If he had actually become a monk, Jeanne foresaw that he would regret
it. He was too sensual. The first period of sorrow and fervour passed,
his sensuality would reawaken, and lead him to rebel against a faith
that appeals rather to the sentiments and habits of youth than to the
intellect. But had he really become a monk? Jeanne imagined that the
colossal tower of Notre _Dame_, with its slender spire piercing the sky,
the gloomy walls of the Beguinage, the poor stagnant Lac d'Amour, and
even the solemn silence of the dead city, answered "Yes." But it would
be superstitious to hearken to their voices.
"Where are we going?" asked Jeanne, at ten o'clock, putting on her
gloves, while Carlino, who had given Noemi an end of his interminable
muffler to hold, the other being fastened behind his neck, revolved like
a spindle on its axis, until his neck was bigger in circumference than
his head. "And am I really to be the priest of ninety?"
Carlino was annoyed because Noemi laughed, and did not hold the scarf
tight enough.
"You or she, no matter which," he answered, when Noemi, having fastened
the muffler with a pin, at last set the swathed novelist at liberty.
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