man of this morning,
Santobono in person--what a strapping fellow he is, and how fast he
walks! My horses can scarcely overtake him."

Pierre in his turn leant forward and likewise perceived the priest of St.
Mary in the Fields, looking tall and knotty, fashioned as it were with a
bill-hook. Robed in a long black cassock, he showed like a vigorous
splotch of ink amidst the bright sunshine streaming around him; and he
was walking on at such a fast, stern, regular pace that he suggested
Destiny on the march. Something, which could not be well distinguished,
was hanging from his right arm.

When the carriage had at last overtaken him Prada told the coachman to
slacken speed, and then entered into conversation.

"Good-day, Abbe; you are well, I hope?" he asked.

"Very well, Signor Conte, I thank you."

"And where are you going so bravely?"

"Signor Conte, I am going to Rome."

"What! to Rome, at this late hour?"

"Oh! I shall be there nearly as soon as yourself. The distance doesn't
frighten me, and money's quickly earned by walking."

Scarcely turning his head to reply, stepping out beside the wheels,
Santobono did not miss a stride. And Prada, diverted by the meeting,
whispered to Pierre: "Wait a bit, he'll amuse us." Then he added aloud:
"Since you are going to Rome, Abbe, you had better get in here; there's
room for you."

Santobono required no pressing, but at once accepted the offer.
"Willingly; a thousand thanks," he said. "It's still better to save one's
shoe leather."

Then he got in and installed himself on the bracket-seat, declining with
abrupt humility the place which Pierre politely offered him beside the
Count. The young priest and the latter now saw that the object he was
carrying was a little basket of fresh figs, nicely arranged and covered
with leaves.

The horses set off again at a faster trot, and the carriage rolled on and
on over the superb, flat plain. "So you are going to Rome?" the Count
resumed in order to make Santobono talk.

"Yes," the other replied, "I am taking his Eminence Cardinal Boccanera
these few figs, the last of the season: a little present which I had
promised him." He had placed the basket on his knees and was holding it
between his big knotty hands as if it were something rare and fragile.

"Ah! some of the famous figs of your garden," said Prada. "It's quite
true, they are like honey. But why don't you rid yourself of them. You
surely don't mean to keep them on