XXVII
Punctually at half-past seven on the morning after Sor Beppe's nocturnal visit to him, Don Agostino, robed in his vestments and accompanied by a small but sturdy acolyte, who was to act as server at the low mass he was about to celebrate, emerged from the sacristy of his church and ascended the steps of one of the side altars. The attendance was not large, the congregation consisting of a few peasant women and two old men; for the day was not a festa, and, consequently, the population of Montefiano was pursuing its usual occupations in the paese, or in the fields and vineyards beyond it.
As Don Agostino, after having arranged the sacred vessels and adjusted the markers in the missal to the proper pages, turned from the altar to commence the opening portion of the mass, his quick eyes fell upon Concetta Fontana, who was kneeling in the body of the church some little way behind the group of women gathered round the marble balustrade in front of the altar. It could not be said that Concetta was a frequent attendant at the half-past seven o'clock mass, and her presence had already excited whispered comments among the rest of the congregation, who had at once recognized Sor Beppe's daughter.
The mass over, Don Agostino retired to the sacristy again to disrobe, and thither, after a few minutes had elapsed, Concetta Fontana followed him. Don Agostino was not surprised to see her. Indeed, he had risen earlier than usual that morning in expectation of a visit either from Fontana or his daughter. He had spent an hour or two in his garden tying up refractory branches of his rose-trees and generally attending to the needs of his fellow-beings of the vegetable world – for it was one of Agostino's theories that any form of life was an attribute of the God whom he worshipped as a God of sympathy and of love, and he regarded his trees and his flowers as sentient beings who had a right to his tenderness and care. It was certainly not a theory of which he spoke in the world; but then most of us who are not content with looking only at the binding of God's book of life probably have our little intimate thoughts and theories which, knowing our world, we are prudent enough to keep for our own use and enjoyment, and, perhaps, as stepping-stones on the path we have to tread.
Concetta waited until she and Don Agostino were alone in the sacristy, and then she gave him the folded sheet of paper that Bianca Acorari had intrusted to her.
"To-morrow," she said, "the principessina will send another letter by me. There were no writing-materials in her room, so she could only send a few lines, which your reverence will no doubt forward to their destination."
Don Agostino took the paper and placed it carefully in his pocket-book. "I shall send it to the Signorino Rossano to-day," he replied. "Donna Bianca need have no fear of its not reaching him safely. So you took the packet to her last night?" he continued. "You had no difficulty in giving it into Donna Bianca's own hands?"
Concetta quickly related to him all that had passed between Bianca and her the night before. "And I was to tell your reverence," she concluded, "from the principessina, that she would write to you herself, because her fidanzatowished her to do so. Ah, but you should have seen the proud way the principessina drew herself up and looked – a look that a queen might give – when she spoke of her fidanzato!"
Don Agostino glanced at her with a smile. "You will be faithful to the principessina, figlia mia?" he asked. "She needs friends, the poor child."
"Faithful to her!" exclaimed Concetta. "I would do anything – anything, for the principessina. Imagine if I was glad when my father came home last night and told me I must take her the packet you had given him. I had wanted to go to her, and to tell her that I would do anything she bade me – oh, so often! But how could I venture? Besides, I was afraid of frightening her if I appeared in her room from the cardinal's portrait."
"But she was not frightened?" Don Agostino asked.
"Niente affatto!" returned Concetta, emphatically. "It was I who was frightened when I saw her leaning out of the window in the moonlight and calling to her lover. I feared she might be walking in her sleep, and that she might throw herself down on the terrace. Ah, but she knows now that there are those who are ready to help her – and she will know it better in a few days' time."
Don Agostino looked at her. "How do you mean? Why should she know it better in a few days than she does now?" he asked.
Concetta pursed up her lips. "She will know it," she repeated, "and so will the principessa and the Abbé Roux. I am nothing – only a woman – but there are men who will help her – all Montefiano, if it comes to that."
Don Agostino looked at her with greater attention. He had already heard through Ernana something concerning the ill-feeling the dismissal of Sor Beppe had aroused in Montefiano; and something, too, of the part the Abbé Roux was supposed to have played in bringing about the fattore'sdismissal.
