A small band of workmen was coming towards Via della Marmorata, It
was about noon, and they had been at work on a house in course of
construction in Via Galvani. Seeing little groups of people standing
under the trees, other little groups at the doors, and people also at
the windows of the two last houses on the right and left, a workman, who
was following the others at a short distance, called out in a loud voice
to his companions:
“What a lot of fools for one knave!”
A big, bearded man, who was standing on the threshold of a small shop,
heard this, and, coming forward, accosted him threateningly.
“What’s that you say?”
The other stopped and stared at him, answering mockingly:
“Get out! Just what I please!”
The big man struck him a blow, and then the other workmen fell upon
the big man in defence of their comrade. Cries, oaths, the flashing of
knives, the shrieks of women from the windows, people rushing up from
the avenue, policemen and guards hurrying to the spot; in an instant the
whole street was in a black ferment, while the surging, howling mob was
pitching from right to left and from left to right, as if the street
were a ship in an angry sea. Two yards from the spot where the guards
and the workmen were struggling, it would have been difficult to
ascertain what had happened. The crowd was blind in its fury against
those who had insulted the Saint. Who these were they did not know; a
hundred discordant voices called for the blood of the big man, of the
workmen, of the guards, of one who had laughed, of one who had tried to
make peace, and of one who was using his elbows to work his way forward,
as well as of one who was trying to elbow his way out. The driver of
a tram on the San Paolo line, passing Via Galvani, saw the tumult,
and amused himself by calling out to a group of women, a hundred yards
beyond, that the Saint of Jenne had been discovered in Via Galvani. The
rumour ran along the avenues, full of chattering groups and isolated
onlookers, as fire along a trail of powder. The groups broke up, the
people rushed towards Via Galvani, questioning one another as they
ran. The isolated onlookers followed more slowly, more cautiously, and
presently saw many vexed faces returning. The Saint indeed! It was only
one of the usual false alarms. Some one saw people coming down in haste
from Sant’ Anselmo. Another report went round: they are from Villa
Mayda, they are sure to know! And people come from right and left, all
hastening towards the mouth of Via di Santa Sabina, as pigeons hasten
towards a handful of corn. The isolated onlookers follow, more slowly,
more cautiously. _Che_! Nonsense! At Villa Mayda nothing is known, and
they will not even answer any more questions, for they are exasperated
by the procession of people ringing the bell. A squad of _carabinieri_
comes upon the scene, and charges down Via Galvani in serried ranks.
Hisses are heard, and angry cries: “They know! They took him away!” “No”
shouts a woman who sells fruit, and who was one of a group on the corner
of Via Alessandro Volta. “It was a _delegato_! It was the police!”
The members of that group are less enraged with the _delegato_ and the
policemen than with the stupid bystanders, who might easily have thrown
_delegato_, policemen, cab, horse and driver into the river, and,
instead, had allowed themselves to be dispersed by a few words and a few
drops of water! The little old woman who had brought Benedetto to the
unfrocked monk was there also. They stop her as she is coming out of the
bakers’ shop, and now she is telling for the hundredth time the story of
the arrest, and crying, also for the hundredth time, as she tells of the
roses, of the pious words, and describes how very ill the Saint looked.
Her audience is moved also, and mumbles praises of the Saint. One
relates a miraculous cure he has effected, another tells of a second
cure; one mentions his way of speaking, which goes to the heart; another
praises his face, which is as good as a sermon; one speaks of his
poverty, and another tells of his charities, which are many, in spite of
his poverty. There they come from Via Galvani, _carabinieri_, policemen,
prisoners, and the crowd. One of the solitary onlookers, moved by
curiosity, approaches another spectator, and inquired what has occurred
in the district. The other is in complete ignorance. The two join
company, and question a citizen, who appears to have had enough of it;
to be about to leave. The citizen replies that up there at a villa near
Sant’ Anselmo lives a holy man, who is adored by the whole quarter,
because he visits the sick, healing many, and talking of religion better
than the priests themselves: so they call him “the Saint”; or rather,
“the Saint of Jenne,” because he performed many miracles in a town in
the hills, called Jenne. Why, even the newspapers talked of him! Last
night, while he was ministering to a poor sick man, the police carried
him off, no one knows why. It was reported that he had been set free
again, and had returned to the villa, where he was gardener, but at the
villa they deny that he is still there, and will give no explanation.
