There was an additional advantage in this route, which was that it would not at all distract Franz from the effects of the story which Signor Pastrini had told them -- and in which his mysterious host from the island of Monte Cristo had made an appearance. So he was able to sit, resting, in a corner of the carriage and to consider the endless succession of questions that had arisen in his mind, though without finding a satisfactory reply to any of them.

Franz had found a compromise that would allow Albert to reach the Colosseum without passing by any antique ruin, avoiding a gradual approach that might deprive the colossus of a single cubit of its massive proportions. This compromise was to go down the Via Sistina, turn due right at Santa Maria Maggiore and take the Via Urbana, past San Pietro in Vincoli, to the Via del Colosseo.

Something else, as it happens, had brought his friend Sinbad the Sailor to mind: this was the mysterious relationship between bandits and seamen. What Signor Pastrini said about Vampa taking refuge on the fishing boats and smugglers' craft reminded Franz of the two Corsican bandits whom he had found dining with the crew of the little yacht, which had gone out of its way and made land at Porto Vecchio, solely in order to put them ashore. The name which his host on Monte Cristo had given himself, spoken by the proprietor of the Hôtel de Londres, proved that he played the same philanthropic role on the coasts of Piombino, Civita Vecchia, Ostia and Gaeta as on those of Corsica, Tuscany or Spain; and, as far as Franz could remember, he had himself spoken of Tunis and Palermo, proving that he operated over a wide area.

In any case, it is impossible in Rome to avoid this over-provision of guides: apart from the general one who takes charge of you as soon as you step over the threshold of the hotel and who does not release you from his clutches until you step outside the city, there is a special guide attached to every monument; one might almost say, to every fragment of every monument. So you can well imagine that there was no shortage of them at the Colosseum, that is to say at the monument of monuments, the one of which Martial said: "Let Memphis cease to boast of the barbarous marvels of its pyramids and let them sing no more of the wonders of Babylon; everything must give precedence to the vast labour of the amphitheatre of the Caesars and all the trumpets of praise unite in admiration of this monument."

However powerfully all these ideas occupied the young man's mind, they vanished the instant he found himself confronted with the dark and massive spectre of the Colosseum, through the openings of which the moon was casting those long pale rays of light that shine from the eyes of ghosts. The carriage halted a few yards from the Mesa Sudans. The coachman came and opened the door; the two young men jumped out and found themselves confronted by a guide who seemed to have sprung up out of the earth. Since the one from the hotel had followed them, they now had two.

Franz knew the walk: he had done it ten times already. But since his less experienced companion was stepping for the first time into the monument of Flavius Vespasian, I must say to his credit that he was highly impressed, in spite of the ignorant chatter of his guides. Anyone who has not seen it can have no idea of the majesty of this ruin, its proportions doubled by the mysterious clarity of the southern moon, the rays of which give a light resembling that of a western sunset.

So, hardly had the thoughtful Franz taken a hundred paces beneath the inner arches than he abandoned Albert to the guides, who were unwilling to give up their inalienable right to show him every inch of the Lions' Pit, the Gladiators' Box and the Imperial Podium, and slipped away by a partly dilapidated staircase. Then, allowing the others to continue the usual course round the ruins, he simply went and sat at the base of a column, facing a hollow depression which allowed him to take in the full extensive majesty of the granite giant.

Franz and Albert did not try to evade this tyranny of the guides, something that would in any case have been all the more difficult, since only guides have the right to visit the Colosseum by torchlight. So they offered no resistance and yielded to their controllers, as it were bound hand and foot.

He had been there for about a quarter of an hour, seated, as I said, in the shadow of a column and lost in the contemplation of Albert who, accompanied by his two torchbearers, had just emerged from a vomitorium at the far end of the Colosseum and with them, like shadows pursuing a will-o'-the-wisp, was descending step by step towards the seats reserved for the Vestal Virgins, when Franz thought he heard a loose stone tumbling into the depths of the building from the staircase opposite the one that he had just taken to reach the place where he was sitting. No doubt there is nothing exceptional here in a stone coming away beneath the foot of time and rolling into the depths; but it seemed to him that on this occasion a man's foot was the cause and that steps were approaching him, even though the person responsible for them was doing his very best to muffle them. And, in effect, a moment later a man appeared, gradually emerging from the shadows as he came up the staircase, the opening of which was in front of Franz and lit by the moon, though its steps receded into the darkness as they went down.

It might be a traveller like himself who preferred solitary meditation to the meaningless chatter of the guides, so there should be nothing surprising in the apparition; but from the hesitant manner in which he came up the last few steps and the way that, once he had reached the landing, he stopped, seeming to be listening for something, it was clear that he had come there for some particular purpose and was expecting someone.

Franz instinctively did his utmost to melt into the shadow behind the column.

