The rumbling of the thunder roused Noemi shortly after two o’clock; she had fallen asleep only a short time before. Her room was next to Jeanne’s, and the door between them had been left open. Jeanne immediately called out to her. They had talked until two o’clock, when Noemi, quite exhausted, and after many vain efforts, had finally succeeded in persuading her indefatigable friend to leave her in peace. Now she pretended not to hear. Jeanne called again.

“Noemi! The thunder-storm! I am so frightened!”

“You are not a bit frightened!” Noemi answered irritably. “Be quiet! Go to sleep!”

“I am frightened! I am coming into your room.”

“I forbid it!”

“Then you must come in here!”

Noemi’s “Will you be quiet?” sounded so resolute that the other was silent.

Only for a moment, however; then the tearful, childish voice, that Noemi knew so well, began again:

“Have you not slept long enough? Can you not talk now? You must have slept three hours!”

Noemi struck a match and looked at her watch, holding which she had previously begged for silence.

“Twenty-two minutes!” she announced. “Be quiet!”

Jeanne was still for a moment, then she uttered those little hm!—hm!—hms!—which are always the prelude to tears in a spoilt child. And the complaining voice went on:

“You do not love me at all! Hm! Hm! For pity’s sake let us talk a little! Hm! Hm! Hm!”

In her mother tongue, Noemi sighed:

“Oh! mon Dieu!”

With another sigh she resigned herself to the inevitable:

“Well, go ahead! But what can you say to me that you have not already said in the last four hours?”

The thunder roared, but Jeanne no longer noticed it.

“To-morrow morning we will go to the monastery,” said she.

“Why yes, of course!”

“Only we two alone?”

“Yes, certainly, that is already settled.”

The tearful voice was silent a moment, and then went on: “You have not yet promised not to tell anything here in the house.”

“I’ve promised at least ten times!”

“You know what you are to say—do you not—if you are questioned about my fainting last night?”

“I know.”

“You must say that the Padre was not he; that I was disappointed, and that was why I fainted.”

“Gracious, Jeanne! This is the twentieth time you have said that!”

“How cruel you are, Noemi! How little you care for me!”

Silence.

Jeanne’s voice began again:

“Tell me what you think. Do you really believe he has forgotten me?”

“I will not answer that again!”

“Oh! please answer! Just one word, then I will let you go to sleep!”

Noemi reflected a moment and then answered drily, hoping to silence Jeanne:

“Well, I think he has. I do not believe he ever loved you.”

“You say that because I myself have said so to you!” Jeanne retorted violently, no longer in a tearful voice.

“You are no judge of that!”

“Bon Ça!” Noemi grumbled. “C’est elle qui me l’a dit, et je ne dois pas le savoir!” Silence again.

The tearful voice once more:

“Noemi!”

No answer.

“Noemi, listen!”

Still no answer. Jeanne began to cry, and Noemi yielded.

“For heaven’s sake! what Is it now?”

“Piero cannot know that my husband is dead.”

“Well, and what of that?”

“Then he cannot know that I am free,”

“Well? How stupid you are! You make me angry!”

Silence. Jeanne knew the nature of her anger very well. Her friend’s convictions were too much like her own, and she longed to have her painful presentiment contradicted, longed for a word of hope.

She laughed a low, forced laugh:

“Noemi, now you are pretending to be offended on purpose not to have to talk.”

Silence.

Jeanne began again, very sweetly:

“Listen. Don’t you believe he suffers temptations?”

Silence.

Jeanne, this time ignoring the fact that Noemi did not answer, exclaimed:

“It would be nice if he had just now stopped suffering from temptations!”

Her sarcasm is so comic, that—although she is greatly shocked—Noemi cannot help laughing; and Jeanne laughs with her. In spite of her mirth, Noemi reproaches Jeanne for saying such intensely foolish things without stopping to reflect. For Noemi knows her friend, and knows that the Jeanne of this hour is not the true Jeanne, self-possessed and mistress of herself; or rather perhaps it is the true Jeanne, but certainly not she who will stand before Piero Maironi, if, by any chance, they meet.

The thunder has ceased, and Jeanne would like to see what the weather is, but she dreads to leave her bed, fearing to feel ill again, fearing to discover she will not be able to go up to the monastery a few hours hence. She also fears the opposition of her hosts, should the weather prove too unpleasant. She is therefore anxious to see how the sky looks. Get up must Noemi, the slave whose acts of rebellion very seldom ended in victory. Noemi rises, opens the window, and examines the darkness, her hand extended. Tiny, frequent drops tickle her palm. The darkness grows less impenetrable as her eyes become accustomed to it. She distinguishes, down below, Santa Maria della Febbre, grey, against a black background. The mass of heavy mist grows lighter, and the arms of the oak towering on the right show black against it. The tiny, frequent drops continue to tickle her outstretched hand, which she finally withdraws. Jeanne questions.

“Well?” “It is raining.”

She sighs “What a bother,” as if it were going to rain for ever. And the tiny drops acquire a louder voice, fill the room with soft murmurs, and then are hushed once more. Jeanne does not understand the soft murmurs, does not understand that the man of whom her heart is full is lying unconscious, on the lonely, rocky, hillside, down which the rain washes.

Late on the following morning Signora Selva, somewhat anxious because neither of her guests had as yet appeared, entered her sister’s room quietly. Noemi was nearly dressed, and signed to her to be silent. Jeanne had fallen asleep at last. The two sisters left the room together and went to the study where Giovanni was waiting for them. Well? Was Don Clemente really the man? The husband and wife were anxious to know in order to regulate their conduct accordingly. Giovanni no longer doubted, but his wife was not sure even now. Noemi! Noemi must know! Giovanni closed the door, while Maria, interpreting her sister’s silence as confirmation, insisted: “Then it is really he, really he?”

Noemi was silent. She would perhaps have betrayed her friend’s secret in order to conspire with the Selvas for Jeanne’s happiness, had she not been deterred by a doubt of their agreeing with her, and by a sense of wavering in her own mind. Probably, as Catholics, the Selvas would not wish this man who had fled from the world to return to it. She, a Protestant, could not feel thus; at least she should not feel thus. She should rather believe that God is better served out in the world and in the married state. She did feel this, but she could not hide from herself that should Signor Maironi marry Jeanne now, she could feel little respect for him. At any rate it would be wiser to hide the strange truth.

“Well, what is it you think?” said she. “That the priest who was here last night, and who passed in front of us, after all that by-play of yours, was really the former lover? Is he your Don Clemente? Very well then, he is not the man.”

“Ah! Really not?” Giovanni exclaimed, between surprise and incredulity. His wife triumphed.

“There!” said she.

But Giovanni would not yield. He asked Noemi if she were quite sure of what she said, and how she explained Signora Dessalle’s fainting? Noemi answered that there was nothing to explain. Jeanne suffered from anÆmia, and was subject to attacks of terrible weakness. Giovanni was silent, but he was not convinced. If this were really so, how could Noemi assert so positively that Don Clemente was not the man? In his sister-in-law’s words, in her manner, in her face, Giovanni perceived something that was not natural. Maria asked how they had passed the night. How had Signora Dessalle rested? She had been uneasy? In what way uneasy?

“She was uneasy! What more can I say?” Noemi exclaimed rather irritably, and went to the open window as if to ascertain the intention of the clouds. Giovanni took a step towards her, determined to conquer her reticence. She had a presentiment of this, and, as an expedient, she asked what his predictions concerning the weather were.

The sky was completely overcast; low, heavy clouds rolled down from the crests of Monte Calvo upon the Cappuccini and the Rocca. The air was warm, the roar of the Anio loud. Far below, the road to Subiaco, like a winding ribbon and almost black with mud, was visible through the foliage of the olives. Giovanni answered;

“Rain.”

Noemi at once asked how far it was from the little villa to the convents. It took twenty minutes to go to Santa Scolastica. But why did she ask? Upon hearing that Jeanne intended going there with Noemi that very morning, Maria protested. In such weather? You are obliged to walk the last part of the way. Could they not postpone their visit until to-morrow or the next day?

“When did she tell you?” Giovanni asked, almost sharply. Noemi hesitated before answering:

“In the night.”

As soon as she had spoken the words she realised that they would arouse suspicion, especially after that moment of hesitation; she now awaited an attack, undecided whether to resist or surrender.

“Noemi!” Giovanni exclaimed severely.

She looked at him, her face slightly flushed; she was silent, not even saying, “Well, what is it?”

“Do not deny it,” her brother-in-law went on.

“This woman recognised Don Clemente. Do not deny it, rather say so at once; it is a duty which your conscience must surely urge upon you! They must on no account be allowed to meet!”

“What I said is true,” Noemi answered, having now decided on a line of action. In her tone, free from all trace of irritation and almost submissive, there lurked the implied confession that she had not told the whole truth.

“She did not recognise him? But surely you know something more?”

“Yes, I do know something more,” Noemi replied; “but I must not tell you what I know. I can only ask you to warn Don Clemente that Signora Dessalle and I propose visiting the convents this morning. I will say nothing more, and now I am going to see if Jeanne is awake.”

She left the room hastily. The Selvas looked at each other. What was the meaning of her wish to have Don Clemente warned? Maria read in her husband’s thoughts something which displeased her, something she did not wish him to utter,

“You had better write the letter to Don Clemente,” she said.

But Giovanni, before writing, wished to free his mind. There seemed to be only one explanation possible: Don Clemente was really the man. Noemi had promised Signora Dessalle not to say so, but she nevertheless wished to prevent a meeting. Maria exclaimed with some heat: “Oh! Noemi does not tell lies!” and then, crimsoning and smiling, she embraced her husband as if fearful of having offended him. For, once, she had offended him by some thoughtless words concerning the lack of truthfulness in Italians, and now perhaps her exclamation might have the effect of recalling the shadow of that cloud. He was indeed annoyed, more by the embrace than by the protest, and, remembering, he also crimsoned and maintained that in Noemi’s place Maria herself would have denied everything. Maria was silent, and left the study, importunate tears welling up in her eyes. At first Giovanni was glad he had repulsed this offensive tenderness, and he began the note to Don Clemente. Before he had finished it, however, his irritation had turned to remorse, and he rose and went in search of his wife. She was in the corridor, speaking in low tones to Noemi. She turned her face towards him at once; understanding, she smiled, her eyes still wet, and signed to him to come nearer, and to speak softly. What was the matter? The matter was that Jeanne wished to start for Santa Scolastica at once. Noemi explained that she had only just awakened, and that at once meant an hour and a half at least. But they must send to Subiaco for a carriage, for Jeanne was in no condition to walk more than was absolutely necessary—more than the last part of the way. A ring of the bell called Noemi away. Jeanne was waiting for her with impatience.

“What a chatterbox of a maid!” she said, half jestingly and half irritably. “What have you been telling your sister?”

Noemi threatened to leave her. Jeanne clasped her hands in supplication, and asked, looking her straight in the eyes, as though to read her soul:

“How shall I arrange my hair? How shall I dress?”

Noemi answered thoughtlessly:

“Why, just as you please.”

Jeanne stamped her foot angrily. Noemi understood.

“As a peasant girl,” said she.

“You silly creature!”

Noemi laughed.

Jeanne sighed out the usual reproach:

“You do not love me! You do not love me!”

Then Noemi became serious, and asked her if she really wished to entice him back again—her precious Maironi?

“I want to be beautiful!” Jeanne exclaimed. “There!”

She really was beautiful at that moment, in her dressing-gown of a warm yellow tint, with her streaming dark hair down to a hand’s-breadth below her waist. She looked far lovelier and younger than the night before. Her eyes shone with that look of intense animation which, in former days, they had been wont to assume when Maironi entered the room, or even when she heard his step outside.

“I wish I had the toilette I wore at Praglia,” she said. “I should like to appear before him in my green fur-lined cloak, now, in May! I should like him to see at a glance how unchanged I am, and how much I wish to remain unchanged! Oh! my God, my God!”

With a sudden impulse she threw her arms about Noemi’s neck, and pressed her face against her shoulder, stifling a sob and murmuring words Noemi could not distinguish.

“No, no, no!” she cried at last. “I am mad! I am wicked! Let us go away, let us go away!” She raised her tearful face. “Let us go to Rome!” said she.

“Yes, yes!” Noemi answered in great agitation, “we will go to Rome. We will leave at once. Let me go and ask when the next train starts.”

Jeanne immediately seized upon her and held her back. No, no, it was madness. What would her sister say? What would her brother-in-law think? It was madness, an impossibility! And besides, besides, besides—She hid her face, whispering behind her hands that she would be satisfied if she could only see him for one moment; but she could not—no, no—she could not leave without having seen him.

“Enough!” said she, uncovering her face, after a long pause. “Let us dress! I will wear whatever you please; sackcloth, if you wish it, or even haircloth!”

Her face had resumed the aggrieved smile she had worn before.

“Who can tell?” she said. “Perhaps it will do me good to see him in the dress of a peasant!”

“It would cure me at once!” Noemi muttered; then she blushed, for she felt she had spoken a great untruth.

When Signora Selva knocked at the door to say the carriage was waiting, Jeanne, with mock humility, begged Noemi to allow her to wear a certain large Rembrandt hat of which she was very fond. The black, feather-laden brim, drooping over her pale face, above the sombre light in her eyes, above the tall figure wrapped in a dark cloak, seemed to partake of her feelings, gloomy, passionate, and haughty. When she said good morning to Maria Selva she felt the admiration she aroused. She saw it in Giovanni’s eyes also, but it was admiration of a different sort, and not of a sympathetic nature. As soon as she and Noemi had left him and were on their way down to the gate, where the carriage was waiting, Jeanne asked her if she really had not told her brother-in-law anything at all? Upon being reassured she murmured:

“I thought you must have.”

