ust, the only result of all the repairing and patching would be to
hasten the catastrophe. And instead of a noble death, met unflinchingly,
we should then behold the basest of agonies, the death throes of a coward
who struggles and begs for mercy! For my part I wait. I am convinced that
all that people say is but so much horrible falsehood, that Catholicism
has never been firmer, that it imbibes eternity from the one and only
source of life. But should the heavens indeed fall, on that day I should
be here, amidst these old and crumbling walls, under these old ceilings
whose beams are being devoured by the worms, and it is here, erect, among
the ruins, that I should meet my end, repeating my _credo_ for the last
time."

His final words fell more slowly, full of haughty sadness, whilst with a
sweeping gesture he waved his arms towards the old, silent, deserted
palace around him, whence life was withdrawing day by day. Had an
involuntary presentiment come to him, did the faint cold breath from the
ruins also fan his own cheeks? All the neglect into which the vast rooms
had fallen was explained by his words; and a superb, despondent grandeur
enveloped this prince and cardinal, this uncompromising Catholic who,
withdrawing into the dim half-light of the past, braved with a soldier's
heart the inevitable downfall of the olden world.

Deeply impressed, Pierre was about to take his leave when, to his
surprise, a little door opened in the hangings. "What is it? Can't I be
left in peace for a moment?" exclaimed Boccanera with sudden impatience.

Nevertheless, Abbe Paparelli, fat and sleek, glided into the room without
the faintest sign of emotion. And he whispered a few words in the ear of
the Cardinal, who, on seeing him, had become calm again. "What curate?"
asked Boccanera. "Oh! yes, Santobono, the curate of Frascati. I
know--tell him I cannot see him just now."

Paparelli, however, again began whispering in his soft voice, though not
in so low a key as previously, for some of his words could be overheard.
The affair was urgent, the curate was compelled to return home, and had
only a word or two to say. And then, without awaiting consent, the
train-bearer ushered in the visitor, a _protege_ of his, whom he had left
just outside the little door. And for his own part he withdrew with the
tranquillity of a retainer who, whatever the modesty of his office, knows
himself to be all powerful.

Pierre, who was momentarily forgotte