Chapter V: Book IV: The Millipede (1)

“_Et je ne puis approuver que ceux qui cherchent en gémissant._”
--PASCAL, 3421.

I

Amédée Fleurissoire had left Pau with five hundred francs in his pocket. This, he thought, would certainly suffice him for his journey, notwithstanding the extra expenses, to which the Lodge’s wickedness would no doubt put him. And if, after all, this amount proved insufficient--if he found himself obliged to prolong his stay, he would have recourse to Blafaphas, who was keeping a small sum in reserve for him.

As no one at Pau was to know where he was going, he had not taken his ticket further than Marseilles. From Marseilles to Rome a third-class ticket cost only thirty-eight francs, forty centimes, and left him free to break his journey if he chose--an option of which he took advantage, to satisfy, not his curiosity for foreign parts, which had never been lively, but his desire for sleep, which was inordinately strong. There was nothing he feared so much as insomnia, and as it was important to the Church that he should arrive at Rome in good trim, he would not consider the two days’ delay or the additional expense of the hotel bills.... What was that in comparison to spending a night in the train?--a night that would certainly be sleepless, and particularly dangerous to health on account of the other travellers’ breaths; and then if one of them wanted to renew the air and took it into his head to open a window, that meant catching a cold for certain.... He would therefore spend the first night at Marseilles and the second at Genoa, in one of those hotels that are found in the neighbourhood of the station, and are comfortable without being over-grand.

For the rest he was amused by the journey and at making it by himself--at last! For, at the age of forty-seven, he had never lived but in a state of tutelage, escorted everywhere by his wife and his friend Blafaphas. Tucked up in his corner of the carriage, he sat with a faint goat-like smile on his face, wishing himself Godspeed. All went well as far as Marseilles.

On the second day he made a false start. Absorbed in the perusal of the Baedeker for Central Italy which he had just bought, he got into the wrong train and headed straight for Lyons; it was only at Arles that he noticed his mistake, just as the train was starting, so that he was obliged to go on to Tarascon and come back over the same ground for the second time; then he took an evening train as far as Toulon rather than spend another night at Marseilles, where he had been pestered with bugs.

And yet the room which looked on to the Cannebière had not been uninviting, nor the bed either, for that matter; he had got into it without misgivings, after having folded his clothes, done his accounts and said his prayers. He was dropping with sleep and went off at once.

The manners and customs of bugs are peculiar; they wait till the candle is out, and then, as soon as it is dark, sally forth--not at random; they make straight for the neck, the place of their predilection; sometimes they select the wrists; a few rare ones prefer the ankles. It is not exactly known for what reason they inject into the sleeper’s skin an exquisitely irritating oily substance, the virulence of which is intensified by the slightest rubbing....

The irritation which awoke Fleurissoire was so violent that he lit his candle again and hurried to the looking-glass to gaze at his lower jaw, where there appeared an irregular patch of red dotted with little white spots; but the smoky dip gave a bad light; the silver of the glass was tarnished and his eyes were blurred with sleep.... He went back to bed still rubbing and put out his light; five minutes later he lit it again, for the itching had become intolerable, sprang to the wash-hand-stand, wetted his handkerchief in his water jug and applied it to the inflamed zone, which had greatly extended and now reached as far as his collar-bone. Amédée thought he was going to be ill and offered up a prayer; then he put out his candle once more. The respite which the cool compress had granted him lasted too short a time to permit the sufferer to go to sleep; and there was added now to the agony of the itching, the discomfort of having the collar of his night-shirt drenched with water; he drenched it, too, with his tears. And suddenly he started with horror--bugs! it was bugs!... He was surprised that he had not thought of them sooner; but he knew the insect only by name, and how was it possible to imagine that a definite bite could result in this indefinable burning? He shot out of his bed and for the third time lit his candle.

Being of a nervous and theoretical disposition, his ideas about bugs, like many other people’s, were all wrong; cold with disgust, he began by searching for them on himself--found ne’er a one--thought he had made a mistake--again believed that he must be falling ill. There was nothing on his sheets either; but nevertheless, before getting into bed again, it occurred to him to lift up his bolster. He then saw three tiny blackish pastilles, which tucked themselves nimbly away into a fold of the sheet. It was they, sure enough!

Setting his candle on the bed, he tracked them down, opened out the fold and discovered five of them. Not daring to squash them with his finger-nail, he flung them in disgust into his chamber-pot and watered them copiously. He watched them struggling for a few moments--pleased and ferocious. It soothed his feelings. Then he got back into bed and blew out his candle.

The bites began again almost immediately with redoubled violence. There were new ones now on the back of his neck. He lighted his candle once more in a rage and took his night-shirt right off this time so as to examine the collar at his leisure. At last he perceived four or five minute light red specks running along the edge of the seam; he crushed them on the linen, where they left a stain of blood--horrid little creatures, so tiny that he could hardly believe that they were bugs already; but a little later, on raising his bolster again, he unearthed an enormous one--their mother for certain; at that, encouraged, excited, amused almost, he took off the bolster, undid the sheets and began a methodical search. He fancied now that he saw them everywhere, but as a matter of fact caught only four; he went back to bed and enjoyed an hour’s peace.

Then the burning and itching began again. Once more he started the hunt; then, worn out at last with disgust and fatigue, gave it up, and noticed that if he did not scratch, the itching subsided pretty quickly. At dawn the last of the creatures, presumably gorged, let him be. He was sleeping heavily when the waiter called him in time for his train.

