Cæsar did this bit of interpreting for him. The candles were beginning to burn out and it was necessary to leave.
The cicerone took them rapidly along a gallery at whose end there was a stairway, and they issued into the sunlight. The monk extinguished the taper on his stick, and began crying:
“Now, gentlemen, do you want any scapulars, medals, chocolate?”
Cæsar looked over his companions in the expedition. The Canon was indifferent. The old maritime Breton showed signs of profound indignation, and his daughter, the little French mystic, had tears in her eyes.
“That poor little French girl, who arrived here so full of enthusiasm, has come out of these Catacombs like a rat out of a sewer,” said Cæsar.
“And why so?” asked Don Calixto.
“Because of the things the monk said. He was really scandalous.”
“It is true,” said the Canon gravely. “I never would have believed it.”
“Roma veduta, fede perduta,” said Don Calixto. “And as for you, Cæsar, hasn’t this visit interested you?”
“Yes, I have been interested in trying to keep from catching cold.”