night; and then supper, Sinbad, hashish, statues—all became a dream for Franz.
The boat sailed on all day and all night, and next morning, when the sun rose, they had lost sight of Monte Cristo.
When Franz had once again set foot on shore, he forgot, for the moment at least, the events which had just passed, while he finished his affairs of pleasure at Florence, and then thought of nothing but how he should rejoin his companion, who was awaiting him at Rome.
He set out, and on the Saturday evening reached the Place de la Douane by the mail-coach.
An apartment, as we have said, had been retained beforehand, and thus he had but to go to Signor Pastrini’s hotel. But this was not so easy a matter, for the streets were thronged with people, and Rome was already a prey to that low and feverish murmur which precedes all great events; and at Rome there are four great events in every year—the Carnival, Holy Week, Corpus Christi, and the Feast of St. Peter.
All the rest of the year the city is in that state of dull apathy, between life and death, which renders it similar to a kind of station between this world and the next—a sublime spot, a resting-place full of poetry and character, and at which Franz had already halted five or six times, and at each time found it more marvellous and striking.
At last he made his way through the mob, which was continually increasing and getting more and more turbulent, and reached the hotel. On his first inquiry he was told, with the impertinence peculiar to hired hackney-coachmen and innkeepers with their houses full, that there was no room for him at the Hôtel de Londres. Then he sent his card to Signor Pastrini, and asked for Albert de Morcerf. This plan succeeded; and Signor Pastrini himself ran to him,