* * * * *

At Toulon it was fleas.

He picked them up in the train, no doubt. All night long he scratched himself, turning from side to side without sleeping. He felt them creeping up and down his legs, tickling the small of his back, inoculating him with fever. As he had a sensitive skin, their bites rose in exuberant swellings, which he inflamed with unrestrained scratching. He lit his candle over and over again; he got up, took off his night-shirt and put it on again, without being able to kill a single one. He hardly caught a fleeting glimpse of them; they continually escaped him, and even when he succeeded in catching them, when he thought they were flattened dead beneath his finger-nail, they suddenly and instantaneously blew themselves out again and hopped away as safe and lively as ever. He was driven to regretting the bugs. His fury and exasperation of the useless chase effectually wrecked every possibility of sleep.

All next day the bites of the previous night itched horribly, while fresh creepings and ticklings showed him that he was still infested. The excessive heat considerably increased his discomfort. The carriage was packed to overflowing with workmen, who drank, smoked, spat, belched and ate such high-smelling victuals that more than once Fleurissoire thought he was going to be sick. And yet he did not dare leave the carriage before reaching the frontier, for fear that the workmen might see him get into another and imagine they were incommoding him; in the compartment into which he next got, there was a voluminous wet-nurse, who was changing her baby’s napkins. He tried nevertheless to sleep; but then his hat got in his way. It was one of those shallow, white straw hats with a black ribbon round it, of the kind commonly known as “sailor.” When Fleurissoire left it in its usual position, its stiff brim prevented him from leaning his head back against the partition of the carriage; if, in order to do this, he raised his hat a little, the partition bumped it forwards; when, on the contrary, he pressed his hat down behind, the brim was caught between the partition and the back of his neck, and the sailor rose up over his forehead like the lid of a valve. He decided at last to take it right off and to cover his head with his comforter, which he arranged to fall over his eyes so as to keep out the light. At any rate, he had taken precautions against the night; at Toulon that morning he had bought a box of insecticide and, even if he had to pay dear for it, he thought to himself that he would not hesitate to spend the night in one of the best hotels; for if he had no sleep that night, in what state of bodily wretchedness would he not be when he arrived at Rome?--at the mercy of the meanest freemason!

At Genoa he found the omnibuses of the principal hotels drawn up outside the station; he went straight up to one of the most comfortable-looking, without letting himself be intimidated by the haughtiness of the hotel servant, who seized hold of his miserable portmanteau; but Amédée refused to be parted from it; he would not allow it to be put on the roof of the carriage, but insisted that it should be placed next him--there--on the same seat. In the hall of the hotel the porter put him at his ease by talking French; then he let himself go and, not content with asking for “a very good room,” inquired the prices of those that were offered him, determined to find nothing to his liking for less than twelve francs.

The seventeen-franc room which he settled on after looking at several, was vast, clean, and elegant without ostentation; the bed stood out from the wall--a bright brass bed, which was certainly uninhabited, and to which his precautions would have been an insult. The washstand was concealed in a kind of enormous cupboard. Two large windows opened on to a garden; Amédée leant out into the night and gazed long at the indistinct mass of sombre foliage, letting the cool air calm his fever and invite him to sleep. From above the bed there hung down a cloudy veil of tulle, which exactly draped three sides of it, and which was looped up in a graceful festoon on the fourth by a few little cords, like those that take in the reefs of a sail. Fleurissoire recognised that this was what is known as a mosquito net--a device which he had always disdained to make use of.

After having washed, he stretched himself luxuriously in the cool sheets. He left the window open--not wide open, of course, for fear of cold in the head and ophthalmia, but with one side fixed in such a way as to prevent the night effluvia from striking him directly; did his accounts, said his prayers and put out the light. (This was electric and the current was cut off by turning down a switch.)

* * * * *

Fleurissoire was just going off to sleep when a faint humming reminded him that he had failed to take the precaution of putting out his light before opening his window; for light attracts mosquitoes. He remembered, too, that he had somewhere read praises of the Lord, who has bestowed on this winged insect a special musical instrument, designed to warn the sleeper the moment before he is going to be stung. Then he let down the impenetrable muslin barrier all round him. “After all,” thought he to himself as he was dropping off, “how much better this is than those little felt cones of dried hay, which old Blafaphas sells under the quaint name of ‘fidibus’; one lights them on a little metal saucer; as they burn they give out a quantity of narcotic fumes; but before they stupefy the mosquitoes, they half stifle the sleeper. Fidibus! What a funny name! Fidibus....” He was just going off, when suddenly a sharp sting on the left side of his nose awoke him. He put his hand to the place and as he was softly stroking the raised and burning flesh--another sting on his wrist. Then right against his ear there sounded the mock of an impertinent buzzing.... Horror! he had shut the enemy up within the citadel! He reached out to the switch and turned on the light.

Yes! the mosquito was there, settled high up on the net. Amédée was long-sighted and made him out distinctly; a creature that was wisp-like to absurdity, planted on four legs, with the other pair sticking out insolently behind him, long and curly; Amédée sat up on his bed. But how could he crush the insect against such flimsy, yielding material? No matter! He gave a hit with the palm of his hand, so hard and so quick that he thought he had burst a hole in the net. Not the shadow of a doubt but the mosquito was done for; he glanced down to look for its corpse; there was nothing--but he felt a fresh sting on the calf of his leg.

At that, in order to get as much as possible of his person into shelter, he crept between the sheets and stayed there perhaps a quarter of an hour, without daring to turn out the light; then, all the same, somewhat reassured at catching neither sight nor sound of the enemy, he switched it off. And instantly the music began again.

Then he put out one arm, keeping his hand close to his face, and from time to time when he thought he felt one well settled on his forehead or cheek, he would give himself a huge smack. But the second after, he heard the insect’s sing-song once more.

After this it occurred to him to wrap his head round with his comforter, which considerably interfered with the pleasure of his respiratory organs, and did not prevent him from being stung on the chin.

Then the mosquito, gorged, no doubt, lay low; at any rate, Amédée, vanquished by slumber, ceased to hear it; he had taken off his comforter and was tossing in a feverish sleep; he scratched as he slept. The next morning, his nose, which was by nature aquiline, looked like the nose of a drunkard; the spot on the calf of his leg was budding like a boil and the one on his chin had developed an appearance that was volcanic--he recommended it to the particular solicitude of the barber when, before leaving Genoa, he went to be shaved, so as to be respectable when he arrived in Rome.

II

At Rome, as he was lingering outside the station, so tired, so lost, so perplexed that he could not decide what to do, and had only just strength enough left to repel the advances of the hotel porters, Fleurissoire was lucky enough to come upon a facchino who spoke French. Baptistin was a native of Marseilles, a young man with bright eyes and a chin that was still smooth; he recognised a fellow-countryman in Fleurissoire, and offered to guide him and carry his portmanteau.

Fleurissoire had spent the long journey mugging up his Baedeker. A kind of instinct--a presentiment--an inward warning--turned his pious solicitude aside from the Vatican to concentrate it on the Castle of St. Angelo (in ancient days Hadrian’s Mausoleum), the celebrated jail which had sheltered so many illustrious prisoners of yore, and which, it seems, is connected with the Vatican by an underground passage.

He gazed upon the map. “That is where I must find a lodging,” he had decided, setting his forefinger on the Tordinona quay, opposite the Castle of St. Angelo. And by a providential coincidence, that was the very place where Baptistin proposed to take him; not, that is, exactly on the quay, which is in reality nothing but an embankment, but quite near it--Via dei Vecchierelli (of the little old men), which is the third street after the Ponte Umberto, and leads straight on to the river bank; he knew of a quiet house (from the windows of the third floor, by craning forward a little, one can see the Mausoleum) where there were some very obliging ladies, who talked every language, and one in particular who knew French.

“If the gentleman is tired, we can take a carriage; yes, it’s a long way.... Yes, the air is cooler this evening; it’s been raining; a little walk after a long railway journey does one good.... No, the portmanteau is not too heavy; I can easily carry it so far.... The gentleman’s first visit to Rome? He comes from Toulouse, perhaps?... No; from Pau. I ought to have recognised the accent.”

Thus chatting, they walked along. They took the Via Viminale; then the Via Agostino Depretis, which runs into the Viminale at the Pincio; then by way of the Via Nazionale they got into the Corso, which they crossed; after this their way lay through a number of little streets without any names. The portmanteau was not so heavy as to prevent the facchino from stepping out briskly; and Fleurissoire could hardly keep up with him. He trotted along beside Baptistin, dropping with fatigue and dripping with heat.

“Here we are!” said Baptistin at last, just as Amédée was going to beg for quarter.

The street, or rather the alley of the Vecchierelli, was dark and narrow--so much so that Fleurissoire hesitated to enter it. Baptistin, in the meantime, had gone into the second house on the right, the door of which was only a few yards from the quay; at the same moment, Fleurissoire saw a _bersagliere_ come out; the smart uniform which he had noticed at the frontier, reassured him--for he had confidence in the army. He advanced a few steps. A lady appeared on the threshold (the landlady of the inn apparently) and smiled at him affably. She wore an apron of black satin, bracelets, and a sky-blue silk ribbon round her neck; her jet-black hair was piled in an edifice on the top of her head and sat heavily on an enormous tortoise-shell comb.

“Your portmanteau has been carried up to the third floor,” said she to Amédée in French, using the intimate “thou,” which he imagined must be an Italian custom, or must else be set down to want of familiarity with the language.

“_Grazia!_” he replied, smiling in his turn. “_Grazia!_--thank you!”--the only Italian word he could say, and which he considered it polite to put into the feminine when he was talking to a lady.

He went upstairs, stopping to gather breath and courage at every landing, for he was worn out with fatigue, and the sordidness of the staircase contributed to sink his spirits still lower. The landings succeeded each other every ten steps; the stairs hesitated, tacked, made three several attempts before they managed to reach a floor. From the ceiling of the first landing hung a canary cage which could be seen from the street. On to the second landing a mangy cat had dragged a haddock skin, which she was preparing to bolt. On the third landing the door of the closet stood wide open and revealed to view the seat, and beside it a yellow earthenware vase, shaped like a top-hat, from whose cup protruded the stick of a small mop; on this landing Amédée refrained from stopping.

On the first floor a smoky gasolene lamp was hanging beside a large glass door, on which the word _Salone_ was written in frosted letters; but the room was dark, and Amédée could barely make out through the glass panes of the door a mirror in a gold frame hanging on the wall opposite.

He was just reaching the seventh landing, when another soldier--an artillery man this time--who had come out of a room on the second floor, bumped up against him; he was running downstairs very fast and, after setting Amédée on his feet again, passed on, muttering a laughing excuse in Italian, for Fleurissoire was stumbling from fatigue and looked as if he were drunk. The first uniform had reassured him, but the second made him uneasy.

“These soldiers are a noisy lot,” thought he. “Fortunately my room is on the third floor. I prefer to have them below me.”

He had no sooner passed the second floor than a woman in a gaping dressing-gown, with her hair undone, came running from the other end of the passage and hailed him.

“She takes me for someone else,” thought he, and hurried on, turning his eyes away so as not to embarrass her by noticing the scantiness of her attire.

He arrived panting on the third floor, where he found Baptistin; he was talking Italian to a woman of uncertain age, who reminded him extraordinarily--though she was not so fat--of the Blafaphas’ cook.

“Your portmanteau is in No. sixteen--the third door. Take care as you pass of the pail which is in the passage.”

“I put it outside because it was leaking,” explained the woman in French.

The door of No. sixteen was open; outside No. fifteen a tin slop-pail was standing in the middle of a shiny repugnant-looking puddle, which Fleurissoire stepped across. An acrid odour emanated from it. The portmanteau was placed in full view on a chair. As soon as he got inside the stuffy room, Amédée felt his head swim, and flinging his umbrella, his shawl and his hat on to the bed, he sank into an arm-chair. His forehead was streaming; he thought he was going to faint.

“This is Madame Carola, the lady who talks French,” said Baptistin.

They had both come into the room.

“Open the window a little,” sighed Fleurissoire, who was incapable of movement.

“Goodness! how hot he is!” said Madame Carola, sponging his pallid and perspiring countenance with a little scented handkerchief, which she took out of her bodice.

“Let’s push him nearer the window.”

Both together lifted the arm-chair, in which Amédée swung helpless and half unconscious, and put it down where he was able to inhale--in exchange for the tainted atmosphere of the passage--the varied stenches of the street. The coolness, however, revived him. Feeling in his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out the screw of five lire which he had prepared for Baptistin:

“Thank you very much. Please leave me now.”

The facchino went out.

“You oughtn’t to have given him such a lot,” said Carola.

She too used the familiar “thou,” which Amédée accepted as a custom of the country; his one thought now was to go to bed; but Carola showed no signs of leaving; then, carried away by politeness, he began to talk.

“You speak French as well as a Frenchwoman.”

“No wonder. I come from Paris. And you?”

“I come from the south.”

“I guessed as much. When I saw you, I said to myself, that gentleman comes from the provinces. Is it your first visit to Italy?”

“My first.”

“Have you come on business?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a lovely place, Rome. There’s a lot to be seen.”

“Yes ... but this evening I’m rather tired,” he ventured; and as though excusing himself: “I’ve been travelling for three days.”

“It’s a long journey to get here.”

“And I haven’t slept for three nights.”

At those words, Madame Carola, with a sudden Italian familiarity, which Amédée still couldn’t help being astounded at, chucked him under the chin.

“Naughty!” said she.

This gesture brought a little blood back into Amédée’s face, and in his desire to repudiate the unfair insinuation, he at once began to expatiate on fleas, bugs and mosquitoes.

“You’ll have nothing of that kind here, dearie; you see how clean it is.”

“Yes; I hope I shall sleep well.”

But still she didn’t go. He rose with difficulty from his arm-chair, raised his hand to the top button of his waistcoat and said tentatively:

“I think I’ll go to bed.”

Madame Carola understood Fleurissoire’s embarrassment.

“You’d like me to leave you for a bit, I see,” said she tactfully.

As soon as she had gone, Fleurissoire turned the key in the lock, took his night-shirt out of his portmanteau and got into bed. But apparently the catch of the lock was not working, for before he had time to blow out his candle, Carola’s head reappeared in the half-opened door--behind the bed--close to the bed--smiling....

* * * * *

An hour later, when he came to himself, Carola was lying against him, in his arms, naked.

He disengaged his left arm, which had “fallen asleep,” and then drew away. She was asleep. A light from the alley below filled the room with its feeble glimmer, and not a sound was to be heard but the woman’s regular breathing. An unwonted languor lay heavy on Amédée’s body and soul; he drew out his thin legs from between the sheets; and sitting on the edge of the bed, he wept.

As first his sweat, so now his tears washed his face and mingled with the dust of the railway carriage; they welled up--silently, uninterruptedly, in a slow and steady stream, coming from his inmost depths, as from a hidden spring. He thought of Arnica, of Blafaphas, alas! Ah! if they could see him now! Never again would he dare to take his place beside them. Then he thought of his august mission, for ever compromised; he groaned below his breath:

“It’s over! I’m no longer worthy! Oh! it’s over! It’s all over!”

The strange sounds of his sobbing and sighing had in the meantime awakened Carola. There he was, kneeling now, at the foot of the bed, hammering on his weakly chest with little blows of his fist; and Carola, lost in amazement, heard him repeat, as his teeth chattered and his sobs shook him:

“Save us! Save us! The Church is crumbling!”

At last, unable to contain herself any longer:

“You poor old dear, what’s wrong with you? Have you gone crazy?”

