“And tell him,” he added, “that I hope to speak in his heart again.”
His breathing was less laboured, but his voice was growing weaker, and his strength was going with the fever. Don Clemente took his wrist and held it for some time. Then he rose.
“Are you going for the habit?” Benedetto murmured, with a sweet smile. The Padre’s handsome face flushed. He quickly conquered the human sentiment which prompted him to prevaricate, and replied:
“Yes, caro, I think the hour is come.”
“What time is it?”
“Half-past five.”
“Do you think it will be at seven? At eight?”
“No, not so soon, but I want you to have this consolation at once.” In a small sitting-room at the villa, Giovanni Selva, after consulting his watch, said to his wife, “Go, now.”
It had been arranged that Maria and Noemi should accompany Jeanne to see Benedetto. Noemi stretched out her hands to her brother-in-law.
“Giovanni,” she said, trembling, “I have some news to give him concerning my soul. Do not be offended if I tell him first.”