Ten feet above the level on which both of them were now standing, there was a round hole in the vaulted roof, like the opening of a well, through which could be seen the sky, bestrewn with stars. This opening had quite probably been letting in the moonlight for a hundred years and around it grew bushes whose delicate green foliage stood out sharply against the soft blue of the sky, while great creepers and huge bunches of ivy dangled down from this upper terrace and hung below the arched roof, like trailing ropes.

The person whose mysterious arrival had attracted Franz's attention was standing in the half-light, so that it was impossible to distinguish his features, but not so much as to prevent one seeing his dress: he was wrapped in a vast brown cloak, one fold of which, thrown over his left shoulder, hid the bottom part of his face, while the upper part was concealed beneath his broad-brimmed hat. Only the outer part of his clothing was lit by the glancing ray of moonlight through the opening in the roof, and it showed a pair of black trousers elegantly framing a polished shoe.

Clearly the man belonged either to the aristocracy or, at least, to the upper realms of society.

He had been there for some minutes and was starting to give visible signs of impatience, when a slight noise was heard on the terrace above. At the same moment a shadow passed in front of the light and a man appeared, framed in the hole, staring intently into the darkness beneath him. Seeing the man in the cloak, he immediately grasped a handful of the dangling creepers and hanging ivy, let himself slide down them and, at about three or four feet above the ground, leapt lightly down. He was dressed in the pure costume of Trastevere.

"You are not late; I was early," the stranger replied, in pure Tuscan. "So, no apologies. In any event, if you had kept me waiting, I should have guessed that it was for some unavoidable reason."

"You would have been right, Excellency. I have just returned from the Castel Sant' Angelo, and I found it very hard getting to speak to Beppo."

"Forgive me, Excellency," he said, in Roman dialect. "I've kept you waiting. Even so, I am only a few minutes late. Ten o'clock has just sounded at St John Lateran."

"Who is Beppo?"

"Ah, I can see you are a man of foresight."

"Beppo is an employee at the prison, to whom I pay a small sum in exchange for information about what goes on inside His Holiness's castle."

"What do you expect, Excellency! One never knows what may happen. I too might one day be caught in the same net as poor Peppino and need a rat to gnaw away the meshes of my prison."

"So, briefly, what did you learn?"

"There will be two executions on Tuesday at two o'clock, as usual in Rome at the start of an important holiday. One of the condemned will be mazzolato: this is some wretch who killed a priest who had brought him up; he deserves no pity. The other will be decapitato: that is poor Peppino."

"But Peppino does not even belong to my band. He is a poor shepherd who has committed no other crime than to supply us with food."

"Quite apart from the entertainment which I am planning and which no one expects."

"Which undeniably makes him your accomplice. But they are showing him some consideration. Instead of being beaten to death, as you would be if they ever caught you, he will merely be guillotined. In any event, this will vary the entertainment and they will have something for everyone to watch."

"What do you expect, my dear fellow? You inspire such terror, not only in the papal government, but even in the neighbouring kingdoms; they are absolutely determined to set an example."

"I shall do everything to prevent the execution of a poor devil who finds himself in this pass because he helped me. By the Madonna! I should consider myself a coward if I were not to do something for the poor boy."

"My dear friend," said the man in the cloak, "forgive me for saying this, but I suspect you may be preparing to commit some act of folly."

"Pardieu!" said the man in the cloak, in French.

"And what do you intend to do?"

"And what is your plan, Excellency?"

"Be ready, that's up to you; but you may be sure I shall have him pardoned."

"This plan seems very risky to me and I honestly believe that mine may be better."

"I shall deploy twenty men or so around the scaffold and, as soon as they bring him, give a signal; then we shall leap on the escort with daggers drawn and carry him off."

"I shall give a thousand piastres to someone I know and shall succeed in having Peppino's execution delayed until next year. At that time I shall give another thousand piastres to another person, whom I also know, and have him escape from prison."

"What I mean, my dear fellow, is that I shall do more by myself with my gold than you and all your people with their daggers, their pistols, their carbines and their blunderbusses. So let me do it."

"Are you sure this will work?"

"Willingly; but if you should fail, we shall still be ready and waiting."

"I beg your pardon?" said the Trasteveran.

"Tuesday is the day after tomorrow, so beware. You only have tomorrow."

"Perfect. And how will you deliver the pardon?"

"How will we know if you have succeeded, Excellency?"

"Yes, agreed. But there are twenty-four hours in a day, sixty minutes in an hour and sixty seconds in a minute. A lot can be done in eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds."

"Listen, Excellency," said the peasant. "I am deeply devoted to you, you know that, I suppose?"

"Simple. I have rented the last three windows in the Café Rospoli. If I have obtained a stay of execution, the two corner windows will be hung with yellow damask, but the middle one with a red cross on white damask."

"Send me one of your men, disguised as a penitent, and I shall give it to him. Dressed in that way, he will easily get to the foot of the scaffold and pass the decree to the head of the Order of Penitents, who will give it to the executioner. Meanwhile, have the news given to Peppino. We don't want him to die of fear or go mad, because in that case we would have been to a lot of needless trouble and expense on his behalf."

"It's some travellers visiting the Colosseum by torchlight."

"And if you fail to obtain it?"

"The middle window will have a damask hanging with a red cross."

"Well, then, Excellency, you will find me in your hour of need as I found you at this moment. Even if you should be in the other end of the earth, you have only to write to me: 'Do this!', and I shall do it, by my…"

"I hope so, at least."

"There would be no sense in letting them find us together. The guides are all informers and they might recognize you; honourable though your friendship is, my dear friend, if people knew that we were as close as we are, I fear that my reputation might suffer from it."

"So, if you do obtain the stay of execution?"

"Well, if you can save Peppino, it will be more than devotion from now on, it will be obedience."

"Careful what you are saying, my good friend! I may perhaps remind you of this one day, because the day may come when I shall need you in my turn…"

"Hush!" the other man said. "I can hear something."

"The yellow hangings."

"And in that case?"

He waited until the two men had got well away before replying, not wishing to let them know that there had been a witness who, even though he had not seen their faces, had not missed a word of their conversation.

"In that case, my good fellow, feel free to exercise your dagger: I give you my permission and I shall be there to see it."

"Farewell, Excellency. I am counting on you. Count on me!"

With these words, the Trasteveran disappeared down the stairway, while the stranger, wrapping his face still more tightly in his cloak, passed within a couple of yards of Franz and went down into the arena by the outside steps. A second later Franz heard his name echoing beneath the vaults: Albert was calling him.

Ten minutes later, Franz was driving back towards the Hôtel d'Espagne, listening with quite unmannerly lack of attention to the learned discourse that Albert was making, based on Pliny and Calpurnius, about the nets furnished with iron spikes which used to prevent the wild animals from pouncing on the spectators.

He let him chatter on without arguing. He was anxious to be left alone so that he could give his whole mind to what had just taken place in front of him.

One of the two men had certainly been a stranger to him, and this had been the first time he had seen or heard him; but the same was not true of the other. And, though Franz had not been able to make out the man's face, which was constantly wrapped either in darkness or in his cloak, the sound of that voice had struck him too forcibly the first time he heard it for him ever to hear it again without recognizing it. There was, above all, something strident and metallic in those mocking tones which had made him tremble in the ruins of the Colosseum as before in the caves of Monte Cristo. He was utterly convinced that the man was none other than Sinbad the Sailor.

The curiosity that the man had inspired in him was so great that in any other circumstances he would have made himself known to him; but on this occasion the conversation he had just heard was too personal for him not to be constrained by the very reasonable fear that his appearance would not be welcome. So he had let him depart, as we saw, though promising himself that, if they met again, he would not let another opportunity escape as he had this one.

Franz was too preoccupied to sleep well. He spent the night going over and over in his mind everything he knew about the man in the caves and the stranger in the Colosseum and which would support the idea that they were one and the same. And the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was.

He did not fall asleep until daybreak, which meant that he woke up very late. Albert, like a true Parisian, had already made his plans for the evening. He had sent someone to book a box at the Teatro Argentina. As Franz had several letters to write home, he abandoned the carriage to Albert for the whole day.

At five o'clock, Albert returned. He had taken round his letters of introduction, had received invitations for every evening of his stay and had seen Rome. A day had been enough for him to do all this, and he had still had time to find out what opera was being performed and with which actors.

The piece was called Parisina and the actors were named Coselli, Moriani and La Spech. As you can see, our two young men were not especially hard done by: they were going to attend a performance of one of the best operas by the author of Lucia di Lammermoor, performed by three of the most renowned artists in Italy.

Albert had never been able to get used to these Italian theatres -- to the orchestra pit where you could not walk around and to the absence of balconies or open boxes. All this was hard for a man who had his own stall in the Opéra-Bouffe and a share in the omnibus box at the Opéra; but it did not prevent Albert from dressing up outrageously every time he went to the opera with Franz -- a wasted effort; for, it must be admitted to the shame of one of the most deserving representatives of French fashion, in the four months during which he had travelled the length and breadth of Italy, Albert had not had a single romantic adventure.

He sometimes tried to joke about this, but underneath he was deeply mortified. He, Albert de Morcerf, one of the most eligible of young men, was still idly kicking his heels. It was all the more painful since, with the usual modesty of our dear compatriots, Albert had left Paris convinced that he would score the most astonishing triumphs in Italy and, on his return, delight the whole Boulevard de Gand with the story of his successes.

Yet Albert was not only a most elegant young bachelor, but also a man of considerable wit. Moreover, he was a viscount -- of the new nobility, admittedly; but nowadays, when one no longer has to prove one's title, what does it matter if it dates from 1399 or from 1815? Added to all this, he had an income of fifty thousand livres: this is more than one needs, as we can see, to be fashionable in Paris. So, all in all, it was slightly humiliating not to have been seriously noticed by anyone in the towns through which they had passed.