"What do you mean?" he repeated. "You may speak openly to me, figlia mia," he continued, "for I also would do all I could to help Donna Bianca Acorari and to protect her from any evil designs against her. Moreover, Donna Bianca's fidanzato is my friend, and his father and I have been friends for many years. After all, it is I, is it not, who have asked your father to convey that packet to the principessina? And he told me of the means whereby it might be conveyed."
Concetta started. "Ah! he told you of the passage?" she exclaimed.
"Certainly," replied Don Agostino. "So you see," he added, "I am aware that it is possible to communicate with Donna Bianca without the fact being known to those who are trying to isolate her from the outer world. If you have the principessina's welfare at heart, as I am sure that you have, you will take me entirely into your confidence, will you not?"
Concetta nodded. "I know nothing for certain as yet," she said, after hesitating for a moment, "but the people are angry, reverendo, very angry."
"Yes, I have heard something of that," said Don Agostino, as Concetta paused. "They are angry at the rents having been raised, and at your father's having been dismissed for his opposition to the increase. But his dismissal has nothing to do with Donna Bianca's position, and the people's anger will not help her, so far as I can see."
"Ah, but it will help her," replied Concetta, eagerly. "They are angry about the rents and about my father, that is true; but they are also indignant at the way in which the principessina is shut up and not allowed to see anybody. They have heard that she is in love with somebody whom she is forbidden to see any more, and that the princess's brother wants to force her to marry him instead. And they have put the dots upon the i's, and believe that the foreign priest is at the bottom of the whole affair. You must remember, reverendo, that we Montefianesi look upon the principessina as our padrona. We do not want foreigners to interfere between us and the Principessina Bianca."
"I understand that perfectly well," Don Agostino observed, quietly. "But how do the Montefianesi propose to remedy matters? After all, Donna Bianca is a minor, and as such she is not yet her own mistress; nor," he added, "can her people here, however devoted to her they may be, make her so."
"But they can make the principessa get rid of those who are advising her badly," said Concetta. "I do not know what has been decided," she continued, lowering her voice, "but last night there was a meeting at the Caffè Garibaldi. Of course, my father would not be present, for it was his dismissal that they were by way of discussing – that and the raising of the rents. But I am certain that they will have talked about other things besides these; and I know that Sor Stefano meant to propose that a deputation should go to the princess and insist on the rents being lowered to their original amount, and on my father being retained as fattore."
"Precisely," interrupted Don Agostino. "But in what way will Donna Bianca be helped by all this talk? That is what I do not understand, figlia mia."
Concetta directed a shrewd glance at him. "In this way," she replied, "Sor Stefano – oh, and many others, too – intend to see the Principessina Bianca herself, and to explain to her that she and nobody else is padrona at Montefiano, and that they will hear from her own lips, when they have explained matters to her, whether what has been done in her name has her approval or not. This they will do, reverendo, not because they do not understand that the principessina is still a child, so to speak, but because they intend Monsieur l'Abbé and the baron to understand that their schemes are known and will not be tolerated. Mi spiego reverendo?"
Don Agostino's face flushed and his eyes sparkled with an unusual excitement.
"Do you explain yourself?" he said, repeating Concetta's last words. "Certainly, you explain yourself very well. Ah, if your Montefianesi do that, they will, indeed, be helping their padrona."
He paused suddenly, and his countenance became grave and preoccupied.
"And this deputation to the princess," he said, presently – "does your father know of the proposal?"
"Certainly he knows of it," answered Concetta; "but naturally," she added, "he can take no part in it. It is Sor Stefano who will be at the head of it, or perhaps the sindaco– oh, and representatives chosen by the contadini. And you, reverendo, you will surely be asked to join it as the parroco. Sicuro! it will all have been settled last night; but as yet I have seen nobody, for until I had delivered the principessina's letter, as I promised her I would do, I could not be easy in my mind."
