“It is impossible,” said Florent; “Marquis de Montfanon....  He will never consent.  I do not exist for him.”

“That is my affair,” cried Dorsenne.  “Let me take the necessary steps in my own name, and then if he agrees you can make it in yours....  Only we have no time to lose.  Do not leave your house until six o’clock.  By that time I shall know upon what to depend.”

If, at first, the novelist had felt great confidence in the issue of his strange attempt with reference to his old friend, that confidence changed to absolute apprehension when he found himself, half an hour later, at the house which Marquis Claude Francois occupied in one of the oldest parts of Rome, from which location he could obtain an admirable view of the Forum.  How many times had Julien come, in the past six months, to that Marquis who dived constantly in the sentiment of the past, to gaze upon the tragical and grand panorama of the historical scene!  At the voice of the recluse, the broken columns rose, the ruined temples were rebuilt, the triumphal view was cleared from its mist.  He talked, and the formidable epopee of the Roman legend was evoked, interpreted by the fervent Christian in that mystical and providential sense, which all, indeed, proclaims in that spot, where the Mamertine prison relates the trial of St. Peter, where the portico of the temple of Faustine serves as a pediment to the Church of St. Laurent, where Ste.-Marie-Liberatrice rises upon the site of the Temple of Vesta—­’Sancta Maria, libera nos a poenis inferni’—­Montfanon always added when he spoke of it, and he pointed out the Arch of Titus, which tells of the fulfilment of the prophecies of Our Lord against Jerusalem, while, opposite, the groves reveal the out lines of a nunnery upon the ruins of the dwellings of the Caesars.  And, at the extreme end, the Coliseum recalls to mind the ninety thousand spectators come to see the martyrs suffer.

Such were the sights where lived the former pontifical zouave, and, on ringing the bell of the third etage, Julien said to himself:  “I am a simpleton to come to propose to such a man what I have to propose.  Yet it is not to be a second in an ordinary duel, but simply to prevent an adventure which might cost the lives of two men in the first place, then the honor of Madame Steno, and, lastly, the peace of mind of three innocent persons, Madame Gorka, Madame Maitland and my little friend Alba....  He alone has sufficient authority to arrange all.  It will be an act of charity, like any other....  I hope he is at home,” he concluded, hearing the footstep of the servant, who recognized the visitor and who anticipated all questions.

“The Marquis went out this morning before eight o’clock.  He will not return until dinner-time.”

“Do you know where he has gone?”

“To hear mass in a catacomb, and to be present at a procession,” replied the footman, who took Dorsenne’s card, adding:  “The Trappists of Saint Calixtus certainly know where the Marquis is....  He lunched with them.”