The Passport. Bagot Richard
scorpion! It ran in there – into that hole close to my foot."
"I dare say," said Bianca, indifferently. "It is the time of year when one finds them, but I have never seen one just here. It is too damp for them, I think."
Mademoiselle Durand had made no further allusion after this either to Silvio Rossano or to the scorpion. Indeed, she turned the conversation into professional channels with some abruptness, and shortly afterwards she returned to the house preparatory to going back to Albano.
Mademoiselle's question returned to Bianca's mind as she sat under her ilex-tree. It was all nonsense, of course, for how could she meet Silvio Rossano and talk to him about his love-affair? Mademoiselle Durand knew perfectly well that there could be no question of such a thing. But still it would be very interesting to hear all about this mysterious girl with whom he was so hopelessly in love. And, yes, she would certainly like to meet him and talk to him. It was odd how well she remembered his features, though she had never dared to look at him very much. Nevertheless, since that Christmas night in the Sudario they had seemed to be impressed upon her mind. And that other girl, the one he was in love with, whose name Mademoiselle Durand declared she was bound in honor not to mention, did she think much about him – remember the look of his eyes and the expression of his mouth? Perhaps she never thought about him at all.
At this stage of her reflections Bianca suddenly found herself becoming angry. She had just paused to ask herself why this should be, when a soft, pattering sound which was not that of the fountains fell upon her ear. Looking up, she became aware that the sunlight had faded, and that the shade around her had grown suddenly deeper. The air felt heavier and more stifling, and the pattering noise that had at first attracted her attention seemed to come nearer and nearer as the light grew more dim. From somewhere in the underwood a frog began to croak contentedly:
"Or s'ode su tutta la fronda
crosciare
l'argentea pioggia
che monda,
il croscio che varia
secondo la fronda
più folta, men folta
Ascolta.
La figlia del aria
è muta; ma la figlia
del limo lontana,
la rana,
canta nell'ombra più fonda,
chi sa dove, chi sa dove!"1
Bianca rose hurriedly and looked at the sky. The campagna below, and even the vineyards on the slopes of the hill immediately beneath the park of the Villa Acorari, still lay bathed in sunshine. The light rain that was falling was evidently only a passing summer-shower, and not, as she had for a moment feared, the immediate precursor of one of those violent hail-storms that sometimes sweep over the Alban hills, devastating in a few minutes the crops of a whole district, and turning smiling vineyards, laden with fruit, into brown and barren wildernesses.
Bianca picked up her neglected book and made her way towards a little casino which stood at the end of the ilex avenue, inside which she proposed to shelter herself until the shower should have passed over. She had scarcely taken a few steps under the sombre green branches when she started back with a little cry. A man stepped from behind one of the gnarled trunks and stood before her, bare-headed. In an instant she recognized him. He was not the god – no. For a second she had almost thought that he might be. Then she looked at him again. Not the god – no; but surely the god could scarcely be fairer.
She turned aside hesitatingly.
"Donna Bianca!"
The low voice, very gentle, very pleading, seemed to mingle its tones with the murmur of the fountains and the croscio of the rain-drops among the ilex-leaves.
Silvio Rossano stood and looked at her. Bianca put her hand up to her throat. Something seemed to rise in it and choke back her words.
"You!" she exclaimed.
He smiled a little. "I, Silvio," he said, simply. "Donna Bianca," he continued hurriedly, as though anxious not to give her time to say more, "if you tell me to go, I will go, and you shall never see me again."
And then he waited.
A great silence seemed to follow his words, as though all the sylvan deities in their lurking-places were listening for her answer.
Only the frog croaked:
"Chi sa dove, chi sa dove!"
Presently Bianca Acorari spoke.
"I do not tell you to go," she said.
Then Silvio moved a few steps nearer to her.
Suddenly Bianca started, as though rousing herself from a dream.
"What am I saying?" she exclaimed. "Of course you must go! You should never have come here. If they were to find you – alone with me – "
Silvio's eyes flashed.
"Yes," he said; "alone with you – at last!"
Bianca drew back from him.
"At last!" she repeated. Then she smiled. "Of course," she continued, "you wished to talk to me. Mademoiselle Durand told me – though I do not understand what I can do."
Silvio looked at her in bewilderment.
"You knew!" he exclaimed; "and yet – you do not understand what you can do? Donna Bianca," he added, earnestly, "please do not laugh at me. Surely you understand that you can do – everything – for me?"
Bianca shook her head. "I do not laugh at you," she said slowly. "I am sorry for you. I would help you if I could; but how can I?"
She moved towards the casino as she spoke.
"Listen!" she added, "the rain is coming on more heavily. Do you not hear it on the leaves? And it grows darker again."
He followed her to the summer-house, but as she pushed open the door he drew back, and glanced at her hesitatingly.
"I will remain here," he said. "Afterwards, when the shower is over, if you will let me speak to you – "
Bianca Acorari looked at him. "Come," she said, briefly.
It was an unheard of proceeding. Verily, as Monsieur d'Antin had said, Bianca was no child – unless, indeed, she was more childish than her years warranted. Any behavior more diametrically opposed to all the rules and customs that so strictly regulate the actions of a young girl in Italy could scarcely be conceived.
Silvio Rossano himself was taken aback at her confidence in him. Her demeanor was so natural, however, and her manner, after the first surprise of seeing him had passed, had become so self-possessed, that he never for an instant misunderstood her.
Bianca seated herself upon a dilapidated chair – the only one, indeed, having its full complement of legs that the casino contained.
"Mademoiselle Durand said that if I – if we ever met, you would perhaps ask me for my advice," she said, gravely. "I cannot understand why you should think any advice of mine could help you. Perhaps she made a mistake, and you are here by accident."
Silvio almost laughed at her gravity, but she spoke with a certain dignity of manner which contrasted very charmingly with her fresh, girlish beauty.
"No," he said quietly, "I am not here by accident, Donna Bianca. I am here to see you – to tell you – "
"Ah, yes, I know!" interposed Bianca, hurriedly. "It is very sad, and, believe me, I am very sorry for you – very sorry."
Silvio's bronze face grew suddenly white.
"Sorry!" he exclaimed. "That means you can give me no hope – that you think me presumptuous – "
Bianca glanced at him. "I can give no opinion," she replied; "but I think – " and she paused, hesitatingly.
"Yes?" asked Silvio, eagerly. "What do you think, Donna Bianca?"
"That