"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."

"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