However, he fully intended to make up for lost time in Rome, carnival being, in every country on earth where that admirable institution is celebrated, a time of liberty when even the sternest may be led into some act of folly. So, since the carnival was due to start the following day, it was most important for Albert to present his credentials before it began.

By which I do not mean that in Italy, as everywhere, there may not be exceptions.

Alas, it had not been so. The charming Genovese, Florentine and Neapolitan countesses had chosen to stick, not with their husbands, but with their lovers, and Albert had come to the painful conclusion that Italian women at least have this over their French sisters -- that they are faithful in their infidelity.

All these considerations made Albert more lively than ever before. He turned his back on the actors, leant half out of the box and eyed all the pretty women through a pair of opera-glasses six inches long. All of this did not induce one single woman to reward all Albert's agitation with a solitary glance, even of curiosity.

Albert had an additional hope, which was that if he managed to find a place in the heart of some beautiful Roman woman, this would automatically lead to the award of a posto in her carriage and consequently he would see the carnival from the top of some aristocratic vehicle or from a princely balcony.

With this in mind, he had rented one of the most prominent boxes in the theatre and was impeccably fitted out for the occasion. They were on the first level, corresponding to our balcony; in any event, in Italy the first three floors are all as "aristocratic" as each other, which is why they are known as the "noble" parts of the auditorium. And the box, which could comfortably hold a dozen spectators, had cost the two friends a little more than a box for four people at the Ambigu.

"Yes," Franz replied. "What do you think of her?"

Towards the end of the first act, Franz looked across to a box that had until then remained empty, and saw the door open to admit a young woman to whom he had had the honour of being introduced in Paris, but who he assumed was still in France. Albert noticed his friend start at seeing this person and turned to ask him: "Do you know that woman?"

"Charming, my dear fellow, and blonde. Oh, what delightful hair! Is she French?"

Instead, the audience was thoroughly absorbed with its own affairs, loves, pleasures, or talking about the carnival which was to begin on the day after the end of Holy Week, without paying a moment's attention either to the actors or to the play, except at certain specific points when everyone would turn back towards the stage, either to listen to a section of Coselli's recitative or to applaud some virtuoso effect by Moriani, or else to cry 'bravo' to La Spech; after which the private conversations would be resumed as before.

"Venetian."

"And her name?"

"Why, do you know her well enough to take me to her box?"

"Countess G --."

"I know the name!" Albert exclaimed. "Her wit is said to be equal to her beauty. Good heavens! Just think! I could have been introduced to her at Madame de Villefort's last ball, which she attended, but I neglected to do so. What an idiot I am!"

"Well I never! But it looks to me as if you could be on very close terms with her?" said Albert.

"I have had the honour to speak to her three or four times in my life; but, you know, that's quite enough for us not to be committing any faux pas."

"Would you like me to make up for the omission?"

At this moment the countess noticed Franz and gave him a graceful wave with her hand, to which he replied by bowing respectfully.

"That's just where you're wrong, and the very thing that is constantly leading us Frenchmen into one blunder or other when we are abroad: we judge everything from a Parisian point of view. In Spain, above all in Italy, you can never tell how intimate people are by the informality of their behaviour together. The countess and I happened to find common ground, nothing more."

"On what occasion?"

"Don't you find Moriani's technique excellent?"

"But until that happens, will you introduce me to her as you promised?"

"Alone?"

"Huh!" Albert exclaimed. "That is highly diverting. Well, I promise you that if I should ever have the good fortune to accompany the beautiful countess on such a walk, I should only talk to her about the living."

"You might perhaps be wrong."

"Yes."

"My dear chap," said Franz, turning around while Albert continued to peer through his opera-glasses, "you really are too fussy."

"In the heart?" Albert asked, laughing.

"Almost."

"No, simply in the mind," Franz replied seriously.

"You know, when you've seen La Sontag and La Malibran…"

"No one could act better than La Spech."

"On the occasion of a walk in the Colosseum very much like the one we took together."

"Yes, but look how he carries himself!"

"Listen to the finale: it's splendid, and Coselli sings it exceptionally well."

"How devilish long this first act is!"

"As soon as the curtain falls."

"The dead."

"By moonlight?"

"And you spoke of…"

"I don't like brunettes who sing blonde."

At last the curtain fell, much to the satisfaction of the Vicomte de Morcerf, who took his hat, rapidly adjusted his hair, his cravat and his cuffs, and told Franz that he was waiting.

Immediately the young man sitting beside her at the front of the box got up according to the custom in Italy and gave his seat to the newcomer, who must relinquish it in his turn when a new visitor arrives.

