pointed to the letter Bianca was still holding against her heart.

Bianca smiled. "No, Concetta; ah, no, not he! How could he deceive me? I was thinking of somebody else--somebody here at Montefiano. But it does not matter. I do not care at all now. Indeed, I do not think that I shall care about anything again. Ah, Concetta, some day you will know that I am grateful for what you have done to-night. I shall not forget. I shall ask you what I can do for you in return, when I am really Principessina di Montefiano."

Concetta looked at her quickly. "It will not be difficult to repay me," she said; "but I don't want repayment, _eccellenza_; it is not for repayment I mention it. But, some day, if you will remember that my father has been dismissed from your service because he would not consent to an injustice being done in your name to the people, that will be repayment enough."

Bianca started. "Of course!" she exclaimed. "I recollect. Your father has been dismissed from his post, has he not? Well, when I have power to recall him, he shall be recalled. It is enough for me to know that he has been dismissed by Monsieur l'Abbe Roux to suspect that he has been unjustly treated. But what do you mean by injustice to the people done in my name, Concetta? I do not understand."

Concetta hesitated. "You will understand very soon, perhaps," she replied, mysteriously. "But do not be alarmed, _eccellenza_, it is not you with whom the people are angry. They know you cannot help what is being done, although it may be done in your name. _Basta!_ if you have no further orders for me, I will go. It is nearly morning, and I have been here too long. If the princess were to awake and think of coming into your room--"

"She never comes into my room after I have wished her good-night," said Bianca, "and you must not go yet, Concetta--at least, not before I have given you a letter which you will take back to Monsignor Lelli--Don Agostino--for me. You will do that, will you not?"

"_Altro_! But, _eccellenza_, do not be long writing your letter. If I were to be found here--well--" and Concetta shrugged her shoulders significantly.

Bianca suddenly looked round the room in despair. "_Madonna mia!_" she exclaimed, "I have nothing to write with--no ink or paper--only a little pencil."

"The pencil must serve for this time, _signorina_," said Concetta. "To-morrow you can bring some writing-materials here and hide them in the passage outside, for I will show you how to work the spring. Anything you place in the passage is as if Domeneddio had it in his own pocket. But for to-night write a few words on the blank half-sheet of that letter you have, and early to-morrow morning I will give it myself to Don Agostino."

Bianca looked at her doubtfully. She was loath to part with even a scrap of paper that had come from Silvio. But time pressed, and if she did not return an immediate reply to his missive, Silvio would think it had been intercepted. She sat down and wrote a few lines hurriedly, and, folding up her half-sheet of paper, confided it to Concetta's keeping.

"You will tell Don Agostino that I shall send another letter to-morrow by you," she said, "and you will thank him for all he is doing, Concetta, from me. And tell him also that I shall write to him myself, because--"

She hesitated for a moment, then, drawing herself up, she looked Concetta full in the face. "Because my future husband wishes me to do so," she concluded, quietly.

Concetta Fontana took her hand, and, raising it to her lips, kissed it. "I will go to Don Agostino at seven o'clock this morning, before he says his mass, and I will give him the letter. Ah, _signorina_, if the Signorino Rossano is Don Agostino's friend, it is proof enough that, speaking with respect, you have chosen your husband wisely. _Sicuro_! Don Agostino is a good man. There are many at Montefiano who distrust the priests; but there is nobody who does not trust Don Agostino. It is I, Concetta, who say it to you--and I know. But look, _signorina_, the dawn will soon be here. Let me go now--for who knows that her excellency might not awake. You will not be frightened if you see the picture move again? It will only be Concetta looking into the room to make sure that you are alone."

Bianca turned to her quickly. "Ah, Concetta," she exclaimed, "I am so happy--you do not know how happy! And I shall not forget what you have done for me--you will see that I shall not forget. Yes--go--go! I am not alone any longer now."

Concetta lifted up a chair and placed it under the picture. Then, standing upon it, she pressed the spring concealed behind the heavy, carved frame, and slowly, noiselessly, the portrait of Cardinal Acorari slid back into the wall. Another moment, and Concetta was standing in the aperture where the painted panel had been. "Sleep well now, _signorina_," she whispered to Bianca, "and do not be afraid. There are those watching that no harm shall come to you at Montefiano."

She drew back into the passage as she spoke, pressing the corresponding spring on the other side of the wall as she did so; and once more the cardinal looked down on Bianca from the spot where Concetta had been standing but an instant before.

Bianca gazed at the picture for a few moments, and listened for any faint echo of Concetta's footsteps. Not the slightest sound was audible from the passage. Only the twittering of waking birds came through the open window; and Bianca, turning away, went again to it and leaned out. A faint breeze was stirring the trees in the macchia below the terrace, and the drooping tops of the cypresses were swaying softly. The moon was sinking behind the lofty ridges of Soracte, and away in the east the violet sky of night was already streaked with the first pale messengers heralding the coming of the dawn.

And Bianca leaned from the window and watched till the pearly whiteness in the eastern sky deepened into rose red; till the wreaths of mist floating away from the valley of the Tiber rose, and, clinging to the mountain-sides, glided slowly upward till they caught the first golden rays of the yet hidden sun.

