“We shall see,” said the young man to himself, somewhat disappointed.  His carriage rolled in the direction of Porte St. Sebastien, near which was the catacomb and the humble dwelling contiguous to it—­the last morsel of the Papal domains kept by the poor monks.  “Montfanon will have taken communion this morning,” thought he, “and at the very word duel he will listen to nothing more.  However, the matter must be arranged; it must be....  What would I not give to know the truth of the scene between Gorka and Florent?  By what strange and diabolical ricochet did the Palatine hit upon the latter when his business was with the brother-in-law?....  Will he be angry that I am his adversary’s second?....  Bah!...  After our conversation of the other day our friendship is ended....  Good, I am already at the little church of ’Domine, quo vadis.’—­["Lord, whither art thou going?"]—­I might say to myself:  ‘Juliane, quo vadis?’ ’To perform an act a little better than the majority of my actions,’ I might reply.”

That impressionable soul which vibrated at the slightest contact was touched by the souvenir of one of the innumerable pious legends which nineteen centuries of Catholicism have suspended at all the corners of Rome and its surrounding districts.  He recalled the touching story of St. Peter flying from persecution and meeting our Lord:  “Lord, whither art thou going?” asked the apostle.  “To be crucified a second time,” replied the Saviour, and Peter was ashamed of his weakness and returned to martyrdom.  Montfanon himself had related that episode to the novelist, who again began to reflect upon the Marquis’s character and the best means of approaching him.  He forgot to glance at the vast solitude of the Roman suburbs before him, and so deep was his reverie that he almost passed unheeded the object of his search.  Another disappointment awaited him at the first point in his voyage of exploration.

The monk who came at his ring to open the door of the inclosure contiguous to St. Calixtus, informed him that he of whom he was in search had left half an hour before.

“You will find him at the Basilica of Saint Neree and Saint Achilles,” added the Trappist; “it is the fete of those two saints, and at five o’clock there will be a procession in their catacombs....  It is a fifteen minutes’ ride from here, near the tower Marancia, on the Via Ardeatina.”

“Shall I miss him a third time?” thought Dorsenne, alighting from the carriage finally, and proceeding on foot to the opening which leads to the subterranean Necropolis dedicated to the two saints who were the eunuchs of Domitilla, the niece of Emperor Vespasian.  A few ruins and a dilapidated house alone mark the spot where once stood the pious Princess’s magnificent villa.  The gate was open, and, meeting no one who could direct him, the young man took several steps in the subterranean passage.  He perceived that the long gallery was lighted.  He entered there, saying to himself that the row of tapers, lighted