When they had proceeded a few paces she pressed her friend’s arm very hard and exclaimed, much pleased, and as though she had made an unexpected discovery:

“At any rate, I am still beautiful!”

Noemi did not heed her. She was wondering if the name Dessalle had conveyed anything to the monk. Had Maironi ever mentioned it to him? If he had told him of this love, had he not perhaps concealed the woman’s name? At the bottom of her heart there lurked a lively curiosity to see this man who had awakened such a strong passion in Jeanne and had disappeared from the world in such a strange manner. But she would have liked to see him alone. It was terrifying to think of these two meeting without any preparation. If she could only speak to the monk first, to this Don Clemente, to make sure he knew, and to enlighten him if he did not know; if she could only find out from him something of that other man, the state of his mind, his intentions. “But enough!” she said to herself as she entered the carriage. “Providence must provide! And may Providence help this poor creature!” When they left the carriage where the mule-path begins, Jeanne proposed timidly, and as one who expects a refusal and knows it is justified, that she should go up to the convents by herself, a small boy, who had run after the carriage all the way from Subiaco, acting as guide. The refusal came indeed, and was most emphatic. Such a thing was out of the question! What was she thinking of? Then Jeanne begged at least to be left alone with him should she find him. Noemi did not know what to answer.

“What if I went up before you?” said she. “If I asked for Padre Clemente, and tried to find out from him what he is, what he is doing, and what he thinks; this, your—”

Jeanne interrupted her, horrified.

“The Padre? Speak to the Padre?” she exclaimed, pressing both hands to Noemi’s face as though to silence her words. “Woe to you if you speak to the Padre!”

They started slowly up the rocky mule-path, Jeanne often stopping, seized with trembling, and vibrating like a taut cord in the wind. In silence she stretched out her hands that Noemi might feel how cold they were, and smiled. In the sea of clouds rushing towards the hills the pale eye of the sun appeared; the sun, too, was curious.

---

Don Clemente said Mass at about seven o’clock, spoke with the Abbot, and then went to the Ospizio where pilgrims were sheltered. He found Benedetto asleep, his arms crossed upon his breast, his lips slightly parted, his face reflecting an inward vision of beatitude. Don Clemente stroked his hair, calling him softly. The young man started, raised his head with a dazed look, and, springing out of bed, grasped and kissed Don Clemente’s hand. The monk withdrew it with an impulse of humility, quickly checked by the purity of his soul, by his consciousness of the dignity of his office.

“Well?” he said. “Did the Lord speak to you?”

“I am subject to His will,” Benedetto replied, “as a leaf in the wind, a leaf which knows nought.”

The monk took his head between his hands, drawing him towards him, and pressed his lips upon his hair, letting them rest there while their souls silently communed.

“You must go to the Abbot,” he said. “Afterwards you can come to me.”

Benedetto fixed his gaze upon him, questioning him without words: “Why this visit?” Don Clemente’s eyes were veiled in silence, and the disciple humbled himself in a mute but visible impulse of obedience.

“At once?” he inquired.

“At once.”

“May I first go and wash in the torrent?”

The master smiled:

“Go, wash in the torrent.” Bathing in the water which sometimes, after heavy rains, sings in the Pucceia Valley to the east of the monastery, and cuts in rivulets across the road to the Sacro Speco, below Santa Crocella, was the only physical pleasure in which Benedetto allowed himself to indulge. It was still sprinkling; mist smoked slowly in the deep valley; the trembling shallow waters complained to Benedetto as they hastened across the road, but rested quiet and content in the hollow of his hands; and through his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, his neck, they infused deep into his heart a sense of the sweet chastity of their soul, a sense of Divine bounty. Benedetto poured the water over his head copiously, and the spirit of the water entered into his thoughts. He felt that the Father was sending him forth upon new paths, but that He would carry him in His mighty hand. He reverently blessed the creature through which so much light of grace had come to him, the most pure water! Then he bent his steps towards the Ospizio. Don Clemente, who was waiting for him in the courtyard, started when he caught sight of him, so transfigured did he appear. Under his thick, damp hair his eyes shone with quiet celestial joy, and the fleshless face, the colour of ivory, wore that expression of occult spirituality which flowed from the brushes of the Quattrocento. How could that face harmonise with peasant’s attire? In his heart Don Clemente congratulated himself upon a thought which he had conceived during the night, and had already communicated to the Abbot, namely, to give Benedetto an old lay-brother’s habit. Before consenting or refusing the Abbot wished to see Benedetto and speak with him.

The Abbot, while waiting for Benedetto, was strumming with his knuckles a piece of his own composition, accompanying the sound with horrible contortions of lips, nostrils and eyebrows. Upon hearing a gentle knock at the door, he neither answered nor stopped playing. Having finished the piece he began it again, and played it a second time from beginning to end. Then he stopped and listened. Another knock was heard, more gentle than the first. The Abbot exclaimed.

“Seccatore! Some bore!”

After some angry chords he began playing chromatic scales. From chromatic scales he passed to broken chords. Then he listened again for three or four minutes. Hearing nothing more he went to open the door, and perceived Benedetto, who fell upon his knees.

“Who are you?” he demanded roughly.

“My name is Piero Maironi,” Benedetto answered; “but here at the monastery they call me Benedetto.”

And he made a movement to take the Abbot’s hand and kiss it.

“One moment,” said the Abbot, frowning, withdrawing and raising his hand. “What are you doing here?”

“I work in the kitchen garden,” Benedetto replied.

“Fool!” exclaimed the Abbot. “I ask what you are doing here outside my door?”

“I was coming to see you, Padre.”

“Who told you to come to me?”

“Don Clemente.”

The Abbot was silent, and studied the kneeling man for some time; then he grumbled something incomprehensible, and offered him his hand to kiss.

“Rise!” said he, still sharply. “Come in. Close the door.”

When Benedetto had entered the Abbot appeared to forget him. He put on his glasses and began turning over the leaves of a book and glancing through the papers on his desk. In an attitude of soldierly respect, holding himself very erect, Benedetto stood, waiting for him to speak.

“Maironi of Brescia?” said the Abbot, in the same unfriendly tone as before, and without turning round.

Having received an answer he continued to turn the pages and read. Finally he removed his glasses and turned round.

“What did you come here to Santa Scolastica for?” said he.

“I was a great sinner,” Benedetto answered, “God called me to withdraw from the world, and I withdrew from It.”

The Abbot was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed upon the young man, and then he said with ironical gentleness:

“No, my friend!”

He took out his snuff-box, shook it, repeating “No, no, no,” rapidly and almost under his breath; he examined the snuff, dipped his fingers into it, raised his eyes once more to Benedetto’s face, and, emphasising each word, said:

“That is not true!”

Grasping the pinch with his thumb, his forefinger, and his middle finger, he raised his hand swiftly, as though about to throw the snuff into the air, and, with his arm suspended, continued to speak.

“It is probably true enough that you were a great sinner, but it is not true that you withdrew from the world. You are neither in it nor out of it.”

He took his pinch of snuff with a loud noise, and went on:

“Neither in it nor out of it!”

Benedetto looked at him without answering. In those eyes there was something so serious and so sweet, that the Abbot lowered his to the open snuff-box, once more dipping his fingers into it and toying with the snuff.

“I do not understand you,” he said.

“You are of the world, and still you are not of it. You are in the monastery, and still you are not in the monastery. I fear your head serves you no better than your great-grandfather’s, your grandfather’s, and your father’s served them. Fine heads, those!”

Benedetto’s ivory face flushed slightly.

“They are souls with God,” he said, “better than we are, and your words offend against one of God’s commandments.”

“Silence!” the Abbot exclaimed. “You say you have renounced the world, and you are full of worldly pride. If you really wished to renounce the world, you should have tried to become a novice! Why did you not attempt this? You wished to come here in villeggiatura, for an outing, that is the truth of the matter. Or perhaps you were under certain obligations at home, there were certain troublesome matters—you know what I mean! Nec nominentur in nobis. And you wished to rid yourself of these troubles, only to get yourself into fresh ones. You tell stories to that simple-minded Don Clemente; you usurp the place of a poor pilgrim; and perhaps—eh?—you hoped with prayers and sacraments to throw dust in the eyes of the monks, which is an easy matter enough, and even in the eyes of the Almighty Himself, which is a far more difficult matter. You do not deny this!”

The slight flush had vanished from the ivory face; the lips, which at one moment had parted, ready to utter, words of calm severity, were now motionless; the penetrating eyes were fixed upon the Abbot with the same sweaty grave look as before. And this calm silence seemed to exasperate the Abbot.

“Speak then!” said he. “Confess! Have you not also boasted of special gifts, of visions, of miracles even, for all I know? You have been a great sinner? Prove that you are one no longer! Exonerate yourself if you can. Say how you have lived; explain this pretension of yours that God has called you; justify yourself for coming here to eat the monk’s bread for nothing; for you did not wish to become a monk, and as to work, you have done little enough of that.”

“Padre,” Benedetto replied (and the severe tone of his voice, the austere dignity of his face, accorded ill with the humble gentleness of his words), “this is good for me, a sinner, who for three years have lived the life of the spirit, in ease and delights, in peace, in the affection of saintly men, in an atmosphere full of God Himself. Your words are good, and sweet unto my soul, they are a blessing from the Lord; their sting has made me feel how much pride there is in me still, of which I was ignorant, for it was a joy to me to despise myself. But as a servant of holy Truth, I say to you that harshness is not good, even when used towards one who deceives, because gentleness might perhaps bring him to repent of his deceit; and I say also, Padre, that in your words there is not the spirit of our true and; only Father, to whom be all glory!”

At the words “to whom be all glory” Benedetto fell upon his knees, his face glowing with intense fervour.

“Is it for you, miserable sinner, to play the part of teacher?” the Abbot exclaimed.

“You are right, you are right!” Benedetto replied impulsively, with laboured breath and clasped hands. “Now I will confess my sin to you. I desired illicit love; I was happy in the passion of a woman who was not free, as I myself was not free, and I accepted this passion. I abandoned all religious practices and heeded not the scandal I gave. This woman did not believe in God, and I dishonoured God in her company, my faith being dead, and showing myself sensual, selfish, weak, and false. God called me back with the voices of my dead, the voices of my father and mother. Then I left the woman who loved me, but I was without strength of purpose, wavering in my heart between good and evil. Soon I returned to her, all aflame with sin, knowing I should lose myself, even determined to lose myself. There was no longer an atom of grace in my soul when a dying hand, dear and saintly, seized me and saved me.”

“Look me in the eyes,” said the Abbot, without allowing him to rise. “Have you ever let any one know you were here?”

“I have never let any one know.” The Abbot answered drily:

“I do not believe you!”

Benedetto did not flinch.

“You know why I do not believe you?” the Abbot continued.

“I can imagine why,” Benedetto answered, dropping his eyes. “Peccatum meum contra me est semper.”

“Rise!” the Abbot commanded, still inflexible. “I expel you from the monastery. You will now go and take leave of Don Clemente, in his cell, and then you will depart, never to return. Do you understand?”

Benedetto bowed his head in assent, and was about to bend his knee to pay homage in the usual way, when the Abbot stopped him with a gesture.

“Wait,” said he.

Putting on his glasses he took a sheet of paper, upon which he traced some words, standing the while,

“What will you do, when you have left?” he asked still writing.

Benedetto answered softly:

“Does the sleeping child that his father lifts in his arms know what his father will do with him?”

The Abbot made no answer; his writing finished, he placed the paper in an envelope, closed it, and without turning his head, held it out to Benedetto, who was standing behind him.

“Take this to Don Clemente,” he said. Benedetto begged permission to kiss his hand.

“No, no, go away, go away!”

The Abbot’s voice trembled with anger. Benedetto obeyed. Hardly had he reached the corridor when he heard the angry man thundering on the piano.

---

Before entering Don Clemente’s little cell, Benedetto stopped before the great window at the end of the corridor. Here, a few hours earlier, the master himself had lingered, contemplating the lights of Subiaco, and thinking of the enemy, the creature of beauty, of genius, of natural kindliness, who was perhaps come to strive with him for possession of his spiritual son, to strive with God Himself. Now the spiritual son felt a mysterious certainty that the woman he had loved so ill, during the time of his blind and ardent leaning towards inferior things, had discovered his presence in the monastery, and would come in search of him. Seeking deep in his own heart for the Spirit which dwelt there, he gained from it a pious sense of the Divine, which was surely in her also, hidden even from herself; and he felt a mystic hope that, by some dark way, she also would one day reach the sea of eternal truth and love, which awaits so many poor wandering souls.

Don Clemente had heard him coming, and had set his door ajar. Benedetto entered, and offered him the Abbot’s letter. “I must leave the monastery,” he said, very calmly. “At once, and for ever.”

Don Clemente did not answer, but opened the letter. When he had read it he observed, smiling, that Benedetto’s departure for Jenne had been decided upon the night before. True, but the Abbot had said never to return, Don Clemente’s eyes were full of tears, but he still smiled.

“You are glad?” said Benedetto, almost plaintively,

Oh, glad! How could the master explain what he felt? His beloved disciple was leaving him, leaving him for ever, after three years of spiritual union; but then the hidden Will had made itself manifest; God was taking him from the monastery, setting his feet in other ways. Glad! Yes; afflicted and glad, but he could not communicate the cause of his gladness to Benedetto, The Divine Word would have no value for Benedetto did he not interpret it for himself.

