“No,” Jeanne burst out, sweeping away doubt and conjecture. “No, it is not he, it is not possible. He was never a musician.”
“No, no, it is not he, it is not,” Noemi hastened to reassure her, speaking under her breath, for Carlino was approaching. He came, praised their acting, and expressed a desire that they should move on slowly among the trees.
In the shadow of the trees Jeanne complained almost indignantly, that her friend had waited until then to make such a disclosure; she ought to have spoken sooner, and at home. And once more she protested that this Benedictine monk could not be Maironi, because Maironi had never been a musician. Noemi tried to justify herself. She had intended to speak on her return from the Hospital of St. John, from the visit to Memling, but Jeanne had been so sad! Still she would have spoken had Carlino not come in. And now while they had been walking she had not known how to parry Jeanne’s questions. If, when they were standing near the Hôtel de Flandre, Jeanne had not returned to the subject, she would not have referred to it again; and she, Noemi, would not have made her disclosure until they reached home.
“And your sister really believes?” said Jeanne.
Well, Maria was in doubt. It would seem that Giovanni was the more certain. Giovanni was sure; at least Maria said so in her letter. At receiving this reply Jeanne flared up. How could he be sure? what did he know about it? Maironi could not play a single chord on the piano. Good grounds for certainty indeed! Noemi observed submissively that he might have learned in three years; that the monks had their reasons for training brothers to play the organ.
“Then you believe it too?” exclaimed Jeanne. Noemi stammered “I do not know” so hesitatingly that Jeanne, in great agitation, declared she must leave at once for Subiaco, that she must know the truth. She had already promised Maria Selva to bring her sister back. She would find some means of persuading Carlino to start immediately. Noemi was frightened. For her own peace of mind, as well as for Don Clemente’s, her brother-in-law would not wish Jeanne Dessalle to return to Subiaco. It was Noemi’s mission to convince her of the propriety of such a renunciation. Selva was restored to health, and had himself offered to come and meet his sister-in-law, would even come to Belgium, were it necessary. She now tried to oppose the idea of immediate departure; but only succeeded in irritating Jeanne, who repeatedly protested that the Selvas were mistaken, but was unable to give any other reason for her violent resistance. Carlino, having caught a sharp “That is enough” uttered by his sister, drew nearer. Were they quarrelling, the priest and the girl? Now, when the mystical tenderness ought to begin? “Do leave us alone,” said Noemi. “By this time your old priest of ninety would be dead ten times over of fatigue. Don’t give us any more orders. I will lead the way. I know Bruges better than you, and you keep a hundred paces behind.” Carlino could find nothing to say but “Oh, oh—oh, oh—oh, oh!” and Noemi carried Jeanne off with her, following the railing of the little cemetery of Saint-Sauveur. It seemed the right moment for her final revelation.
“I really believe Giovanni is right, you know,” said she. “This Don Clemente comes from Brescia.”
Jeanne, overcome by an excess of misery, threw her arms round her friend’s neck and burst into tears. Noemi, dismayed, implored her to calm herself.
“For God’s sake, Jeanne!”
Between her sobs, she asked Noemi whether Carlino knew. Oh, no, but what would he think now?