'NANINA.'
The priest rose from his seat as he handed the note back, and the visitor immediately followed his example.
'We must remedy this misfortune as we best may,' he said, with a sigh. 'Are you ready to go back to Florence to-morrow?'
The little man bowed again.
'Find out where she is, and ascertain if she wants for anything, and if she is living in a safe place. Say nothing about me, and make no attempt to induce her to return to your house. Simply let me know what you discover. The poor child has a spirit that no ordinary people would suspect in her. She must be soothed and treated tenderly, and we shall manage her yet. No mistakes, mind, this time! Do just what I tell you, and do no more. Have you anything else to say to me?'
The little man shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
'Good-night, then,' said the priest.
'Good-night,' said the little man, slipping through the door that was held open for him with the politest alacrity.
'This is vexatious,' said Father Rocco, taking a turn or two in the study after his visitor had gone. 'It was bad to have done the child an injustice—it is worse to have been found out. There is nothing for it now but to wait till I know where she is. I like her, and I like that note she left behind her. It is bravely, delicately, and honestly written —a good girl—a very good girl, indeed!'
He walked to the window, breathed the fresh air for a few moments, and quietly dismissed the subject from his mind. When he returned to his table he had no thoughts for any one but his sick niece.
'It seems strange,' he said, 'that I have had no message about her yet. Perhaps Luca has heard something. It may be well if I go to the studio at once to find out.'
He took up his hat and went to the door. Just as he opened it, Fabio's servant confronted him on the thresh old.
'I am sent to summon you to the palace,' said the man. 'The doctors have given up all hope.'
Father Rocco turned deadly pale, and drew back a step. 'Have you told my brother of this?' he asked.
'I was just on my way to the studio,' answered the servant.
'I will go there instead of you, and break the bad news to him,' said the priest.
They descended the stairs in silence. Just as they were about to separate at the street door, Father Rocco stopped the servant.
'How is the child?' he asked, with such sudden eagerness and impatience, that the man looked quite startled as he answered that the child was perfectly well.
'There is some consolation in that,' said Father Rocco, walking away, and speaking partly to the servant, partly to himself. 'My caution has misled me,' he continued, pausing thoughtfully when he was left alone in the roadway. 'I should have risked using the mother's influence sooner to procure the righteous restitution. All hope of compassing it now rests on the life of the child. Infant as she is, her father's ill-gotten wealth may yet be gathered back to the Church by her hands.'
He proceeded rapidly on his way to the studio, until he reached the river-side and drew close to the bridge which it was necessary to cross in order to get to his brother's house. Here he stopped abruptly, as if struck by a sudden idea. The moon had just risen, and her light, streaming across the river, fell full upon his face as he stood by the parapet wall that led up to the bridge. He was so lost in thought that he did not hear the conversation of two ladies who were advancing along the pathway close behind him. As they brushed by him, the taller of the two turned round and looked back at his face.
'Father Rocco!' exclaimed the lady, stopping.
'Donna Brigida!' cried the priest, looking surprised at first, but recovering himself directly and bowing with his usual quiet politeness. 'Pardon me if I thank you for honoring me by renewing our acquaintance, and then pass on to my brother's studio. A heavy affliction is likely to befall us, and I go to prepare him for it.'
'You refer to the dangerous illness of your niece?' said Brigida. 'I heard of it this evening. Let us hope that your fears are exaggerated, and that we may yet meet under less distressing circumstances. I have no present intention of leaving Pisa for some time, and I shall always be glad to thank Father Rocco for the politeness and consideration which he showed to me, under delicate circumstances, a year ago.'
With these words she courtesied deferentially, and moved away to rejoin her friend. The priest observed that Mademoiselle Virginie lingered rather near, as if anxious to catch a few words of the conversation between Brigida and himself. Seeing this, he, in his turn, listened as the two women slowly walked away together, and heard the Italian say to her companion: 'Virginie, I will lay you the price of a new dress that Fabio d'Ascoli marries again.'
Father Rocco started when she said those words, as if he had trodden on fire.
'My thought!' he whispered nervously to himself. 'My thought at the moment when she spoke to me! Marry again? Another wife, over whom I should have no influence! Other children, whose education would not be confided to me! What would become, then, of the restitution that I have hoped for, wrought for, prayed for?'
He stopped, and looked fixedly at the sky above him. The bridge was deserted. His black figure rose up erect, motionless, and spectral, with the white still light falling solemnly all around it. Standing so for some minutes, his first movement was to drop his hand angrily on the parapet of the bridge. He then turned round slowly in the direction by which the two women had walked away.
'Donna Brigida,' he said, 'I will lay you the price of fifty new dresses that Fabio d'Ascoli never marries again!'
He set his face once more toward the studio, and walked on without stopping until he arrived at the master- sculptor's door.
