Bab Bab 35 · The Colosseum（1）

Franz had so managed his route, that during the ride to the Colosseum

they passed not a single ancient ruin, so that no preliminary

impression interfered to mitigate the colossal proportions of the

gigantic building they came to admire. The road selected was a

continuation of the Via Sistina; then by cutting off the right angle of

the street in which stands Santa Maria Maggiore and proceeding by the

Via Urbana and San Pietro in Vincoli, the travellers would find

themselves directly opposite the Colosseum.

This itinerary possessed another great advantage,—that of leaving Franz

at full liberty to indulge his deep reverie upon the subject of Signor

Pastrini’s story, in which his mysterious host of Monte Cristo was so

strangely mixed up. Seated with folded arms in a corner of the

carriage, he continued to ponder over the singular history he had so

lately listened to, and to ask himself an interminable number of

questions touching its various circumstances without, however, arriving

at a satisfactory reply to any of them.

One fact more than the rest brought his friend “Sinbad the Sailor” back

to his recollection, and that was the mysterious sort of intimacy that

seemed to exist between the brigands and the sailors; and Pastrini’s

account of Vampa’s having found refuge on board the vessels of

smugglers and fishermen, reminded Franz of the two Corsican bandits he

had found supping so amicably with the crew of the little yacht, which

had even deviated from its course and touched at Porto-Vecchio for the

sole purpose of landing them. The very name assumed by his host of

Monte Cristo and again repeated by the landlord of the Hôtel de

Londres, abundantly proved to him that his island friend was playing

his philanthropic part on the shores of Piombino, Civita Vecchia,

Ostia, and Gaëta, as on those of Corsica, Tuscany, and Spain; and

further, Franz bethought him of having heard his singular entertainer

speak both of Tunis and Palermo, proving thereby how largely his circle

of acquaintances extended.

But however the mind of the young man might be absorbed in these

reflections, they were at once dispersed at the sight of the dark

frowning ruins of the stupendous Colosseum, through the various

openings of which the pale moonlight played and flickered like the

unearthly gleam from the eyes of the wandering dead. The carriage

stopped near the Meta Sudans; the door was opened, and the young men,

eagerly alighting, found themselves opposite a _cicerone_, who appeared

to have sprung up from the ground, so unexpected was his appearance.

The usual guide from the hotel having followed them, they had paid two

conductors, nor is it possible, at Rome, to avoid this abundant supply

of guides; besides the ordinary _cicerone_, who seizes upon you

directly you set foot in your hotel, and never quits you while you

remain in the city, there is also a special _cicerone_ belonging to

each monument—nay, almost to each part of a monument. It may,

therefore, be easily imagined there is no scarcity of guides at the

Colosseum, that wonder of all ages, which Martial thus eulogizes:

“Let Memphis cease to boast the barbarous miracles of her pyramids, and

the wonders of Babylon be talked of no more among us; all must bow to

the superiority of the gigantic labor of the Cæsars, and the many

voices of Fame spread far and wide the surpassing merits of this

incomparable monument.”

As for Albert and Franz, they essayed not to escape from their

_ciceronian_ tyrants; and, indeed, it would have been so much the more

difficult to break their bondage, as the guides alone are permitted to

visit these monuments with torches in their hands. Thus, then, the

young men made no attempt at resistance, but blindly and confidingly

surrendered themselves into the care and custody of their conductors.

Franz had already made seven or eight similar excursions to the

Colosseum, while his less favored companion trod for the first time in

his life the classic ground forming the monument of Flavius Vespasian;

and, to his credit be it spoken, his mind, even amid the glib loquacity

of the guides, was duly and deeply touched with awe and enthusiastic

admiration of all he saw; and certainly no adequate notion of these

stupendous ruins can be formed save by such as have visited them, and

more especially by moonlight, at which time the vast proportions of the

building appear twice as large when viewed by the mysterious beams of a

southern moonlit sky, whose rays are sufficiently clear and vivid to

light the horizon with a glow equal to the soft twilight of a western

clime.

