“So far, then, so good,” said D'Esmonde; “now, with your leave, I throw myself on this sofa and snatch an hour's sleep.” And ere Jekyl had arranged the folds of what he called his “sable pelisse” as a covering, the Abbé was in deep slumber. CHAPTER XXV. PRIESTCRAFT. With less than two hours of sleep, D'Esmonde arose refreshed and ready for the day. Jekyl was not awake as the priest quitted his quarters, and, repairing to his own lodgings, dressed himself with more than usual care. Without any of the foppery of the Abbé, there was a studied elegance in every detail of his costume, and as he stepped into the carriage which awaited him, many turned their looks of admiration at the handsome priest. “To the Crocetto,” said he, and away they went. It was already so early that few persons were about as they drove into the court of the palace, and drew up at a private door. Here D'Esmonde got out and ascended the stairs. “Ah, Monsignore!” said a young man, somewhat smartly Attired in a dressing-gown and velvet cap. “He did not return here last night.” “Indeed!” said the Abbé, pondering. “He dismissed the carriage at the Pitti, so that in all likelihood he passed the night at the palace.” “Most probably,” said D'Esmonde, with a bland smile; And then, with a courteous “Good-morning,” he returned to his carriage. “Where to, Signore?” asked the driver. “Towards the Duomo,” said he. But scarcely had the man turned the second corner, than he said, “To the 'Moskova,' Prince Midchekoffs villa.” “We 're turning our back to it, Signore. It's on the hill of Fiesole.” D'Esmonde nodded, but said no more. Although scarcely a league from the city, the way occupied a considerable time, being one continued and steep ascent. The Abbé was, however, too deeply engaged with his own thoughts to bestow attention on the pace they journeyed, or the scene around. He was far from being insensible to the influence of the picturesque or the beautiful; but now other and weightier considerations completely engrossed his mind, nor was he aware how the moments passed till the carriage came to a stop. “The Prince is absent, sir, in Lombardy,” said a gruff-looking porter from within the gate. D'Esmonde descended, and whispered some words between the bars. “But my orders----my orders!” said the man, in a tone of deference. “They would be peremptory against any other than _me_,” said D'Esmonde, calmly; and, after a few seconds' pause, the man unlocked the gate, and the carriage passed in.