“Good-day, Abbé; you are well, I hope?” he asked.
“Very well, Signor Conte, I thank you.”
“And where are you going so bravely?”
“Signor Conte, I am going to Rome.”
“What! to Rome, at this late hour?”
“Oh! I shall be there nearly as soon as yourself. The distance doesn’t frighten me, and money’s quickly earned by walking.”
Scarcely turning his head to reply, stepping out beside the wheels, Santobono did not miss a stride. And Prada, diverted by the meeting, whispered to Pierre: “Wait a bit, he’ll amuse us.” Then he added aloud: “Since you are going to Rome, Abbé, you had better get in here; there’s room for you.”
Santobono required no pressing, but at once accepted the offer. “Willingly; a thousand thanks,” he said. “It’s still better to save one’s shoe leather.”
Then he got in and installed himself on the bracket-seat, declining with abrupt humility the place which Pierre politely offered him beside the Count. The young priest and the latter now saw that the object he was carrying was a little basket of fresh figs, nicely arranged and covered with leaves.
The horses set off again at a faster trot, and the carriage rolled on and on over the superb, flat plain. “So you are going to Rome?” the Count resumed in order to make Santobono talk.