“Oh, in the Pope he sees and venerates the office alone,” said the Professor. “At least, I believe so. I have never heard him speak of the man, but I have heard him speak of the office. He made it the subject of a magnificent discourse one evening, comparing Catholicism and Protestantism, and exposing his ideal of the government of the Church: a principality and just liberty. As to the new Pope, little is known of him as yet. He is said to be saintly, intelligent, sickly, and weak.”
While accompanying the ladies down the dark stairs to their carriage, the Professor remarked:
“What is greatly feared is that Benedetto will not live. Mayda at least fears this.”
Signora Albacina, who was descending the stairs leaning on the Professor’s arm, exclaimed, without pausing:
“Oh! poor fellow! What is the matter with him?” “Ma! Who can say?” the Professor replied. “Some incurable disease, it would seem, the consequence of typhoid fever, which he had at Subiaco, but above all, of the life of hardship he led, a life of penance and fasting.”
And they continued their long descent in silence.
It was only on reaching the foot of the stairs that they perceived their companion had remained behind. The Professor hastily retraced his steps, and found Jeanne standing on the second landing, clinging to the banisters. At first she neither spoke nor moved; but presently she murmured:
“I cannot see!”
Guarnacci, not knowing, did not notice that moment of silence, or the low and uncertain tone of her voice. He offered her his arm, and led her down, apologising for the darkness, and explaining that the proprietor’s avarice was to blame for it. Jeanne entered Signora Albacina’s carriage, which was to take her to the Grand Hôtel. On the way Signora Albacina spoke with regret of what Guarnacci had just told her. Jeanne did not open her lips. Her silence troubled her friend.
“Were you not pleased with the discourse?” she said. She was in complete ignorance of Jeanne’s religious opinions.