“No. No. He wishes to see you to-morrow. He believes it will be to-morrow, but he may be mistaken. Let us hope he is mistaken,”
“My God, Selva! But the doctor writes that he has no fever!”
Selva made the gesture of one who is obliged to admit the presence of a misfortune without understanding it. The music was silent, he spoke in subdued tones. Benedetto had written to him. The doctor had found him free from fever, but he himself foresaw a fresh attack, after which the end would come. God was granting him the blessing of a sweet and peaceful respite. He had a favour to ask of Selva. He was aware that Signora Dessalle, a friend of Signorina Noemi’s, was in Rome. He had promised this lady, before an alter at the Sacro Speco, to call her to him before his death, that they might speak together. Probably Signorina Noemi would be able to explain the reason of this to him.
Selva paused; he had the letter in his pocket, and began searching for it. Jeanne saw his movement, and was seized with convulsive shuddering. “No, no,” said he. “I repeat he may be mistaken.”
He waited for her to become calm, and then, instead of taking the letter from his pocket, he repeated the last part of it by heart:
“The attack will return this evening or in the night; to-morrow night, or the day after to-morrow in the morning, the end will come. I wish to see Signora Dessalle to-morrow, to speak a word to her in the name of the Lord, to whom I am going. I asked the Senator, a few moments ago, to arrange this meeting for me, but he found excuses for not doing so. Therefore I appeal to you.”
Jeanne had covered her face with her hands and was speechless. Selva thought it best to say something hopeful. Perhaps the attack would not return; perhaps the fever was checked. She shook her head violently, and he did not dare to insist. Suddenly she fancied she heard Chieco saying good-bye. She shuddered, and removed her hands from her face, which was ghostly, under her disordered hair. But, instead, the first gay notes of the Curricolo Napoletano burst forth; that was the piece Chieco always played last. She started to her feet, and spoke convulsively, tearlessly.
“Selva, I know Piero is dying, I know he is not mistaken. If possible make him stay where he is. Bring his friends to him—swear to me that you will bring his friends to him, that he may have that comfort! Tell them about me, all about me; tell them the truth. Tell them how pure, how holy Piero really is! I will wait here, I will not stir. When he calls me I will come, as you shall direct me. I am strong. See, I am no longer crying! Telegraph to Don Clemente that his disciple is dying, and that he must come. Let us do all we can. It is late. Go now. You, in one way or another, will see Piero to-night. Tell him——”
At this point a spasm of grief checked her words. Chieco came in, whistling, and beating one hand against the other in his own peculiar fashion, Selva slipped out through the door. Jeanne ran after him into the dark corridor. She seized one of his hands and pressed a wild kiss upon it.