Don Agostino did not answer immediately. He leaned his arm upon a table beside him, and his face was partially concealed by his hand.
Presently he raised his head and looked earnestly at Princess Montefiano.
"Madame," he said, in a low voice, "you bear the name and have succeeded to the place of her who is no longer here to speak in her own behalf. Do not, I beg of you, misjudge her."
The princess started. "Monsignore!" she exclaimed. "What do you know of my husband's first wife? You speak as though her story were known to you. But I forgot. No doubt, during the years you were in Rome you heard stories concerning the disagreements between her and the prince; for I believe there was much gossip at one time."
"I knew her story well, princess," replied Don Agostino, quietly. "Perhaps I ought to tell you that very few people knew it better."
"You knew her?" the princess asked, with surprise.
"Yes—I knew her."
Princess Montefiano hesitated for a moment.
"Ah!" she said, at length. "You were, perhaps, in her confidence, monsignore—in your priestly capacity, I mean. If that is the case, of course we will not discuss the subject any more. You must forgive me, but I was quite unaware that you even knew her history, and still less that you had been personally acquainted with her. Naturally, under the circumstances, you would not wish to hear her conduct discussed, especially by me. Believe me, it is only my desire to do my duty by the child she left which makes me dread taking any action which might lead to that child following in her mother's footsteps."
"I was in her confidence—yes," said Don Agostino, after a pause, "but not in the sense you mean, princess—not as a priest. I knew her—ah, many years ago—and you are right: I cannot discuss the subject. At the same time, will you permit me to ask you a question?"