Franz had exchanged a look with the countess, who indicated that he would be welcome, so he wasted no time in satisfying his friend's eagerness and set off round the semi-circle -- followed by Albert, who took advantage of this journey to smooth out some creases that might have appeared in his shirt collar and the lapels of his coat -- so that they eventually arrived at box No. 4, which was the one occupied by the countess.

Franz introduced Albert to the countess as one of our most distinguished young people, both for his social standing and for his wit -- all of which was true; for, in Paris, and in the society in which Albert moved, he was a model of a young gentleman. Franz added that, desperate at not having been able to take advantage of the countess's stay in Paris to obtain an introduction to her, he had asked him to repair this omission, and he was doing precisely that, while begging the countess to forgive his presumption, since he himself might have been thought to need someone formally to introduce him to the countess.

At her invitation, Albert took the empty seat at the front while Franz sat in the second row behind them. Albert had found an excellent subject of conversation: Paris. He talked to the countess of their mutual acquaintances. Franz realized that things were going well and decided to let them continue in that way; asking for the loan of Albert's gigantic opera-glasses, he began to study the audience for himself.

Franz interrupted the conversation between Albert and the countess to ask the latter if she knew the lovely Albanian woman who so much deserved to attract the attention not only of men but also of women.

She replied by greeting Albert in the most charming way and offering Franz her hand.

Sitting alone at the front of a box, at the third level facing them, was a superbly beautiful woman, dressed in Greek costume which she wore with such ease that it was clear that this style of dress was natural to her. Behind her, in the shadows, could be seen the outline of a man, though it was impossible to make out his face.

"What do you think of her, countess?"

"No," she answered. "All I do know is that she has been in Rome throughout the season, because when the theatre opened at its start I saw her where you see her now, and in the past month she has not missed a single performance, sometimes in company with the man who is with her at present, sometimes simply attended by a black servant."

"Extremely beautiful. Medora must have looked like her."

Franz and the countess exchanged a smile; she went back to her conversation with Albert, and Franz to examining his Albanian.

This ballet was called Poliska.

The curtain rose for the ballet. It was one of those fine Italian ballets directed by the celebrated Henri, who had acquired an enormous reputation as a choreographer in Italy before losing it in the nautical theatre; one of those ballets where everyone, from the principals to the chorus line, is so actively involved that one hundred and fifty dancers make the same movement at the same time, lifting the same arm or leg in perfect unison.

Franz was too preoccupied with his beautiful Greek to take any notice of the ballet, interesting though it was. As for her, she was clearly enjoying the performance, and her pleasure was in the most marked contrast to the profound indifference of the man who accompanied her. Throughout the entire length of this choreographic masterpiece he remained utterly motionless and, despite the infernal racket emanating from the trumpets, bells and cymbals, appeared to be enjoying the celestial delights of a luxurious and untroubled sleep.

At last the ballet ended and the curtain fell, amid frenzied applause from the delighted audience in the stalls.

Because of this custom of dividing up the opera with a ballet, intervals are very short in Italian theatres, as the singers have an opportunity to rest and change their costumes while the dancers are executing their pirouettes and concocting their entrechats. So the overture of the second act began and, at the first touch of the strings, Franz saw the sleeper slowly rise up and come over to the Greek woman, who turned around to speak to him, then returned to her position, leaning against the front of the box. The man's face was still in shadow and Franz could see none of his features.

The man in the box had stood up entirely and, now that his head was in the light, Franz had just once more recognized the mysterious inhabitant of Monte Cristo, the very same whose figure and voice he had so clearly recognized the evening before in the ruins of the Colosseum. There could no longer be any doubt. The strange traveller lived in Rome.

As we know, the act opens with the dream duet: in her sleep, Parisina lets slip the secret of her love for Ugo in front of Azzo. The betrayed husband goes through all the rages of jealousy until, convinced that his wife is being unfaithful to him, he wakes her up to announce his forthcoming revenge.

The curtain rose and Franz's attention was inevitably drawn to the actors, so for a moment his eyes left the box, with the beautiful Greek, and turned to the stage.

This duo is one of the most lovely, most expressive and most powerful to have come from Donizetti's fertile pen. This was the third time that Franz had heard it and, though he had no pretensions to being a fanatical opera-lover, it had a profound effect on him. So he was about to join in with the applause coming from the rest of the theatre when his hands, on the point of meeting, remained frozen opposite one another and the "Bravo!" that was on the point of emerging from his lips died before reaching them.

"Madame la Comtesse," Franz replied, "a moment ago I asked you if you knew that Albanian woman; now I am wondering if you know her husband."

"You have never noticed him before?"

"There's a very French question! You must know that for an Italian woman there is no man in the world except the one that she loves!"

"No more than I do her."

The expression on Franz's face must have reflected the turmoil that this apparition created in his mind, because the countess looked at him, burst out laughing and asked what was wrong.

"In any case," she remarked, putting Albert's opera-glasses to her eyes and turning them towards the box, "someone must have recently dug him out: he looks like a corpse which has just emerged from the tomb with the gravedigger's permission, because he is atrociously pale."

