, have you something to tell me?" the Count
inquired.

"No, I am leaving Rome, I have come to wish your father good-bye."

Prada's pallor increased at this, and his whole face quivered: "Ah! it is
to see my father. He is not very well, be gentle with him," he replied,
and as he spoke, his look of anguish clearly proclaimed what he feared
from Pierre, some imprudent word, perhaps even a final mission, the
malediction of that man and woman whom he had killed. And surely if his
father knew, he would die as well. "Ah! how annoying it is," he resumed,
"I can't go up with you! There are gentlemen waiting for me. Yes, how
annoyed I am. As soon as possible, however, I will join you, yes, as soon
as possible."

He knew not how to stop the young priest, whom he must evidently allow to
remain with his father, whilst he himself stayed down below, kept there
by his pecuniary worries. But how distressful were the eyes with which he
watched Pierre climb the stairs, how he seemed to supplicate him with his
whole quivering form. His father, good Lord, the only true love, the one
great, pure, faithful passion of his life!

"Don't make him talk too much, brighten him, won't you?" were his parting
words.

Up above it was not Batista, the devoted ex-soldier, who opened the door,
but a very young fellow to whom Pierre did not at first pay any
attention. The little room was bare and light as on previous occasions,
and from the broad curtainless window there was the superb view of Rome,
Rome crushed that day beneath a leaden sky and steeped in shade of
infinite mournfulness. Old Orlando, however, had in no wise changed, but
still displayed the superb head of an old blanched lion, a powerful
muzzle and youthful eyes, which yet sparkled with the passions which had
growled in a soul of fire. Pierre found the stricken hero in the same
arm-chair as previously, near the same table littered with newspapers,
and with his legs buried in the same black wrapper, as if he were there
immobilised in a sheath of stone, to such a point that after months and
years one was sure to perceive him quite unchanged, with living bust, and
face glowing with strength and intelligence.

That grey day, however, he seemed gloomy, low in spirits. "Ah! so here
you are, my dear Monsieur Froment," he exclaimed, "I have been thinking
of you these three days past, living the awful days which you must have
lived in that tragic Palazzo Boccanera. Ah, God! What a frightful
b