From the woodland below came the distant notes of a reed-pipe, and then a boy's voice singing one of the strange minor cadences learned, probably, centuries ago of slaves from the East, and sung still by the peasants and shepherds of the Latin province. In the present instance, Bianca knew that the lad was no shepherd--for the sheep had not yet been brought down from the higher pastures--but that he was engaged in the less poetical occupation of tending pigs.

As she watched, a wave of golden light seemed to spread over the face of the landscape below her, and the sun rose. And Bianca Acorari flung out her arms once more; this time not in doubt and almost in despair, but in a passion of joy, thankfulness, and love.

*XXVI*

The Caffe Garibaldi, which was situated in the main street of Montefiano--a street that bore, as a matter of course, the name of Corso Vittorio Emanuele--was doing an unusually brisk business. At each little marble-topped table a group of excited men was sitting, each member of which was talking at the top of his voice. Nobody was listening to his neighbor; but then, as all the world knows, there are occasions when no Italian ever does listen to his neighbor during a discussion; the whole aim and object of each speaker being to talk the other down. A considerable amount of wine was being drunk, and some of it was new wine, the process of fermentation being scarcely over. No doubt this fact accounted for much of the heat with which the sole topic of conversation in the Caffe Garibaldi that evening was being discussed. There was an argument, indeed, and, taking into consideration the number of half-litres consumed and the quality of at any rate a large proportion of the wine, it was perhaps as well that everybody was of the same opinion, though each strove to express that opinion more forcibly than his companion. A difference on the main issue in question would have certainly led to quarrels, and quarrels would as likely as not have resulted in the flow of other liquid than Stefano Mazza's red wine at eight _soldi_ the litre.

In a room at the back of the _caffe_--a room wherein was to be found the solitary billiard-table in Montefiano, and where the choicer and more exclusive elements of Montefianese society were wont to gather--the conversation was as animated and scarcely less noisy than in the portion communicating directly with the street bearing the name of the Re Galantuomo.

Stefano Mazza, the host, was himself attending to the wants of his clients in this more select part of his premises; and Stefano Mazza was a person of considerable weight in Montefiano, not only bodily but, what was far more important, socially. The _sindaco_ of Montefiano himself, with all the importance of bureaucracy at his back, was not so influential a man as Stefano Mazza; for Mazza, so to speak, held the _sindaco_ in the hollow of his hand, as he did a very considerable proportion of the _sindaco's_ municipal councillors and of the inhabitants of Montefiano generally. There were few, very few of the Montefianesi, from officials to peasants, whose signatures to certain pieces of paper bearing the government stamp and setting forth that the signatories were in his debt to amounts ranging from thousands to tens of _lire_, Stefano did not possess. He was, in short, the money-lender, not only to Montefiano, but to a considerable portion of the agricultural district surrounding it, and, as such, his opinion on most questions was listened to with unfailing respect by all members of the community.

On the whole, _strozzino_ though he was, Stefano was neither an unjust nor a hard man. To be sure, he charged a six-per-cent. interest for the money he loaned; but he was content with getting this interest and never departed from his conditions. He had been known to wait for his money, too, when, owing to bad seasons, some of his poorer clients were unable to pay their interest at the proper dates. The consequence was that Sor Stefano was regarded by his neighbors of all degrees as a personage with whom it was to their advantage to stand well; the more so as even the most prosperous among them could never tell when they might not want to borrow his money, or renew a bill for money already advanced by him.

A sudden hail-storm which would devastate the crops or the vineyards in the space of a few minutes; an unfortunate season with the lambs or the pigs; a failure with the maize or the grain--and it was as likely as not that Sor Stefano's assistance would have to be sought in order to tide over the winter months; and often, too, in order to have the rent ready for Sor Beppe, the _fattore_, when he should come to collect it.

It was certain, therefore, that nobody, not excepting Sor Beppe himself, was so thoroughly acquainted with the financial conditions of the tenants on the Montefiano estates as Stefano Mazza, the proprietor of the Caffe Garibaldi. Moreover, Sor Stefano and Sor Beppe were good and intimate friends, as their fathers had been before them. Sor Stefano, indeed, had recently stood by the _fattore_ on more than one occasion, when, after the rents had been farmed out to the new lessee, Sor Beppe had been compelled to obey instructions from Rome and increase them, thereby incurring the dislike of the small holders, who not unnaturally regarded him as the primary cause of the extra burden laid upon them.

The news of Sor Beppe's dismissal from the office of _fattore_ had stirred public opinion in and around Montefiano to its depths. Notwithstanding its Corso Vittorio Emanuele, its Via Giordano Bruno, and other outward and visible signs of a desire to tread the path of independence and liberty, Montefiano was conservative enough in maintaining its own traditions, and in not welcoming any changes in the order of things to which it had become accustomed. For five-and-twenty years Sor Beppe had been _fattore_ at Montefiano to Casa Acorari; while, for fifty years before he succeeded to the post, it had been occupied by Sor Pompilio, his father. This fact was in itself sufficient to cause the news that another _fattore_ was to be appointed in the place of Giuseppe Fontana to be received with astonishment and not a little indignation.