“Not glad,” he said, “but at peace. We understand each other, do we not? And now prepare yourself to listen to my last words, which I hope you will cherish.”

Don Clemente’s whole face flushed as he spoke thus, in low tones.

Benedetto bowed his head, and Don Clemente laid his hands upon it with gentle dignity.

“Do you desire to surrender your whole being to Supreme Truth, to His Church, visible and invisible?” said the low, manly voice.

As though he had expected both the action and the question, Benedetto answered at once, and in a firm voice:

“Yes.”

The low voice:

“Do you promise, as from man to man, to remain unwed and poor, until I shall absolve you from your promise?”

The firm voice

“Yes.”

The low voice:

“Do you promise to be obedient always to the authority of the Holy Church, administered according to her laws?”

The firm voice:

“Yes.”

Don Clemente drew his disciple’s head towards him, and said, his lips almost touching Benedetto’s forehead:

“I asked the Abbot to allow me to give you the habit of a lay-brother, that on leaving here you might, at least, carry with you the sign of a humble religious office. The Abbot wished to speak with you before deciding.”

Here Don Clemente kissed his disciple on the forehead, thus intimating what the Abbot’s decision had been after their meeting; and into the kiss he put silent words of praise which his fatherly character and the humility of his disciple would not permit him to utter.

He did not notice that the disciple was trembling from head to foot.

“Here is what the Abbot wrote after talking with you,” said he.

He showed Benedetto the sheet of paper, upon which the Abbot had written:

“I consent. Send him away at once, that I may not be tempted to detain him!”

Benedetto embraced his master impulsively, and rested his forehead against his shoulder without speaking. Don Clemente murmured: “Are you glad? Now it is I who ask you!”

He repeated his question twice without obtaining an answer. At last he heard a whisper:

“May I be allowed not to answer? May I pray a moment?”

“Yes, caro, yes!”

Beside the monk’s narrow bed, and high above the kneeling-desk, a great bare cross proclaimed: “Christ is risen; now nail thy soul to me!” In fact some one, perhaps Don Clemente, perhaps one of his predecessors, had written, below it: “Omnes superbiae motus ligno crucis affigat.” Benedetto prostrated himself on the floor, and placed his forehead where the knees should rest. Through the open window of the cell, the pale light of the rainy sky fell obliquely upon the backs of the prostrate man and of the man standing erect, his face raised towards the great cross. The murmur of the rain, the rumble of the deep Anio, would have meant to Jeanne the distressed lament of all that lives and loves in the world; to Don Clemente they meant the pious union of inferior creatures with the creature supplicating the common Father. Benedetto himself did not notice them.

He rose, his face composed, and, in obedience to his master’s gesture, put on the robe of a lay-brother, which was spread out upon the bed, and fastened the leathern girdle. When he was dressed he opened wide his arms and displayed himself, smiling to his master, who was gratified to see how dignified, how spiritually beautiful he was in that habit.

“You did not understand?” said Benedetto. “You were not reminded of something?”

No, Don Clemente had thought that Benedetto’s intense emotion had been caused by his humility. Now he understood that he should have recalled something; but what?

“Ah!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Was it perhaps your vision?”

Yes, surely. Benedetto had seen himself dying on the bare ground, in the shade of a great tree, and wearing the habit of the Benedictines; and one argument against believing in the vision—in accordance with the advice of Don Giuseppe Flores and of Don Clemente—had been the seeming contradiction between this detail and his repugnance to the monastic vows, which had been ever increasing since his withdrawal from the world. Now this contradiction seemed to be vanishing, and therefore the credibility of the prophetic nature of the vision was reappearing. Don Clemente was aware of this part of the vision, and should have been able to read in Benedetto’s heart, his awe at being once more confronted with a mysterious, divine purpose concerning him, and his fear of falling into the sin of pride. Of this, he had not thought.

“Do not you think of it, either,” said he, and he hastened to change the subject. He gave Benedetto some books and a letter for the parish-priest at Jenne, whose guest he would be for the present. Whether or no he should remain at Jenne, and in case he did not, whether he should return to Subiaco or go elsewhere, that Divine Providence must point out to him.

“Padre mio,” Benedetto said, “truly I do not think of what may happen to me to-morrow. I think only of the words: ‘Magister adest et vocat me!’’ but not as being spoken by a supernatural voice. I was wrong not to understand that the Master is always present, and always calling me, you, every one! If only our soul be hushed, we may hear His voice!”

A faint ray of sunshine glinted into the cell. Don Clemente reflected at once that should the rain cease, Signora Dessalle would very probably come to visit the monastery. He said nothing, but his inward anxiety betrayed itself by a slight shudder, by a glance at the sky which told Benedetto it was time to leave. He begged the privilege of praying, first in the Church of Santa Scolastica, and then at the Sacro Speco. The sun disappeared, and it began to rain again. Master and disciple descended to the church together, and there, kneeling side by side, they lingered in prayer. That was their only farewell. At nine o’clock Benedetto took the road to the Sacro Speco. He left the monastery unobserved, while Fra Antonio was confabulating with Giovanni Selva’s messenger. At that moment the rays of the returning sun suddenly lit up the old walls, the road, the hill itself; shrill cries of gladness, swift wings of tiny birds broke through the green on all sides, and to his lips the words rose spontaneously:

“I am coming!”

III.

Jeanne and Noemi reached the monastery at ten o’clock. A few paces from the gate Jeanne was seized with a violent palpitation. She would have liked to visit the garden before the convent, the urchin from Subiaco having told her that the monks of Santa Scolastica had a fine kitchen-garden, and that some people belonging to them worked in it—an old man from Subiaco and a young stranger. Now, it was out of the question. Pale, exhausted, and leaning on Noemi’s arm, she, with difficulty, dragged herself as far as the door, where a beggar stood, waiting for his bowl of soup. Fortunately Fra Antonio opened the door before Noemi had time to ring, and she entreated him to bring a chair and a glass of water for her friend, who was feeling unwell. Frightened at the sight of Jeanne, so deathly pale, and drooping against her companion’s shoulder, the humble old lay-brother placed the bowl of soup he had brought for the beggar in Noemi’s hands, and hastened away in search of the chair and the water. Thanks partly to the droll spectacle the astonished Noemi presented, as she stood holding the bowl of soup, partly to the rest—the water, the sight of the ancient cloister sleeping so peacefully, and the reassertion of her own will—a few minutes sufficed to restore Jeanne sufficiently. Fra Antonio went to call the Padre foresterario, to act as guide to the visitors.

“Tell him we are the two ladies staying at Signor Selva’s house,” said Noemi.

Don Clemente appeared, blushing in the virginal purity of his soul because Jeanne was unaware that he knew her story, as he might have blushed had he been committing some fraud. He mistook Noemi, who came forward first, for Signora Dessalle. Tall, slim, and elegant, Noemi might well pass for a siren; she did not, however, look a day over five and twenty, and therefore could not be the woman of whose adventures Benedetto had told him. But the Benedictine was incapable of such calculations, and Noemi was anxious to satisfy herself that Fra Antonio had fulfilled his mission faithfully.

“Good morning, Padre,” she said in her pretty voice, to which the foreign accent lent additional charm. “We met last night. You were just leaving Signor Selva’s house.”

Don Clemente bent his head slightly. Noemi had really hardly had a glimpse of him, but she had been struck by his beauty, and had reflected that if he were Signor Maironi she could understand Jeanne’s passion. Conscious of her fresh and youthful appearance, it never entered her head that her twenty-five years could be mistaken for Jeanne’s thirty-two. Jeanne, in the meantime, was wondering how she could turn her dilemma to the best account.

“You were not expected last night,” said Don Clemente to Noemi. “You come from the Veneto, I believe?”

“The Veneto?” Noemi seemed surprised.

“The Selvas told me you lived in the Veneto,” the Padre added.

Then Noemi understood. She smiled, and murmured a monosyllable which was neither “yes” nor “no”; she also was determined to take advantage of her position, and, thanks to this misunderstanding, obtain a private interview with Don Clemente, and warn him if necessary. It was moreover most amusing to talk to this handsome monk, who believed her to be Jeanne. By a look she cautioned Jeanne, who, much embarrassed, was glancing from her to the monk, doubtful whether to speak or remain silent.

“Of course my friend knows Santa Scolastica already,” she said, “but I have never been here before.”

She turned to Jeanne.

“If the Padre will be kind enough to accompany me, it seems to me you might remain here, as you are not feeling well,” she said.

Jeanne consented so readily that Noemi suspected she had some secret plan, and wondered if she had not made a mistake in proposing this. However, it was too late now. Don Clemente, not over-pleased at having to accompany one lady alone, suggested they should wait; perhaps her friend would feel stronger presently. Jeanne protested. No, they must not wait; she was glad to remain there.

While passing from the first to the second cloister, Noemi once more reminded the Padre of their meeting on the previous night.

“You had a companion?” she said, and immediately felt ashamed of her deceit, and of not having cleared up the mistake under which the monk was labouring. Don Clemente answered almost under his breath:

“Yes, signora, a kitchen-gardener from the monastery.”

Both their faces were crimson, but they did not look at one another, and each was conscious only of his and her own blush.

“Do you know who we are?” Noemi continued.

Don Clemente replied that he believed he knew. They must be the two ladies Signora Selva expected. He thought she had mentioned her sister and Signora Dessalle.

“Oh! you heard of us from my sister?”

At Noemi’s words Don Clemente could not refrain from exclaiming:

“Then you are not Signora Dessalle?”

Noemi saw that the man knew. Therefore he had surely taken precautions, and an unexpected meeting was not possible. She breathed freely again, and in her feminine heart curiosity took the place of the anxiety of which she was now relieved.

Don Clemente spoke to her of the tower, of the ancient arcades, of the frescoes near the door of the church, while she wondered how he could be brought to speak of Maironi. When he was showing her the procession of little stone monks, she interrupted him thoughtlessly, to ask if souls, tired of the world, disappointed and desirous of giving themselves to God, often came to the monastery.

“I am a Protestant,” she said. “This interests me greatly.”

In his heart Don Clemente thought that if this really interested her greatly, it was not on account of her Protestantism, but on account of her friendship for Signora Dessalle.

“Not often,” he answered; “sometimes. Such souls usually prefer other Orders. So you are a Protestant? But you will have no objection to entering our church? I do not mean the Catholic Church,” he added, smiling and blushing, “I mean the church of our monastery.”

And he told her about a Protestant Englishman, who was in love with St. Benedict, and made long stays at Subiaco, frequently visiting Santa Scolastica and the Sacro Speco.

“He has a most beautiful soul,” he said.

But Noemi wished to return to the first subject; to know if—urged by a spirit of penitence—any one ever came from the world to serve in the cloister without wearing the habit. She received no answer, for Don Clemente, seeing a colossal monk enter the cloister, begged to be excused one minute, and went to speak to him, returning presently with his majestic companion, whom he introduced as Don Leone, a guide far superior to himself, both as to the amount and the depths of his knowledge. Then, to her great chagrin, he himself withdrew.

When she was alone Jeanne had another attack of violent palpitation. Dio! how the past came back to her! How Praglia came back! And to think that he came and went through that entrance, through those cloisters, who knows how many times a day; that he must often think of Praglia, of that hour fixed by fate, of that water spilled, of the ecstasy, the tightly clasped hands, under cover of the fur cloak, on the way home. To think he was now free, and she also was free! How feverish she felt, how feverish!

Fra Antonio, who had at first been terrified at finding this breathless woman left there on his hands, was presently amazed by the rapid words and questions with which she suddenly assailed him.—Was there not a kitchen-garden near the monastery?—Yes, very near, on the west side; there was only a narrow lane intervening.—And who cultivated it?—A kitchen-gardener.—Young? Old? From Subiaco? A stranger?—Old. From Subiaco.—And no one else?—Yes, Benedetto.—Benedetto? Who was Benedetto?—A young man from the Padre foresterario’s native town.—And what was the Padre foresterario’s native town?—Brescia.—And this young man was called Benedetto?—Every one called him Benedetto, but Fra Antonio could not say if that was his real name.—But what sort of man was he?—Ah! that Fra Antonio could say. He was almost more holy than the monks themselves. You could see by his face that he came of a good family, yet he was housed like a dog; he ate only bread, fruit, and herbs; he spent whole nights, in prayer probably, out on the mountains. He tilled the soil, and he also studied in the library with the Padre foresterario. And such a heart! Such a great heart! Many times he had given the scanty dole of food he received from the monastery to the poor.—And where could one find him at this hour?—Oh! surely in the garden; Fra Antonio fancied he would be busy sprinkling the grape vines with sulphate of copper.

Jeanne’s heart beats so violently that her sight becomes dim. She sits silent and motionless. Fra Antonio thinks she has forgotten Benedetto. “Ah! signora,” he says, “Santa Scolastica is a fine monastery, but you should see Praglia!” For Fra Antonio passed several years at Praglia in his youth, before the abbey was suppressed, and he speaks of it as of a venerable mother. “Ah! the church at Praglia! The cloisters! The hanging cloister, the refectory!” At these unexpected words Jeanne grows excited. They seem to say to her: “Go, go, go at once!” She starts from her chair.

“And this garden? In which direction is it?”

Fra Antonio, somewhat astonished, answered that it might be reached through the monastery, or by skirting the outside. Jeanne went out; absorbed in her burning thoughts she passed the gate, turned to the right, entered the gallery below the library, where she paused a moment, pressing her hands to her heart, and walked on again.

