es. A long white beard streamed down with the vigour
of youth, curling like that of an ancient god. By that leonine muzzle one
divined what great passions had growled within; but all, carnal and
intellectual alike, had erupted in patriotism, in wild bravery, and
riotous love of independence. And the old stricken hero, his torso still
erect, was fixed there on his straw-seated arm-chair, with lifeless legs
buried beneath a black wrapper. Alone did his arms and hands live, and
his face beam with strength and intelligence.

Orlando turned towards his servant, and gently said to him: "You can go
away, Batista. Come back in a couple of hours." Then, looking Pierre full
in the face, he exclaimed in a voice which was still sonorous despite his
seventy years: "So it's you at last, my dear Monsieur Froment, and we
shall be able to chat at our ease. There, take that chair, and sit down
in front of me."

He had noticed the glance of surprise which the young priest had cast
upon the bareness of the room, and he gaily added: "You will excuse me
for receiving you in my cell. Yes, I live here like a monk, like an old
invalided soldier, henceforth withdrawn from active life. My son long
begged me to take one of the fine rooms downstairs. But what would have
been the use of it? I have no needs, and I scarcely care for feather
beds, for my old bones are accustomed to the hard ground. And then too I
have such a fine view up here, all Rome presenting herself to me, now
that I can no longer go to her."

With a wave of the hand towards the window he sought to hide the
embarrassment, the slight flush which came to him each time that he thus
excused his son; unwilling as he was to tell the true reason, the scruple
of probity which had made him obstinately cling to his bare pauper's
lodging.

"But it is very nice, the view is superb!" declared Pierre, in order to
please him. "I am for my own part very glad to see you, very glad to be
able to grasp your valiant hands, which accomplished so many great
things."

Orlando made a fresh gesture, as though to sweep the past away. "Pooh!
pooh! all that is dead and buried. Let us talk about you, my dear
Monsieur Froment, you who are young and represent the present; and
especially about your book, which represents the future! Ah! if you only
knew how angry your book, your 'New Rome,' made me first of all."

He began to laugh, and took the book from off the table near him; then,
tapping on its cover