“Then, not another word, we will say no more about it. When the time comes, you will write to me and say: ‘Don Calixto, the moment has arrived for you to remember your promise: I want to be a Deputy.’”
“Very good. I will do it, and you shall present me as candidate for Castro... Castro... what?”
“Castro Duro.”
“You will see me there then.”
“All right. And now, another favour. There is a Canon from Zamora here, a friend of mine, who came on the pilgrimage and who desires nothing so much as to see Saint Peter’s and the Catacombs rather thoroughly. I could explain everything to him, but I am not sure about the dates. Will you come with us?”
“With great pleasure.”
“Then we shall expect you here at ten.”
“That will be fine.”
Sure enough, at ten Cæsar was there. Don Calixto and his friend the Canon Don Justo, who was a large gentleman, tall and fleshy and with a long nose, were waiting. The three got into the carriage.
“I hope this priest isn’t going to be one of those library rats who know everything on earth,” thought Cæsar, but when he heard him make a couple of mistakes in grammar, he became tranquil.