Peter's, and they sat down at one of the little tables skirting the
pavement outside the restaurant where they had lunched once before. The
linen was none too clean, but the view was splendid. The Basilica rose up
in front of them, and the Vatican on the right, above the majestic curve
of the colonnade. Just as the waiter was bringing the /hors-d'oeuvre/,
some /finocchio/* and anchovies, the young priest, who had fixed his eyes
on the Vatican, raised an exclamation to attract Narcisse's attention:
"Look, my friend, at that window, which I am told is the Holy Father's.
Can't you distinguish a pale figure standing there, quite motionless?"
* Fennel-root, eaten raw, a favourite "appetiser" in Rome during
the spring and autumn.--Trans.
The young man began to laugh. "Oh! well," said he, "it must be the Holy
Father in person. You are so anxious to see him that your very anxiety
conjures him into your presence."
"But I assure you," repeated Pierre, "that he is over there behind the
window-pane. There is a white figure looking this way."
Narcisse, who was very hungry, began to eat whilst still indulging in
banter. All at once, however, he exclaimed: "Well, my dear Abbe, as the
Pope is looking at us, this is the moment to speak of him. I promised to
tell you how he sunk several millions of St. Peter's Patrimony in the
frightful financial crisis of which you have just seen the ruins; and,
indeed, your visit to the new district of the castle fields would not be
complete without this story by way of appendix.
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