“Yes; then, if you feel like it, we can take a long walk.”
“Very good.”
They went towards the centre of the town by the Via Nazionale. It was a splendid sunny afternoon.
Preciozi went into the Altemps palace a moment; Cæsar waited for him in the street. Then, together they went over to opposite the Castel Sant’ Angelo, crossed the river, and approached the Piazza di San Pietro. The atmosphere was wonderfully clear and pure; the suave blue sky seemed to caress the pinnacles and decorations of the big square.
Preciozi met a dirty friar, dark, with a black beard and a mouth from ear to ear. The abbe showed no great desire to stop and speak with him, but the other detained him. This party wore a habit of a brown colour and carried a big umbrella under his arm.
“There’s a type!” said Cæsar, when Preciozi rejoined him.
“Yes, he is a peasant,” the abbe said with disgust.
“If that chap meets any one in the road, he plants his umbrella in his chest, and demands his money or his... eternal life.”
“Yes, he is a disagreeable man,” agreed Preciozi.
They continued their walk, through the Piazza Cavallegeri and outside the walls. As they went up one of the hills there, they could see the façade of Saint Peter’s continually nearer, with all the huge stone figures on the cornice. “The fact is that that poor Christ plays a sad rôle there in the middle,” said Cæsar.