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Updated: May 10, 2025
"Tell him we are the two ladies staying at Signor Selva's house," said Noemi. Don Clemente appeared, blushing in the virginal purity of his soul because Jeanne was unaware that he knew her story, as he might have blushed had he been committing some fraud. He mistook Noemi, who came forward first, for Signora Dessalle.
"Good morning, Padre," she said in her pretty voice, to which the foreign accent lent additional charm. "We met last night. You were just leaving Signor Selva's house." Don Clemente bent his head slightly. Noemi had really hardly had a glimpse of him, but she had been struck by his beauty, and had reflected that if he were Signor Maironi she could understand Jeanne's passion.
They may, perhaps, contain some bold opinions, but there is no comparison between the deep, burning piety of Selva's works and the cold and meagre formalism of certain other books, which are more often found in the hands of the clergy than the Gospels themselves. Holy Father, the condemnation of Selva would be a blow directed against the most active and vital energies of Catholicism.
I do not know you, and I cannot say if your brother-in-law's religious views, planted without preparation in you, would bear good fruit. But I advise you to study Catholicism carefully, with Signor Selva's help; for there is not one conscientious Protestant who knows it well." "You will not come to Subiaco?" Noemi inquired timidly.
They had said at the meeting at Signor Selva's house, "A saint is needed." The first to affirm this had been the Swiss Abbé. Others had said that the saint should be a layman. This was moreover his own opinion, and Benedetto's repugnance to a monastic life seemed to him providential. The coming of the woman seemed almost providential also, forcing him as it did to leave the convent.
The light was fading in Giovanni Selva's study, and on the little table covered with books and papers. Giovanni rose and opened the west window. The horizon was on fire behind Subiaco, along the oblique line of the Sabine hills, which stretch from Rocca di Canterano and Rocca di Mezzo to Rocca San Stefano.
The sun disappeared, and it began to rain again. Master and disciple descended to the church together, and there, kneeling side by side, they lingered in prayer. That was their only farewell. At nine o'clock Benedetto took the road to the Sacro Speco. He left the monastery unobserved, while Fra Antonio was confabulating with Giovanni Selva's messenger.
This Porretti walked on with me, and we spoke of the condemnation of Giovanni Selva's works which is expected from day to day, and which by the way has not yet been pronounced. Porretti told me there was a friend of Selva's in Rome at present who would be even more talked of than Selva himself. 'Who is he? I inquired. 'The Saint of Jenne, he replied, and proceeded to tell me the following story.
Giovanni had lent the young man books, and Don Clemente had been to Selva's house and made Maria's acquaintance.
Don Clemente replied that there had certainly been neither heretics nor schismatics at Signor Selva's house. They had talked of the Church, of her ills, and of possible remedies, but in the same spirit in which the Abbot himself might speak. "No, my son," the Abbot answered. "It is not for me to reflect upon the ills of the Church, or upon possible remedies.
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