The Saint Part 12

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 ma.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 anaemia, and was subject to attacks of terrible weakness. Giovanni was silent, but he was not convinced. If this were really so, how could Noemi a.s.sert 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 pa.s.sed 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?"