The Passport

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."

"I do not understand," muttered Silvio, in bewilderment.

Don Agostino took the case from him. "She was Bianca Negroni then," he repeated, in a low voice, as though speaking to himself. "She should have been Bianca Lelli – my wife. We were engaged. Afterwards she was called Bianca Acorari, Principessa di Montefiano."

Silvio looked at him in silence. He understood now.

"We were engaged," continued Don Agostino, "as you and her child are engaged, without the consent of her family. They forced her to marry Prince Montefiano. It was an unhappy marriage, as, perhaps, you have heard."

Then he turned away, and gently, reverently, as though replacing some holy relic in its shrine, put the miniature back into the drawer of the cabinet.

"You can understand now," he said, quietly, "why I wished to know what her child is like. As for you, Silvio – " he paused, and looked at Silvio Rossano earnestly. "Well," he continued, "I have had one intuition to-day which did not mislead me, and I think my second intuition will prove equally true. I believe that you would make any woman a good husband – that your character does not belie your face."

Silvio looked at him with a quick smile.

"I will make her a good husband," he said, simply. The words were few, but they appealed to Don Agostino more than any lover's protestations would have appealed to him.

"And she?" asked Don Agostino, suddenly. "You are sure that she would make you a good wife? If her nature is like her mother's she will be faithful to you in her heart. I am sure of that. But she is her father's daughter as well, and – well, he is dead, so I say no more. And no doubt the knowledge that he had married a woman whose love was given elsewhere accounted for much of his conduct after his marriage. We will not speak of him, Silvio. But you are sure that you have chosen wisely?"

"Oh, very sure!" exclaimed Silvio.

Don Agostino smiled – a somewhat pathetic smile. "I am very sure, also," he said. "It is strange," he added, thoughtfully, "that your story should be an exact repetition of my own. Almost one would think that she" – and he glanced towards the cabinet – "had sent me here to Montefiano to help her child; that everything during these years had been foreordained. I wondered, when they sent me to Montefiano, whether it were not for some purpose that would one day be made clear to me; for at Montefiano her child was born, and at Montefiano she died, neglected, and practically alone."

Don Agostino sat down at his writing-table. He covered his eyes with his hands for a moment or two, and above him the ivory Christ gleamed white in the sunlight which filtered through the closed Venetian blinds.

"It is strange – yes," said Silvio, in a low voice; "and I, too," he added – "I have felt some power urging me to tell you my story, and my true reason for being here. But," he continued, "our case – Bianca's and mine – is different from yours in one particular, Don Agostino."

Don Agostino looked up. "Yes," he replied; "Donna Bianca Acorari's mother, though she had money, was not the heiress to estates and titles."

"I did not mean that," returned Silvio. "I forgot it," he added. "I am always forgetting it. Perhaps you do not believe me, but when I do remember it I wish that Bianca Acorari were penniless and not noble. There would be nothing then to keep us apart. No; I mean that, in her case, there can be no forcing of another marriage upon her, because I am very sure that Bianca would never submit."

Don Agostino glanced at him. "Are you so sure?" he asked. "That is well. But, Silvio, we can hardly realize the pressure that may be placed upon a young girl by her family."

"She has no family," observed Silvio, tranquilly. "It is true," he continued, "that there is her step-mother, who is her guardian until she is of age. But Bianca is not a child, reverendo. She will not allow herself to be coerced."

Don Agostino looked at him for a moment and appeared to be considering something in his mind.

"How come you to know her character so well?" he asked, presently. "How can you know it? You guess at it, that is all."

Silvio shook his head. "Her character is written on her face," he said. "Besides, when one loves, one knows those things."

Don Agostino smiled. "Yes," he observed, "or one thinks one knows them, which does quite as well, so long as one is never undeceived. So," he continued, "you think that the girl has sufficient strength of will to resist any pressure that might be brought to compel her to marry somebody else. That is well; for, unless I am mistaken, she has been brought to Montefiano for no other purpose than to be exposed to pressure of the kind."