The herder belonging to the convent, standing at the entrance to the courtyard where the Ospizio, which shelters pilgrims, is located, pointed out the door of the garden on the opposite side of the narrow lane, running between two walls. She asked him if she would find a certain Benedetto in the garden. In spite of her efforts to control herself, her voice trembled in anticipation of an affirmative answer. The herder replied that he did not know, and offered to go and see. Knocking several times, he called: “BenedÈ! BenedÈ!”

A step at last! Jeanne was leaning against the door-post to keep herself from falling. O God! if it be Piero, what shall she say to him? The door opens; it is not Piero but an old man. Jeanne breathes freely again, glad for the moment. The old man looks at her, astonished, and says to the herder:

“Benedetto is not here.”

Her gladness had already vanished; she felt icy cold; the two men looked at her curiously, in silence.

“Is this the lady who is looking for Benedetto?” said the old man.

Jeanne did not reply; the herder answered for her, and then he told how Benedetto had spent the night out of doors; that he had found him at daybreak, in the grove of the Sacro Speco, wet to the skin. He had offered him some milk and Benedetto had drunk like a dying man to whom life is returning.

“Listen, Giovacchino,” the herder added, growing suddenly grave. “When he had drunk he embraced me like this. I was feeling ill; I had not slept, my head ached, all my bones ached. Well, as he held me in his arms slight shivers seemed to come from them and creep over me, and then I felt a sort of comforting heat; and I was content, and as comfortable all over as if I had had two mouthfuls of the very best spirits in my stomach! The headache was gone, the pains in the bones were gone, everything was gone. Then I said to myself: ‘By St. Catherine, this man is a saint!’ And a saint he certainly is!”

While he was speaking a poor cripple passed, a beggar from Subiaco. Seeing a lady, he stopped and held out his hat. Jeanne, completely absorbed in what the herder was saying, did not notice him, nor did she hear him when—the herder having ceased speaking—he begged for alms, for the love of God. She asked the gardener where this Benedetto was to be found. The man scratched his head, doubtful how to answer. Then the beggar groaned out in a mournful voice:

“You are seeking Benedetto? He is at the Sacro Speco.”

Jeanne turned eagerly towards him.

“At the Sacro Speco?” said she; and the gardener asked the beggar if he himself had seen him there.

The cripple, more tearful than ever, told how more than an hour ago he had been on the road to the Sacro Speco, beyond the grove of evergreen oaks, only a few steps from the convent. He was carrying a bundle of fagots, and had fallen badly, and could not rise again with his burden.

“God and St. Benedict sent a monk that way,” he continued. “This monk lifted me up, comforted me, gave me his arm, and took me to the convent, where the other monks restored me. Then I came away, but the monk stayed at the Sacro Speco.”

“And what has all this to do with it?” the gardener exclaimed.

“Simply this, that dressed as he was I did not at once know him; but afterwards I did. It was he.”

“Whom do you mean by he?”

“Benedetto.”

“Who was Benedetto?”

“The monk.”

“You are mad! You idiot!” the two men exclaimed together.

Jeanne gave the cripple a silver piece.

“Think well,” she said. “Tell the truth!”

The cripple overflowed with benedictions, mingling with them such humble expressions as: “Just as you please, just as you please! I may have been mistaken, I may have been mistaken,” and with his string of pious mumblings he took himself off. Jeanne again questioned the herder and the gardener. Was it possible that Benedetto had taken the habit?—Impossible! The beggar was only a poor fool.

Presently the herder left, and Jeanne, entering the kitchen-garden, sat down tinder an olive tree, reflecting that Noemi could easily learn from the door-keeper where to find her. The old gardener, whose curiosity was aroused, asked, with many apologies, if she was a relative of Benedetto’s,

“For it is known that he is a gentleman, a rich man!” said he.

Jeanne did not answer his question. She wished rather to find out why this belief in Piero’s riches prevailed.—Well, you could see by his manners and by his face; he really had the face of a gentleman.—And he had not become a monk?—Well, no.—And why had he not become a monk?—That was not known for a certainty, There were many tales told. It was even said he had a wife, and that his wife had played him what the gardener called “a mean trick.” Jeanne was silent, and it suddenly struck the gardener that she might be the wife, the woman who had played the “mean trick.” She had perhaps repented, and was come to ask his forgiveness.

“If this story about the wife is true,” he added, “I don’t say she may not have had her reasons; but as far as goodness goes, she surely did not find a better man. You see, signora, these fathers are holy men, that is undeniable; but there is no one so holy as he, either at Santa Scolastica or at the Sacro Speco. That I will swear to! Not even Don Clemente, who is most holy! Still he is not equal to Benedetto. No, no!”

The beggar’s words suddenly sounded in Jeanne’s heart. Benedetto a monk! But why? It was discouraging to have them thus return, without a reason, to her heart. Had not the two men said it was nonsense; that the cripple was a fool? Yes, nonsense, she could see that herself; yes, a fool, he had impressed her as such; but still the stupid words beat and throbbed in her heart, as gruesome as masqueraders in comic masks would be should they knock at your door at any other time save during Carnival!

“If you will wait, signora, in less than half an hour he is sure to be here. Che! What am I saying? In a quarter of an hour. Perhaps he is in the library studying with Don Clemente, or perhaps he is in the church.”

The library, which runs across the narrow lane, communicates directly with the kitchen-garden.

“There he is now!” the old man exclaimed.

Jeanne started to her feet. The door leading from the library to the garden opened slowly. Instead of Piero, Noemi appeared, followed by the big monk. Noemi perceived her friend among the olives, and stopped suddenly, greatly surprised. Jeanne in the garden? Was it possible that—? No, the old man beside her could not be Maironi, and there was no one else with her. She smiled and shook her finger at her. Don Leone took leave of Noemi upon learning that this was the friend who—as she had told him during the visit to the monastery—had remained at the door-keeper’s lodge. Of course the ladies would go up to the other convent, and his great size was no longer adapted to the climb to the Sacro Speco.

It was nearly eleven o’clock; they had ordered the carriage to meet them where they had left it at half-past twelve, for dinner was at one at the Selvas’; if Jeanne wished to see the Sacro Speco there was no time to lose, provided her indisposition had disappeared, as would seem to be the case. Noemi encouraged her going, and did not stop to ask, in the presence of the gardener, why she had left Fra Antonio to run off and explore the garden. She merely whispered: “You were making believe, eh?” Jeanne said that Noemi must certainly start for the Sacro Speco at once, but that she herself intended to wait for her in the garden. Noemi suspected another plot.

“No, no!” she exclaimed, “either you come to the Sacro Speco or—if you do not feel well enough—we will go down to Subiaco at once.”

Jeanne objected that it would be useless to go down now, for they would not find the carriage; but Noemi was determined not to yield. They could walk down very slowly, and be ready for the carriage as soon as it arrived. Jeanne refused again, more emphatically than before, having no other argument to set forth. Then Noemi looked searchingly into her eyes, silently trying to read her hidden purpose there. In that moment of silence Jeanne’s heart was again assailed by the beggar’s words. Impulsively she seized her friend’s arm.

“You wish me to go to the Sacro Speco?” she said. “Very well, let us go then. You believe something and you do not know! Let Fate decide!”

But before moving a step she dropped her friend’s arm, and while Noemi, completely bewildered, stood watching her she wrote in her notebook: “I am at the Sacro Speco. For the sake of Don Giuseppe Flores wait for me!” She did not sign her name, but tearing out the tiny page gave it to the gardener. “For that man, should he return.” Then once more taking Noemi’s arm, she exclaimed:

“Let us go!”

The sun’s burning rays, smiting the steaming, rocky hillside, brought out damp odours of herbs and of stone, silvered the puffs of mist creeping along the sides of the narrow, wild valley, as far as the enormous mass resting there, in the background, like a cap on the heights of Jenne, while the mighty voice of the Anio filled the solitude. Jeanne climbed upwards in silence, without replying to Noemi’s questions. Noemi was becoming more and more alarmed by her silence, by her pallor, by the nervous twitching of her arm, by the sight of her lips pressed tightly together, to keep back her sobs. Why was she thus moved? During the night and, indeed, until they had reached the entrance to Santa Scolastica, the poor creature had wavered between fear and hope, in a fever of expectancy. Now her fever was of a different nature; at least it seemed so to Noemi. She thought Jeanne must have heard something there in the garden, something of which she did not wish to speak, something painful, frightful! What could it be? The tragic lament of the invisible water, the silent trembling of the blades of grass on the rocky slope, even the burning heat, made the heart shrink. A few paces from the arch which, standing rigid there, holds in check the black crowd of evergreen oaks, Noemi was relieved to hear human voices. They belonged to Dane on horseback and to Marinier and the Abbot on foot, who were coming down together from the Sacro Speco,

Dane showed great pleasure at this meeting; he stopped his horse, presented the ladies to the Abbot, and spoke of the Sacro Speco in enthusiastic language. Jeanne, after exchanging a few words with the Abbot, asked him if any one had recently pronounced the solemn vows or perhaps taken the habit. The Abbot replied that he had been at Santa Scolastica only a few days, and was not, at that moment, in a position to answer her question; but he did not believe any one had made the solemn profession or assumed the habit of a novice at Santa Scolastica for at least a year. Jeanne was radiant with joy. Now she understood; she had been a fool to believe it possible, even for a single moment, that in twelve hours Piero the peasant had become Piero the monk. She longed to return at once to the garden at Santa Scolastica; but how could she manage it? what pretext could she invent? She pressed forward, anxious to be done with the Sacro Speco as soon as possible. Noemi proposed resting a few minutes in the shade of the evergreen oaks, which, there on the path of those souls agitated by Divine Love, themselves seem twisted by an inward ascetic fury, by a frantic effort to tear themselves from the earth, and to dart their arms into the sky. Jeanne refused impatiently. The colour had returned to her face, and the light to her eyes. She started rapidly up the narrow stair where the short walk comes to an end, and in spite of the protests of Noemi (who could not understand the cause of this change) would not stop to take breath at the head of the stairs where, suddenly, the dark, deep spectacle of the valley reveals itself. High up on the left looms the terrible crag, dear to falcons and crows, bulging out above the dreary walls, pierced by unadorned openings which are incrusted upon the bare slope, running crosswise along its face, and form the monastery of the Sacro Speco. In the depths below the convent hangs the rose garden of St. Benedict, and below the rose garden hang the kitchen-garden and the olive groves, sloping to the open bed of the roaring Anio. The mass of cloud which had rested on the heights of Jenne was rising and invading the sky. A wave of shadow passed over the enormous crag, over the monastery, over the parapet upon which Noemi had rested her elbows, lost in contemplation.

“This is magnificent!” she said. “Let us stop here a few seconds at least, now that it is shady,”

But at that moment the little door of the monastery, not two steps from them, opened and a party of visitors, men and women, came out. The monk who had acted as guide, seeing Noemi and Jeanne, held the door open, expecting them to enter. Jeanne hastened to do so, and Noemi, much against her will, followed her,

“Thirteenth century frescoes,” said the Benedictine, in the dark entrance-hall, in an indifferent tone, as he passed on. Noemi stopped, curiously regarding the ancient paintings. Jeanne followed the Benedictine, looking neither to right nor left, distracted, tormented by a doubt. What if the Abbot had been mistaken, if the beggar had told the truth? She recalled in fancy the happy meeting in the courtyard at Praglia, the intense pallor of his face, the “Thank you!” which had made her tremble with joy. A shiver ran through her blood, and, as though with a sudden pull at the reins of her imagination, she turned to Noemi: “Come!” she said.

She followed the monk, hearing nothing that he said, observing nothing that he pointed out. Noemi found it difficult to hide her own uneasiness, for she had a presentiment of evil on their return. The dangerous point was the garden at Santa Scolastica, which, judging by what she had said to the old gardener, Jeanne intended to revisit. She no longer wished to see this famous Maironi; she longed only to get Jeanne safely back to the Selvas’, without any meetings, and she intended to tarry as long as possible at the Sacro Speco, that they might not have time to stop at Santa Scolastica. She therefore pretended to take a lively interest in the precious interior of this monastery, which has such a bare and dreary exterior, while all the while her one wish was to revisit it more peacefully with her sister or her brother-in-law.

Upon descending into that mine of holiness, neither of them understood what road they were following, surrounded as they were by the lifeless, cold atmosphere, the mystic shadows, the yellowish lights falling from above, the odours of damp stone, of smoking wicks, of musty draperies; bewildered by visions of chapels, of grottos, of crosses at the foot of dark stairs; losing themselves in their flight down towards the lower caverns, keeping on a level with their own pointed vaults; of marbles the colour of blood, the colour of the night, the colour of snow; of stiff, pious groups with Byzantine features, crowding the walls, the drums of the arches; of little monks and little friars, standing in the window niches, on the pinnacles of the vaults, along the line of the entablatures, each with his venerable aureole. The visitors did not know what path they were following, and Jeanne hardly felt the reality of it all.

While descending the Scala Santa—the Holy Staircase—the monk leading and Jeanne following closely, while Noemi came last, some five or six steps behind, Jeanne, suddenly throwing out her hands, clutched the guide’s shoulder, and then, ashamed of her involuntary action, immediately withdrew them, while the monk, who was greatly astonished, stopped, and turned his head towards her.

“Pardon me!” she said. “Who is that father?”

