“The air is treacherous in that district, and the gardens of the Villa Borghese are also to be avoided for the same reason.” “Really, Monseigneur?” “Yes, yes! I, who am Roman-born, cannot endure the climate of Rome. I prefer to go to Brussels. I was there for a year some time ago, and can think of no town that I like better. I have relations there. Tourcoing, is that a large town?” “About 40,000 inhabitants, I believe, Monseigneur. It is a manufacturing town.” “I know! I know! M. Duclou used to tell me in Rome that he could only find one fault with his flock: they drank beer. He used to say that if they would only drink the light wines of Orleans they would be the most perfect Christians in the world, but hops made them melancholy.” “M. Duclou was a very witty man.” “He disliked beer, and once I surprised him very much by telling him that it was quite popular in Italy nowadays. There are very prosperous German beer-houses in Florence, Rome, Naples, and most of the other towns. Do you like beer, M. Guitrel?” “I do not dislike it, Monseigneur.” The Nuncio gave his ring to the priest, who kissed it and took a respectful leave. The Nuncio rang the bell. “Show M. Lantaigne in.” Having kissed the ring, the director of the Grand Séminaire was invited to sit down and state his business. He said: “Monseigneur, I have sacrificed to the Pope and to necessity all the ties that bound me to the Royal House of France; I have trampled down the dearest hopes of my heart, which was only what I owed to the Father of the Faithful and the unity of the Church. If His Holiness raises me to the see of Tourcoing, I will rule it in his interest and in the interest of France. A bishop is a ruling power, and I can answer for my steadfastness and devotion.” Slowly bending his head as a sign of approbation, Monseigneur Cima asked Abbé Lantaigne whether he had been in any way acquainted with M. Duclou, the late Bishop of Tourcoing. “I only knew him slightly,” replied M. Lantaigne, “and long before his elevation to the bishopric. I remember having lent him some of my sermons when I had more of them than I knew what to do with.” “He was not young when we lost him. Do you know what caused his death?” “I do not know.” “I knew M. Duclou in Rome; he often used to play a rubber of whist with me. Have you ever been to Rome, M. Lantaigne?” “Never, Monseigneur.” “You should go. The Pope would be very pleased to see you; he likes France very much. But you must be careful when you go; the climate of Rome is bad for foreigners. During the summer malaria is rife in the countryside, and even in some parts of the city. The best season to visit Rome is the spring. I was born in Rome, of Roman parents, and I much prefer Paris or Brussels. Brussels is a very pleasant town. I have relations there. Tell me, Tourcoing, is it a very large town?”