Bianca Acorari turned away, sick at heart. The servants, then, and the people about Montefiano, knew for a fact what she had never even suspected. She had regarded Monsieur d'Antin's attempt to make love to her as odious and cowardly, and also, perhaps, as ludicrous—but she had not until then suspected that others were aware of his passion for her, and still less that her having been brought to Montefiano was part of a deliberately laid plan to force her to yield to that passion.
Concetta Fontana's words seemed suddenly to make everything clear to her, and to reveal Monsieur d'Antin's treachery in its full light. She understood now, or she thought that she understood. She had been purposely allowed to confide in her uncle, purposely thrown in his company, in the hope that she might in time consent to relinquish her love for Silvio as a thing out of the question.
And her step-mother? Of course her step-mother would do what the Abbé Roux counselled. She had always done so ever since Bianca could remember, and she always would do so. What the priest's motives might be for desiring that she should marry Baron d'Antin, Bianca did not stop to consider. Monsieur l'Abbé had always tried to interfere in her life; and the fact that he knew she wished to marry Silvio Rossano was quite sufficient to account for his determination to marry her to somebody else.
Well, they should see that she, Bianca Acorari, was not to be forced to marry anybody against her will. She was not a foreigner, not a Belgian, thank Heaven—but an Italian—a Roman, the head of an ancient Roman house. And so her pride came to her rescue, as, indeed, it had often done before. And with it had come the courage to face her new difficulties. She could give her step-mother plainly to understand that she knew what steps had been taken and what plans had been made to compel her to abandon all idea of marrying the man she intended to marry. After that, the abbé and Monsieur d'Antin might do their worst. She had only to be firm and patient for three years, and then they could have no more power to interfere with her.
It had been a certain comfort to her to discover that there was one person at Montefiano, however humbly placed, who was her friend. Bettina, she knew well, had an eye only to her own interests, and would not hesitate to betray any confidences Bianca might be tempted to make to her, were she to consider it to her advantage to do so. She had several times noticed Concetta Fontana since her arrival at Montefiano, and had been struck by the honest and straightforward bearing both of the girl and of her father. Fontana himself, indeed, had been very marked in the deference and attention he paid to his young mistress. As a matter of fact, he regarded both the princess and Monsieur d'Antin in the light of foreign intruders, while for the Abbé Roux he felt nothing but the suspicion and dislike with which priests, as a general rule, Don Agostino always excepted, inspired him. The Principessina Bianca, on the contrary, he regarded as his liege lady, the daughter and representative of the princes of Montefiano whom he and his forefathers had served for several generations in one capacity or another.
Bianca Acorari could not have explained why the thought that the agent's daughter took a friendly interest in her was a consolation, but it certainly was so. She had scarcely spoken to the girl beyond wishing her "Good-morning" or "Good-evening" if they met in the passages or the courtyard of the castle.
As she sat alone in her room after the stormy scene with her step-mother, Bianca thought long and calmly over the situation in which that scene must inevitably have placed her. On the whole, she felt rather relieved than otherwise that it had taken place. The keeping up for so many weeks of a pretence that there was nothing unusual in the position between the princess and herself had become more than irksome; and Bianca would certainly not have submitted to Silvio's proposal being passed over in silence by her step-mother, had it not been for Monsieur d'Antin's assurances that nothing but harm would result were she to insist on discussing it.
Her amazement and indignation had been great, however, at hearing from her that it had been no other than Monsieur d'Antin himself who had been a witness to her interview with Silvio in the ilex grove of the Villa Acorari. She had always concluded that one of the servants of the place had been her step-mother's informant, and Monsieur d'Antin had never said anything to lead her to suppose the contrary. It was, of course, but another instance of his treachery and double-dealing towards her; but all the same, Bianca was glad to know the truth. She could understand the course of events more clearly now, and the last discovery, immediately following the remarks she had overheard from Concetta Fontana, pointed without doubt to the existence of some intrigue between her uncle and the Abbé Roux of which she was to be the victim. It was certainly as well that she had that day spoken plainly to her step-mother. In a day or two Monsieur d'Antin would return from Rome, and then she supposed there would be war to the knife.
Well, they should see that she would not give way—not one centimetre. Better to have open war to the knife than to continue to be surrounded by an atmosphere of intrigue and deception.
Ah, but if she could only have one line from Silvio, one word to assure her that he was faithful to her as she was to him! She could afford to wait patiently then—to wait, if need be, till three years were over and she was accountable to nobody for her actions. She could not doubt Silvio—not for one moment; but it was strange that he had not as yet discovered some means of communicating with her. Sometimes a deadly fear struck her that he had believed her step-mother's rejection of his offer to have been written with her knowledge and consent. It was more than likely that an attempt would have been made to induce him to believe this. But she put the thought away from her persistently. Silvio and she had known from the first that his offer would be declined—it had only been made, indeed, as a formality, and as being in accordance with the usages of society.