Between two landings of the Scala, behind a projection of the left wall, a figure, all black in the habit of the Benedictines, stood, erect and still, in the dark corner, its forehead resting against the marble, Jeanne had passed it by four or five steps without having perceived it, then she had chanced to look round, and had seen it, while an instinctive suspicion flashed through her trembling heart.

The monk answered:

“He is not a father, signora.”

He bent down to unlock the low gate of a chapel.

“What is the matter?” Noemi inquired, drawing near. “He is not a father?” Jeanne repeated.

Noemi trembled at the strange ring in her friend’s voice. She herself had not noticed the figure standing erect in the shadow of the wall.

“Who?” she asked.

The monk, who, in the meantime, had opened the gate, misunderstood her, and thought she referred to something that had been said before.

“No,” he answered. “The authentic portrait of St. Francis is not here. Lower down there is a St. Francis painted by the Cavalier Manente. You will see it presently. Please come in.”

“What is it?” Noemi said softly to Jeanne. Her friend having answered in a calmer voice, “Nothing,” she passed her, entering the chapel, and listened to the monk’s explanations. Then the black figure moved away from the wall. Jeanne saw it slowly mounting in the dim light, under the pointed arches. On the upper landing the figure turned to the right, and disappeared, to reappear almost immediately on an arm of the stair, crossing the slanting background of the scene, and brilliant in the light of an invisible window. The figure mounted slowly, almost wearily. Before it vanished behind the enormous flank of an arch, it bent its head and looked down. Jeanne recognised the face!

On the instant, as if in obedience to a lightning will impelling her, as if borne along by the rush of her destiny, pale, resolute, without knowing what she would say, what she would do, she started upwards. Having crossed the upper landing, she was about to place her foot on the lighter stairway, when she stumbled and fell, remaining for a moment prostrate. Thus Noemi, on leaving the chapel, did not see her, and concluded she had gone down in search of the portrait of St. Francis, Jeanne rose and started forward; she was a poor creature torn by passions, to whom the images of celestial peace, grown rigid on the sacred walls, called in vain. All before her was silence and void. She was following paths unknown to her, swiftly, securely, as one in an hypnotic trance. She passed through dark and narrow places, through light and broad places, never hesitating, never looking to right or left, all her senses sharpened and concentrated in her hearing, following little sounds of distant whisperings, the faint complaining of one door, the breath of wind from another, the brushing of a robe against the frame. Thus, through the wide-open wings of the last door she passed rapidly, and found herself face to face with him.

He also had recognised her, at the last moment, on the Scala Santa. He felt almost certain he himself had not been recognised, nevertheless he had sought to avoid the path usually followed by visitors. Upon hearing a swift rustle of woman’s drapery approaching that mysterious hall, he understood all, and, facing the entrance, he waited. She perceived him and stopped suddenly, in the very act of entering, standing as though turned to stone, between the wings of the door; her eyes fixed on his eyes, which no longer wore the look of Piero Maironi.

He was transfigured. His form, owing perhaps to the black habit, appeared slighter. His pale, fleshless face, his brow, which seemed to have become higher, expressed a dignity, a gravity, a sad sweetness which Jeanne had never known in him. And the eyes were totally different eyes; in them shone a something ineffable and divine, much humility, much power, the power of a transcendent love, springing not from his heart, but from a mystic fount within his heart; a love reaching beyond her heart, but seeking her in the inner, mysterious regions of the soul, regions unknown to her. Slowly, slowly she clasped her hands and sank upon her knees.

Benedetto carried the forefinger of his left hand to his lips, while with his other hand he pointed to the wall facing the balcony, which opens to the hornbeams of the Francolano hill and to the roar of the river far below. In the centre of the wall, showing black and large, was the word

For centuries, ever since the word had been written there, no human voice had been heard in this place. Jeanne did not look, did not see. That finger at Piero’s lips was enough to seal her own. But it was not enough to check the sob in her throat. She gazed at him intently, her lips pressed tightly together, while great, silent tears rolled down her face. Immovable, his arms hanging close to his sides, Benedetto slightly bent his head and closed his eyes, absorbed in prayer. The great, black, imperious word, big with shadows and with death, triumphed over these two human souls, while from the shining balcony the fierce souls of the Anio and of the wind roared in protest.

Suddenly, a few seconds after Benedetto’s eyes had closed to her gaze, she was shaken and rent from shoulder to knee by a great sob, a sob bitter with all the bitterness of her fate. He opened his eyes and looked tenderly at her, while she drank in his look thirstily, sobbing twice, as in sorrowful gratitude. And because this man, her beloved, again raised his finger to his lips she bowed her head in assent. Yes, yes, she would be silent, she would be calm! Still in obedience to his gesture, to his look, she rose to her feet and drew back, allowing him to pass out through the open door; then she followed him humbly, her hope dead in her breast, so many sweet phantoms dead in her heart, her love turned to fear and veneration.

She followed him to the chapel which they call the upper church. There, opposite the three small pointed arches inclosing deep shadows through which an altar looms, and where a silver cross shines against the dark phantoms of ancient paintings, Jeanne, upon a sign from him, knelt on the prie-dieu placed on the right side of the great arch, which follows the line of the pointed vault, while he knelt on the one placed on the left. On the drum of the arch a fourteenth century painter had depicted the Great Sorrow. Through a high window on the left, the light fell upon the Mother of Sorrows—the Dolorosa; Benedetto was in the shadow.

His voice murmured in a scarcely audible tone:

“Still without faith?”

Softly, as he himself had spoken, and without turning her head, she answered:

“Yes.”

He was silent for a time, then he continued, in the same tone:

“Do you long for it? Could you regulate your actions as if you believed in God?”

“Yes, if I be not forced to lie.”

“Will you promise to live for the poor and the afflicted, as if each one of these were a part of the soul that you love?”

Jeanne did not answer. She was too far-seeing, too honest to declare that she could.

“Will you promise this,” Benedetto continued, “if I promise to call you to my side at a certain hour in the future?”

She did not know of what solemn and not far distant hour he was thinking, as he spoke thus. She answered, quivering:

“Yes, yes!” “In that hour I will call you,” said the voice out of the shadow, “But until I call you, you must never seek to see me again.”

Jeanne pressed her hands to her eyes, and answered “No” in a smothered tone. It seemed to her she was whirling in the vortex of such agonising dreams as accompany a raging fever, Piero had ceased speaking. Two or three minutes slipped by. She withdrew her hands from her tearful eyes, and fixed her gaze upon the cross, which shone there in front of her, beyond the pointed arches, against the dark phantoms of ancient paintings. She murmured:

“Do you know that Don Giuseppe Flores is dead?”

Silence.

Jeanne turned her head. The church was empty.

race, in their secret admiration, in the perfume of a sentiment which I believe one of them harbours, in the vision of a life of retirement in this nest, with these beings, far from all that is vulgar, all that is low, unclean, and loathsome.

I have felt the sin of the world with the repulsion which shrinks from it, and not with the fiery sorrow which braves it and wrests souls from its clutches. Moments, flashes; I took refuge, as in times past, in the embrace of the cross; but, little by little, the cross turned to unfeeling, dead wood in my arms, and this was not as in times past! I told myself, “Spirits of evil, strong and cunning powers of the air, are conspiring against me, against my mission.” I answered myself, “Pride, be gone!” And then the first idea took possession of me once more. In this sad manner I rocked to and fro, every day, and all day long. And because I did not allow any part of all this to transpire, because I understood that Signor Giovanni and the ladies did not doubt I was inwardly as calm, as pure as I was externally; I despised myself at certain moments for a hypocrite, only to tell myself the next moment that, on the contrary, my pure and calm exterior helped me to live—I allude to the spiritual life—that by appearing strong, I was forced to be strong. I compared myself to a tree whose marrow has been destroyed by worms, whose wood is rotten, but which still lives through its bark, by means of which it produces leaves and flowers, and can spread welcome shade. Then I told myself that this was good reasoning before men; but was it good reasoning before God, before God? And again I told myself that God could heal me, for though the tree may not be healed yet a man may be made whole. Again my mind was tormented, because I was incapable of doing what God would demand of me, in order that my will might once more work in unison with His. He would order me to flee, to flee! God is in the voice of the Anio, which, since the evening of my departure from Jenne, has been saying: “Rome, Rome, Rome!” And God is also in the strength of the invisible worms, which have gnawed the vital virtues of my body. Am I then to blame? Am I then to blame? Lord, hear my groan, which asks for justice!

I have said many times that I will leave as soon as I am strong enough, but they wish to keep me here, and how can I say to them “My friends, you are my enemies?” Behold my cowardice! Why can I not say so? Why should I not say so?

One day I read in the young Protestant girl’s glance the question: “If you go, what will become of my soul? Should you not desire to lead me to your faith? I will not yet allow myself to be led.” No, I cannot, I must not write all. How can I write the meaning of a glance, the accent of a word, commonplace in itself? They are not such glances as drove St. Jerome to plunge into icy water, or at least my emotion does not resemble his. Icy water is of no avail against a glance which is all sweet purity. Only fire can prevail against it, the fire of the Supreme Love! Ah! who will free me from my mortal heart, whose faintest throb thrills all the fibres of my body? Who will set free the immortal heart which is within it, like the germ of a fruit, preparing for itself a celestial body? I cannot, I must not write all, but this, indeed, I will write: The Lord seeks to ensnare me, to entrap me! When I shall have fallen, He will deride me! Why did it happen that I wrote the Latin quotation about those who live and do penance between the Dead Sea and the desert, “Sine pecunia, sine ulla femina, omni venere abdicata socia palmarum,” on that piece of paper, which on the other side bore words from J. D., words still hot concerning my past sin and hers, words reminding me of the most terrible moments? How did a person so timid dare to force a secret communication upon me?

The wind has blown my window open. Oh! Anio, Anio! will you never tire of your commanding? I must start now, at once? Impossible, the doors are locked. Moreover, it would be shame to leave thus. I should be dishonouring God; they would say “what ungrateful, what mad servants has the Lord!” Come, spirit of my master, come, come! Speak to me; I will listen. What have you to say to me? What have you to say to me? Ah! you smile at my tempest; you tell me to leave, yes, but to leave honourably, to announce that the Lord Himself commands my departure. You tell me to obey the voice of God in the Anio. Now the wind is ceasing; as if satisfied, it seems to be growing quiet. Yes, yes, yes, with tears! To-morrow, to-morrow morning! I will announce it. And I know to whom I shall go in Rome. Oh! light, oh! peace, oh! springs burst forth again in my soul: oh! dead sea, swelling with a wave of warmth! Yes, yes, yes, with tears! I return thanks! I return thanks! Glory be to Thee, our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come: Thy will be done!

an ended by saying she did not remember anything more. She would go and fetch something to drink, something to refresh their throats and her memory. Che! Nonsense! They had not come to drink, and they told her so, rudely. Two railway men, sitting at a table under the neighbouring pergola, were annoyed by this cross-examination. One of them called the hostess, and said to her, in a loud voice:

“What is it they want to know? I myself saw the man they are after. He left this morning at eight o’clock, with a girl, by the Pisa line.”

The crowd turned to him, questioning him now, and he swore, angrily, that he was telling the truth. Their Saint had started at eight o’clock, in a second-class carriage, with a handsome fair girl, who was very well known! Then the people slowly slunk away. When they were all gone, a policeman in plain clothes approached the railway man, and, in his turn, asked him if he were quite sure of what he had said.

“I?” the man replied. “Sure? Curse them! I know nothing about it, but I have quieted them, anyway; and they may go to the devil for all I care, the silly fools! Now they will run as far as Civitavecchia at least, and may the sea swallow them and their Saint too!”

“But then, where has he gone?” the hostess exclaimed.

“Go and look for him in the cellar,” the man answered. “The flask is empty, and we are still thirsty.”

II. “If you go on like this,” Carlino exclaimed, hearing Jeanne order her maid to bring her hat, gloves, and fur, “if you leave me alone all day long, I swear to you we will return to Villa Diedo. There, at least, you will not know where to go.” “I have arranged to send Chieco to you,” she said. “To-day at two he is to play for the Queen, and then he will come to you. Good-bye.”

And she went out without giving her brother time to reply. Her coupÉ was waiting for her. She gave the footman the address of the Under-Secretary of the Interior, and entered the carriage.

It was Saturday. For several days Jeanne had not slept and had eaten little. On Tuesday evening she had learned from Signora Albacina of the plot against Piero, and how her husband, the Under-Secretary of State, had been invited by the Minister to join him at the Ministry of the Interior, where an interview was to take place with this man so greatly feared and hated at the court of the Sovereign Pontiff, by that non-concessionist faction which wished to rule at the Vatican. She hastened to Noemi, got her to write the letter, and then telephoned to a young secretary, her friend and admirer, begging him to come to the Grand HÔtel. She charged him to find some one to deliver the letter, for it was probably too late to send it to Villa Mayda. She knew also, for Noemi had told her so, that Piero was feverish. She determined to send her carriage to wait for him at the door of the Ministry of the Interior, with the footman who had known Maironi at Villa Diedo. It was imprudent, but what did it matter? Nothing mattered save that dear life. The announcement of the death of Marchesa Nene had reached her that very evening by the last post. She wished Piero to have it immediately, that he might at once pray for the poor dead woman. It was strange, but nevertheless true, that she could merge herself in him, forget herself, her own incredulity, could feel that which he with his faith must feel and desire. That same night the footman gave her an account of his errand. He described Maironi as a ghost, a corpse. She was in despair. She knew of the conflict between Professor Mayda and his daughter-in-law, knew the Professor was often called away from Rome; she considered him a great surgeon, but not a great doctor; she believed that daring these absences the young lady would take no care of the sick man, would show him no attentions. And she also knew about the three days the Director-General had allowed him. Oh! it was not possible to leave Piero at Villa Mayda! He must be removed! A hiding-place must be found, where neither the police nor the carabinieri would be able to unearth him; where he would be well nursed, have every attention, and be in the hands of a skilful physician.

