was such as to acquaint Jeanne
with the fact that sad words, not yet spoken, were weighing on his
heart. Oh! thought Jeanne, what if Chieco should leave now, and Carlino
call? Then it would not be possible for us to speak together! For she
also had something to say to Selva. She must repeat the Minister's
discourse to him. The two musicians had once more ceased playing, and
were talking. Jeanne knocked softly on the door, and blew a few gay
words against it:

"_Bravi!_ Have you finished already?"

"No, pretty one," Chieco answered from the other side. "So much the
worse for you if you are bored!"

He sent forth a fiendish whistle, fit to pierce a hole in the door.
Jeanne clapped her hands. The piano and the violoncello attacked a
solemn _andante_.

She turned to Selva, who was coming in again after having accompanied
his wife into the corridor, in order to tell her to telegraph to Don
Clemente. She went towards him with clasped hands, her eyes full of
tears.

"Selva," she murmured in a stifled voice, "you know everything now. I
cannot hide my feelings from you. Is there something worse? Tell me the
truth."

Selva took her hands and pressed them in silence, while the violoncello
answered for him, bitterly and sadly: "Weep, weep, for there is no fate
like thy fate of love and of grief." He pressed the poor icy hands,
unable to speak. He saw clearly di Leyni had not dared to repeat the
terrible words to her--"I will come and die in your house." It was his
lot to deal her the first blow.

"My dear," he said, gently and paternally, "did he not tell you at the
Sacro Speco that he would call you to him in a solemn hour? The hour is
come, he calls you."

Jeanne started violently. She did not believe she had heard aright.

"Oh, how is this? No!" she exclaimed.

Then, as Selva continued silent, with the same pity in his eyes, a flash
shot through her heart. "Ah!" she cried, and her whole being went out in
mute and agonized questioning. Selva pressed her hands still harder, his
tightly closed lips twitched, and a suppressed sob wrung his breast. She
said never a word, but would have fallen had not his hands upheld her.
He supported her, and then led her to a seat,

"At once?" she said. "At once? Is it imminent?"

"No. No. He wishes to see you to-morrow. He believes it will be
to-morrow, but he may be mistaken. Let us hope he is mistaken,"

"My God, Selva! But the doctor writes that he has no fever!"

Selva made