Something prevented his departure at the last moment, I believe.

At least so I gathered from a servant." Prada no longer laughed.

His face suddenly became grave, and he contented himself with murmuring: "Ah! so the cousin is to be of the party.

Well, we shall see them, we shall see them both!" Then, whilst the two friends went on chatting, he became silent, as if serious considerations impelled him to reflect.

And suddenly making a gesture of apology he withdrew yet farther into the embrasure in which he stood, pulled a note-book out of his pocket, and tore from it a leaf on which, without modifying his handwriting otherwise than by slightly enlarging it, he pencilled these four lines: "A legend avers that the fig tree of Judas now grows at Frascati, and that its fruit is deadly for him who may desire to become Pope.