Scarcely, therefore, had the reflective Franz walked a hundred steps

beneath the interior porticoes of the ruin, when, abandoning Albert to

the guides (who would by no means yield their prescriptive right of

carrying their victims through the routine regularly laid down, and as

regularly followed by them, but dragged the unconscious visitor to the

various objects with a pertinacity that admitted of no appeal,

beginning, as a matter of course, with the “Lions’ Den”, the “Hall of

the Gladiators” and finishing with “Cæsar’s Podium”), to escape a

jargon and mechanical survey of the wonders by which he was surrounded,

Franz ascended a half-dilapidated staircase, and, leaving them to

follow their monotonous round, seated himself at the foot of a column,

and immediately opposite a large aperture, which permitted him to enjoy

a full and undisturbed view of the gigantic dimensions of the majestic

ruin.

Franz had remained for nearly a quarter of an hour perfectly hidden by

the shadow of the vast column at whose base he had found a

resting-place, and from whence his eyes followed the motions of Albert

and his guides, who, holding torches in their hands, had emerged from a

vomitorium at the opposite extremity of the Colosseum, and then again

disappeared down the steps conducting to the seats reserved for the

Vestal virgins, resembling, as they glided along, some restless shades

following the flickering glare of so many _ignes fatui_. All at once

his ear caught a sound resembling that of a stone rolling down the

staircase opposite the one by which he had himself ascended. There was

nothing remarkable in the circumstance of a fragment of granite giving

way and falling heavily below; but it seemed to him that the substance

that fell gave way beneath the pressure of a foot, and also that

someone, who endeavored as much as possible to prevent his footsteps

from being heard, was approaching the spot where he sat.

Conjecture soon became certainty, for the figure of a man was

distinctly visible to Franz, gradually emerging from the staircase

opposite, upon which the moon was at that moment pouring a full tide of

silvery brightness.

The stranger thus presenting himself was probably a person who, like

Franz, preferred the enjoyment of solitude and his own thoughts to the

frivolous gabble of the guides. And his appearance had nothing

extraordinary in it; but the hesitation with which he proceeded,

stopping and listening with anxious attention at every step he took,

convinced Franz that he expected the arrival of some person.

By a sort of instinctive impulse, Franz withdrew as much as possible

behind his pillar.

About ten feet from the spot where he and the stranger were, the roof

had given way, leaving a large round opening, through which might be

seen the blue vault of heaven, thickly studded with stars.

Around this opening, which had, possibly, for ages permitted a free

entrance to the brilliant moonbeams that now illumined the vast pile,

grew a quantity of creeping plants, whose delicate green branches stood

out in bold relief against the clear azure of the firmament, while

large masses of thick, strong fibrous shoots forced their way through

the chasm, and hung floating to and fro, like so many waving strings.

The person whose mysterious arrival had attracted the attention of

Franz stood in a kind of half-light, that rendered it impossible to

distinguish his features, although his dress was easily made out. He

wore a large brown mantle, one fold of which, thrown over his left

shoulder, served likewise to mask the lower part of his countenance,

while the upper part was completely hidden by his broad-brimmed hat.

The lower part of his dress was more distinctly visible by the bright

rays of the moon, which, entering through the broken ceiling, shed

their refulgent beams on feet cased in elegantly made boots of polished

leather, over which descended fashionably cut trousers of black cloth.

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From the imperfect means Franz had of judging, he could only come to

one conclusion,—that the person whom he was thus watching certainly

belonged to no inferior station of life.

Some few minutes had elapsed, and the stranger began to show manifest

signs of impatience, when a slight noise was heard outside the aperture

in the roof, and almost immediately a dark shadow seemed to obstruct

the flood of light that had entered it, and the figure of a man was

clearly seen gazing with eager scrutiny on the immense space beneath

him; then, as his eye caught sight of him in the mantle, he grasped a

floating mass of thickly matted boughs, and glided down by their help

to within three or four feet of the ground, and then leaped lightly on

his feet. The man who had performed this daring act with so much

indifference wore the Transtevere costume.

“I beg your excellency’s pardon for keeping you waiting,” said the man,

in the Roman dialect, “but I don’t think I’m many minutes after my

time, ten o’clock has just struck by the clock of Saint John Lateran.”

“Say not a word about being late,” replied the stranger in purest

Tuscan; “’tis I who am too soon. But even if you had caused me to wait

a little while, I should have felt quite sure that the delay was not

occasioned by any fault of yours.”

“Your excellency is perfectly right in so thinking,” said the man; “I

came here direct from the Castle of St. Angelo, and I had an immense

deal of trouble before I could get a chance to speak to Beppo.”

