And there was that of Monsignor Brando, struck down in his sacerdotal vestments at St.Peter's itself, in the very sacristy, during vespers! "Ah! _Mon Dieu_!" sighed Pierre, "you will tell me so much that I myself shall end by trembling, and sha'n't dare to eat anything but boiled eggs as long as I stay in this terrible Rome of yours." For a moment this whimsical reply enlivened both the Count and Pierre.
But it was quite true that their conversation showed Rome under a terrible aspect, for it conjured up the Eternal City of Crime, the city of poison and the knife, where for more than two thousand years, ever since the raising of the first bit of wall, the lust of power, the frantic hunger for possession and enjoyment, had armed men's hands, ensanguined the pavements, and cast victims into the river and the ground.

Assassinations and poisonings under the emperors, poisonings and assassinations under the popes, ever did the same torrent of abominations strew that tragic soil with death amidst the sovereign glory of the sun.
"All the same," said the Count, "those who take precautions are perhaps not ill advised.

It is said that more than one cardinal shudders and mistrusts people.

One whom I know will never eat anything that has not been bought and prepared by his own cook.

And as for the Pope, if he is anxious--" Pierre again raised a cry of stupefaction.