ubtle....
After all, it is charity I am about to ask him to do.... Here I am. I
recognize the staircase and the opening above."

A corner of the sky, indeed, was to be seen, and a ray of light entered
which permitted the writer to distinguish him whom he was seeking among
the few persons assembled in the ruined chapel, the most venerable
of all those which encircle Rome with a hidden girdle of sanctuaries.
Montfanon, too recognizable, alas! by the empty sleeve of his black
redingote, was seated on a chair, not very far from the altar, on which
burned enormous tapers. Priests and monks were arranging baskets filled
with petals, like those of the chaplain, whom Dorsenne had just met.
A group of three curious visitors commented in whispers upon the
paintings, scarcely 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