“Feel something different,” said the Italian rising. “You must know it well; you who have schooled your heart and mind with the care and watchfulness of a saint. Do you experience any diminution in the fervour or depth of your love to God, in your pious zeal?”
María waved her hand in negation. Then, turning her head towards Paoletti that he might hear her better, she said:
“And if I do not cast out—what you bid me cast out, will it delay my salvation?”
“Nay, angel of goodness! Never for an instant have I doubted of your salvation. What, can a soul so full of merits be lost? Never.—There is no need for you to tell me that these feelings which have come to agitate you are untainted by rancour, and will not prevent your full forgiveness of those by whom offences have come. Am I wrong?”
María shook her head.
“Then your salvation is sure. If I try to eradicate this insignificant weed it is only because I long to see so lovely a soul absolutely spotless—because I cannot be satisfied with a victory, but crave a triumph and long to see you wear the crown, not merely of virtue but of sanctity. What I desire,” he added enthusiastically, “is that you should rise to Heaven bathed in light and glory, hailed by rejoicing angels and that you should not look back from the everlasting threshold of star-sown sapphire, even to cast a glance of contempt at this world. What I desire to see in you, is absolute purity, the celestial essence of love!”
“All this I can have without being able to free myself from earthly griefs. If I can be saved as I am, God may take me as I am.”
Paoletti was silent; suddenly he said:
“My dear daughter, do you, with all your heart, forgive those who have sinned against you?”