Don Agostino's expression remained grave and thoughtful. That the people of Montefiano should resent the interference of the Abbé Roux in their relations with Casa Acorari was certainly natural, and might in the end turn out to be a good thing for both Donna Bianca and Silvio. But Don Agostino well knew the danger that must attend any demonstration of hostility towards the princess and her advisers on the part of the peasants. Such demonstrations were apt unexpectedly to assume serious proportions. If the enraged contadini felt that they had the moral support of men like Sor Stefano, they might easily lose their heads, and, should their demands be refused, attempt to enforce them by measures which would necessitate the intervention of the civil authorities, if not of the military. What military intervention too frequently ended in, Don Agostino was fully aware, and he felt every effort should be made to prevent the threatened demonstration assuming any attitude that might furnish an excuse for obtaining it.
The question was, whether Princess Montefiano would consent to receive this deputation, and to hear what its members had to say. Her decision would evidently be inspired by the Abbé Roux, and the abbé's recent action in causing the rents to be increased, and in the dismissal of an old, popular official for venturing to oppose that increase, convinced Don Agostino that the foreign priest, as the Abbé Roux was called, did not understand the character of the people he was attempting to rule.
Don Agostino's experience of human nature made him at once realize the danger of a misunderstanding on either side, in the present condition of public opinion in Montefiano. The abbé might easily underrate the force of that opinion and persuade the princess to decline to listen to, or even to receive a deputation formed to protest against his policy. If he were so to persuade Princess Montefiano, the situation would infallibly become critical, and very likely perilous. All would then depend on whether the Abbé Roux had the nerve and the tact to deal with it, or whether he would oblige the princess to appeal to the authorities to suppress the demonstration. In this latter case a collision would become inevitable; and it was this collision between his people – for was he not their parroco? – and the authorities, that Don Agostino was determined to use all his influence to avert.
Concetta Fontana watched his countenance, as for a few moments Don Agostino stood, apparently deep in thought.
"You would join the deputation, reverendo, would you not?" she asked him, presently.
Don Agostino hesitated.
"It depends," he replied. "You see, figlia mia," he continued, "we must be careful that in trying to do good we do not bring about a great deal of harm and unhappiness. I should like to talk with your father, and to-day I will go to see Stefano Mazza. The contadini are within their rights – I do not deny that – and a grave injustice has been done, both to them and to your father. Sicuro! they are in the right, but it should be the duty of those who have influence to prevent them from doing anything to put themselves in the wrong. Yes, tell your father that I should like to see him to-day. At mezzogiorno he will find a place ready for him if he likes to come to breakfast. We could talk afterwards – while Ernana is washing the dishes. You will go to see Donna Bianca again – as you did last night, will you not? You will tell her that her letter goes to-day to her fidanzato, and that he will receive it to-morrow morning in Rome. And you will tell her, also, that I am awaiting the letter she is going to write to me; and when I have it, I will answer her. In the mean time, figlia mia, be prudent – if you wish to serve the Principessina Bianca. You and your father have influence with the people – they wish you well. Talk to the women. It is the women who can often lead the men – is it not? Anything that is done must be done cautiously, moderately. There must be no folly – no threats employed in order to enforce demands that in themselves are just. You must tell the women that I, Don Agostino, will support all that is done to obtain justice in a just way – but I will not countenance any measures that may provoke disorder, and perhaps violence. Now go, figlia mia, and give my message to your father this morning – and to the Principessina Bianca when you think it safe to go again to her apartment."
And Don Agostino, opening the door of the sacristy, accompanied Concetta through the empty church, and then returned to his own house, and to his morning coffee which Ernana always prepared for him after he had said his early mass.
XXVIII
Silvio Rossano had quite made up his mind that some days must in all probability elapse before Don Agostino might be able to find a safe opportunity of conveying the letter and ring he had intrusted to him to Bianca. When, therefore, he found on his table, on returning to Palazzo Acorari as usual for breakfast, a notice from the post-office informing him that a registered packet addressed to him was lying at the central office, he did not suppose for a moment that the said packet had come from Montefiano. Indeed, it was not until late in the afternoon that he went to San Silvestro in order to get the packet, as he had some work to do at home which he was anxious to complete. His heart gave a sudden leap when he recognized Don Agostino's handwriting on the registered envelope. The arcade running round the court-yard and garden of palms at San Silvestro, thronged as it was with people asking for their correspondence at the poste-restante, with soldiers and men of business, priests and peasants, was certainly not the place to investigate the contents of Don Agostino's missive, which would scarcely have been registered had the contents not been important.
