“You can look for it after lunch,” said Dorsenne.

“No,” replied the young girl, rising, “it is not two steps from here; I will go.  The concierge of the palace where your Excellency lives brought it himself, and said it must be delivered immediately.”

“Very well, go and fetch it,” replied Julien, who could not suppress a smile at the honor paid his dwelling, “and I will remain here and talk with my doctor, while he gives me the prescription for this morning—­that is to say, his bill of fare.  Guess whence I come, Brancadori,” he added, assured of first stirring the cook’s curiosity, then his power of speech.  “From the Palais Castagna, where they are selling everything.”

“Ah!  Per Bacco!” exclaimed the Tuscan, with evident sorrow upon his old parchment-like face, scorched from forty years of cooking.  “If the deceased Prince Urban can see it in the other world, his heart will break, I assure you.  The last time he came to dine here, about ten years ago, on Saint Joseph’s Day, he said to me:  ’Make me some fritters, Egiste, like those we used to have at Monsieur d’Epinag’s, Monsieur Clairin’s, Fortuny’s, and poor Henri Regnault’s.’  And he was happy!  ‘Egiste,’ said he to me, ’I can die contented!  I have only one son, but I shall leave him six millions and the palace.  If it was Gigi I should be less easy, but Peppino!’ Gigi was the other one, the elder, who died, the gay one, who used to come here every day—­a fine fellow, but bad!  You should have heard him tell of his visit to Pius Ninth on the day upon which he converted an Englishman.  Yes, Excellency, he converted him by lending him by mistake a pious book instead of a novel.  The Englishman took the book, read it, read another, a third, and became a Catholic.  Gigi, who was not in favor at the Vatican, hastened to tell the Holy Father of his good deed.  ‘You see, my son,’ said Pius Ninth, ’what means our Lord God employs!’ Ah, he would have used those millions for his amusement, while Peppino!  They were all squandered in signatures.  Just think, the name of Prince d’Ardea meant money!  He speculated, he lost, he won, he lost again, he drew up bills of exchange after bills of exchange.  And every time he made a move such as I am making with my pencil—­only I can not sign my name—­it meant one hundred, two hundred thousand francs to go into the world.  And now he must leave his house and Rome.  What will he do, Excellency, I ask you?” With a shake of his head he added:  “He should reconstruct his fortune abroad.  We have this saying:  ’He who squanders gold with his hands will search for it with his feet.’  But Sabatino is coming!  She has been as nimble as a cat.”