“A message from him?” she asked eagerly. “A message from Benedetto?”
Di Leynì looked at her, astonished at her eagerness, and hesitated slightly before answering. No, it was not from Benedetto, but it concerned him. As Signora Dessalle might come in at any moment, and as the matter was rather lengthy, rather complicated, he judged it as well not to begin discussing it until she arrived. Then he inquired, innocently, how this Signora Dessalle had come to take such an interest in Benedetto’s fate. She had never been seen at the meetings in Via della Vite, and he had never even heard her name mentioned.
“But what makes you think she does take an interest in his fate?” said Maria.
“Because, you see,” di Leyni answered, “I have a message for her which is about him.”
Di Leyni, whose devotion to Benedetto was boundless, had never credited the scandalous rumours which had been spread concerning him; he had repulsed them with passionate indignation. He would not admit that his master could harbour either a guilty or an ideal love. In asking that question, he could have had no idea that a relation of a shameful nature had existed between Jeanne and Benedetto. Giovanni changed the subject by remarking that Signora Dessalle might not come in for some time, and that, therefore, di Leyni had better speak.
Di Leyni spoke.
He had been to see Benedetto. On reaching Via della Polveriera from San Pietro in Vincoli, he had recognised two policemen in plain clothes, who were walking up and down. He might have been mistaken, or this might have happened by chance. At any rate it was something to take note of. As soon as he entered the house the Senator had sent to beg him to come into his study. There, speaking with much affability but with manifest embarrassment, he had told him that he was glad to see a friend of his dear guest’s at that special moment; that Benedetto was fortunately free from fever, and, in his opinion, on the road to recovery. A telegram, he said, had just announced to him that his old sister was to arrive very shortly, that his apartment contained only one bedroom besides his own and the one occupied by the servant; that he could not possibly send his sister to an hotel, neither could he telegraph her to delay her visit, for she had already started; therefore—
The Senator had allowed di Leynì to complete the sentence for himself. Di Leynì who, with a few other faithful ones, was aware of the secret plots against Benedetto, was amazed. What should he answer? That the Senator alone was master in his own house? That was, perhaps, the only answer possible. Di Leynì had ventured, with much circumspection, to express his fear that a move might prove fatal to the sick man. The Senator was convinced of the contrary. He believed a change of air would greatly benefit him. He had not as yet been able to consult the doctor, but he had no doubt of this. He suggested Sorrento. As di Leynì did not know what to say, and did not move, the Senator had dismissed him, begging him to go, in his name, to the Grand Hôtel, and see Signora Dessalle, at whose request he had received Benedetto into his house, and desire her to arrange matters, for his sister would arrive that same evening before eleven o’clock.
Then di Leynì had gone in to see Benedetto. Good God! in what a state he had found him! Without fever, perhaps, but with the appearance of a dying man.
The young man’s eyes were full of tears as he told of it. Benedetto did not know he would be obliged to leave. He had spoken of it to him as of something not yet certain but possible. Benedetto had looked at him in silence, as if to read in his soul, and then had questioned, with a smile: “Must I go to prison?” Then di Leynì repented of not having at once told the whole truth to a man so strong and serene in God, and he repeated to him all the Senator had said.