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Updated: June 29, 2025
When they had proceeded a few paces she pressed her friend's arm very hard and exclaimed, much pleased, and as though she had made an unexpected discovery: "At any rate, I am still beautiful!" Noemi did not heed her. She was wondering if the name Dessalle had conveyed anything to the monk. Had Maironi ever mentioned it to him?
Yesterday a friend of Giovanni's came from Rome to see him; the famous Professor Mayda, Giovanni begged him to examine Maironi, and to advise him. He recommended some waters, which Maironi will certainly not take. I feel I know him well enough to be sure of that. However, during the last week he has improved rapidly. In the morning and evening he works a little in the kitchen-garden.
The person who wished to speak with Signor Maironi was a far more important functionary than the chief of police. "Perhaps I should not have told you that," he added, "but at any rate he himself will tell you so." Then he informed Benedetto that he had sought for him in vain at Villa Mayda, and said how vexed he would have been not to have found him soon.
At receiving this reply Jeanne flared up. How could he be sure? what did he know about it? Maironi could not play a single chord on the piano. Good grounds for certainty indeed! Noemi observed submissively that he might have learned in three years; that the monks had their reasons for training brothers to play the organ. "Then you believe it too?" exclaimed Jeanne.
This is what it says: That Piero Maironi, a man of the world, cultivated far beyond his kind, after having had a vehement love-affair is stricken with remorse, "experiences religion," becomes penitent, is filled with a strange zeal an ineffable comfort and devotes himself, body, heart, and soul to the worship of God and the succour of his fellow-men.
It was left with me, to be opened after his death, by Signor Piero Maironi, who was well known to you before his disappearance from the world. I know not if he be still alive or if he no longer be among the living, and I have no means of ascertaining.
Noemi perceived her friend among the olives, and stopped suddenly, greatly surprised. Jeanne in the garden? Was it possible that ? No, the old man beside her could not be Maironi, and there was no one else with her. She smiled and shook her finger at her.
A boy from Jenne, who passed near him in the field, ran to the town and reported excitedly that the Saint was lying dead on the grass, near the cross. Benedetto reflected, with that shade of cloudy reason which governs us when we sleep and when we first awake. These were not his clothes. They were Piero Maironi's clothes. He was still Piero Maironi.
I wrote you that perhaps he would spend the summer with us, for I know Maria and Giovanni wish it. I now have a presentiment that he will not stay, but will go to Rome. This, however, is only my impression; I have no positive knowledge. As to his wishing to convert me, I do not know whether it would be an easy task or not, or whether Maironi thinks anything about it.
You will notice that I call him Maironi in writing to you; in speaking to him I call him simply Benedetto, for that is his wish. I am sure Giovanni once thought of converting me. He found it so easy that he never speaks of it to me now. I should not think the same of Maironi.
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