“A free-thinker? Certainly. And what about my liberty?” Jeanne said without anger, simply reminding him of a right, but without the intention of taking advantage of it. Carlino thought, on the contrary, that she intended taking advantage of it in the way he feared, and lost his head completely. Jeanne grew faint as she listened to the abuse which this man poured forth with so much bitterness, this man whom she had known to be nervous, but had believed to be good and kind. She spoke no word in reply, but withdrew to her own room, trembling violently. She wrote him a few lines telling him that her dignity would not permit her to remain with him unless he apologised for his insults; that she was going away, and that if he wished to send her a word, he would find her at Casa Selva. She took only a small bag with her, and, leaving the letter on the writing-desk, went out accompanied by her maid.
She could not see any cabs near the hotel, so she started towards the Esedro intending to take the tram there. The west wind was blowing. The evergreen oaks along the avenue were writhing and groaning. It was dark, and hard walking on the uneven soil. The frightened maid exclaimed:
“Gesummaria, Signora! Where are we going?”
Jeanne, her head aflame, her heart and her pulse in a tumult, went on without answering. It seemed to her she was being borne through the darkness towards him, on the tide of an unknown sea.
Towards him, towards him. Towards his God also? The mighty wind confused her, roaring above and around her. Noemi’s words, Carlino’s words were rending her soul in a violent struggle. Towards his God also? Ah! how could she tell? In the meantime, towards him!
CHAPTER IX. IN THE WHIRLWIND OF GOD
I. At two o’clock on the following day Jeanne, with Maria and Noemi, was waiting at Casa Selva for news from Villa Mayda, her thoughts dwelling, from time to time, on the persistent silence at the Grand Hôtel. Giovanni had gone to Villa Mayda before seven o’clock. He had returned at nine. He had not been able to see Benedetto. Professor Mayda would not allow him or any one else to enter. He knew that the sick man had received the Sacraments, but more as an act of devotion than because he was in immediate danger. However, in the night a trace of fever had reappeared. It was hoped the attack might be conquered or checked. Perhaps, in making this report to Jeanne, Giovanni had slightly coloured it with optimism. Benedetto was in the Professor’s own room. Giovanni said it would not be possible to describe how full of exquisite, womanly tenderness were the attentions lavished upon him by this terrible Mayda, who was believed by many to be harsh and proud. Giovanni had gone back again after lunch about mid-day. From Carlino nothing had come, neither a written word, nor a message. Notwithstanding her other great sorrow, Jeanne could not help thinking of him also. What if his grief, his anger, had really made him ill? Her friends reassured her. Either the maid or the footman would have come to tell her. She had little confidence in the intelligence of these servants. What was to be done? Jeanne was about to beg that some one might be sent to inquire, when, at a quarter-past two, hurried steps were heard in the hall, and Giovanni entered, in his great-coat, his hat in his hand. Jeanne glanced at his face, and understood that the moment was come. She rose, as white as death. Silently and immediately Maria and Noemi rose also, Maria watching Jeanne, while Noemi gazed at her brother-in-law, who, confronted by Jeanne’s ghostly face, could find no words. Five or six terrible seconds passed, but not more. Then Maria said, in a hushed voice:
“Are we to go?”
Her husband answered: