anera mansion so as to pack up his things and depart. His farewell
visits were made, and he now only had to take leave of Donna Serafina and
the Cardinal, and to thank them for all their kind hospitality. For him
alone did their doors open, for they had shut themselves up on returning
from the funeral, resolved to see nobody. At twilight, therefore, Pierre
had no one but Victorine to keep him company in the vast, black mansion,
for when he expressed a desire to take supper with Don Vigilio she told
him that the latter had also shut himself in his room. Desirous as he was
of at least shaking hands with the secretary for the last time, Pierre
went to knock at the door, which was so near his own, but could obtain no
reply, and divined that the poor fellow, overcome by a fresh attack of
fever and suspicion, desired not to see him again, in terror at the idea
that he might compromise himself yet more than he had done already.
Thereupon, it was settled that as the train only started at seventeen
minutes past ten Victorine should serve Pierre his supper on the little
table in his sitting-room at eight o'clock. She brought him a lamp and
spoke of putting his linen in order, but he absolutely declined her help,
and she had to leave him to pack up quietly by himself.

He had purchased a little box, since his valise could not possibly hold
all the linen and winter clothing which had been sent to him from Paris
as his stay in Rome became more and more protracted. However, the packing
was soon accomplished; the wardrobe was emptied, the drawers were
visited, the box and valise filled and securely locked by seven o'clock.
An hour remained to him before supper and he sat there resting, when his
eyes whilst travelling round the walls to make sure that he had forgotten
nothing, encountered that old painting by some unknown master, which had
so often filled him with emotion. The lamplight now shone full upon it;
and this time again as he gazed at it he felt a blow in the heart, a blow
which was all the deeper, as now, at his parting hour, he found a symbol
of his defeat at Rome in that dolent, tragic, half-naked woman, draped in
a shred of linen, and weeping between her clasped hands whilst seated on
the threshold of the palace whence she had been driven. Did not that
rejected one, that stubborn victim of love, who sobbed so bitterly, and
of whom one knew nothing, neither what her face was like, nor whence she
had come, nor what her fault