“And who is Beppo?”

“Oh, Beppo is employed in the prison, and I give him so much a year to

let me know what is going on within his holiness’s castle.”

“Indeed! You are a provident person, I see.”

“Why, you see, no one knows what may happen. Perhaps some of these days

I may be entrapped, like poor Peppino and may be very glad to have some

little nibbling mouse to gnaw the meshes of my net, and so help me out

of prison.”

“Briefly, what did you learn?”

“That two executions of considerable interest will take place the day

after tomorrow at two o’clock, as is customary at Rome at the

commencement of all great festivals. One of the culprits will be

_mazzolato_;3 he is an atrocious villain, who murdered the priest who

brought him up, and deserves not the smallest pity. The other sufferer

is sentenced to be _decapitato_;4 and he, your excellency, is poor

Peppino.”

“The fact is, that you have inspired not only the pontifical

government, but also the neighboring states, with such extreme fear,

that they are glad of all opportunity of making an example.”

“But Peppino did not even belong to my band; he was merely a poor

shepherd, whose only crime consisted in furnishing us with provisions.”

“Which makes him your accomplice to all intents and purposes. But mark

the distinction with which he is treated; instead of being knocked on

the head as you would be if once they caught hold of you, he is simply

sentenced to be guillotined, by which means, too, the amusements of the

day are diversified, and there is a spectacle to please every

spectator.”

“Without reckoning the wholly unexpected one I am preparing to surprise

them with.”

“My good friend,” said the man in the cloak, “excuse me for saying that

you seem to me precisely in the mood to commit some wild or extravagant

act.”

“Perhaps I am; but one thing I have resolved on, and that is, to stop

at nothing to restore a poor devil to liberty, who has got into this

scrape solely from having served me. I should hate and despise myself

as a coward did I desert the brave fellow in his present extremity.”

“And what do you mean to do?”

“To surround the scaffold with twenty of my best men, who, at a signal

from me, will rush forward directly Peppino is brought for execution,

and, by the assistance of their stilettos, drive back the guard, and

carry off the prisoner.”

“That seems to me as hazardous as uncertain, and convinces me that my

scheme is far better than yours.”

“And what is your excellency’s project?”

“Just this. I will so advantageously bestow 2,000 piastres, that the

person receiving them shall obtain a respite till next year for

Peppino; and during that year, another skilfully placed 1,000 piastres

will afford him the means of escaping from his prison.”

“And do you feel sure of succeeding?”

“_Pardieu!_” exclaimed the man in the cloak, suddenly expressing

himself in French.

“What did your excellency say?” inquired the other.

“I said, my good fellow, that I would do more single-handed by the

means of gold than you and all your troop could effect with stilettos,

pistols, carbines, and blunderbusses included. Leave me, then, to act,

and have no fears for the result.”

“At least, there can be no harm in myself and party being in readiness,

in case your excellency should fail.”

“None whatever. Take what precautions you please, if it is any

satisfaction to you to do so; but rely upon my obtaining the reprieve I

seek.”

“Remember, the execution is fixed for the day after tomorrow, and that

you have but one day to work in.”

“And what of that? Is not a day divided into twenty-four hours, each

hour into sixty minutes, and every minute sub-divided into sixty

seconds? Now in 86,400 seconds very many things can be done.”

“And how shall I know whether your excellency has succeeded or not.”

“Oh, that is very easily arranged. I have engaged the three lower

windows at the Café Rospoli; should I have obtained the requisite

pardon for Peppino, the two outside windows will be hung with yellow

damasks, and the centre with white, having a large cross in red marked

on it.”

“And whom will you employ to carry the reprieve to the officer

directing the execution?”

“Send one of your men, disguised as a penitent friar, and I will give

it to him. His dress will procure him the means of approaching the

scaffold itself, and he will deliver the official order to the officer,

who, in his turn, will hand it to the executioner; in the meantime, it

will be as well to acquaint Peppino with what we have determined on, if

it be only to prevent his dying of fear or losing his senses, because

in either case a very useless expense will have been incurred.”

“Your excellency,” said the man, “you are fully persuaded of my entire

devotion to you, are you not?”

“Nay, I flatter myself that there can be no doubt of it,” replied the

cavalier in the cloak.

“Well, then, only fulfil your promise of rescuing Peppino, and

henceforward you shall receive not only devotion, but the most absolute

obedience from myself and those under me that one human being can

render to another.”

