of the chaplain, whom Dorsenne had just met.  A group of three curious visitors commented in whispers upon the paintings, scarcely visible on the discolored stucco of the ceiling.  Montfanon was entirely absorbed in the book which he held in his one hand.  The large features of his face, ennobled and almost transfigured by the ardor of devotion, gave him the admirable expression of an old Christian soldier.  ’Bonus miles Christi’—­a good soldier of Christ—­had been inscribed upon the tomb of the chief under whom he had been wounded at Patay.  One would have taken him for a guardian layman of the tombs of the martyrs, capable of confessing his faith like them, even to the death.  And when Julien determined to approach and to touch him lightly on the shoulder, he saw that, in the nobleman’s clear, blue eyes, ordinarily so gay, and sometimes so choleric, sparkled unshed tears.  His voice, too, naturally sharp, was softened by the emotion of the thought which his reading, the place, the time, the occupation of his day had awakened within him.

“Ah, you here?” said he to his young friend, without any astonishment.  “You have come for the procession.  That is well.  You will hear sung the lovely lines:  ’Hi sunt quos fatue mundus abhorruit.”  He pronounced ou as u, ‘a l’Italienne’; for his liturgic training had been received in Rome.  “The season is favorable for the ceremonies.  The tourists have gone.  There will only be people here who pray and who feel, like you....  And to feel is half of prayer.  The other half is to believe.  You will become one of us.  I have always predicted it.  There is no peace but here.”

“I would gladly have come only for the procession,” replied Dorsenne, “but my visit has another motive, dear friend,” said he, in a still lower tone.  “I have been seeking for you for more than an hour, that you might aid me in rendering a great service to several people, in preventing a very great misfortune, perhaps.”

“I can help you to prevent a very great misfortune?” repeated Montfanon.

“Yes,” replied Dorsenne, “but this is not the place in which to explain to you the details of the long and terrible adventure....  At what hour is the ceremony?  I will wait for you, and tell it to you on leaving here.”

“It does not begin until five o’clock-five-thirty,” said Montfanon, looking at his watch, “and it is now fifteen minutes past four.  Let us leave the catacomb, if you wish, and you can repeat your story to me up above.  A very great misfortune?  Well,” he added, pressing the hand of the young man whom, personally, he liked as much as he detested his views, “rest assured, my dear child, we will prevent it!”

There was in the manner in which he uttered those words the tranquillity of a mind which knows not uneasiness, that of a believer who feels sure of always accomplishing all that he wishes to do.  It would not have been Montfanon, that is to say, a species of visionary, who loved to argue with Dorsenne, because he knew that in spite of all he was understood, if he had not continued, as they walked along the lighted corridor, while remounting toward daylight: