"That is what I thought," observed Silvio, naïvely.
The Frenchwoman tapped her foot impatiently on the ground.
"Well," she said, after a pause, "I will see what I can do. But you must be patient. Only, do not blame me if things go wrong—for they are scarcely likely to go right, I should say. For me it does not matter. I came to Rome to learn Italian and to teach French—and other things. I have done both; and in any case, when my engagement with Madame la Princesse is over, I shall return to Paris, and then perhaps go to London or Petersburg—who knows? So if my present engagement were to end somewhat abruptly, I should be little the worse. Yes—I will help you, mon ami—if I can. Oh, not for money—I am not of that sort—but for—well, for other things."
"What other things?" asked Silvio, absently.
Mademoiselle Durand fairly stamped her foot this time.
"Peste!" she exclaimed, sharply. "What do they matter—the other things? Let us say that I want to play a trick on the princess; to spite the priest—by-the-way, Monsieur l'Abbé sometimes looks at me in a way that I am sure you never look at women, Monsieur Silvio! Let us say that I am sorry for that poor child, who will lead a stagnant existence till she is a dried-up old maid, unless somebody rescues her. All these things are true, and are they not reasons enough?"
And Silvio was quite satisfied that they were so.
VI
Bianca Acorari was sitting by herself in the room devoted to her own especial use, where she studied in the mornings with Mademoiselle Durand, and, indeed, spent most of her time. It was now the beginning of June—the moment in all the year, perhaps, when Rome is the most enjoyable; when the hotels are empty, and the foreigners have fled before the imaginary spectres of heat, malaria, and other evils to which those who remain in the city during the late spring and summer are popularly supposed to fall victims.
Entertainments, except those of an intimate character, being at an end, the American invasion has rolled northward. The gaunt English spinsters, severe of aspect, and with preposterous feet, who have spent the winter in the environs of the Piazza di Spagna with the double object of improving their minds and converting some of the "poor, ignorant Roman Catholics" to Protestantism, have gone northward too, to make merriment for the inhabitants of Perugia, or Sienna, of Venice, and a hundred other hunting-grounds. Only the German tourists remain, carrying with them the atmosphere of the bierhalle wherever they go, and generally behaving themselves as though Italy were a province of the fatherland. In the summer months Rome is her true self, and those who know her not then know her not at all.