A few hours later, towards ten o’clock, Jeanne was reading the Figaro to Carlino, who was—buried in an easy-chair, his legs enveloped in a rug, a large cup of milk, which he was holding with both hands, resting upon his knee. Jeanne read so badly, was so heedless of commas and of full-stops, that her brother was continually interrupting her, and was growing impatient. She had been reading about five minutes when her maid entered and announced that Signorina Noemi was there. Jeanne threw the paper aside, and was out of the room in a flash. Noemi related hurriedly, standing the while—for she was anxious to leave again on account of the lateness of the hour—that while Giovanni and Maria were at the Grand Hôtel, Professor Mayda, just back from Naples, had come to their house, perfectly furious, and demanding an explanation of Benedetto’s disappearance from his house. Then she had told him everything, and Mayda had gone directly to Via della Polveriera. There he had found Maria, di Leynì, the Senator, and the doctor, whose opinion was that Benedetto could be moved. A discussion had arisen between Mayda and the doctor on this point, to which Mayda had finally put an end by saying: “Well, rather than leave him here, I will carry him away again myself!” In an hour’s time he was back again with a carriage full of pillows and rugs, and had indeed carried him off. It seemed the journey had been accomplished successfully.
When she had heard the story, Jeanne embraced her friend in silence, clasping her close. And her friend, trembling and full of tears, whispered to her:
“Listen, Jeanne! Will you pray for tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Jeanne replied.
She was silent, struggling against a rising tempest of tears. When she had conquered it she went on, in a low tone:
“I do not know how to pray to God. Do you know to whom I pray? To Don Giuseppe Flores.”
Noemi buried her face on Jeanne’s shoulder, and said in a stifled voice: “How I wish that, afterwards, he might see us working together for his faith.”
Jeanne did not answer, and Noemi went away.
Jeanne returned to Carlino to continue the reading, but he received her roughly. He declared he was tired of this sort of life, and that she was to prepare to leave with him to-morrow for Naples, Jeanne replied that this was folly, and that she would not leave. Then Carlino fired up, caught, her wrists, and shook her so that he really hurt her. She must absolutely go! Now that she tried to resist, the moment had come to tell her that he was acquainted with the reasons of her windings and twistings, of her mysteries, her red eyes, her bad reading, and also of her not wishing to leave Rome. He had been informed of these things by anonymous letters. Woe to her if she did not break with that madman! Woe to her if she sacrificed her convictions to him, if she allowed herself to be won over to superstition, to bigotry, to the religion of the priests! He would never look on her face again. He would disown her as a sister, he who wished to live and die a free-thinker. No, no, she must break, break! They would go to Naples, to Palermo, to Africa if necessary!