He turned towards her:

“Please, Madame Carola, leave me. I must--I absolutely must be alone. I’ll see you to-morrow morning.”

Then, as after all it was only himself that he blamed, he kissed her gently on the shoulder:

“Ah! you don’t know what a dreadful thing we’ve done. No, no! You don’t know. You can never know.”

III

The swindling concern that went under the pompous name of _Crusade for the Deliverance of the Pope_, extended its shady ramifications through more than one of the French departments; Protos, the false monk of Virmontal, was not its only agent, nor the Comtesse de Saint-Prix its only victim. All its victims, however, were not equally accommodating, even if all the agents proved equally dexterous. Even Protos, Lafcadio’s old school-mate, was obliged, after this exploit of his, to keep the sharpest possible look-out; he lived in continual apprehension that the clergy (the real clergy) would get wind of the affair, and expended as much ingenuity in covering his rear as in pushing his attack; but his versatility was great, and, moreover, he was admirably seconded; from one end to the other of the band (which went by the name of the Millipede) there reigned extraordinary harmony and discipline.

Protos was informed that same evening by Baptistin of the stranger’s arrival, and no little alarmed at hearing that he came from Pau, he hurried off at seven o’clock the next morning to see Carola. She was still in bed.

The information which he gathered from her, the confused account that she gave of the events of the previous night, the anguish of the _pilgrim_ (this was what she called Amédée), his protestations, his tears, left no further doubt in his mind. Decidedly his Pau preachifying had brought forth fruit--but not precisely the kind of fruit which Protos might have wished for; he would have to keep an eye on this simple-minded crusader, whose clumsy blunderings might give the whole show away....

“Come! let me pass,” said he abruptly to Carola.

This expression might seem peculiar, because Carola was lying in bed; but Protos was never one to be stopped by the peculiar. He put one knee on the bed, passed the other over the woman’s body and pirouetted so cleverly that, with a slight push of the bed, he found himself between it and the wall. Carola was no doubt accustomed to this performance, for she asked simply:

“What are you going to do?”

“Make up as a _curé_,” answered Protos, no less simply.

“Will you come back this way?”

Protos hesitated a moment, and then:

“You’re right; it’s more natural.”

So saying, he stooped and touched the spring of a secret door, which was concealed in the thickness of the wall and was so low that the bed hid it completely. Just as he was passing through the door, Carola seized him by the shoulder.

“Listen,” she said with a kind of gravity, “you’re not to hurt this one. I won’t have it.”

“I tell you I’m going to make up as a _curé_.”

As soon as he had disappeared, Carola got up and began to dress.

I cannot exactly tell what to think of Carola Venitequa. This exclamation of hers leads me to suppose that her heart at that time was not altogether fundamentally corrupt. Thus sometimes, in the very midst of abjection, the strangest delicacies of feelings suddenly reveal themselves, just as an azure tinted flower will grow in the middle of a dung-heap. Essentially submissive and devoted, Carola, like so many other women, had need of guidance. When Lafcadio had abandoned her, she had immediately rushed off to find her old lover, Protos--out of spite--out of self-assertion--to revenge herself. She had once more gone through hard times--and Protos had no sooner recovered her than he had once more made her his tool. For Protos liked being master.

Another man than Protos might have raised, rehabilitated this woman. But first of all, he must have had the wish to. Protos, on the contrary, seemed bent on degrading her. We have seen what shameful services the ruffian demanded of her; it is true that she apparently submitted to them without much reluctance; but the first impulses of a soul in revolt against the ignominy of its lot, often pass unperceived by that very soul itself. It is only in the light of love that the secret kicking against the pricks is revealed. Was Carola falling in love with Amédée? It would be rash to affirm it; but, corrupt as she was, she had been touched to emotion by the contact of his purity, and the exclamation which I have recorded came indubitably from her heart.

Protos returned. He had not changed his dress. He carried in his hand a bundle of clothes, which he put down on a chair.

“Well! and now what?” she asked.

“I’ve reflected. I must first go round to the post and look at his letters. I won’t change till this afternoon. Pass me your looking-glass.”

He went to the window, and bending towards his reflection in the glass, he fastened to his lip a pair of short brown moustaches, a trifle lighter than his hair.

“Call Baptistin.”

Carola had finished dressing. She went to the door and pulled a string hanging near it.

“I’ve already told you I can’t bear to see you in those sleeve-links. They attract attention.”

“You know very well who gave them to me.”

“Precisely.”

“You aren’t jealous, are you?”

“Silly fool!”

At this moment Baptistin knocked at the door and came in.

“Here! Try and get up in the world a peg or two,” said Protos, pointing to a coat, collar and tie, which were lying on the chair and which he had brought back with him from his expedition to the other side of the wall. “You’re to keep your client company in his walks abroad. I shan’t take him off your hands till this evening. Until then, don’t lose sight of him.”

* * * * *

It was to S. Luigi dei Francesche that Amédée went to confess, in preference to St. Peter’s, whose enormousness overwhelmed him. Baptistin guided him there, and afterwards led him to the post office. As was to be expected, the Millipede had confederates there too. Baptistin had learnt Amédée’s name by means of the little visiting-card which was nailed on to the top of his portmanteau, and had informed Protos, who had no difficulty in getting an obliging employé to hand him over a letter of Arnica’s--and no scruple in reading it.

