"And what then?" I asked.
"That depends on the most illustrious Signor Cardegna," said Benoni, smiling. "He only asked you to find them. He probably did not anticipate that I would help you."
It did not appear to me that Benoni had helped me much, after all. You might as well look for a needle in a haystack as try to find anyone who goes to the Italian mountains. The baron offered no further advice, and sat calmly smoking and looking at me. I felt uneasy, opposite him. He was a mysterious person, and I thought him disguised. It was really not possible that, with his youthful manner, his hair should be naturally so white, or that he should be so old as he seemed. I asked him the question we always find it interesting to ask foreigners, hoping to lead him into conversation.
"How do you like our Rome, Baron Benoni?"
"Rome? I loathe and detest it," he said, with a smile. "There is only one place in the whole world that I hate more."
"What place is that?" I asked, remembering that he had made the same remark to Nino before.
"Jerusalem," he answered, and the smile faded on his face. I thought I guessed the reason of his dislike in his religious views. But I am very liberal about those things.
"I think I understand you," I said; "you are a Hebrew, and the prevailing form of religion is disagreeable to you."
"No, it is not exactly that,—and yet, perhaps, it is." He seemed to be pondering on the reason of his dislike.
"But why do you visit these places if they do not please you?"