Silvio started. "What do you mean?" he exclaimed. "I thought you said you knew nothing of the princess and Donna Bianca – that nobody went inside the castle. Do you mean to say that they are already trying to coerce her in some way? But not by forcing her into another marriage. Giacinta declares they do not want her to marry, and she knows."

"Giacinta?" said Don Agostino, inquiringly.

"My sister. Ah, I forgot; I have not spoken to you about her. She is sure that a priest whom the princess confides in does not wish Bianca to marry at all, for some reason – "

"Yes," interrupted Don Agostino; "the Abbé Roux – a Belgian."

"You know him?" asked Silvio, surprised.

"Oh yes, I know him," replied Don Agostino, dryly.

"Therefore," Silvio continued, "you see that I have not to fear anything of that kind, as – as you had."

Don Agostino was silent.

Silvio looked at him inquiringly. "You think that I have?" he asked, hastily.

"It is possible," returned Don Agostino. "I do not know for certain. I have no means of knowing for certain," he added, "but I hear rumors – suppositions. Perhaps they are purely imaginary suppositions. In a small place like Montefiano people like to gossip, especially about what they do not understand. Apparently the princess and her daughter are not alone in the castle. A brother of the princess, Baron d'Antin, is staying with them, and also the Abbé Roux, who says mass in the chapel every morning. So, you see, my services are not required."

"Her brother!" said Silvio. "I did not know the Princess Montefiano had a brother."

Don Agostino nodded. "Yes," he returned, "and – well, it is precisely about this brother that people talk."

Silvio looked at him with amazement.

"About him!" he exclaimed. "What could there be to say about him and Bianca? It is too ridiculous – "

Don Agostino interrupted him. "I should not call it ridiculous," he said, "if the suppositions I have heard are true. I should rather call it revolting."

"But it would be an unheard-of thing – an impossibility!" said Silvio, angrily, and his eyes flashed ominously.

"No," Don Agostino observed, quietly, "it would be neither the one nor the other, Silvio. Such alliances have been made before now – in Rome, too. There is no consanguinity, you must remember. No dispensation even would be required. But if it is true that such a crime is in contemplation, the child must be saved from it – ah, yes, she must be saved from it at all costs!"

Silvio suddenly grasped the priest's hand. "You will help me to save her, Don Agostino!" he exclaimed. "For her own sake and for her mother's sake – who, as you said a few minutes ago, perhaps sent you here to protect her – you will help me to save her!"

Don Agostino, still holding Silvio's hand in his own, looked into his eyes for a moment without speaking.

"I have seen you to-day," he said, at length, "for the first time, but I trust you for your father's sake and also for your own. Yes, I will help you, if I can help you, to save Bianca Acorari from being sacrificed, for the sake of her mother, anima benedetta. But we must act prudently, and, first of all, I have a condition to make."

"Make any condition you please," said Silvio, eagerly, "so long as you do what I ask of you."

"Is your father aware that you are here – I mean, that you are in the neighborhood of Montefiano?" asked Don Agostino.

Silvio shrugged his shoulders. "I cannot tell you," he replied. "My sister, Giacinta, knows it, and she may have told him. My father, Don Agostino, told me that he had done all he could in asking the consent of the princess to an engagement between his son and her step-daughter, and that, as this consent had been unconditionally refused, I must in future manage my own affairs in my own way. This is what I am doing to the best of my ability."

Don Agostino smiled slightly. "I understand," he said. "Well, Silvio, my condition is that I should see your father and discuss the matter with him before doing anything here. He will give you a good character, I have no doubt, and will assure me that you would make Bianca Acorari a good husband. I owe it to – well, you know now to whom, to make this condition."

Silvio smiled. "Is that all, reverendo?" he asked. "It is a condition very easily carried out," he added.

"We will go to Rome, you and I, to-morrow," said Don Agostino, "and for to-night you will stop with me here. In the evening, when it is cooler, we will go to Civitacastellana, and we will bring your things back with us. No; I am doing you no kindness – I am doing a kindness to myself. As I told you before, it is not often that I have a friend to talk to at Montefiano, and in this case, well – "

Don Agostino did not complete his sentence. His gaze fixed itself upon the cabinet before him, and Silvio understood all that he had left unsaid.