Silvio hurried out of the building, and, crossing the Corso, plunged into the comparative quiet of the little side streets behind Montecitorio, where he eagerly tore open the sealed envelope. There were only a few lines written by Don Agostino himself, and Silvio, hastily glancing at them, gathered that he had had an opportunity of sending the letter and ring to Bianca Acorari by a safe hand, and that her reply was enclosed. He added that he should write more fully in a day or two, by which time he believed he should have something of importance to communicate.
Bianca's letter, too, was short and hastily written in pencil on a half-sheet of paper that Silvio recognized as having been torn from his own lengthy epistle to her. Brief as this letter was, however, it told him much that he was longing to know, and, indeed, repeated Bianca's words to him in the garden of the Villa Acorari, with which she had vowed that she would marry nobody if she did not marry him. But what set his mind at ease more than anything else was her assurance that means of communication were open to them. Bianca did not explain what these means were, but told him that she would write him a long letter the following day, and that he also could continue to write to her under cover to Monsignor Lelli, as there was now no danger of his letters being intercepted. This, at least, was a comforting piece of news, and Silvio wondered how it had come about that Don Agostino had been able to so quickly find the necessary channel of communication. It was scarcely likely, he reflected, that Don Agostino would venture to go himself to the castle at Montefiano after having been seen by Monsieur d'Antin in his company.
He returned to Palazzo Acorari full of hope, and in better spirits than he had been for many a day. The uncertainty of the last few weeks had begun to tell upon him; and at the same time his complete separation from Bianca Acorari had only increased his love, and had made him more determined than ever to defeat the machinations of those who were trying to break down Bianca's love for him. The first thing to be done was to write to Bianca. She would be expecting to hear from him again, and to know that he had received her pencilled note safely. Silvio shut himself in his room and proceeded to write an epistle longer, if anything, than that he had confided to Don Agostino. The contents were much the same as the contents of other love-letters, and scarcely likely to be of interest to any one except himself and the person to whom they were addressed. Of course, he longed to see her again; and he implored her not to lose any opportunity of allowing him to do so that could be seized upon without risk to herself. He could always, he explained to her, come to Montefiano at any moment, and Monsignor Lelli doubtless would arrange that his presence in the place should be unsuspected.
It was useless, he felt, to attempt to form a plan, until he should have heard again from her and from Don Agostino. He read the latter's note again and again with great attention. It was evident that Don Agostino had something more to communicate than he was able at that moment to write. No doubt he was making sure of his ground before summoning Silvio to Montefiano. In any case, there was nothing to do but to wait patiently for further light upon the situation; and in the mean time he might do more harm than good by suggesting any one of the expedients for obtaining another meeting with Bianca that came into his head.
His letter written, he sought Giacinta's counsel as usual, and told her of what that day's post had brought to him. Giacinta was duly sympathetic. She had, indeed, long ago recognized that Silvio's passion for Bianca Acorari was not to be diminished by any amount of practical reasoning as to its folly. Perhaps the discovery that Monsignor Lelli, whom her father held in such high esteem, not only approved of Silvio's love for Donna Bianca, but had also undertaken to help him, so far as he might be able, to remove the difficulties that stood in the way of his marrying her, had caused Giacinta to take a less pessimistic view of her brother's infatuation; at any rate, since Monsignor Lelli's visit she had regarded the matter as one which must take its course, for better or for worse, since not only was there no apparent likelihood of Silvio being disheartened by the obstacles in his way, but it seemed that Donna Bianca Acorari also knew her own mind, and had no intention of allowing others to alter it for her.
