Don Agostino noted every little detail as he passed down the street, returning salutations made to him. He intended to see Stefano Mazza, and learn from him what steps the people proposed to take now that their deputation had been refused audience. He knew the man's influence in the district, and also the strong foundations on which that influence had been built up. Casa Acorari might raise its tenants' rents, and the fact would doubtless mean a harder struggle than ever to make two ends come within reasonable distance of meeting. But if Sor Stefano called in his mortgages and refused to renew his cambiali, the fact would spell ruin not only to the poorer among the peasantry, but also to many in the district who were regarded by their neighbors as well-to-do men, farming their hundreds of acres. Don Agostino knew this very well. Confidences were occasionally made to him which were outside the confessional—confidences made to a friend by men who would never dream of confessing to a priest; or who, if they did so in order to please their women, would certainly not tell that priest more than a fraction of the truth.
As he knew would be the case, Don Agostino found Sor Stefano busily occupied in attending to his customers at the Caffè Garibaldi. A sudden silence, succeeded by a murmur of surprise, greeted the priest's appearance at the entrance to the caffè. Every man there, from Sor Stefano downward, knew what had caused Don Agostino to make his appearance in such a quarter. It was but another proof of the importance and gravity of the situation.
Sor Stefano came forward and greeted his unusual customer. It was certainly suffocatingly hot—dogs' weather, in fact—he observed airily, as if the parroco were a daily visitor to his establishment. No doubt Don Agostino would drink a quarter of white wine?—and he escorted him to a little table in the centre of the caffè.
No, Don Agostino would not have wine. A little vermouth and seltzer—he had not yet dined.
Sicuro! The weather was hot, and the heat was much more trying than in the middle of summer. But there were signs of a change. The rain must come soon, and then—Don Agostino was as airy and indifferent in his manner as was his host. Nevertheless, he knew, and Sor Stefano knew, and all the other occupants of the caffè knew, that these were mere empty phrases demanded by the exigencies of the situation.
Sor Stefano brought a bottle of vermouth and a siphon, and set them down before Don Agostino.
"Your reverence has heard the news?" he asked. "The princess refuses to receive our deputation. It is an incredible thing, but it is true. Well, the deputation will go to the castle all the same. Only it will be a larger deputation—is it not so?" He turned and appealed to the groups sitting around, as he spoke the last words, and immediately a babel of voices arose within the caffè.
"Yes, yes, we will all go to the castle, and then we will see if these cursed foreigners will dare to prevent us from seeing and speaking with the principessina! It is the principessina we mean to see, not the foreigners!"
Sor Stefano nodded. "Sicuro, we will all go!" he repeated, and then he looked at Don Agostino. The rest paused and looked at the parroco also.
Don Agostino poured a small quantity of vermouth into his glass. Then he added some seltzer-water to it, and drank it off slowly and deliberately.