"I am one of the chaplains of Saint Louis," said the priest, with a
smile, adding: "You will find him in the Basilica."

"Now, the moment has come," thought Dorsenne, "I must be subtle....
After all, it is charity I am about to ask him to do.... Here I am.
I recognize the staircase and the opening above."

A corner of the sky, indeed, was to be seen, and a ray of light entered
which permitted the writer to distinguish him whom he was seeking among
the few persons assembled in the ruined chapel, the most venerable of all
those which encircle Rome with a hidden girdle of sanctuaries.
Montfanon, too recognizable, alas! by the empty sleeve of his black
redingote, was seated on a chair, not very far from the altar, on which
burned enormous tapers. Priests and monks were arranging baskets filled
with petals, like those 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.