young man took several steps in the subterranean
passage. He perceived that the long gallery was lighted. He entered
there, saying to himself that the row of tapers, lighted every ten
paces, assuredly marked the line which the procession would follow, and
which led to the central basilica. Although his anxiety as to the issue
of his undertaking was extreme, he could not help being impressed by the
grandeur of the sight presented by the catacomb thus illuminated. The
uneven niches reserved for the dead, asleep in the peace of the Lord for
so many centuries, made recesses in the corridors and gave them a solemn
and tragical aspect. Inscriptions were to be seen there, traced on the
stone, and all spoke of the great hope which those first Christians had
cherished, the same which believers of our day cherish.

Julien knew enough of symbols to understand the significance of the
images between which the persecuted of the primitive church had laid
their fathers. They are so touching and so simple! The anchor represents
safety in the storm; the gentle dove and the ewe, symbols of the soul,
which flies away and seeks its shepherd; the phoenix, whose wings
announce the resurrection. Then there were the bread and the wine, the
branches of the olive and the palm. The silent cemetery was filled with
a faint aroma of incense, noticed by Dorsenne on entering. High mass,
celebrated in the morning, left the sacred perfume diffused among those
bones, once the forms of human beings who kneeled there amid the same
holy aroma. The contrast was strong between that spot, where everything
spoke of things eternal, and the drama of passion, worldly and culpable,
the progress of which agitated even Dorsenne. At that moment he appeared
to himself in the light of a profaner, although he was obeying generous
and humane instincts. He experienced a sense of relief when, at a bend
in one of the corridors which he had selected from among many others, he
found himself face to face with a priest, who held in his hand a
basket filled with the petals of flowers, destined, no doubt, for the
procession. Dorsenne inquired of him the way to the Basilica in Italian,
while the reply was given in perfect French.

"Perhaps you know the Marquis de Montfanon, father?" asked the novelist.

"I am one of the chaplains of Saint Louis," said the priest, with a
smile, adding: "You will find him in the Basilica."

"Now, the moment has come," thought Dorsenne, "I must be s