The Saint Part 16

"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 pa.s.sion.

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 embarra.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sing 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 G.o.d, 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 blus.h.i.+ng, "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 feveris.h.!.+

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 a.s.sailed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 antic.i.p.ation of an affirmative answer.

The herder replied that he did not know, and offered to go and see.

Knocking several times, he called: "Benede! Benede!"

A step at last! Jeanne was leaning against the door-post to keep herself from falling. O G.o.d! 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 s.h.i.+vers 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 pa.s.sed, 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 G.o.d. 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 f.a.gots, and had fallen badly, and could not rise again with his burden.

"G.o.d 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.