the gesture of one who is obliged to admit the presence of a
misfortune without understanding it. The music was silent, he spoke in
subdued tones. Benedetto had written to him. The doctor had found him
free from fever, but he himself foresaw a fresh attack, after which
the end would come. God was granting him the blessing of a sweet and
peaceful respite. He had a favour to ask of Selva. He was aware that
Signora Dessalle, a friend of Signorina Noemi's, was in Rome. He had
promised this lady, before an alter at the Sacro Speco, to call her to
him before his death, that they might speak together. Probably Signorina
Noemi would be able to explain the reason of this to him.

Selva paused; he had the letter in his pocket, and began searching for
it. Jeanne saw his movement, and was seized with convulsive shuddering.
"No, no," said he. "I repeat he may be mistaken."

He waited for her to become calm, and then, instead of taking the letter
from his pocket, he repeated the last part of it by heart:

"The attack will return this evening or in the night; to-morrow night,
or the day after to-morrow in the morning, the end will come. I wish to
see Signora Dessalle to-morrow, to speak a word to her in the name of
the Lord, to whom I am going. I asked the Senator, a few moments ago,
to arrange this meeting for me, but he found excuses for not doing so.
Therefore I appeal to you."

Jeanne had covered her face with her hands and was speechless. Selva
thought it best to say something hopeful. Perhaps the attack would not
return; perhaps the fever was checked. She shook her head violently, and
he did not dare to insist. Suddenly she fancied she heard Chieco saying
good-bye. She shuddered, and removed her hands from her face, which was
ghostly, under her disordered hair. But, instead, the first gay notes of
the _Curricolo Napoletano_ burst forth; that was the piece Chieco
always played last. She started to her feet, and spoke convulsively,
tearlessly.

"Selva, I know Piero is dying, I know he is not mistaken. If possible
make him stay where he is. Bring his friends to him--swear to me that
you will bring his friends to him, that he may have that comfort! Tell
them about me, all about me; tell them the truth. Tell them how pure,
how holy Piero really is! I will wait here, I will not stir. When he
calls me I will come, as you shall direct me. I am strong. See, I am no
longer crying! Telegraph to Don Clemente that his disciple is dying,