“Have a care how far you pledge yourself, my good friend, for I may

remind you of your promise at some, perhaps, not very distant period,

when I, in my turn, may require your aid and influence.”

“Let that day come sooner or later, your excellency will find me what I

have found you in this my heavy trouble; and if from the other end of

the world you but write me word to do such or such a thing, you may

regard it as done, for done it shall be, on the word and faith of——”

“Hush!” interrupted the stranger; “I hear a noise.”

“’Tis some travellers, who are visiting the Colosseum by torchlight.”

“’Twere better we should not be seen together; those guides are nothing

but spies, and might possibly recognize you; and, however I may be

honored by your friendship, my worthy friend, if once the extent of our

intimacy were known, I am sadly afraid both my reputation and credit

would suffer thereby.”

“Well, then, if you obtain the reprieve?”

“The middle window at the Café Rospoli will be hung with white damask,

bearing a red cross.”

“And if you fail?”

“Then all three windows will have yellow draperies.”

“And then?”

“And then, my good fellow, use your daggers in any way you please, and

I further promise you to be there as a spectator of your prowess.”

“We understand each other perfectly, then. Adieu, your excellency;

depend upon me as firmly as I do upon you.”

Saying these words, the Transteverin disappeared down the staircase,

while his companion, muffling his features more closely than before in

the folds of his mantle, passed almost close to Franz, and descended to

the arena by an outward flight of steps. The next minute Franz heard

himself called by Albert, who made the lofty building re-echo with the

sound of his friend’s name. Franz, however, did not obey the summons

till he had satisfied himself that the two men whose conversation he

had overheard were at a sufficient distance to prevent his encountering

them in his descent. In ten minutes after the strangers had departed,

Franz was on the road to the Piazza di Spagna, listening with studied

indifference to the learned dissertation delivered by Albert, after the

manner of Pliny and Calpurnius, touching the iron-pointed nets used to

prevent the ferocious beasts from springing on the spectators.

Franz let him proceed without interruption, and, in fact, did not hear

what was said; he longed to be alone, and free to ponder over all that

had occurred. One of the two men, whose mysterious meeting in the

Colosseum he had so unintentionally witnessed, was an entire stranger

to him, but not so the other; and though Franz had been unable to

distinguish his features, from his being either wrapped in his mantle

or obscured by the shadow, the tones of his voice had made too powerful

an impression on him the first time he had heard them for him ever

again to forget them, hear them when or where he might. It was more

especially when this man was speaking in a manner half jesting, half

bitter, that Franz’s ear recalled most vividly the deep sonorous, yet

well-pitched voice that had addressed him in the grotto of Monte

Cristo, and which he heard for the second time amid the darkness and

ruined grandeur of the Colosseum. And the more he thought, the more

entire was his conviction, that the person who wore the mantle was no

other than his former host and entertainer, “Sinbad the Sailor.”

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Under any other circumstances, Franz would have found it impossible to

resist his extreme curiosity to know more of so singular a personage,

and with that intent have sought to renew their short acquaintance; but

in the present instance, the confidential nature of the conversation he

had overheard made him, with propriety, judge that his appearance at

such a time would be anything but agreeable. As we have seen,

therefore, he permitted his former host to retire without attempting a

recognition, but fully promising himself a rich indemnity for his

present forbearance should chance afford him another opportunity.

In vain did Franz endeavor to forget the many perplexing thoughts which

assailed him; in vain did he court the refreshment of sleep. Slumber

refused to visit his eyelids and the night was passed in feverish

contemplation of the chain of circumstances tending to prove the

identity of the mysterious visitant to the Colosseum with the

inhabitant of the grotto of Monte Cristo; and the more he thought, the

firmer grew his opinion on the subject.

Worn out at length, he fell asleep at daybreak, and did not awake till

late. Like a genuine Frenchman, Albert had employed his time in

arranging for the evening’s diversion; he had sent to engage a box at

the Teatro Argentina; and Franz, having a number of letters to write,

relinquished the carriage to Albert for the whole of the day.

