And he told her about a Protestant Englishman, who was in love with St. Benedict, and made long stays at Subiaco, frequently visiting Santa Scolastica and the Sacro Speco.
“He has a most beautiful soul,” he said.
But Noemi wished to return to the first subject; to know if—urged by a spirit of penitence—any one ever came from the world to serve in the cloister without wearing the habit. She received no answer, for Don Clemente, seeing a colossal monk enter the cloister, begged to be excused one minute, and went to speak to him, returning presently with his majestic companion, whom he introduced as Don Leone, a guide far superior to himself, both as to the amount and the depths of his knowledge. Then, to her great chagrin, he himself withdrew.
When she was alone Jeanne had another attack of violent palpitation. Dio! how the past came back to her! How Praglia came back! And to think that he came and went through that entrance, through those cloisters, who knows how many times a day; that he must often think of Praglia, of that hour fixed by fate, of that water spilled, of the ecstasy, the tightly clasped hands, under cover of the fur cloak, on the way home. To think he was now free, and she also was free! How feverish she felt, how feverish!
Fra Antonio, who had at first been terrified at finding this breathless woman left there on his hands, was presently amazed by the rapid words and questions with which she suddenly assailed him.—Was there not a kitchen-garden near the monastery?—Yes, very near, on the west side; there was only a narrow lane intervening.—And who cultivated it?—A kitchen-gardener.—Young? Old? From Subiaco? A stranger?—Old. From Subiaco.—And no one else?—Yes, Benedetto.—Benedetto? Who was Benedetto?—A young man from the Padre foresterario’s native town.—And what was the Padre foresterario’s native town?—Brescia.—And this young man was called Benedetto?—Every one called him Benedetto, but Fra Antonio could not say if that was his real name.—But what sort of man was he?—Ah! that Fra Antonio could say. He was almost more holy than the monks themselves. You could see by his face that he came of a good family, yet he was housed like a dog; he ate only bread, fruit, and herbs; he spent whole nights, in prayer probably, out on the mountains. He tilled the soil, and he also studied in the library with the Padre foresterario. And such a heart! Such a great heart! Many times he had given the scanty dole of food he received from the monastery to the poor.—And where could one find him at this hour?—Oh! surely in the garden; Fra Antonio fancied he would be busy sprinkling the grape vines with sulphate of copper.
Jeanne’s heart beats so violently that her sight becomes dim. She sits silent and motionless. Fra Antonio thinks she has forgotten Benedetto. “Ah! signora,” he says, “Santa Scolastica is a fine monastery, but you should see Praglia!” For Fra Antonio passed several years at Praglia in his youth, before the abbey was suppressed, and he speaks of it as of a venerable mother. “Ah! the church at Praglia! The cloisters! The hanging cloister, the refectory!” At these unexpected words Jeanne grows excited. They seem to say to her: “Go, go, go at once!” She starts from her chair.
“And this garden? In which direction is it?”
Fra Antonio, somewhat astonished, answered that it might be reached through the monastery, or by skirting the outside. Jeanne went out; absorbed in her burning thoughts she passed the gate, turned to the right, entered the gallery below the library, where she paused a moment, pressing her hands to her heart, and walked on again.
The herder belonging to the convent, standing at the entrance to the courtyard where the Ospizio, which shelters pilgrims, is located, pointed out the door of the garden on the opposite side of the narrow lane, running between two walls. She asked him if she would find a certain Benedetto in the garden. In spite of her efforts to control herself, her voice trembled in anticipation of an affirmative answer. The herder replied that he did not know, and offered to go and see. Knocking several times, he called: “Benedè! Benedè!”
A step at last! Jeanne was leaning against the door-post to keep herself from falling. O God! if it be Piero, what shall she say to him? The door opens; it is not Piero but an old man. Jeanne breathes freely again, glad for the moment. The old man looks at her, astonished, and says to the herder: