There was no difficulty in finding it, at the end of the Corso--the inevitable "Corso" of every Italian town.

The old gentleman walked briskly along the broad, clean street, and reached the door of the church just as the sacristan was hoisting the heavy leathern curtain, preparatory to locking up for the night.
"Where can I find the Padre Curato ?" inquired the Prince.

The man looked at him but made no answer, and proceeded to close the doors with great care.

He was an old man in a shabby cassock, with four days' beard on his face, and he appeared to have taken snuff recently.
"Where is the Curator ?" repeated the Prince, plucking him by the sleeve.
But the man shook his head, and began turning the ponderous key in the lock.

Two little ragged boys were playing a game upon the church steps, piling five chestnuts in a heap and then knocking them down with a small stone.