visible on the discolored stucco of the ceiling. Montfanon was entirely
absorbed in the book which he held in his one hand. The large features of
his face, ennobled and almost transfigured by the ardor of devotion, gave
him the admirable expression of an old Christian soldier. 'Bonus miles
Christi'--a good soldier of Christ--had been inscribed upon the tomb of
the chief under whom he had been wounded at Patay. One would have taken
him for a guardian layman of the tombs of the martyrs, capable of
confessing his faith like them, even to the death. And when Julien
determined to approach and to touch him lightly on the shoulder, he saw
that, in the nobleman's clear, blue eyes, ordinarily so gay, and
sometimes so choleric, sparkled unshed tears. His voice, too, naturally
sharp, was softened by the emotion of the thought which his reading, the
place, the time, the occupation of his day had awakened within him.

"Ah, you here?" said he to his young friend, without any astonishment.
"You have come for the procession. That is well. You will hear sung the
lovely lines: 'Hi sunt quos fatue mundus abhorruit." He pronounced ou as
u, 'a l'Italienne'; for his liturgic training had been received in Rome.
"The season is favorable for the ceremonies. The tourists have gone.
There will only be people here who pray and who feel, like you.... And to
feel is half of prayer. The other half is to believe. You will become one
of us. I have always predicted it. There is no peace but here."

"I would gladly have come only for the procession," replied Dorsenne,
"but my visit has another motive, dear friend," said he, in a still lower
tone. "I have been seeking for you for more than an hour, that you might
aid me in rendering a great service to several people, in preventing a
very great misfortune, perhaps."

"I can help you to prevent a very great misfortune?" repeated Montfanon.

"Yes," replied Dorsenne, "but this is not the place in which to explain
to you the details of the long and terrible adventure.... At what hour is
the ceremony? I will wait for you, and tell it to you on leaving here."

"It does not begin until five o'clock-five-thirty," said Montfanon,
looking at his watch, "and it is now fifteen minutes past four. Let us
leave the catacomb, if you wish, and you can repeat your story to me up
above. A very great misfortune? Well," he added, pressing the hand of the
young man whom, personally, he liked as much as he detested his views