She did not think of consulting the Selvas. Neither did she communicate to Noemi her intention of sending the carriage to the Ministry of the Interior. It did occur to her to propose that they take Piero to their house, but the idea did not please her; the terms upon which Piero and Giovanni Selva stood were too well known for his house to be a safe hiding-place. Within this prudent consideration lurked a secret jealousy of Noemi, a jealousy of a special nature, neither violent nor burning, for Noemi did not love Piero with a love like hers, but perhaps—for this very reason—even more painful, because she understood that Piero might accept Noemi’s mystic sentiment; because she herself was incapable of such a sentiment, and because she had no just cause of complaint against her friend, no reason to reproach her, to give way to this feeling.

Another possible hiding-place occurred to her, the house of an elderly senator with whom she was acquainted, and who had been an intimate friend of her father’s. He was very religious, and full of affectionate admiration for Maironi. She held fast to this idea. But if she intended appealing to the Senator, asking of him no less a favour than to take into his house a sick man threatened with arrest, she must at least offer some explanation of her zeal. She did not figure among Piero’s disciples, and the Senator was in complete ignorance of the past. But he knew Noemi, for he was the old gentleman with the white hair and the red face who had been present at the meeting in Via della Vite, and Noemi and he often met in the “Catacombs.” Jeanne wrote to him at once, stating that she did so in the name of her friend Noemi, who did not dare to come forward. She described the state of Maironi’s health, and the circumstances which, for this reason, rendered it advisable to remove him from Villa Mayda; she did not, however, allude to the danger of arrest. She explained her friend’s request to him, and added that the invalid’s condition rendered the matter most urgent. Should the Senator consent, she begged him to give the bearer of her note his card, with a word or two of invitation for Maironi. She ended by asking him to grant her an interview at the Senate sometime during the day, and by requesting him, in the meantime, not to mention the matter to any one. Then she wrote to Noemi, informing her of what she had done in her name, and charging her to persuade her brother-in-law—in case the Senator sent his card—to take a carriage and carry the invitation to Villa Mayda at once. He must persuade Maironi to accept the offer, and the Professor to allow him to go, laying before them the political reasons for taking this step. When she had written these two letters she had an attack of prostration, with symptoms of such a serious nature that the maid was alarmed. She did not, however, call Carlino, for Jeanne found strength to forbid this absolutely, but she sent for the doctor without telling her mistress she had done so. The doctor himself was alarmed. During his visits to Carlino he had noticed that she was highly strung, but he had never before seen her in such a condition. She was livid, perfectly stiff, and unable to speak. The attack lasted until six o’clock in the morning, the first sign of improvement being when Jeanne inquired what time it was. The maid, accustomed to these attacks whispered to the doctor: “It is passing,” and then said aloud:

“Six o’clock, Signora.”

The words seemed to have a miraculous effect. Jeanne, whom they had placed on the bed without undressing her, sat up, rather dazed it is true, but quite mistress of her limbs and her voice. She inquired for Carlino immediately and anxiously. Carlino was asleep; he had not heard anything, and knew nothing of the attack. She breathed more freely, and said to the doctor, with a smile:

“Now I shall drive you away.”

She was not satisfied until the doctor had departed. Then the maid prepared to undress her, whereupon Jeanne first called her a stupid, and then apologised almost tearfully.

“Oh!” said the girl. “You wish to send off those letters first! Yes, yes, do send them off, those horrid letters which did you so much harm!”

Jeanne gave her a kiss. The girl adored her, and she herself was fond of her, treating her sometimes like a dear, silly little sister.

She sealed the two letters, sent the maid to call the footman, and gave him his instructions. He was to take a cab and drive to senator——‘s house, 40 Via della Polveriera, present the letter addressed to the Senator, and wait for an answer. If they told him there was no answer he was to return to the Grand HÔtel and report; but if the Senator gave him a note, he was to take it to Casa Selva, in Via Arenula, with the other letter. An hour later the servant returned, and reported that he had executed the orders. Two hours later a note from the Senator announced to Jeanne that Benedetto was already at his house. Later on in the forenoon Noemi came. Jeanne was sleeping at last. Noemi waited for her to awake, and then told her that her brother-in-law had gone to Villa Mayda without delay. He had not found the Professor, who had left for Naples the night before at half-past twelve. Maironi had accepted the Senator’s invitation at once. Knowing her temperament, Giovanni had judged it wiser not to let young Signora Mayda know what was going on. He had found Maironi very weak, not feverish, however, so he felt sure the drive from the Aventine to Via della Polveriera had not harmed him. Besides, that kind gardener, his eyes full of tears, had wrapped him up warmly in a heavy blanket. Perhaps Jeanne was mistaken, but it seemed to her that although Noemi displayed much interest in speaking of Piero, much consideration for Jeanne’s feelings, she spoke to her in a tone differing from her former tone; as a friend who has not changed her language, but whose heart has become estranged. Had she perhaps wished Piero to go to Casa Selva? Probably.

Ever since that Wednesday morning she had been constantly rushing about. At Palazza Madama they smiled at a certain much respected colleague with white hair and a red face, who received daily visits in the sala dei telegrammi from a lady, both handsome and fashionable. From the Senate Jeanne would rush to the Grand HÔtel to give Carlino his medicine; from the Grand HÔtel she would hasten to Via Arenula to give or receive news, or to Via Tre Pile to see the Senator’s doctor, who was attending Piero. Errands in the daytime, and tears at night! Tears of anguish for him who was being wasted by a hidden incurable disease, and again consumed by fever after four-and-twenty hours of perfect freedom from it. Other tears also, other bitter tears for the accusations which had been spread among Piero’s friends and disciples, and which not all of them had rejected. Noemi told her these things. The accusations concerning the presumed love affairs of Piero at Jenne were not credited, but on the other hand there were many who believed he had secret relations with a married woman in Rome, with whose name, however, no one was acquainted. It was not believed that these relations were of the guilty nature implied by the slanderers. The most faithful—and they were few in number, did not even credit the existence of an ideal bond. Once when Noemi was relating to Jeanne certain defections, certain acts of coldness, she suddenly burst into tears. Jeanne shuddered and frowned; but presently she saw in her friend’s eyes a look so full of despair, of supplication, that, passing from angry jealousy to an impulse of unheard of affection, she opened her arms to her, and clasped her to her heart. This had happened on the Friday evening the last of the three days by the end of which Maironi was to leave Rome. Towards noon on Saturday Jeanne received a note from Signora Albacina. The wife of the Under-Secretary of State was expecting Jeanne at her own home at two o’clock. It was in consequence of this invitation that Jeanne drove away shortly before two, regardless of Carlino’s protests.

As soon as the carriage had started Jeanne raised her veil and took the note from her muff, bending her lovely pale face over it, gazing at it, but not reading it or studying the sense, clear and simple enough, of the words it contained. She was wondering what Signora Albacina could have to tell her; imagining all sorts of impossible things. Had they decided to leave Maironi alone? Or had the police discovered his dwelling-place and were they about to arrest him?

“It will surely be the worst!” Jeanne said to herself. “Ah, Dio!”

And, forgetting herself for a moment, she raised her muff to her face, and pressed it to her forehead. Ah, perhaps not! Perhaps not! Raising her head quickly she looked out to see if any one had noticed her. The carriage was moving rapidly, silently, on its rubber tires. She returned to her conjectures, losing herself in them to such an extent that she did not notice that the carriage had stopped until the footman opened the door.

Signora Albacina met her on the stairs, ready to go out. Jeanne must come with her at once. At once? And where were they to go? Yes, at once, at once, and in Jeanne’s carriage, because Signora Albacina could not have her own at the present moment. She herself gave the address to the coachman, an address with which Jeanne was not familiar. She would explain on the way. The carriage started off once more.

Ah! Signora Albacina had forgotten her visiting-cards! She stopped the carriage, but, looking at her watch, saw they would lose too much time. Drive on! Jeanne was trembling with impatience. Well? Well? Where were they going? Ecco! They were going to see Cardinal——! Jeanne shuddered. To see Cardinal——? This Cardinal had the reputation of being one of the fiercest non-concessionists. Signora Albacina really must see him, and a quarter of an hour later she might not find him. Ah, what a complicated affair! She could not explain everything in a few words. The object of the visit was, of course, still that for which Donna Rosetta Albacina had laboured for three days, her ostensible reason for so doing being the interest she took in the ideas and the person of the Saint of Jenne; her real reason being the pleasure she took in managing an intrigue, without scruples of conscience. She had taken a fancy to Jeanne at Vena di Fonte Alta, but knew nothing of her past. She suspected her of being in love with the Saint, but believed hers to be a mystic love, born on hearing him speak in the “Catacombs” of Via della Vite. She was convinced that Jeanne had had a hand in his disappearance from Villa Mayda, that she knew his hiding-place, and did not wish to disclose it, having promised secrecy to his friends. But Jeanne had little confidence in the lady, who seemed to her frivolous, and who was—this she could not forget—the wife of a powerful enemy, and she had repeatedly assured her that she did not know. Jeanne’s want of confidence offended her a little because really she, Donna Rosetta, wife of an Excellency, was risking much; but after all her vanity was staked on this game, in which the winnings were the permanent freedom of the Saint of Jenne in Rome, and she was determined to go on with it.

A truly complicated affair then! In the meantime, up to Friday night the police had not discovered the Saint’s place of refuge. Ah, yes! they believed he was in Rome. Here Donna Rosetta paused, hoping Jeanne would speak. Not a word. She admitted, continuing her discourse, that her husband might have some suspicion of the intrigue which she was concealing from him, that, perhaps, he was not perfectly sincere with her. This, however, was not likely. When her husband was not speaking quite sincerely to her, she, Donna Rosetta, could feel it in the air. As to that, she understood the others also. Donna Rosetta was for once mistaken concerning her husband. Ever since Wednesday night they had known at Palazzo Braschi where Maironi was, but he would not tell her so, for the Under-Secretary of State had still less confidence in his wife than Jeanne herself.

But the most important news came from the Vatican. The Pope had been informed of what had taken place in Via della Marmorata, and His Holiness was much irritated against the Government, for they had given him to understand that the Government had lent itself, in this matter, to the hatred of the Freemasons against a man esteemed by the Pope himself. There was disunion among those about the Pope. The more fanatical of the non-concessionists, opponents of the Cardinal Secretary of State, warmly supported the nomination to the archepiscopal see of Turin, so displeasing to the Quirinal, and disapproved of the secret intrigues with the Italian Government. According to their leader, who was the very eminent personage Donna Rosetta now proposed calling upon, other measures should be adopted to liberate the Holy Father from the pestiferous influence of a rationalist varnished over with mysticism. These things Donna Rosetta had learned from the AbbÉ Marinier, who smiled knowingly about them in her salon. It was inconceivable how many poisonous accusations were being sown broadcast with the greatest cunning by the non-concessionists all united against this poor devil of a mystical rationalist, at whom the AbbÉ smiled no less than at his enemies!

There was news also from the Ministry of the Interior. What news? Donna Rosetta was about to answer when the carriage stopped before a large convent, The Cardinal lived here. Donna Rosetta alighted alone. Jeanne’s presence was not necessary at this interview; indeed, it would be inopportune. It would be necessary somewhere else. Jeanne waited in the carriage, distressed at not having as yet discovered the object of this visit, in spite of Donna Rosetta’s flow of words. Five minutes, ten minutes, passed. Jeanne drew herself up out of the corner where she had leaned, absorbed in her thoughts. She watched the entrance to the convent to see if Donna Rosetta were not coming. Rare wayfarers, passing slowly along the quiet street, looked into the carriage. It seemed to Jeanne almost an offence that there were people who could be so calm. Ah, God! The doctor had promised to send her a bulletin to the Grand HÔtel at seven o’clock. It was not yet three. More than four hours to wait. And what would the bulletin say? She bit her lips, stifling a sob in her throat. Ah! here is Donna Rosetta at last. The footman opens the door, she gives him an order:

“Palazzo Braschi!” As she enters the carriage she casts a little book at her feet, and, instead of speaking, rubs her lips vehemently with her perfumed handkerchief. Finally she says, with a shudder, that she was obliged to kiss the Cardinal’s hand, and that it was anything but clean. But at any rate the visit was successful. Ah, if her husband only knew! She had played a really horrible part. The Cardinal was the very one who had once met Giovanni Selva in the library of Santa Scolastica at Subiaco, and had assailed him, telling him he was a profaner of the sacred walls, and promising him that he would most certainly go to hell, or even further down! Donna Rosetta had fanned his fire, in order to break up the secret accord between the Vatican and Palazzo Braschi. She had told him that the religious haute of Turin much desired the man chosen by the Vatican, and obnoxious to the Quirinal. The wily Cardinal—whom she had once met in the salon of a French prelate—had at first answered only, with that accent of his, neither French nor Italian:

“C’est vous qui me dites Ça? C’est vous qui me dites Ça?”

In fact, Donna Rosetta had replied, laughing:

“Oh c’est Énorme, je le sais!”

It was a speech which might cost her husband his title of Excellency. But then “the most eminent one” had as good as promised her that the desires of the Turin haute should be satisfied.

