nly heard, then quickly dying away
in the lone watches of the night: these are the hours of the Roman
Carnival.

'Played is the comedy, deserted now the scene.'

THE VERMILION MIRACLE.

Miracles are no longer performed in Rome. As soon as the police are
officially informed, they prevent their being worked even in the
Campagna:--official information, however, always travels much faster
when the spurs of heretical incredulity are applied--otherwise it lags;
and the performances of miracle-mongers insure crowded houses, sometimes
for years.

Among Caper's artist friends was a certain Blaise Monet, French by
nature, Parisian by birth, artist or writer according to circumstances.
Circumstances--that is to say, two thousand francs left him by a
deceased relation--created him a temporary artist in Rome.

'When the money is gone,' said he, 'I shall endow some barber
with my goat's hair brushes, and resume the stylus: the first
have attractions--capillary--for me; the latter has the
attraction--gravitation of francs--still more interesting--that is to
say, more stylish.'

Blaise Monet with the May breezes fled to a small town on top of a high
mountain, in order to enjoy them until autumn: with the rains of October
he descended on Rome.

'How did you enjoy yourself up in that hawk's nest?' Caper asked him,
when he first saw him after his return to the city.

'Like the king D'Yvetot. My house was a castle, my drink good wine, my
food solid--the cheese a little too much so, and a little too much of
it: no matter--the views made up for it. Gr-r-rand, magnificent,
splendid--in fact, paradise for twenty baiocchi a day, all told.'

'And as for affairs of the heart?'

'My friend, mourn with me: that hole was--so to speak in regard to that
matter--a monastery, without doors, windows, or holes; and a wall around
it, so high, it shut out--hope! I wish you could have seen the camel who
was my monastic jailer.'

'That is, when you say camel, you mean jackass?'

'Precisely! Well, my friend, his name was Father Cipriano; though why
they call a man father who has no legal children, I can't conceive,
though probably many of his flock do. He prejudiced the minds of the
maidens against me, and made an attempt to injure my reputation among
the young men and elders--in vain. The man who could paint a scorpion on
the wall so naturally as even to delude Father Ciprian into beating it
for ten minutes with that bundle of sticks they