The Prince entered the door and stumbled up the dark stairs, and after some further palaver obtained admittance to the curate’s lodging.  The curate sat in a room which appeared to serve as dining-room, living-room, and study.  A small table was spread with a clean cloth, upon which were arranged a plate, a loaf of bread, a battered spoon, a knife, and a small measure of thin-looking wine.  A brass lamp with three wicks, one of which only was burning, shed a feeble light through the poor apartment.  Against the wall stood a rough table with an inkstand and three or four mouldy books.  Above this hung a little black cross bearing a brass Christ, and above this again a coloured print of San Bernardino of Siena.  The walls were whitewashed, and perfectly clean,—­as indeed was everything else in the room,—­and there was a sweet smell of flowers from a huge pot of pinks which had been taken in for the night, and stood upon the stone sill within the closed window.

The curate was a tall old man, with a singularly gentle face and soft brown eyes.  He wore a threadbare cassock, carefully brushed; and from beneath his three-cornered black cap his thin hair hung in a straight grey fringe.  As the Prince entered the room, the old woman called over his shoulder to the priest an uncertain formula of introduction.

“Don Paolo, c’e uno—­there is one.”  Then she retired, grumbling audibly.

The priest removed his cap, and bowing politely, offered one of the two chairs to his visitor.  With an apology, he replaced his cap upon his head, and seated himself opposite the Prince.  There was much courteous simplicity in his manner.

“In what way can I serve you, Signore?” he asked.

“These papers,” answered the Prince, drawing the famous envelope from his breast-pocket, “are copies of certain documents in your keeping, relating to the supposed marriage of one Giovanni Saracinesca.  With your very kind permission, I desire to see the originals.”

The old curate bowed, as though giving his assent, and looked steadily at his visitor for a moment before he answered.

“There is nothing simpler, my good sir.  You will pardon me, however, if I venture to inquire your name, and to ask you for what purpose you desire to consult the documents?”

“I am Leone Saracinesca of Rome—­”

The priest started uneasily.

“A relation of Giovanni Saracinesca?” he inquired.  Then he added immediately, “Will you kindly excuse me for one moment?” and left the room abruptly.  The Prince was considerably astonished, but he held his papers firmly in his hand, and did not move from his seat.  The curate returned in a few seconds, bringing with him a little painted porcelain basket, much chipped and the worse for age, and which contained a collection of visiting-cards.  There were not more than a score of them, turning brown with accumulated dust.  The priest found one which was rather newer than the rest, and after carefully adjusting a pair of huge spectacles upon his nose, he went over to the lamp and examined it.