miniature imitation of the original,
built of rocks and blocks of cement. And such was his emotion at the
sight that he could not conceal it. "It's true, then!" said he. "I was
told of it, but I thought that the Holy Father was of loftier mind--free
from all such base superstitions!"

"Oh!" replied Narcisse, "I fancy that the grotto dates from Pius IX, who
evinced especial gratitude to our Lady of Lourdes. At all events, it must
be a gift, and Leo XIII simply keeps it in repair."

For a few moments Pierre remained motionless and silent before that
imitation grotto, that childish plaything. Some zealously devout visitors
had left their visiting cards in the cracks of the cement-work! For his
part, he felt very sad, and followed his companion with bowed head,
lamenting the wretched idiocy of the world. Then, on emerging from the
wood, on again reaching the parterre, he raised his eyes.

Ah! how exquisite in spite of everything was that decline of a lovely
day, and what a victorious charm ascended from the soil in that part of
the gardens. There, in front of that bare, noble, burning parterre, far
more than under the languishing foliage of the wood or among the fruitful
vines, Pierre realised the strength of Nature. Above the grass growing
meagrely over the compartments of geometrical pattern which the pathways
traced there were barely a few low shrubs, dwarf roses, aloes, rare tufts
of withering flowers. Some green bushes still described the escutcheon of
Pius IX in accordance with the strange taste of former times. And amidst
the warm silence one only heard the faint crystalline murmur of the water
trickling from the basin of the central fountain. But all Rome, its
ardent heavens, sovereign grace, and conquering voluptuousness, seemed
with their own soul to animate this vast rectangular patch of decorative
gardening, this mosaic of verdure, which in its semi-abandonment and
scorched decay assumed an aspect of melancholy pride, instinct with the
ever returning quiver of a passion of fire that could not die. Some
antique vases and statues, whitely nude under the setting sun, skirted
the parterres. And above the aroma of eucalyptus and of pine, stronger
even than that of the ripening oranges, there rose the odour of the
large, bitter box-shrubs, so laden with pungent life that it disturbed
one as one passed as if indeed it were the very scent of the fecundity of
that ancient soil saturated with the dust of generations.