XIX

Although Rome is supposed to be abandoned during the months of August and September by all who can afford the time and the money to leave it, there is always a certain number of people who from choice remain within its walls throughout the summer, declaring, not without reason, that the heat is felt far less in the vast, thick-walled palaces than in country villas and jerry-built hotels.

Among this number was the Senator Rossano. He had fitted up for himself a library in Palazzo Acorari, a long, high room looking to the north, which, if difficult to keep heated in winter, was always deliciously cool even on the hottest of summer days. Here he did the greater part of his writing, and passed the weeks when Rome is deserted, both pleasantly and profitably. Usually he was quite alone during these weeks, for Giacinta as a rule went with friends to one or another of the summer resorts in the Apennines or the north of Italy, or perhaps southward to the fresh sea-breezes of Sorrento.

This year, however, she had delayed her villeggiaturalater than usual, and was still in Rome. The professor was engaged upon a new scientific work, dealing with no less complicated a theme than the moral responsibility of criminals for the crimes they happened to have committed. Giacinta had been busily engaged in making a clear copy of her father's manuscript. The wealth of detail and example which the professor had brought to bear in order to support certain of his theories did not, it must be owned, always form suitable reading for even the comparatively young, and certainly not for an unmarried woman of Giacinta's age.

But Professor Rossano did not trouble himself about such a trifle as this. He regarded his illustrations as illustrations, mere accidents necessary to his arguments; and it would never have entered into his head that his daughter might not look at them from the same detached point of view. As a matter of fact, Giacinta did so look at them; consequently, no harm was done.

She was sitting with her father in his library, engaged in sorting some papers. It was nearly five o'clock and the great heat of the day was nearly over; in another hour or so she would insist on dragging the professor away from his work, and making him accompany her in a drive outside one of the gates of the city. She was contemplating some suggestion of the kind when her father suddenly looked up from his writing.

"I tell you what we will do this evening, Giacinta," he observed. "We will go and dine at the Castello di Costantino. I have not been there yet this summer. Perhaps we shall find some friends there. The Countess Vitali – she often dines there at this time of year, and nobody can be more amusing when she is in the vein. Her dry humor is most refreshing; it is like something that has been sealed up in an Etruscan tomb and suddenly brought to light with all the colors fresh upon it. Yes, we will go to the Castello di Costantino, and you can tell the servants we shall not eat here."

Giacinta was more than ready to fall in with the idea. She was about to ring the bell in order to tell the servants not to prepare dinner, when the door opened and Silvio walked into the room.

The professor gazed at him placidly.

"I thought that you were at Terni," he said.

"So I was," replied Silvio, smiling, "a fortnight ago. But I completed my business there, and placed the order for the steel girders. Since then I have been in the Sabina. I came from Montefiano this morning."

Giacinta started. "From Montefiano?" she exclaimed.

"From Montefiano – yes," repeated Silvio. "I have not been staying at the castle there," he added, dryly.

"You have been committing some folly, I suppose," remarked the professor, "and I do not wish to hear about it. You will have the goodness, Silvio, not to mention the subject."

"I have been staying with a friend of yours, Babbo," Silvio replied, laughing. "Don Agostino – "

"Don Agostino?" repeated his father. "The devil take your Don Agostino! I do not know whom you mean."

"Monsignor Lelli, then," returned Silvio. "He has come to Rome with me, and he is here – in the house. I left him in the drawing-room. I suppose you will go there to see him; or shall I tell him that you hope the devil may take him?"

The professor burst out laughing. "Lelli! Here?" he exclaimed. "Certainly I will go. I have not seen him for years. I remember now, of course – they sent him to Montefiano – those imbroglioni at the Vatican! And so you have been staying with Lelli? Well, at least you have been in good company. I hope he has succeeded in putting a little common-sense into your head."

He hurried out of the room to greet his old friend, leaving Silvio and Giacinta alone together.