“What blessing?” the sufferer inquired.
“That you weep with me!”
Having spoken these words, Benedetto drew away from the embrace, but his gaze lingered affectionately on the old man, who stared at him in astonishment as if asking the question: “You know all?” Benedetto silently and gently bowed his head in assent.
The man had no suspicion that the story of his past life was known. He had lived here three years. A neighbour, older than he, a poor little hunchbacked woman, very charitable and pious, rendered him many services, tended him in illness, and managed to assist him out of the pension of two lire a day which was all she possessed. She had learned from the concierge that the man was an unfrocked monk, and seeing how sad, humble, and grateful he was, she prayed night and morning to the Madonna and to all the Saints of Paradise, that they might intercede with Jesus on his behalf, that this man might be pardoned and brought back into the fold of the Church. She told her hopes and her fears to other pious old women, saying:
“I myself do not dare to pray to Jesus for him; that unhappy man has committed too great a sin against Him. He needs the prayers of some powerful personage!”
That day the old man had said to her several times that he would be so happy if he could have a few roses. Then the little hunchback had thought:
“There is the holy man of whom every one is talking,—he works as a gardener. I will go to him and tell him the whole story. I will ask him to bring some roses, and who knows what may come of it!” Such were her thoughts, but at once she said to herself:
“If that thought did not come to me from the Madonna, it certainly came from St. Anthony!”
In her simple, pure heart she had felt a wave of sweetness and joy. Without losing any time she had started for Villa Mayda, the elegant Pompeian villa, standing out white on the Aventine, among the beautiful palms, almost opposite the window of the old unfrocked monk. Benedetto was about to go to bed, in obedience to the orders of the Professor, who had found him feverish. It was the low, insidious fever which, for several weeks, had been consuming his strength without otherwise causing any suffering. When he had heard what the cripple had to tell, he had come at once with the roses.