At five o’clock Albert returned, delighted with his day’s work; he had

been occupied in leaving his letters of introduction, and had received

in return more invitations to balls and routs than it would be possible

for him to accept; besides this, he had seen (as he called it) all the

remarkable sights at Rome. Yes, in a single day he had accomplished

what his more serious-minded companion would have taken weeks to

effect. Neither had he neglected to ascertain the name of the piece to

be played that night at the Teatro Argentina, and also what performers

appeared in it. The opera of _Parisina_ was announced for

representation, and the principal actors were Coselli, Moriani, and La

Specchia.

The young men, therefore, had reason to consider themselves fortunate

in having the opportunity of hearing one of the best works by the

composer of _Lucia di Lammermoor_, supported by three of the most

renowned vocalists of Italy.

Albert had never been able to endure the Italian theatres, with their

orchestras from which it is impossible to see, and the absence of

balconies, or open boxes; all these defects pressed hard on a man who

had had his stall at the Bouffes, and had shared a lower box at the

Opera. Still, in spite of this, Albert displayed his most dazzling and

effective costumes each time he visited the theatres; but, alas, his

elegant toilet was wholly thrown away, and one of the most worthy

representatives of Parisian fashion had to carry with him the

mortifying reflection that he had nearly overrun Italy without meeting

with a single adventure.

Sometimes Albert would affect to make a joke of his want of success;

but internally he was deeply wounded, and his self-love immensely

piqued, to think that Albert de Morcerf, the most admired and most

sought after of any young person of his day, should thus be passed

over, and merely have his labor for his pains. And the thing was so

much the more annoying, as, according to the characteristic modesty of

a Frenchman, Albert had quitted Paris with the full conviction that he

had only to show himself in Italy to carry all before him, and that

upon his return he should astonish the Parisian world with the recital

of his numerous love-affairs.

Alas, poor Albert! None of those interesting adventures fell in his

way; the lovely Genoese, Florentines, and Neapolitans were all

faithful, if not to their husbands, at least to their lovers, and

thought not of changing even for the splendid appearance of Albert de

Morcerf; and all he gained was the painful conviction that the ladies

of Italy have this advantage over those of France, that they are

faithful even in their infidelity.

Yet he could not restrain a hope that in Italy, as elsewhere, there

might be an exception to the general rule.

Albert, besides being an elegant, well-looking young man, was also

possessed of considerable talent and ability; moreover, he was a

viscount—a recently created one, certainly, but in the present day it

is not necessary to go as far back as Noah in tracing a descent, and a

genealogical tree is equally estimated, whether dated from 1399 or

merely 1815; but to crown all these advantages, Albert de Morcerf

commanded an income of 50,000 livres, a more than sufficient sum to

render him a personage of considerable importance in Paris. It was

therefore no small mortification to him to have visited most of the

principal cities in Italy without having excited the most trifling

observation.

Albert, however, hoped to indemnify himself for all these slights and

indifferences during the Carnival, knowing full well that among the

different states and kingdoms in which this festivity is celebrated,

Rome is the spot where even the wisest and gravest throw off the usual

rigidity of their lives, and deign to mingle in the follies of this

time of liberty and relaxation. The Carnival was to commence on the

morrow; therefore Albert had not an instant to lose in setting forth

the programme of his hopes, expectations, and claims to notice.

With this design he had engaged a box in the most conspicuous part of

the theatre, and exerted himself to set off his personal attractions by

the aid of the most rich and elaborate toilet. The box taken by Albert

was in the first circle; although each of the three tiers of boxes is

deemed equally aristocratic, and is, for this reason, generally styled

the “nobility’s boxes,” and although the box engaged for the two

friends was sufficiently capacious to contain at least a dozen persons,

it had cost less than would be paid at some of the French theatres for

one admitting merely four occupants.

Another motive had influenced Albert’s selection of his seat,—who knew

but that, thus advantageously placed, he might not in truth attract the

notice of some fair Roman, and an introduction might ensue that would

procure him the offer of a seat in a carriage, or a place in a princely

balcony, from which he might behold the gayeties of the Carnival?

These united considerations made Albert more lively and anxious to

please than he had hitherto been. Totally disregarding the business of

the stage, he leaned from his box and began attentively scrutinizing

the beauty of each pretty woman, aided by a powerful opera-glass; but,

alas, this attempt to attract notice wholly failed; not even curiosity

had been excited, and it was but too apparent that the lovely

creatures, into whose good graces he was desirous of stealing, were all

so much engrossed with themselves, their lovers, or their own thoughts,

that they had not so much as noticed him or the manipulation of his

glass.