“Ce sera lui, ce sera lui!” Finally he had said to her:

“Comment donc, madame, avez-vous ÉpousÉ un francmaÇon? Un des pires, aussi! Un des pires! Faites lui lire cela!”

And he had given her a little book on the doctrines of hell and the inevitable damnation of Freemasons. It was this little book she had cast at her feet on entering the carriage.

“Fancy my husband reading that rubbish!” she said.

But what was all this to Jeanne? Jeanne was impatient to hear the news from the Ministry of the Interior. And now, whom were they going to see? The Minister, or the Under-Secretary of State?

They were going to see the Under-Secretary of State, going to see Donna Rosetta’s husband. Up to the present moment Donna Rosetta had kept silent concerning the purpose and object of this visit, in order that Jeanne might not have time to draw back or to prepare herself too carefully. The Right Honourable Albacina was aware of his wife’s friendship for Signora Dessalle as well as of Signora Dessalle’s friendship for the Selvas, who in their turn were so devoted to Maironi. He had told his wife that he wished to speak with this lady, for reasons of his own, which he did not intend to reveal. He should expect her at the Ministry of the Interior soon after three o’clock. She, his wife, might come with her if she liked, but she could not be present at the interview. Jeanne’s first movement on hearing this was an exclamation of refusal. Donna Rosetta, however, had little difficulty in persuading her to change her mind. She could not tell what projects her husband had in his mind, she did not know; but in her opinion it would be madness not to go, not to listen, because there could be no danger, and Jeanne need not commit herself in any way. Jeanne yielded, although the silence Signora Albacina had maintained up to the last moment in a matter of such importance made her tremble. She felt like an invalid to whom after much frivolous talk the visit of a celebrated surgeon is announced, who is coming to examine the patient.

“I would not advise you to go alone,” Signora Albacina concluded, smiling. “The ushers saw many things in the times of certain ministers and their deputies! But I am going with you, and I am well known at the Ministry of the Interior! Besides, the things that used to happen do not happen now!”

The Right Honourable Albacina was with the Minister. A deputy, who had just been requested to enter, recognised Donna Rosetta, and offered to announce her to her husband. He had only a word or two to say, and would come out at once. Indeed, in about five minutes the deputy reappeared with Albacina, who begged Jeanne to enter the Minister’s room with him. The two ladies had not expected this, and Donna Rosetta asked her husband if it were not he himself who wished to speak with Jeanne. His Excellency did not allow himself to be disturbed for so little; he dismissed his wife in a summary manner, and hurried Signora Dessalle, taken by surprise, into the Minister’s presence. When he presented her to his superior, she was embarrassed and almost angry.

The Minister received her with the most respectful courtesy, with the manner of a stern man, who honours woman, but keeps her at a distance. He had known the banker Dessalle, Jeanne’s father, and immediately spoke of him:

“A man,” he said, “who had much gold in his coffers, but the purest gold of all in his conscience!” He added that the memory of this man had encouraged him to speak with her about a very delicate matter. When he had spoken those words, or rather while he was speaking them, Jeanne felt sure that this man knew the past. She could not refrain from glancing stealthily at the Under-Secretary. She read the same knowledge in his eyes, but the Under-Secretary’s expression troubled her and irritated her, while the Minister’s gaze seemed to open a paternal heart to her. The Minister introduced the topic by speaking of Giovanni Selva, whom he freely praised. He expressed regret that he had no personal acquaintance with him. He said he was aware that Jeanne was a friend of the Selvas. He must beg her to persuade her friends to undertake a most important mission to another person. And then he spoke of Maironi, always careful to place the Selvas between Maironi and Jeanne, and careful to avoid allusion to any possible direct communication between them. Jeanne listened, striving to pay close attention to his words, to prepare a prudent and pertinent answer, and ever conscious of the discomfort the presence of this little Mephistopheles of an Albacina caused her. The Minister’s discourse did not prove to be what she had expected; more favourable perhaps, but more embarrassing. He told her he was not speaking as the Minister, but as a friend; that he did not wish to hide things from her; that certain shadows had had absolutely no substance; that neither ministers, nor magistrates, nor police-agents, had any right to interfere with Signor Maironi, who was perfectly free to do as he liked, and had nothing to fear from the laws of his country. He was, he said, convinced of the inanity of certain accusations which had been brought against him out of religious animosity. He felt much sympathy for Signor Maironi’s religious views, and much esteem for his proposed apostolate, but Signor Selva must really convince him of the wisdom of leaving Rome for some time at least, and this in the interest of his apostolate itself; for his religious antagonists in Rome were waging war against him so violently, dealing him such slanderous blows, that very soon he must inevitably find himself entirely without disciples. Here the Minister, thinking to please Jeanne, assured her of his own interest in religion. What a tragic illusion! she thought, bitterly. He trusted that in the near future Signor Maironi would be able to exert his influence freely in a very high place; there were many signs of an imminent transformation, of an imminent misfortune to befall the non-concessionists; but, for the moment, it would be more prudent for him to disappear. This was the friendly but pressing advice which they desired to convey to him through his distinguished friend. Would Signora Dessalle consent to speak to that distinguished friend?

Jeanne trembled. Could she trust him? Would she be revealing things which perhaps these two did not know, and were trying to find out from her? Involuntarily she glanced at the Undersecretary, and her eyes spoke so plainly that he could not avoid taking a decisive step.

“Signora,” he said, with his habitual sarcastic smile, “I see that you do not want rue here. My presence is not necessary, and I will go, in obedience to your wish; it is a just wish, and one easily explained.”

Jeanne blushed, and he noticed it, and was pleased at having succeeded in wounding her by the covert allusion contained in his last words, and, above all, in his malicious smile.

“Nevertheless,” he added, still smiling in the same way, “I cannot leave without assuring you, on my honour, that my wife is a most loyal friend to you; that she has never uttered an indiscreet word to me concerning you, as I myself have never been guilty of indiscretion when discussing the same subject with my wife.”

Having thus taken his revenge, the little man departed, leaving Jeanne greatly agitated. Good God! Did they really intend to oblige her to speak to Piero? Did they suppose she saw him? Did these men also believe that Piero’s saintliness was a lie? By an effort she composed herself, seeking help in the Minister’s grave, sad, and respectful gaze.

“I will speak to Signor Giovanni” she said. “But I believe,” she added hesitatingly, “that Signor Maironi is ill, and not able to travel.”

When she uttered Maironi’s name flames rushed to her face. She felt them far hotter than they appeared, but the Minister noticed them, and came to her aid.

“Perhaps, Signora,” he said, “you fear to compromise your friends the Selvas. Do not fear this. I once more repeat that Signor Maironi has nothing to fear from any quarter, and I will add that we know all about him. We know he is in Rome, that he is staying—but only for a few hours longer—in the house of a senator in Via della Polveriera. We know he is ill, but that he is able to travel. You may even tell Signor Selva that, if he desire it, I will request my colleague, the Minister of Public Works, to place a reserved compartment at Signor Maironi’s service.”

Jeanne, trembling violently, was about to interrupt him, to exclaim, “Only for a few hours longer?” but, controlling herself with difficulty, she took leave of the Minister, anxious to hasten to the Senate, to know!

As he accompanied her to the door the Minister said:

“Perhaps Signor Selva is unaware that the Senator is expecting visitors, relations I believe, and so will not be able to keep Signor Maironi any longer. He much regrets this. What a fine man he is! We are old friends.”

Jeanne shuddered, fearing to have guessed the truth. They had been scheming to oblige the Senator to send Piero away; they were indeed pushing him out of Rome! But was it possible the Senator had allowed himself to be persuaded? To drive out an invalid in his condition! She entered her coupÉ and drove to Palazza Madama, where she inquired for the Senator. He was not there. The usher who gave her this answer appeared rather embarrassed. Was he acting under orders? Not daring to insist, she left her card, with a request that the Senator would call at the Grand HÔtel before dinner. She herself started for the Grand HÔtel, her heart quivering and groaning, the point of her shoe beating upon the little book against Freemasonry, which Donna Rosetta had forgotten. She would have liked the two sorrels to fly. It was a quarter to five, and at half-past four it was daily her duty to prepare Carlino’s medicine.

III.

Half an hour before she reached the Grand HÔtel Giovanni and Maria Selva arrived there. Young di LeynÌ arrived at the same time. He also had come to inquire for Signora Dessalle, and expressed his satisfaction at this meeting; but he was far from cheerful.

Upon learning that Signora Dessalle was out, the three visitors asked to be allowed to wait for her in the parlour. The Selvas seemed even less cheerful than di LeynÌ.

After a brief silence Maria observed that it was already a quarter past four, therefore Jeanne would not be long, for every day at half-past four she was engaged with her brother. Di LeynÌ begged that they would present him to her on her arrival. He had a message for her, but was not acquainted with her. The message, indeed, concerned all of Benedetto’s friends, therefore concerned the Selvas also. Maria trembled.

“A message from him?” she asked eagerly. “A message from Benedetto?”

Di LeynÌ looked at her, astonished at her eagerness, and hesitated slightly before answering. No, it was not from Benedetto, but it concerned him. As Signora Dessalle might come in at any moment, and as the matter was rather lengthy, rather complicated, he judged it as well not to begin discussing it until she arrived. Then he inquired, innocently, how this Signora Dessalle had come to take such an interest in Benedetto’s fate. She had never been seen at the meetings in Via della Vite, and he had never even heard her name mentioned.

“But what makes you think she does take an interest in his fate?” said Maria.

“Because, you see,” di Leyni answered, “I have a message for her which is about him.”

Di Leyni, whose devotion to Benedetto was boundless, had never credited the scandalous rumours which had been spread concerning him; he had repulsed them with passionate indignation. He would not admit that his master could harbour either a guilty or an ideal love. In asking that question, he could have had no idea that a relation of a shameful nature had existed between Jeanne and Benedetto. Giovanni changed the subject by remarking that Signora Dessalle might not come in for some time, and that, therefore, di Leyni had better speak.

Di Leyni spoke.

He had been to see Benedetto. On reaching Via della Polveriera from San Pietro in Vincoli, he had recognised two policemen in plain clothes, who were walking up and down. He might have been mistaken, or this might have happened by chance. At any rate it was something to take note of. As soon as he entered the house the Senator had sent to beg him to come into his study. There, speaking with much affability but with manifest embarrassment, he had told him that he was glad to see a friend of his dear guest’s at that special moment; that Benedetto was fortunately free from fever, and, in his opinion, on the road to recovery. A telegram, he said, had just announced to him that his old sister was to arrive very shortly, that his apartment contained only one bedroom besides his own and the one occupied by the servant; that he could not possibly send his sister to an hotel, neither could he telegraph her to delay her visit, for she had already started; therefore—

The Senator had allowed di LeynÌ to complete the sentence for himself. Di LeynÌ who, with a few other faithful ones, was aware of the secret plots against Benedetto, was amazed. What should he answer? That the Senator alone was master in his own house? That was, perhaps, the only answer possible. Di LeynÌ had ventured, with much circumspection, to express his fear that a move might prove fatal to the sick man. The Senator was convinced of the contrary. He believed a change of air would greatly benefit him. He had not as yet been able to consult the doctor, but he had no doubt of this. He suggested Sorrento. As di LeynÌ did not know what to say, and did not move, the Senator had dismissed him, begging him to go, in his name, to the Grand HÔtel, and see Signora Dessalle, at whose request he had received Benedetto into his house, and desire her to arrange matters, for his sister would arrive that same evening before eleven o’clock.

Then di LeynÌ had gone in to see Benedetto. Good God! in what a state he had found him! Without fever, perhaps, but with the appearance of a dying man.

The young man’s eyes were full of tears as he told of it. Benedetto did not know he would be obliged to leave. He had spoken of it to him as of something not yet certain but possible. Benedetto had looked at him in silence, as if to read in his soul, and then had questioned, with a smile: “Must I go to prison?” Then di LeynÌ repented of not having at once told the whole truth to a man so strong and serene in God, and he repeated to him all the Senator had said.

“He took my hand,” the young man continued, his voice broken with emotion, “and while he held it and caressed it, he said these precise words: ‘I will not leave Rome. Do you wish me to come and die in your house?’ I was so deeply moved that I had not the strength to answer, for indeed I am not sure that he is not really in danger of arrest; perhaps this incredible act of the Senator’s may be a pretext to prevent the arrest taking place in his house. And how could he be carried to another place of safety, with the police watching for him? I embraced him, murmured a few meaningless words, and hastened away; hastened here to speak to this Signora Dessalle. Perhaps she will come and persuade the Senator.”

The Selvas had often interrupted di Leyni with exclamations of surprise and indignation. When he had finished his recital, they were speechless and amazed. The first to break the silence was Signora Maria.

“If Jeanne would only come!” she said softly.

She made an imperceptible sign to her husband, and proposed that they both go and see if by any chance she had returned and they had not been informed. While they were crossing the Jardin d’Hiver she said she thought di Leyni should be told who Jeanne really was. Signora Dessalle had not yet returned. Giovanni took the young man aside, and spoke to him in a low tone. Maria, who was watching him, saw him tremble and turn pale, his eyes dilate; saw him, in his turn, speak, asking something. Jeanne Dessalle entered hurriedly, smiling.

The porter had given her a note from a doctor. It said:

“I do not expect to be able to come back. This morning he was without fever. Let us hope the attack may not return.”