"Of course," said Franz.

"He's always like that," said Franz.

"Do you know him then?" asked the countess. "In that case I should be asking you who he is."

"I believe I have seen him before; I think I recognize him."

"I can certainly understand," she said, with a movement of her lovely shoulders as if she had felt a chill in her veins, "that when one had seen such a man once, one would never forget him."

So the feeling that Franz had experienced was not peculiar to him, since someone else also felt it.

"Well, then," Franz asked the countess, who had decided to take another look at him, "what do you think of that man?"

"He looks to me like Lord Ruthwen in flesh and blood."

Franz was struck by this new association with Byron. If any man could make one believe in vampires, this was he.

"I must find out who he is," Franz said, getting up.

"No, no!" cried the countess. "Don't leave me! I must keep you to myself because I'm counting on you to take me home."

"What! Are you serious?" Franz asked, leaning over to whisper in her ear. "Are you really afraid?"

"Listen," she said. "Lord Byron swore to me that he believed in vampires. He even told me that he had seen them and described how they look -- and that was it, exactly! The black hair, the large eyes glowing with some strange light, that deathly pallor. Then: observe that he is not with a woman like other women, but with a foreigner -- a Greek, a schismatic -- and no doubt a magician like himself. I beg you, stay with me. Go and look for him tomorrow if you must, but today I declare that I am keeping you here."

There was no reply to this, except to take his hat, open the door and offer the countess his arm, which he accordingly did.

"Don't laugh," she said. "I know that you don't really want to. But do promise me one thing."

"In truth," she said, "I am not feeling well and I need to be alone. The sight of that man has quite upset me."

The countess was genuinely quite deeply troubled, and Franz himself could not avoid feeling some superstitious terror, all the more natural in that what, with the countess, was the outcome of instinct, with him derived from memory.

"What?"

"Anything you wish, except to give up my search to discover who that man is. I have reasons, which I cannot tell you, for discovering the answer, and where he comes from, and where he is going."

"Promise."

Franz tried to laugh.

He felt her tremble as she got into her carriage. He drove her back home. There were no guests there and no one was expecting her. He reproved her.

"Listen," she said, getting up, "I am going, I cannot stay until the end of the opera because I have guests at home. Will you be so unmannerly as to refuse me your company?"

Franz insisted.

"It is to go directly back to your hotel and not to try to see that man this evening. There are certain affinities between the people that one meets and those one has just left: don't serve as a conductor between that man and me. Go after him tomorrow if you wish, but never introduce him to me, unless you want me to die of fright. And now, good-night; try to sleep. I for my part know one person who will not."

"I don't know where he comes from, but I can tell you where he is going: to hell, for certain."

"So what is the promise that you want to demand of me, countess?"

On returning to the hotel, he found Albert wearing his dressing-gown and pantaloons, contentedly lounging in an armchair and smoking a cigar. "Oh, it's you!" he said. "I swear, I didn't expect to see you until tomorrow."

"My dear Albert," Franz replied, "I am pleased to have this opportunity to tell you once and for all that you have the most erroneous notions about Italian women -- though I should have thought that your disappointments in love would have made you relinquish them by now."

With these words, she took her farewell of Franz, leaving him uncertain whether she had been enjoying a joke at his expense or if she had really felt as afraid as she claimed.

"What do you expect! It's impossible to understand the confounded creatures! They give you their hand, they press yours, they whisper to you, they allow you to accompany them home… With only a quarter of all this, a Parisian woman's reputation would be in tatters."

"Precisely! It's because they have nothing to hide and because they live their lives under the midday sun that women are so easygoing in the lovely land that rings to the sound of si, as Dante put it. In any case, you could see that the countess was really afraid."

"Afraid of what? Of that respectable gentleman sitting opposite us with the pretty Greek woman? I wanted to put my mind at rest when they left, so I crossed them in the corridor. He's a handsome young man, well turned out, who looks as if he dresses in France at Blin's or Humann's; a little pale, admittedly, but of course pallor is a mark of distinction."

Franz smiled. Albert had pretensions to looking pale. "I am convinced," Franz said, "that there is no sense in the countess's ideas about him. Did he say anything in your hearing?"

"There's no doubt; it's him."

"My good fellow," said Albert, "you have just favoured me with a look which will oblige me to demand satisfaction."

"I am ready to give it to you, my dear friend, if your idea is as ingenious as you claim."

"Probably."

"But we could get a cart?"

"So he spoke Romaic?"

"Good Lord! We've done everything humanly possible, but in vain."

"I am listening."

"Well, I've had a wonderful idea."

"None."

"What?"

"Probably."

"And a pair of oxen?"

"Listen."

"He did speak, but in Romaic. I recognized the language from some corrupted words of Greek. I must tell you, my dear fellow, that I was very good at Greek when I was at school."

