never yield, never change either a page or a line of his
book, but maintain it in its integrity in the broad daylight as the
unshakable testimony of his belief. Even were the book condemned by the
Index, he would not tender submission, withdraw aught of it. And should
it become necessary he would quit the Church, he would go even as far as
schism, continuing to preach the new religion and writing a new book,
_Real Rome_, such as he now vaguely began to espy.

However, Don Vigilio had ceased writing, and gazed so fixedly at Pierre
that the latter at last stepped up to him politely in order to take
leave. And then the secretary, yielding, despite his fears, to a desire
to confide in him, murmured, "He came simply on your account, you know;
he wanted to ascertain the result of your interview with his Eminence."

It was not necessary for Don Vigilio to mention Nani by name; Pierre
understood. "Really, do you think so?" he asked.

"Oh! there is no doubt of it. And if you take my advice you will do what
he desires with a good grace, for it is absolutely certain that you will
do it later on."

These words brought Pierre's disquietude and exasperation to a climax. He
went off with a gesture of defiance. They would see if he would ever
yield.

The three ante-rooms which he again crossed appeared to him blacker,
emptier, more lifeless than ever. In the second one Abbe Paparelli
saluted him with a little silent bow; in the first the sleepy lackey did
not even seem to see him. A spider was weaving its web between the
tassels of the great red hat under the _baldacchino_. Would not the
better course have been to set the pick at work amongst all that rotting
past, now crumbling into dust, so that the sunlight might stream in
freely and restore to the purified soil the fruitfulness of youth?

PART II.

IV.

ON the afternoon of that same day Pierre, having leisure before him, at
once thought of beginning his peregrinations through Rome by a visit on
which he had set his heart. Almost immediately after the publication of
"New Rome" he had been deeply moved and interested by a letter addressed
to him from the Eternal City by old Count Orlando Prada, the hero of
Italian independence and reunion, who, although unacquainted with him,
had written spontaneously after a first hasty perusal of his book. And
the letter had been a flaming protest, a cry of the patriotic faith still
young in the heart of that aged man, who ac