“It’s curious!” cried Fleurissoire, when an hour later he came in his turn to ask for his letters. “It’s curious! The envelope looks as if it had been opened.”

“That often happens here,” said Baptistin phlegmatically.

Fortunately the prudent Arnica had ventured only on the most discreet of allusions. The letter, besides, was very short; she simply recommended Amédée, on the advice of Father Mure, to go to Naples and see Cardinal San-Felice S.B. “before attempting to do anything.” Her expressions were as vague as could well be desired and in consequence as little compromising.

IV

When he found himself in front of the Castle of St. Angelo, Fleurissoire was filled with bitter disappointment. The huge mass of building rose from the middle of an inner court-yard, access to which was forbidden to the public, and into which only such visitors as were provided with cards were allowed to enter. It was even specified that they must be accompanied by one of the guardians.

These excessive precautions, to be sure, confirmed Amédée’s suspicions, but they also enabled him to estimate the extravagant difficulty of his task. Fleurissoire then, having at last got rid of Baptistin, was wandering up and down the quay, which was almost deserted at that hour of the evening, and alongside the outer wall which defends the approach to the castle. Backwards and forwards in front of the drawbridge, he passed and repassed, with gloomy and despondent thoughts; then he would retreat once more to the bank of the Tiber and endeavour from there to get a better view of the building over the top of the first enclosure.

He had not hitherto paid any particular attention to a priest (there are so many of them in Rome) who was sitting on a bench not far from there, and who, though apparently plunged in his breviary, had been observing him for some time past. The worthy ecclesiastic had long and abundant locks of silver, and the freshness of his youthful complexion--the sure sign of purity of life--contrasted curiously with that apanage of old age. From the face alone one would have recognised a priest, and from that peculiarly respectable something which distinguishes him--a French priest. As Fleurissoire was about to pass by the bench for the third time, the _abbé_ suddenly rose, came towards him, and in a voice which had in it something of a sob:

“What!” he said, “I am not the only one! You too are seeking him!”

So saying, he hid his face in his hands and the sobs which he had been too long controlling burst forth. Then suddenly recovering himself:

“Imprudent! Imprudent that I am! Hide your tears! Stifle your sighs!” ... Then, seizing Amédée by the arm: “We must not stay here, Sir. We are observed. The emotion I am unable to master has been remarked already.”

Amédée by this time was following him in a state of stupefaction.

“But how,” he at last managed to ask, “how could you guess what I am here for?”

“Pray Heaven that no one else has been permitted to suspect it! But how could your anxious face, your sorrowful looks, as you examined this spot, escape the notice of one who has haunted it day and night for the last three weeks? Alas! my dear sir, as soon as I saw you, some presentiment, some warning from on high, told me that a sister soul.... Hush! Someone is coming. For Heaven’s sake, pretend complete unconcern.”

A man carrying vegetables was coming along the quay from the opposite direction. Immediately, without changing his tone of voice, but speaking in a slightly more animated manner, and as if he were continuing a sentence:

“And that is why Virginia cigars, which some smokers appreciate so highly, can be lighted only at the flame of a candle, after you have removed the thin straw, that goes through the middle of them, and whose object is to keep open a little channel in which the smoke can circulate freely. A Virginia that doesn’t draw well is fit for nothing but to be thrown away. I have seen smokers who are particular as to what they smoke, throw away as many as six, my dear sir, before finding one that suits them....”

And as soon as the man had passed them:

“Did you see how he looked at us? It was essential to put him off the scent.”

“What!” cried Fleurissoire, flabbergasted, “is it possible that a common market gardener can be one of the persons of whom we must beware?”

“I cannot certify that it is so, sir, but I imagine it. The neighbourhood of this castle is watched with particular care; agents of a special police are continually patrolling it. In order not to arouse suspicion, they assume the most varied disguises. The people we have to deal with are so clever--so clever! And we so credulous, so naturally confiding! But if I were to tell you, sir, that I was within an ace of ruining everything simply because I gave my modest luggage to an ordinary-looking facchino to carry from the station to the lodging where I am staying! He spoke French, and though I have spoken Italian fluently ever since I was a child ... you yourself, I am persuaded, would have felt the same emotion.... I couldn’t help giving way to it when I heard someone speaking my mother tongue in a foreign land.... Well! This facchino....”

“Was he one of them?”

“He was one of them. I was able to make practically sure of it. Fortunately I had said very little.”

“You fill me with alarm,” said Fleurissoire; “the same thing happened to me the evening I arrived--yesterday, that is--I fell in with a guide to whom I entrusted my portmanteau, and who talked French.”

“Good heavens!” cried the _curé_, struck with terror; “could his name have been Baptistin?”

“Baptistin! That was it!” wailed Amédée, who felt his knees giving way beneath him.

“Unhappy man! What did you say to him?” The _curé_ pressed his arm.

“Nothing that I can remember.”

“Think! Think! Try to remember, for Heaven’s sake!”

“No, really!” stammered Amédée, terrified; “I don’t think I said anything to him.”

“What did you let out?”

“No, nothing, I assure you. But you do well to warn me.”

“What hotel did he take you to?”

“I’m not in a hotel. I’m in private lodgings.”

“God save us! But you must be somewhere.”

“Oh, I’m in a little street which you certainly don’t know,” stuttered Fleurissoire, in great confusion. “It’s of no consequence. I won’t stay on there.”

