and
that he must come. Let us do all we can. It is late. Go now. You, in one
way or another, will see Piero to-night. Tell him----"

At this point a spasm of grief checked her words. Chieco came in,
whistling, and beating one hand against the other in his own peculiar
fashion, Selva slipped out through the door. Jeanne ran after him into
the dark corridor. She seized one of his hands and pressed a wild kiss
upon it.

* * * * *

A few hours later, towards ten o'clock, Jeanne was reading the Figaro to
Carlino, who was--buried in an easy-chair, his legs enveloped in a rug,
a large cup of milk, which he was holding with both hands, resting
upon his knee. Jeanne read so badly, was so heedless of commas and of
full-stops, that her brother was continually interrupting her, and was
growing impatient. She had been reading about five minutes when her maid
entered and announced that Signorina Noemi was there. Jeanne threw
the paper aside, and was out of the room in a flash. Noemi related
hurriedly, standing the while--for she was anxious to leave again on
account of the lateness of the hour--that while Giovanni and Maria were
at the Grand Hotel, Professor Mayda, just back from Naples, had come
to their house, perfectly furious, and demanding an explanation
of Benedetto's disappearance from his house. Then she had told him
everything, and Mayda had gone directly to Via della Polveriera. There
he had found Maria, di Leyni, the Senator, and the doctor, whose opinion
was that Benedetto could be moved. A discussion had arisen between Mayda
and the doctor on this point, to which Mayda had finally put an end by
saying: "Well, rather than leave him here, I will carry him away again
myself!" In an hour's time he was back again with a carriage full of
pillows and rugs, and had indeed carried him off. It seemed the journey
had been accomplished successfully.

When she had heard the story, Jeanne embraced her friend in silence,
clasping her close. And her friend, trembling and full of tears,
whispered to her:

"Listen, Jeanne! Will you pray for tomorrow?"

"Yes," Jeanne replied.

She was silent, struggling against a rising tempest of tears. When she
had conquered it she went on, in a low tone:

"I do not know how to pray to God. Do you know to whom I pray? To Don
Giuseppe Flores."

Noemi buried her face on Jeanne's shoulder, and said in a stifled voice:
"How I wish that, afterwards, he might see us w