the hottest days, and has even erected a sort of pavilion beside it for
the accommodation of his suite. Narcisse, like one at home, went in and
secured permission for Pierre to glance at the one room occupied by the
Pope, a spacious round chamber with semispherical ceiling, on which are
painted the heavens with symbolical figures of the constellations; one of
the latter, the lion, having two stars for eyes--stars which a system of
lighting causes to sparkle during the night. The walls of the tower are
so thick that after blocking up a window, a kind of room, for the
accommodation of a couch, has been contrived in the embrasure. Beside
this couch the only furniture is a large work-table, a dining-table with
flaps, and a large regal arm-chair, a mass of gilding, one of the gifts
of the Pope's episcopal jubilee. And you dream of the days of solitude
and perfect silence, spent in that low donjon hall, where the coolness of
a tomb prevails whilst the heavy suns of August are scorching overpowered
Rome.

An astronomical observatory has been installed in another tower,
surmounted by a little white cupola, which you espy amidst the greenery;
and under the trees there is also a Swiss chalet, where Leo XIII is fond
of resting. He sometimes goes on foot to the kitchen garden, and takes
much interest in the vineyard, visiting it to see if the grapes are
ripening and if the vintage will be a good one. What most astonished
Pierre, however, was to learn that the Holy Father had been very fond of
"sport" before age had weakened him. He was indeed passionately addicted
to bird snaring. Broad-meshed nets were hung on either side of a path on
the fringe of a plantation, and in the middle of the path were placed
cages containing the decoys, whose songs soon attracted all the birds of
the neighbourhood--red-breasts, white-throats, black-caps, nightingales,
fig-peckers of all sorts. And when a numerous company of them was
gathered together Leo XIII, seated out of sight and watching, would
suddenly clap his hands and startle the birds, which flew up and were
caught by the wings in the meshes of the nets. All that then remained to
be done was to take them out of the nets and stifle them by a touch of
the thumb. Roast fig-peckers are delicious.*

* Perhaps so; but what a delightful pastime for the Vicar of the
Divinity!--Trans.

As Pierre came back through the wood he had another surprise. He suddenly
lighted on a "Grotto of Lourdes," a