“Be very careful! If you leave suddenly, it’ll look as if you suspected something.”

“Yes, perhaps it will. You’re right. I had better not leave at once.”

“How I thank a merciful Heaven that you arrived in Rome to-day! One day later and I should have missed you! To-morrow--no later than to-morrow--I’m obliged to leave for Naples in order to see a saintly and important personage, who is secretly devoting himself to the cause.”

“Could it be the Cardinal San-Felice?” asked Fleurissoire, trembling with emotion.

The _curé_ took a step or two back in amazement:

“How did you know?” Then drawing nearer: “But why should I be astonished? He is the only person in Naples who is in the secret.”

“Do you ... know him?”

“Do I know him? Alas! my dear sir, it is to him I owe.... But no matter! Were you thinking of going to see him?”

“I suppose so; if I must.”

“He is the best of men....” With a rapid whisk of his hand, he wiped the corner of his eye. “You know where to find him, of course?”

“I suppose anyone could tell me. Everyone knows him in Naples.”

“Naturally! But I don’t suppose you are going to inform all Naples of your visit. Surely, you can’t have been told of his participation in ... you know what, and perhaps entrusted with some message for him, without having been instructed at the same time how to gain access to him.”

“Pardon me,” said Fleurissoire timidly, for Arnica had given him no such instructions.

“What! were you meaning to go and see him straight off--in the archbishop’s palace, perhaps!--and speak to him point-blank?”

“I confess that....”

“But are you aware, sir,” went on the other severely, “are you aware that you run the risk of getting _him_ imprisoned too?”

He seemed so deeply vexed that Fleurissoire did not dare to speak.

“So sacred a cause confided to such imprudent hands!” murmured Protos, and he took the end of a rosary out of his pocket, then put it back again, then crossed himself feverishly; then turning to his companion:

“Pray tell me, sir, who asked you to concern yourself with this matter. Whose instructions are you obeying?”

“Forgive me, Monsieur l’abbé,” said Fleurissoire in some confusion, “I was given no instructions by anyone. I am just a poor distraught soul seeking on my own behalf.”

These humble words disarmed the _curé_; he held out his hand to Fleurissoire:

“I spoke to you roughly.... But such dangers surround us.” Then, after a short hesitation:

“Look here! Will you come with me to-morrow? We will go and see my friend together....” and raising his eyes to Heaven: “Yes, I dare to call him my friend,” he repeated in a heartfelt voice. “Let’s sit down for a minute on this bench. I will write him a line which we will both sign, to give him notice of our visit. If it is posted before six o’clock (eighteen o’clock, as they say here), he will get it to-morrow morning in time for him to be ready to receive us by twelve; we might even, I dare say, have lunch with him.”

They sat down. Protos took a note-book from his pocket, and under Amédée’s haggard eyes began on a virgin sheet as follows:

“Dear old cock....”

Then, seeing the other’s stupefaction, he smiled very calmly:

“So, it’s the Cardinal you’d have addressed if you’d had your way?”

After that he became more amicable and consented to explain things to Amédée: once a week the Cardinal San-Felice was in the habit of leaving the archbishop’s palace in the dress of a simple _abbé_; he became plain chaplain Bardolotti and made his way to a modest villa on the slopes of Mount Vomero, where he received a few intimate friends, and the secret letters which the initiated addressed him under his assumed name. But even in this vulgar disguise, he could feel no security--he could not be sure that his letters were not opened in the post, and begged therefore that nothing of any significance should be said in any letter and that the tone of a letter should in no way suggest his Eminence, or have in it the slightest trace of respect.

Now that he was let into the secret, Amédée smiled in his turn.

“‘Dear old cock’.... Let me think! What shall we say to the dear old cock?” joked the _abbé_, hesitating with pencil in hand. “Ah!... ‘I’ve got a funny old chap in tow!’ (Yes, yes! It’s all right! I know the kind of style.) ‘I’ll bring him along, so dig out a bottle or two of Falernian and to-morrow we three will have a party.’ ... Here! you sign too.”

“Perhaps I’d better not sign my own name.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter about yours,” returned Protos, and after the name of Amédée Fleurissoire he wrote the word _Cave_.[G]

“Oh, that’s very clever!”

“What! are you astonished at my signing the name _Cave_? Your head is full of nothing but the Vatican _Cave_. You must know, my good Monsieur Fleurissoire, that _Cave_ is a Latin word too, and that it means BEWARE!”

All this was said in so potent and so strange a tone that poor Amédée felt a cold shiver run down his spine. It lasted only a second; Father Cave had already recovered his affability when he handed him the envelope on which he had just inscribed the Cardinal’s apocryphal address.

“Will you post it yourself? It’s more prudent; _curés’_ letters are opened. And now we’d better part; we mustn’t be seen together any longer. Let’s agree to meet to-morrow morning in the train that leaves for Naples at seven-thirty. Third class of course. I shall not be in this dress, naturally. What an idea! You must look out for just an ordinary Calabrian peasant. (I don’t want to have to cut my hair.) Good-bye! Good-bye!”

He went off, making little signs with his hand.

“Thanks be to Heaven that I met that excellent _abbé_!” murmured Fleurissoire as he returned homewards. “What should I have done without him?”

