Then the mosquito, gorged, no doubt, lay low; at any rate, Amédée, vanquished by slumber, ceased to hear it; he had taken off his comforter and was tossing in a feverish sleep; he scratched as he slept. The next morning, his nose, which was by nature aquiline, looked like the nose of a drunkard; the spot on the calf of his leg was budding like a boil and the one on his chin had developed an appearance that was volcanic--he recommended it to the particular solicitude of the barber when, before leaving Genoa, he went to be shaved, so as to be respectable when he arrived in Rome. II At Rome, as he was lingering outside the station, so tired, so lost, so perplexed that he could not decide what to do, and had only just strength enough left to repel the advances of the hotel porters, Fleurissoire was lucky enough to come upon a facchino who spoke French. Baptistin was a native of Marseilles, a young man with bright eyes and a chin that was still smooth; he recognised a fellow-countryman in Fleurissoire, and offered to guide him and carry his portmanteau. Fleurissoire had spent the long journey mugging up his Baedeker. A kind of instinct--a presentiment--an inward warning--turned his pious solicitude aside from the Vatican to concentrate it on the Castle of St. Angelo (in ancient days Hadrian’s Mausoleum), the celebrated jail which had sheltered so many illustrious prisoners of yore, and which, it seems, is connected with the Vatican by an underground passage. He gazed upon the map. “That is where I must find a lodging,” he had decided, setting his forefinger on the Tordinona quay, opposite the Castle of St. Angelo. And by a providential coincidence, that was the very place where Baptistin proposed to take him; not, that is, exactly on the quay, which is in reality nothing but an embankment, but quite near it--Via dei Vecchierelli (of the little old men), which is the third street after the Ponte Umberto, and leads straight on to the river bank; he knew of a quiet house (from the windows of the third floor, by craning forward a little, one can see the Mausoleum) where there were some very obliging ladies, who talked every language, and one in particular who knew French. “If the gentleman is tired, we can take a carriage; yes, it’s a long way.... Yes, the air is cooler this evening; it’s been raining; a little walk after a long railway journey does one good.... No, the portmanteau is not too heavy; I can easily carry it so far.... The gentleman’s first visit to Rome? He comes from Toulouse, perhaps?... No; from Pau. I ought to have recognised the accent.”