The fact was that Silvio had been becoming impatient lately, and Mademoiselle Durand's task grew more difficult in consequence. To afford him any opportunity of meeting Bianca, or of interchanging even a single word with her, appeared to be impossible. The girl was too well guarded. Mademoiselle Durand had once suggested to her that she should take her some morning to the galleries in the Vatican which Bianca had never seen. The princess's permission had, of course, to be obtained, and Bianca broached the subject one day at breakfast. For a moment her step-mother had hesitated, and seemed disposed to allow her to accept Mademoiselle Durand's proposition. Unfortunately, however, Monsieur l'Abbé was present, and, true to her practice, the princess appealed to him as to whether there could be any objections.
Apparently there were objections, although the Abbé Roux did not specify them. But Bianca knew by his manner that he disapproved of the idea, and was not surprised, therefore, when the princess said it could not be – adding that she would herself take her through the Vatican some day.
It was but another instance, Bianca thought, of the priest's interference in her life, and she resented it accordingly. Latterly she had become much more friendly with Mademoiselle Durand, who had at first confined herself almost entirely to lessons during the hours she was at Palazzo Acorari.
Nevertheless, after it became evident that she would never be allowed to go out under her escort, Bianca thought it prudent not to let it be supposed that Mademoiselle Durand talked with her on any other subject but those she was engaged to talk about, lest she should be dismissed and a less agreeable woman take her place.
Whether it was that Mademoiselle Durand was urged to stronger efforts by Silvio Rossano's increasing impatience, or whether she considered the time arrived when she could safely venture to convey to her pupil that Giacinta Rossano's good-looking brother was madly in love with her, the fact remained on this particular morning that never before had she spoken so much or so openly of Silvio, and of the happiness that was in store for any girl sensible enough to marry him.
Bianca Acorari sat listening in silence for some time.
"He is certainly very handsome," she observed, presently – "and he looks good," she added, meditatively.
"Handsome!" ejaculated Mademoiselle Durand. "There is a statue in the Vatican – a Hermes, they call it – Well, never mind – of course he is handsome. And as to being good, a young man who is a good son and a good brother makes a good husband – if he gets the wife he wants. If not, it does not follow. I am sorry for that poor boy – truly sorry for him!" she added, with a sigh.
Bianca pushed away a French history book and became suddenly more interested.
"Why, mademoiselle?" she asked.
Mademoiselle Durand pursed up her lips.
"Because I fear that he will certainly be very unhappy. Enfin, he is very unhappy, so there is no more to be said."
"He did not look it when I saw him," observed Bianca, tranquilly.
Mademoiselle Durand glanced at her. Like Princess Montefiano, she was never quite sure how much might be concealed beneath Bianca's quiet manner. But, like most of her race, she was quick to seize a point in conversation and use it to advance her own argument.
"Of course he did not look it – when you saw him," she repeated, "or when he saw you," she added, significantly.
Bianca knitted her brows. "If he is unhappy," she said, "and I am very sorry he should be unhappy – I do not see how a person he does not know can make him less so."
"That," said Mademoiselle Durand, "all depends on who the person is. It is certainly very sad – poor young man!" and she sighed again.
"I suppose," Bianca said, thoughtfully, "that he is in love with somebody – somebody whom he cannot marry."
"Yes," returned Mademoiselle Durand, dryly, "he is in love with somebody. He could marry her, perhaps – "
"Then why doesn't he?" Bianca asked, practically.
Mademoiselle Durand was a little taken aback at the abruptness of the question.
"I will tell you," she replied, after hesitating for a moment or two. "He has no opportunity of seeing the girl, except sometimes as she is driving in her carriage, or well, in church. By-the-way, I believe he first saw her in a church, and fell in love with her. That was odd, was it not? But what is the use of seeing people if you can never speak to them?"
"He could speak to her parents," said Bianca, who apparently knew what was proper under such circumstances.
Mademoiselle Durand shrugged her shoulders.
"Scarcely," she said, "since they are in heaven. Besides, he would not be allowed to ask for this girl's hand in any case. She is like you, of noble birth; and, like you again, she is rich. Those about her, I dare say, are not very anxious that she should marry at all. It is possible."
Bianca Acorari did not speak for a few moments. At length she said, slowly: "I wonder what you would do, mademoiselle, if you knew somebody was in love with you, and you were not allowed to see or speak to that person?"
Mademoiselle Durand looked at her critically.
"It entirely depends," she replied.
"And upon what?"
"Upon what? Oh, upon something very simple. It would depend upon whether I were in love with him."
"I don't think it is at all simple," observed Bianca. "How would you know if you were in love with him or not?"
Mademoiselle Durand laughed outright. Then she became suddenly grave. "Well," she replied, after hesitating a moment, "I will tell you. If I thought I did not know – if I were not sure – I should say to myself: 'Marie, you are in love. Why? Because, if you are not, you would be sure of the fact – oh, quite sure!'"
"And supposing you were in love with him?" demanded Bianca. She looked beyond Mademoiselle Durand as she spoke.
"Ah – if I were, then – well, then I should leave the rest to him to manage. Between ourselves, I believe that to be what is troubling the poor young Rossano. He does not know if the girl he loves has any idea that he does so, and still less if she could ever return his love. It is very sad. If I were that girl, I should certainly find some means of letting him know that I cared for him – "
"But you say she cannot – that she would never be allowed – "
Mademoiselle Durand sang the first few bars of the habanera in "Carmen" to herself. "When two people are in love," she observed, "they do not always stop to think of what is allowed. But, if you please, Donna Bianca, we will go on with our history – I mean, our French history, not that of Monsieur Silvio Rossano," and Mademoiselle Durand suddenly reassumed her professional demeanor.
It was of this little interlude in her morning's studies that Bianca Acorari was meditating as she sat waiting for the hour when she would have to accompany her step-mother in her afternoon drive. She wished that Mademoiselle Durand would have been more communicative. It was certainly interesting to hear about Giacinta Rossano's brother. Silvio! Yes, it was a nice name, decidedly – and somehow, she thought, it suited its owner. It must be an odd sensation – that of being in love. Perhaps one always saw in the imagination the person one was in love with. One saw a well-built figure and a sun-tanned face with dark, curling hair clustering over a broad brow, and a pair of dark-blue eyes that looked – but, how they looked! as though asking a perpetual question… How pleasant it would be there in the gardens of Villa Acorari! – so quiet and cool in the deep shade of the ilex-trees, with the sound of the water falling from the fountains. But it was a little dull to be alone – always alone. What a difference if she had had a brother, as Giacinta Rossano had. He would have wandered about with her sometimes, perhaps, in these gardens … and he and she would have sat and talked together by the fountains where the water was always making a soft music of its own. What was the story she had heard the people tell of some heathen god of long ago who haunted the ilex grove? How still