The truth was, that the anticipated pleasures of the Carnival, with the

“Holy Week” that was to succeed it, so filled every fair breast, as to

prevent the least attention being bestowed even on the business of the

stage. The actors made their entries and exits unobserved or unthought

of; at certain conventional moments, the spectators would suddenly

cease their conversation, or rouse themselves from their musings, to

listen to some brilliant effort of Moriani’s, a well-executed

recitative by Coselli, or to join in loud applause at the wonderful

powers of La Specchia; but that momentary excitement over, they quickly

relapsed into their former state of preoccupation or interesting

conversation.

Towards the close of the first act, the door of a box which had been

hitherto vacant was opened; a lady entered to whom Franz had been

introduced in Paris, where indeed, he had imagined she still was. The

quick eye of Albert caught the involuntary start with which his friend

beheld the new arrival, and, turning to him, he said hastily:

“Do you know the woman who has just entered that box?”

“Yes; what do you think of her?”

“Oh, she is perfectly lovely—what a complexion! And such magnificent

hair! Is she French?”

“No; a Venetian.”

“And her name is——”

“Countess G——.”

“Ah, I know her by name!” exclaimed Albert; “she is said to possess as

much wit and cleverness as beauty. I was to have been presented to her

when I met her at Madame Villefort’s ball.”

“Shall I assist you in repairing your negligence?” asked Franz.

“My dear fellow, are you really on such good terms with her as to

venture to take me to her box?”

“Why, I have only had the honor of being in her society and conversing

with her three or four times in my life; but you know that even such an

acquaintance as that might warrant my doing what you ask.”

At that instant, the countess perceived Franz, and graciously waved her

hand to him, to which he replied by a respectful inclination of the

head. “Upon my word,” said Albert, “you seem to be on excellent terms

with the beautiful countess.”

“You are mistaken in thinking so,” returned Franz calmly; “but you

merely fall into the same error which leads so many of our countrymen

to commit the most egregious blunders,—I mean that of judging the

habits and customs of Italy and Spain by our Parisian notions; believe

me, nothing is more fallacious than to form any estimate of the degree

of intimacy you may suppose existing among persons by the familiar

terms they seem upon; there is a similarity of feeling at this instant

between ourselves and the countess—nothing more.”

“Is there, indeed, my good fellow? Pray tell me, is it sympathy of

heart?”

“No; of taste,” continued Franz gravely.

“And in what manner has this congeniality of mind been evinced?”

“By the countess’s visiting the Colosseum, as we did last night, by

moonlight, and nearly alone.”

“You were with her, then?”

“I was.”

“And what did you say to her?”

“Oh, we talked of the illustrious dead of whom that magnificent ruin is

a glorious monument!”

“Upon my word,” cried Albert, “you must have been a very entertaining

companion alone, or all but alone, with a beautiful woman in such a

place of sentiment as the Colosseum, and yet to find nothing better to

talk about than the dead! All I can say is, if ever I should get such a

chance, the living should be my theme.”

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“And you will probably find your theme ill-chosen.”

“But,” said Albert, breaking in upon his discourse, “never mind the

past; let us only remember the present. Are you not going to keep your

promise of introducing me to the fair subject of our remarks?”

“Certainly, directly the curtain falls on the stage.”

“What a confounded long time this first act lasts. I believe, on my

soul, that they never mean to finish it.”

“Oh, yes, they will; only listen to that charming finale. How

exquisitely Coselli sings his part.”

“But what an awkward, inelegant fellow he is.”

“Well, then, what do you say to La Specchia? Did you ever see anything

more perfect than her acting?”

“Why, you know, my dear fellow, when one has been accustomed to

Malibran and Sontag, such singers as these don’t make the same

impression on you they perhaps do on others.”

“At least, you must admire Moriani’s style and execution.”

“I never fancied men of his dark, ponderous appearance singing with a

voice like a woman’s.”

“My good friend,” said Franz, turning to him, while Albert continued to

point his glass at every box in the theatre, “you seem determined not

to approve; you are really too difficult to please.”

The curtain at length fell on the performances, to the infinite

satisfaction of the Viscount of Morcerf, who seized his hat, rapidly

passed his fingers through his hair, arranged his cravat and

wristbands, and signified to Franz that he was waiting for him to lead

the way.