"There is no means of obtaining a carriage, is there?"

Franz gave Albert the look of someone who did not have much confidence in his ideas.

"Or horses?"

"What surprise?"

"You know it's impossible to get a carriage?"

"Well, then! That's what we need. I will have the cart decorated, we can dress up as Neapolitan farmworkers and we will be a living representation of the splendid painting by Léopold Robert. If, for the sake of still greater authenticity, the countess wishes to put on the costume of a woman of Puzzoli or Sorrento, this will complete the tableau; and she is beautiful enough to represent the original of the Woman With Child."

"Or horses."

"Perhaps."

"Preparing a surprise for you!"

"Nothing. So what were you doing here?"

"And altogether French, coming direct from the Do-Nothing Kings, precisely that! Ah, you Romans! Did you think we would run around your streets on foot like lazzaroni, just because you have a shortage of horses and carriages? Not a bit of it! We'll think something up!"

"Our host. When I got back I called him up and told him what we would need. He assured me that nothing could be simpler. I wanted to have gold leaf put on the horns of the oxen, but he said it would take three days, so we'll have to do without that detail."

"Tell me then," said Albert. "Have you found us the oxen we asked for and the cart that we need?"

"Our host."

"Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Have you told anyone of this brilliant scheme yet?"

"Most certainly it's permitted," said Franz.

"So you are expecting his reply this evening?"

"Why!" Franz exclaimed. "This time you're right, Monsieur Albert: this is a really inspired idea."

On this, the door opened and Signor Pastrini put his head round. "Permesso?" he said.

"Looking for the cart. Tomorrow may be too late."

"At any moment."

"We most certainly do know it," said Albert. "It's thanks to him that we are housed like two students in the Rue Saint-Nicolas-du-Chardonnet."

"Very well. But he knows of your difficulty and has required me to offer you two places in his carriage and two places at his windows in the Palazzo Rospoli."

"What kind of man is this Count of Monte Cristo?" Franz asked the innkeeper.

"It strikes me," Franz said, "that if this man was as well-mannered as our host says, he would have found some other way to deliver his invitation, in writing, or…"

"So what do you have?" asked Franz.

Albert and Franz looked at one another. Albert said: "Should we accept this offer from a stranger, someone we don't know?"

"You know that the Count of Monte Cristo is staying on the same floor as you?"

"I have found better than that," came the self-satisfied reply.

"Beware, my dear Signor Pastrini!" said Albert. "The better is the enemy of the good."

"Let Your Excellencies trust in me," said Signor Pastrini, speaking with the voice of competence.

"A very important Sicilian or Maltese gentleman, I am not quite sure which, but as aristocratic as a Borghese and as rich as a goldmine."

At that moment there was a knock on the door.

"As their neighbour, Monsieur le Comte de Monte Cristo," the servant continued, "asks permission of these gentlemen to visit them tomorrow morning. He begs the gentlemen to be so good as to tell him at what hour they will be able to receive him."

A servant, dressed in perfectly elegant livery, appeared at the door of the room. "From the Count of Monte Cristo, to Monsieur Franz d'Epinay and Monsieur le Vicomte Albert de Morcerf," he said; and handed two cards to the innkeeper which the latter passed on to the two men.

"The deuce!" Albert exclaimed to Franz. "There's nothing more to be said."

"Come in," said Franz.

"Please inform the count," Franz replied, "that it is we who shall have the honour to visit him."

The servant went out.

"So you will accept his offer?"

"This is what you might call overwhelming us with courtesies," said Albert. "You are quite clearly right, Signor Pastrini: this Count of Monte Cristo of yours is a perfect gentleman."

"Good heavens, yes," said Albert. "Though I must admit that I rather regret our peasants on the cart. And if there was not the window in the Palazzo Rospoli to make up for what we shall be losing, I should keep to my original idea. What do you say, Franz?"

"I too say that the windows in the Palazzo Rospoli have made up my mind for me," he replied.

This offer of two places at a window in the Palazzo Rospoli had reminded Franz of the conversation which he had heard in the ruins of the Colosseum between the stranger and the man from Trastevere, in the course of which the man with the cloak had promised to win a pardon for the condemned prisoner. If, as everything led Franz to believe, the man in the cloak was the same whose appearance in the Sala Argentina had so greatly preoccupied him, he would no doubt recognize the man and nothing would then prevent him from satisfying his curiosity.

As for Albert, who had not the same reasons as Franz to wake up early, he was still fast asleep.

He spent part of the night dreaming about his two apparitions and looking forward to the next day. Then everything should become clear; this time, unless his host possessed the ring of Gyges and the power that it confers of making oneself invisible, it was clear that he would not escape. In consequence he was awake before eight o'clock.

"Oh, I assumed that Your Excellency would not wish to mingle with the common herd, which finds that a kind of natural amphitheatre."

"Perfectly timed, Excellency! I have just been brought the tavolette."