And Protos murmured as he went:

“You shall have a jolly good dose of your Cardinal, my boy!... Why, if he had been left to himself, I’m hanged if he wouldn’t have gone to see the _real_ one.”

V

As Fleurissoire complained of great fatigue, Carola had allowed him to sleep that night notwithstanding the interest she took in him and the tender compassion she was thrown into when he confessed his ignorance in the matter of love ... sleep, that is, as much as he was able for the intolerable itching of the bites--fleas’ as well as mosquitoes’--which covered his whole body.

“You oughtn’t to scratch like that, dearie,” she said to him the next morning, “you only irritate it. Oh, how inflamed this one is!” and she touched the spot on his chin. Then as he was getting ready to go out: “Here! wear these in remembrance of me.” And she fastened the grotesque trinkets which Protos had objected to her wearing, into the _pilgrim’s_ cuffs. Amédée promised to come back the same evening, or at latest the next morning.

“You’ll swear that you’ll not hurt him?” repeated Carola a moment later to Protos, who had come through the secret door already disguised; and as he was late because he had waited for Fleurissoire to leave before showing himself, he was obliged to take a carriage to the station.

In his new aspect, with his open shirt, his brown breeches, his sandals, laced over his blue stockings, his short pipe and his tan-coloured hat with its small flat brim, it must be admitted that he looked far more like a regular Abruzzi brigand than like a _curé_. Fleurissoire, who was walking up and down the platform waiting for him, hesitated to recognise the individual who, like St. Peter Martyr, with a finger on his lips, passed by him without seeming to see him and disappeared into a carriage at the head of the train. But after a moment he reappeared at the door of the carriage, and looking in Amédée’s direction with one eye half shut, he made him a surreptitious sign with his hand to come up; and as Amédée was about to get in:

“Please see whether there’s anyone next door,” whispered Protos.

No one; and their compartment was the last in the carriage.

“I was following you in the street,” went on Protos; “but I wouldn’t speak to you for fear that we might be seen together.”

“How is it that I didn’t see you?” asked Fleurissoire. “I turned round a dozen times to make sure that I wasn’t being followed. Your conversation yesterday filled me with such terror that I see nothing but spies everywhere.”

“Yes, you show that you do only too clearly. Do you think it’s natural to turn round every twenty paces?”

“What? Really? Do I look ...?”

“Suspicious. Alas! That’s the word--suspicious. It’s the most compromising look you can have.”

“And yet I didn’t even discover that you were following me! On the other hand, I see something disquieting in the appearance of everyone I pass in the street. It alarms me if they look at me, and if they don’t look at me they seem as if they were pretending not to see me. I didn’t realise till to-day how rarely people’s presence in the street is justifiable. There aren’t more than four out of twelve whose occupation is obvious. Ah! You have given me food for thought, and no mistake! For a naturally credulous soul like mine suspicion is not easy; it’s an apprenticeship....”

“Pooh! You’ll get accustomed to it--quickly too; you’ll see; in a short time it’ll become a habit--a habit, alas! Which I’ve been obliged to adopt myself.... The main thing is to look cheerful all the time. Ah! A word to the wise! When you’re afraid you’re being followed, don’t turn round; just merely drop your stick or your umbrella (according to the weather) or your handkerchief, and as you pick it up--whatever it may be--while your head is down, look between your legs behind you, in a natural kind of way. I advise you to practise. But tell me. What do you think of me in this costume? I’m afraid the _curé_ may show through in places.”

“Don’t worry,” said Fleurissoire candidly; “no one but I, I’m sure, could see what you are.” Then, looking him up and down benevolently, with his head a little on one side: “Evidently, when I examine you carefully, I can see a slight touch of the ecclesiastic behind your disguise--I can distinguish beneath the joviality of your voice the sickening anxiety which is tormenting us both. But what self-control you must have to let it show so little! As for me, I have still a great deal to learn, it’s clear. Your advice....”

“What curious sleeve-links you have!” interrupted Protos, amused at seeing Carola’s links on Fleurissoire.

“They’re a present,” he said, blushing.

The heat was sweltering. Protos was looking out of the window; “Monte Cassino,” he said; “can you see the celebrated convent up there?”

“Yes, I see it,” said Fleurissoire absently.

“You don’t care much for scenery, then?”

“Yes, yes, I do care for it! But how can I take an interest in anything as long as I’m so uneasy? It’s the same at Rome with the sights. I’ve seen nothing; I’ve not tried to see anything.”

“How well I understand you!” said Protos. “I’m like that too; I told you that ever since I’ve been in Rome I’ve spent the whole of my time between the Vatican and the Castle of St. Angelo.”

“It’s a pity, but _you_ know Rome already.”

In this way our travellers chatted.

At Caserta they got down, and went each on his own account to the buffet, to get a sandwich or two and a drink.

“At Naples too,” said Protos, “when we get near his villa we will part company, if you please. You must follow me at a distance; I shall want a little time first, especially if he isn’t alone, to explain who you are and the object of your visit, so you mustn’t come in till a quarter of an hour after me.”

“I’ll take the opportunity of getting shaved. I hadn’t time this morning.”

A tram took them as far as the Piazza Dante.

“Let’s part here,” said Protos. “It’s still rather a long way off, but it’s better so. Walk about fifty paces behind me; and don’t look at me the whole time as if you were afraid of losing me; and don’t turn round either; you would get yourself followed. Look cheerful.”