They had now walked round the Lac d’Amour, and the two friends paused for some time on the other bridge. But no little window opened in the heavens. The great distant tower of the Halles, the enormous campanile of Notre Dame, a squat tower near the pond, the pointed roofs of the Béguinage stood outlined against the milky clouds, like a venerable assembly of old men. Carlino, not knowing what better to do, began discoursing in a loud voice on the most appropriate position for his window.
“What day is this?” Jeanne asked her friend under her breath.
“Saturday.”
“To-morrow I will speak to Carlino, Monday and Tuesday we will settle our affairs, Wednesday we will pack our boxes, and Thursday we will start. You can write to your sister that we shall be at Subiaco the week after next.”
“Don’t decide so suddenly. Think about it.”
“I have decided. I must know. If it is he, I will not be a hindrance in his path. But I wish to see him.” “We will talk it over again to morrow, Jeanne. Do not decide yet.”
“I have thought it over, and I have made up my mind.”
Midnight sounded from the great tower of the Halles. High up in the clouds rang out the long solemn melancholy song of the innumerable bells. Noemi, who had intended to have her own way, was silent, her heart full of despondency. It was as if those melancholy voices from the darkening sky were proclaiming her friend’s destiny; a destiny of love and suffering, which must be accomplished.