He experienced a sense of relief when, at a bend in one of the corridors which he had selected from among many others, he found himself face to face with a priest, who held in his hand a basket filled with the petals of flowers, destined, no doubt, for the procession.

Dorsenne inquired of him the way to the Basilica in Italian, while the reply was given in perfect French.
"Perhaps you know the Marquis de Montfanon, father ?" asked the novelist.
"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.