The people are excited, they want----
A tram was approaching. Some of the passengers made signs to the people,
who shouted and rushed towards the next stopping-place. The citizen
forsook his two questioners and also ran towards the spot, where a
crowd was rapidly gathering round the tram. The slow train of curious
spectators moved forward in the wake of the crowd; the two learned
that the tram had brought six citizens of the district, who--_motu
proprio_--had been to see the Chief of Police. The six alighted among
the crowd, which was impatient to hear, to know. They did not seem
happy, and answered the storm of questions by recommending the people to
be calm. They promised to speak presently, to tell all, but not there in
the open street. Many were already protesting, insults trembled on many
lips. He who appeared to be the leader of the six--a tobacconist--had
himself raised on the shoulders of his colleagues, and briefly harangued
the crowd.
“We have brought news,” he said. “We can assure you at once that the
Saint is not in prison.”
Applause burst forth, and cries of _viva_ and _bravo_.
“But we do not know exactly where he is,” the orator continued.
Howls and hisses! The orator was much dismayed, and, after a weak
attempt to speak, bent before the storm, and slid down from his living
rostrum. But another of the six, braver and more daring, climbed up and
retorted with violence. Then the howls and invectives were redoubled,
“They have fooled you!” the people shouted. “Idiots that you are! They
have put him in prison! In prison!” The cry spread; those at a distance
heard it, who had heard nothing else, and those who could hear neither
the cry nor anything else felt the dark, magnetic waves of wrath pierce
their breasts. Many howled “_Abbasso_! Down with him!” without knowing
whose fall they desired. And here are the _carabinieri’s_ big hats
again, and the policemen. In vain the six protest, shouting themselves
hoarse; the yells of “Down with him!” and “Death to him!” drown their
voices. A _delegato_ orders the bugler to sound the “disperse.” At the
third blast there is a general stampede. The deputation, led by the
tobacconist, flees also; but each member manages to drag after him in
his flight one or other of the less violent citizens, promising further
information, impossible to give in the open street, when they shall
have reached a fitting place. They take refuge in a yard, where building
material is stored, and which is surrounded by a wooden fence. Several
people follow them, filtering, one by one, through the opening in the
fence. Then the tobacconist, conscious that he hides in his breast
things fit to cause the downfall of the world, speaks, in the presence
of the pyramid of Caio Cestio, rising there indifferent, and waiting
for silence, for ruin, for the coming of the wild forests, when the
centuries shall have rolled away. The tobacconist speaks in measured
tones, surrounded by some thirty eager faces. He says the Saint of Jenne
Is certainly not in prison, that they do not know where he is, but that
they do, alas! know other things! Then he relates the other things! If
he had told them to the mob on leaving the tram, they would have torn
him to pieces. At the police-station they laugh at the Saint, and at
those who believe in him. They say he has a mistress, a very wealthy
lady; that he was examined by the Director-General of Police during the
night on some not over-pleasant matters, and that after the interview he
drove away from the ministry with his mistress, who was waiting for him
in a carriage.
“I would not believe this,” the tobacconist concluded, “but then--well,
now let him tell Ms story!”
One of the six, a man who kept a tavern at Santa Sabina, immediately
began to relate that his wife had heard a carriage stop near the tavern,
in the middle of the night; she had gone to the window, and had seen a
private carriage, with coachman and footman in tall hats. The footman,
standing at the carriage door, was helping some one to alight. The
person who got out had then walked past the window, going towards
Sant’ Anselmo, and she had recognised in him the Saint of Jenne. The
tavern-keeper added that he had not believed she had really recognised
him, for there was no moon, and it had rained until after eleven
o’clock, so the night must have been quite dark; therefore he had not
spoken. But when he had heard this story at the police-station, he had
been convinced. Besides, his wife could tell something more. She had
risen at six. Between seven and eight a cab had passed, going in the
direction of Sant’ Anselmo. Shortly afterwards the cab had returned, and
this time his wife had seen the Saint of Jenne inside it. She was ready
to swear to this.
At this point several of those present slipped out of the enclosure,
and hastened to whisper the news in the district. Thus it happened that
while the tobacconist, the tavern-keeper, and their friends were still
in the enclosure, people began to gather on the road to Santa Sabina,
and a large group started in the direction of the tavern, two policemen
following.
They entered the courtyard. The hostess was gossiping with a client,
under the pergola. They questioned her, and she related the story she
had told her husband. They cross-examined her, wishing to know this and
that, with many details. The woman 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!