Franz called for the innkeeper, who arrived, behaving with his accustomed obsequiousness.

"No, no. In any case, if I was really anxious to see this spectacle, I suppose I could find a place on the Monte Pincio."

"What?"

"Signor Pastrini," he asked, "is there not to be an execution today?"

"Tavolette are the wooden tablets which are hung at every street-corner on the day of an execution, with a notice stuck to them giving the names of the condemned, the charge and the method of execution. These notices are intended to invite the faithful to pray that God will make the guilty men truly repentant."

"What are the tavolette?"

"Yes, Excellency, but if you are asking me to have a window, it is a bit late to start thinking about it."

"I should like to know how many condemned men there are, their names and the nature of the penalty they are to suffer."

"I shall probably not go," said Franz. "But I should like to have a few details."

"How very thoughtful!" Franz exclaimed.

"Yes," said Signor Pastrini with a smile, "I flatter myself that I do all in my power to satisfy the noble foreigners who honour me with their confidence."

"No, Excellency. I have an understanding with the bill-poster and he brings these to me as he does the advertisements for entertainments, so that if any of my guests wish to watch the execution, they can be fully informed."

"As I see, Signor Pastrini! I shall mention the fact to whoever wishes to hear it, of that you may be sure. Meanwhile, perhaps I could read one of these tavolette?"

"And these tavolette are brought to you so that you can add your prayers to those of the faithful?" Franz asked dubiously.

Let all be informed that on Tuesday, 22 February, the first day of carnival, by order of the Court of La Rota, the sentence of death will be carried out in the Piazza del Popolo on Andrea Rondolo, guilty of murder against the most respectable and venerated person of don Cesare Terlini, Canon of the Church of St John Lateran, and on Peppino, alias Rocca Priori, found guilty of complicity with the abominable bandit Luigi Vampa and his followers. The first will be mazzolato, the second decapitato. All charitable souls are requested to pray God for the sincere repentance of these two miserable creatures.

"With no trouble at all," said the innkeeper, opening the door. "I have had one put on the landing."

He went out, took down the tavoletta and handed it to Franz. Here is a literal translation of the notice:

This was precisely what Franz had heard two days earlier in the ruins of the Colosseum, and nothing had changed: the names of the condemned men, the crimes for which they were to suffer and the methods of execution were exactly the same. This meant that, in all probability, the Trasteveran was none other than the bandit Luigi Vampa and the man in the cloak Sinbad the Sailor who, in Rome as in Porto Vecchio and in Tunis, was engaged in yet another philanthropic mission.

"Very well," Franz said to the innkeeper. "Now that we are both ready, do you think, dear Monsieur Pastrini, that we might introduce ourselves to the Count of Monte Cristo?"

However, time was passing and it was nine o'clock. Franz was on his way to wake up Albert when, to his great astonishment, he saw him emerging from his room, fully dressed. The idea of carnival had passed through his head and woken him earlier than his friend could have hoped.

"Yes, indeed! The Count of Monte Cristo is in the habit of rising very early and I'm sure that he must have been up for two hours."

"And you don't think it would be at all indiscreet to go and see him at this hour?"

"In that case, Albert, if you are ready…"

"Not at all."

"Let us go and thank our neighbour for his courtesy."

"Quite ready."

"Let's go!"

"If Their Excellencies would like to sit down," said the servant, "I shall inform Monsieur le Comte." He went out of one of the doors.

Franz and Albert had only to cross the landing. The innkeeper preceded them and rang on their behalf. A servant opened. "I signori francesi," said the innkeeper. The servant bowed and ushered them in.

They crossed two rooms, furnished with a degree of luxury that they had not expected to find in Signor Pastrini's establishment, and finally arrived in a supremely elegant drawing-room. A Turkish carpet covered the floor, and there were the most comfortable seats with ample cushions and tilted backs. Fine old-master paintings hung from the walls, with splendid displays of weapons arranged between them, and tapestry hangings covered the doors.

For a moment, when the door opened, the two friends had caught the sound of a guzla, but it was immediately extinguished: the door, almost no sooner opened than closed, had as it were allowed this brief gust of music to waft into the drawing-room.

"Well?" Franz asked his friend. "What do you make of this?"

"My dear fellow, what I make of it is that either our neighbour is some stockbroker who gambled successfully on Spanish stock, or else he is a prince who is travelling incognito."

"Hush!" Franz said. "We'll soon know. Here he comes."

Franz and Albert looked at one another and then round the furniture, the pictures and the armaments. At second glance it all looked even more impressive to them than at first.

The sound of a door opening on its hinges had just reached the two visitors, and almost at once the tapestry parted to make way for the owner of all this wealth.

Albert stepped forward, but Franz remained rooted to the spot. The man who had just entered was none other than the cloaked figure in the Colosseum, the stranger in the box at the theatre and his mysterious host on the island of Monte Cristo.