The professor, too, had become decidedly less cynical on the subject of his son's matrimonial aspirations since his conversation with Monsignor Lelli. To be sure, he did not encourage Giacinta to talk about it; and when she attempted to do so, he put the whole question quietly but decidedly away from him, as he did any question threatening to lead to social unpleasantness in private life. But Giacinta realized that her father also had modified his views as to the folly of Silvio's devotion to a girl whom he had seen only a few times in his life; and that, though he did not intend to move any further in the affair than he had already done, he was not so actively opposed to it as he had at first shown himself to be.
Giacinta had always been doubtful as to whether Bianca Acorari would have sufficient force of character to hold out against the pressure that would certainly be brought to bear upon her in order to make her relinquish all idea of becoming Silvio's wife. It was quite natural that Silvio himself should entertain no doubts on the subject; but then he was in love with Bianca, and she, Giacinta, was not so. But such passages as Silvio chose to read to her from the brief note he had that day received from Bianca finally removed all fears from her mind lest her brother might be exposed to the disappointment and mortification of finding that Donna Bianca had yielded to the influences by which she was surrounded.
"You see, Giacinta," Silvio said, triumphantly, "I was right. I have always told you that Bianca would never give way. And now, after being shut up in that dreary hole for nearly six weeks, she takes the first opportunity of repeating the promises she made to me at the Villa Acorari. If she has to wait three years to marry me, ebbene, she will wait three years – and nothing that they can say or do to her in the mean time will make the slightest difference. Oh, I know what you will say – that it is impossible to know what a person's character may be whom one has only seen a few times, and only talked to once. But sometimes two people know each other's character by instinct, by – by – oh, well, by something or other, though God knows what the something is."
Giacinta laughed. "There may be a scientific explanation of the phenomenon," she remarked; "perhaps Babbo will find one. No, Silvio," she continued, more gravely, "I confess I seem to have underrated Donna Bianca's character. She is apparently as much in earnest as you are, and I am glad she is so. It is at least a sign that, if you both succeed in attaining your object, you should be happy together, and your happiness is all that concerns me, Silvio mio."
"And Bianca's happiness," added Silvio, "that should concern you, too."
"It will concern me henceforth," returned Giacinta, "because, though I do not know Donna Bianca, I understand now that her happiness and yours is the same thing."
Silvio looked at her with a quick smile. "You will know Bianca some day," he said, "and then you will see how right I was."
Two mornings afterwards, Silvio received a second letter from Bianca, and from it he learned how it had happened that Don Agostino had so quickly been able to communicate with her. Bianca told him many other things as well; and among them was a piece of information which, while it gave him a considerable amount of satisfaction, at the same time made him uneasy and restless in his mind.
There was, she wrote, a threatening of disturbances among the people at Montefiano in consequence of the Abbé Roux having persuaded her step-mother to dismiss the fattore and to consent to the rents being raised. Bianca did not understand very well what was the matter, but it was evident that the Abbé Roux and her step-mother feared that things might become serious, for they had discussed in her presence the advisability of asking for soldiers to be sent to Montefiano if there was any more trouble with the contadini. Moreover, Concetta Fontana, the fattore'sdaughter, to whom Bianca had already alluded as being her and Silvio's friend and channel of communication, had told her that the people were angry because they suspected she was being kept as a kind of prisoner at Montefiano until she should consent to marry Baron d'Antin, and that her engagement to Silvio was perfectly well known in the paese. The peasants were going to send a deputation to the castle, and to insist not only on the increase in the rents being abandoned and the agent, Fontana, reinstated in his post, but also, according to Concetta, on seeing her, Bianca, and speaking with her as their padrona.
The intelligence certainly carried with it food for reflection. Silvio's first feeling on reading Bianca's words was one of satisfaction. If it were known or suspected at Montefiano that Donna Bianca Acorari was being kept in seclusion in order to force her to marry a foreigner old enough to be her father; if it were supposed that her property and interests were being tampered with by strangers for their own benefit, at the expense of her own people, a situation might easily develop which would compel Princess Montefiano to allow her step-daughter to marry the man she wished to marry. It was certainly no bad thing if Bianca were rescued from her present position by the force of public opinion; and if her own people gathered round her, Monsieur l'Abbé Roux and Monsieur le Baron d'Antin might very possibly find themselves obliged to retire from the scene. If this occurred, it might reasonably be hoped that the princess would listen to other counsels than those by which she had hitherto been influenced.
