"Signor Squadra," said Pierre, and without a word the gendarme pointed to the stairs.
The young man went up.

It was a broad stairway, with low steps, balustrade of white marble, and walls covered with yellowish stucco.

The gas, burning in globes of round glass, seemed to have been already turned down in a spirit of prudent economy.

And in the glimmering light nothing could have been more mournfully solemn than that cold and pallid staircase.

On each landing there was a Swiss Guard, halbard in hand, and in the heavy slumber spreading through the palace one only heard the regular monotonous footsteps of these men, ever marching up and down, in order no doubt that they might not succumb to the benumbing influence of their surroundings.
Amidst the invading dimness and the quivering silence the ascent of the stairs seemed interminable to Pierre, who by the time he reached the second-floor landing imagined that he had been climbing for ages.