Jeanne saw at once that there was no question of removing the patient. She embraced Maria and shook hands with Selva, who presented di Leyni. Then she apologised to them all because she was obliged to leave them for five minutes. Her brother was waiting for her. As soon as she had left the room, promising to return at once, di LeynÌ drew Selva aside once more. Maria saw the look of anxiety he had worn before reappear on his face, saw that he was asking many questions, and that her husband’s answers seemed to be calming him. At last she saw her husband place his hands on the young man’s shoulders, and say something to him, she believed she knew what; it was something secret, not yet known to Jeanne. She saw emotion and profound reverence in the young man’s eyes.

A waiter came to say that Signora Dessalle was waiting for them in her apartment. There was much movement in the hotel. The rustling of long skirts, the muffled beat of footsteps mingled on the carpets of the corridors; subdued foreign voices, gay, plaintive, flattering or indifferent, came and went; the lifts were being taken by storm. Each member of the little silent group experienced the same bitter sense of all this indifferent worldliness. Jeanne was in her salon next to Carlino’s room, where he was accompanying Chieco’s violoncello on the piano. She came forward to meet her friends with a smile that, combined with the music—antique Italian music, simple and peaceful—made their hearts ache. She seemed rather surprised to see di LeynÌ, from whom she had not expected a visit. She had really asked them to come up stairs that they might speak more freely, but she told them she had wished to offer them a little of Chieco’s music, and now he would not allow the door to remain open. However, one could hear very well with the door closed. Giovanni at once informed her that the Cavaliere di LeynÌ had a message for her from, the Senator.

“While you are speaking together we will listen to the music,” he said.

He and his wife stepped aside from Jeanne, who had turned pale, and who, in spite of her violent effort to do so, could not entirely conceal her impatience to hear this message. Di LeynÌ sat down beside her, and began to speak in a low tone.

The violoncello and the piano were jesting together on a pastoral theme, full of caresses and of simple and lively tenderness. Maria could not refrain from murmuring, “Dio! Poor woman!” and her husband could not refrain from following, on Jeanne’s face, the painful words her companion was speaking to the sound of this tender and lively music. He watched the young man’s face also, who, while speaking to the lady, often looked towards him as if to express his grief and to ask for advice. Jeanne listened to him, her eyes fixed on the ground. When he had finished she raised to the Selvas those great eyes of hers, so full of pitiful distress. She looked from one to the other saying mutely, involuntarily, “You know?” The sad eyes of both husband and wife replied, “Yes, we know!” There came a loud outburst of joyous music. Maria took advantage of this to murmur to her husband:

“Do you think he told her what he said about wishing to die in Rome?”

Her husband answered that it would be best for her to know, that he hoped he had told her. Jeanne let her gaze rest on the door whence came the sound of the music. She waited a moment, and then signed to the Selvas to approach. She said, her voice quite firm, that she felt the Senator should have informed them, that she did not understand why he had appealed to her. They must now arrange what was to be done.

The music ceased. They could hear Carlino and Chieco talking. Di LeynÌ, who occupied bachelor’s quarters on the Sant’ Onofrio hillside, offered them eagerly. But what about the warrant? What if they were only waiting to serve it until Benedetto should have left the Senator’s house?

Jeanne calmly denied the possibility of an arrest. The Selvas looked at her, full of admiration for that forced calm. For some time past Jeanne had suspected that they were acquainted with Benedetto’s real name. Was it then possible that Noemi (though, indeed, she had admonished her often enough) should never have allowed a word to escape her? A moment before, when they had exchanged those silent and sorrowful glances, the Selvas and Jeanne had understood one another, Giovanni and his wife saw that if Jeanne were thus heroically controlling herself it was not on their account, but on di LeynÌ’s account. And now, after Giovanni’s words, di LeynÌ himself knew everything! It seemed to them they had almost been guilty of treason.

They were convinced that Jeanne must have reasons of which they were ignorant for saying she did not believe in the possibility of an arrest. They remarked that Benedetto might now accept their proffered hospitality. Jeanne was quick to remind them that Benedetto himself had expressed a desire, and that the Sant’ Onofrio hillside would seem more suitable than the Via Arenula as the residence of an invalid who needed quiet. Nevertheless, it was her opinion that they could not possibly allow him to be moved without the doctor’s express permission. All were of one mind on this point. The Selvas charged di LeynÌ to inform the Senator that Benedetto’s friends would find him another place of refuge, but only on condition that the physician in attendance gave a written permission to remove him. While Giovanni was talking, a noisy allegro burst from the piano in the next room, an allegro all sobs and cries. He ceased speaking, not wishing to raise his voice too high, and let the rush of sad music pass. And sad was the word which his eyes and the young man’s eyes uttered to each other, while their lips were silent.

Di LeynÌ had no time to lose, and so took his leave. He disliked going alone; he could have wished to appear before the Senator with some one of Benedetto’s friends whose presence would intimidate him a little, for his conduct was inexplicable.

Giovanni muttered something about the vice-presidency of the Senate, to which that old man aspired, and which he would not obtain. It is a bitter grief to discover such sordid motives where they are least expected! Maria rose and offered to accompany di LeynÌ.

“You will stay?” Jeanne asked Giovanni anxiously. Her tone said, “You must stay!” Selva said that he had, indeed, intended to remain, and the expression of his voice, of his face, was such as to acquaint Jeanne with the fact that sad words, not yet spoken, were weighing on his heart. Oh! thought Jeanne, what if Chieco should leave now, and Carlino call? Then it would not be possible for us to speak together! For she also had something to say to Selva. She must repeat the Minister’s discourse to him. The two musicians had once more ceased playing, and were talking. Jeanne knocked softly on the door, and blew a few gay words against it:

“Bravi! Have you finished already?”

“No, pretty one,” Chieco answered from the other side. “So much the worse for you if you are bored!”

He sent forth a fiendish whistle, fit to pierce a hole in the door. Jeanne clapped her hands. The piano and the violoncello attacked a solemn andante.

She turned to Selva, who was coming in again after having accompanied his wife into the corridor, in order to tell her to telegraph to Don Clemente. She went towards him with clasped hands, her eyes full of tears.

“Selva,” she murmured in a stifled voice, “you know everything now. I cannot hide my feelings from you. Is there something worse? Tell me the truth.”

Selva took her hands and pressed them in silence, while the violoncello answered for him, bitterly and sadly: “Weep, weep, for there is no fate like thy fate of love and of grief.” He pressed the poor icy hands, unable to speak. He saw clearly di LeynÌ had not dared to repeat the terrible words to her—“I will come and die in your house.” It was his lot to deal her the first blow.

“My dear,” he said, gently and paternally, “did he not tell you at the Sacro Speco that he would call you to him in a solemn hour? The hour is come, he calls you.”

Jeanne started violently. She did not believe she had heard aright.

“Oh, how is this? No!” she exclaimed.

Then, as Selva continued silent, with the same pity in his eyes, a flash shot through her heart. “Ah!” she cried, and her whole being went out in mute and agonized questioning. Selva pressed her hands still harder, his tightly closed lips twitched, and a suppressed sob wrung his breast. She said never a word, but would have fallen had not his hands upheld her. He supported her, and then led her to a seat,

“At once?” she said. “At once? Is it imminent?”

“No. No. He wishes to see you to-morrow. He believes it will be to-morrow, but he may be mistaken. Let us hope he is mistaken,”

“My God, Selva! But the doctor writes that he has no fever!”

Selva made the gesture of one who is obliged to admit the presence of a misfortune without understanding it. The music was silent, he spoke in subdued tones. Benedetto had written to him. The doctor had found him free from fever, but he himself foresaw a fresh attack, after which the end would come. God was granting him the blessing of a sweet and peaceful respite. He had a favour to ask of Selva. He was aware that Signora Dessalle, a friend of Signorina Noemi’s, was in Rome. He had promised this lady, before an alter at the Sacro Speco, to call her to him before his death, that they might speak together. Probably Signorina Noemi would be able to explain the reason of this to him.

Selva paused; he had the letter in his pocket, and began searching for it. Jeanne saw his movement, and was seized with convulsive shuddering. “No, no,” said he. “I repeat he may be mistaken.”

He waited for her to become calm, and then, instead of taking the letter from his pocket, he repeated the last part of it by heart:

“The attack will return this evening or in the night; to-morrow night, or the day after to-morrow in the morning, the end will come. I wish to see Signora Dessalle to-morrow, to speak a word to her in the name of the Lord, to whom I am going. I asked the Senator, a few moments ago, to arrange this meeting for me, but he found excuses for not doing so. Therefore I appeal to you.”

Jeanne had covered her face with her hands and was speechless. Selva thought it best to say something hopeful. Perhaps the attack would not return; perhaps the fever was checked. She shook her head violently, and he did not dare to insist. Suddenly she fancied she heard Chieco saying good-bye. She shuddered, and removed her hands from her face, which was ghostly, under her disordered hair. But, instead, the first gay notes of the Curricolo Napoletano burst forth; that was the piece Chieco always played last. She started to her feet, and spoke convulsively, tearlessly.

“Selva, I know Piero is dying, I know he is not mistaken. If possible make him stay where he is. Bring his friends to him—swear to me that you will bring his friends to him, that he may have that comfort! Tell them about me, all about me; tell them the truth. Tell them how pure, how holy Piero really is! I will wait here, I will not stir. When he calls me I will come, as you shall direct me. I am strong. See, I am no longer crying! Telegraph to Don Clemente that his disciple is dying, and that he must come. Let us do all we can. It is late. Go now. You, in one way or another, will see Piero to-night. Tell him——”

At this point a spasm of grief checked her words. Chieco came in, whistling, and beating one hand against the other in his own peculiar fashion, Selva slipped out through the door. Jeanne ran after him into the dark corridor. She seized one of his hands and pressed a wild kiss upon it.

---

A few hours later, towards ten o’clock, Jeanne was reading the Figaro to Carlino, who was—buried in an easy-chair, his legs enveloped in a rug, a large cup of milk, which he was holding with both hands, resting upon his knee. Jeanne read so badly, was so heedless of commas and of full-stops, that her brother was continually interrupting her, and was growing impatient. She had been reading about five minutes when her maid entered and announced that Signorina Noemi was there. Jeanne threw the paper aside, and was out of the room in a flash. Noemi related hurriedly, standing the while—for she was anxious to leave again on account of the lateness of the hour—that while Giovanni and Maria were at the Grand HÔtel, Professor Mayda, just back from Naples, had come to their house, perfectly furious, and demanding an explanation of Benedetto’s disappearance from his house. Then she had told him everything, and Mayda had gone directly to Via della Polveriera. There he had found Maria, di LeynÌ, the Senator, and the doctor, whose opinion was that Benedetto could be moved. A discussion had arisen between Mayda and the doctor on this point, to which Mayda had finally put an end by saying: “Well, rather than leave him here, I will carry him away again myself!” In an hour’s time he was back again with a carriage full of pillows and rugs, and had indeed carried him off. It seemed the journey had been accomplished successfully.

When she had heard the story, Jeanne embraced her friend in silence, clasping her close. And her friend, trembling and full of tears, whispered to her:

“Listen, Jeanne! Will you pray for tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied.

She was silent, struggling against a rising tempest of tears. When she had conquered it she went on, in a low tone:

“I do not know how to pray to God. Do you know to whom I pray? To Don Giuseppe Flores.”

Noemi buried her face on Jeanne’s shoulder, and said in a stifled voice: “How I wish that, afterwards, he might see us working together for his faith.”

Jeanne did not answer, and Noemi went away.

---

Jeanne returned to Carlino to continue the reading, but he received her roughly. He declared he was tired of this sort of life, and that she was to prepare to leave with him to-morrow for Naples, Jeanne replied that this was folly, and that she would not leave. Then Carlino fired up, caught, her wrists, and shook her so that he really hurt her. She must absolutely go! Now that she tried to resist, the moment had come to tell her that he was acquainted with the reasons of her windings and twistings, of her mysteries, her red eyes, her bad reading, and also of her not wishing to leave Rome. He had been informed of these things by anonymous letters. Woe to her if she did not break with that madman! Woe to her if she sacrificed her convictions to him, if she allowed herself to be won over to superstition, to bigotry, to the religion of the priests! He would never look on her face again. He would disown her as a sister, he who wished to live and die a free-thinker. No, no, she must break, break! They would go to Naples, to Palermo, to Africa if necessary!

“A free-thinker? Certainly. And what about my liberty?” Jeanne said without anger, simply reminding him of a right, but without the intention of taking advantage of it. Carlino thought, on the contrary, that she intended taking advantage of it in the way he feared, and lost his head completely. Jeanne grew faint as she listened to the abuse which this man poured forth with so much bitterness, this man whom she had known to be nervous, but had believed to be good and kind. She spoke no word in reply, but withdrew to her own room, trembling violently. She wrote him a few lines telling him that her dignity would not permit her to remain with him unless he apologised for his insults; that she was going away, and that if he wished to send her a word, he would find her at Casa Selva. She took only a small bag with her, and, leaving the letter on the writing-desk, went out accompanied by her maid.

She could not see any cabs near the hotel, so she started towards the Esedro intending to take the tram there. The west wind was blowing. The evergreen oaks along the avenue were writhing and groaning. It was dark, and hard walking on the uneven soil. The frightened maid exclaimed:

“Gesummaria, Signora! Where are we going?”

Jeanne, her head aflame, her heart and her pulse in a tumult, went on without answering. It seemed to her she was being borne through the darkness towards him, on the tide of an unknown sea.

Towards him, towards him. Towards his God also? The mighty wind confused her, roaring above and around her. Noemi’s words, Carlino’s words were rending her soul in a violent struggle. Towards his God also? Ah! how could she tell? In the meantime, towards him!