So far, Silvio felt he had no cause to be otherwise than pleased at the thought that Bianca's own people at Montefiano were likely to interfere with the plans of the Abbé Roux and Monsieur d'Antin. His sense of satisfaction, however, was quickly succeeded by a feeling of uneasiness. Young as he was, he had some experience of what an uneducated mob, with grievances real or fancied, might be capable of doing. He had witnessed strikes in more than one part of Italy; and though it was true that, at Montefiano, disturbances which might occur would be made by peasants and not artisans, he knew how frequently it happened that the uneducated of all classes and occupations lost their heads and went to lengths which neither they nor their leaders perhaps ever contemplated. If Bianca were right, and the rents at Montefiano had been raised through the abbé's instrumentality, and a popular agent dismissed for venturing to oppose the increase, then much would depend on the princess's attitude towards the suggested deputation from her step-daughter's tenants. Should her attitude be unconciliatory, who could tell whether the anger and discontent of the peasantry might not be wreaked on Bianca herself, in whose name these grievances had been inflicted?
Silvio remembered having seen the agent, Fontana, on one occasion during the few days he had spent in the neighborhood of Montefiano; and he had likewise heard Don Agostino mention him as a fattore who was just towards the people as well as honest to his employers. At a crisis such as Bianca's letter pointed to as being imminent, the advice and services of a man like Fontana would have been invaluable to Princess Montefiano; for if the peasants were clamoring for his reinstatement, they certainly would have been more likely to be influenced by him than by strangers.
The idea that Bianca Acorari might be exposed to any danger, however problematical, was quite sufficient to render Silvio restless and uneasy. He wondered whether Don Agostino had been thinking of possible disturbances on the part of the peasants of Montefiano when he had written that in a few days he might have something of importance to communicate. To be sure, Don Agostino had not written again, and now nearly three days had passed since Silvio had received his first letter, enclosing the few lines Bianca had sent him by Concetta Fontana. He would certainly, Silvio told himself, have written, or even perhaps telegraphed, had anything alarming occurred at Montefiano. There was, it would appear, nothing to be done except to wait for Don Agostino's promised letter, or at least until Bianca herself should write again and give him further particulars of how matters were going.
That evening the spell of damp, hot weather, which so often makes Rome almost intolerable in the middle of September, broke. A heavy thunder-storm passed over the city, accompanied by torrents of rain, which descended in white sheets as if in the tropics. A steamy fog rose from the ground, parched by the long summer drought. Masses of inky-black clouds began to drift up from the sea; and at nightfall, long after the storm had rolled away to the mountains, a continuous flicker of lightning illumined the entire sky. In the caffès, or safely in the shelter of their own houses, people congratulated one another that the end of the heat had come, and that when the weather should mend again the first breath of autumn would be felt in the lighter, crisper air.
Silvio dined at home that night with his father and Giacinta, and afterwards, contrary to his usual custom, Professor Rossano did not go to the Piazza Colonna for his cup of coffee and to read his evening paper. The Piazza Colonna, indeed, would have been nothing but an exaggerated puddle, with streams of muddy water running through it from the higher level of Montecitorio; and, besides, it would have been unwise to be abroad in the streets while the first rains after the summer were falling – the only time during the whole year when a genuine malarial fever, and not the "Roman fever" of the overfed and overtired tourist, might possibly be picked up within the walls of Rome.
Dinner had been over some time, and they were smoking and talking together in the drawing-room, when the hoarse cries of the news-venders calling the evening papers came from the street without, and a few minutes later a servant entered the room with copies of the newspapers, which he gave to the professor. Giacinta took up a book and began to read, while Silvio walked restlessly up and down the room, every now and then going to the window to see if the rain had stopped.