The /osteria/ was a long, low pile with a ground floor and one upper
storey, the last being reached by an outdoor stairway built of large
blocks of stone which had been scorched by the hot suns. The entire
place, indeed, was corroded, tinged with the hue of old gold. On the
ground floor one found a common room, a cart-house, and a stable with
adjoining sheds. At one side, near a cluster of parasol pines--the only
trees that could grow in that ungrateful soil--there was an arbour of
reeds where five or six rough wooden tables were set out. And, as a
background to this sorry, mournful nook of life, there arose a fragment
of an ancient aqueduct whose arches, half fallen and opening on to space,
alone interrupted the flat line of the horizon.

All at once, however, the Count retraced his steps, and, addressing
Santobono, exclaimed: "I say, Abbe, you'll surely accept a glass of white
wine. I know that you are a bit of a vine grower, and they have a little
white wine here which you ought to make acquaintance with."

Santobono again required no pressing, but quietly alighted. "Oh! I know
it," said he; "it's a wine from Marino; it's grown in a lighter soil than
ours at Frascati."

Then, as he would not relax his hold on his basket of figs, but even now
carried it along with him, the Count lost patience. "Come, you don't want
that basket," said he; "leave it in the carriage."

The priest gave no reply, but walked ahead, whilst Pierre also made up
his mind to descend from the carriage in order to see what a suburban
/osteria/ was like. Prada was known at this place, and an old woman,
tall, withered, but looking quite queenly in her wretched garments, had