Beneath our feet was the gray, ugly old palace, and its many courts, just
as void of system and as inconceivable as when we were burrowing through
its bewildering passages. No end of historical romances might be made
out of this castle of the popes; and there ought to be a ghost in every
room, and droves of them in some of the rooms; for there have been
murders here in the gross and in detail, as well hundreds of years ago,
as no longer back than the French Revolution, when there was a great
massacre in one of the courts. Traces of this bloody business were
visible in actual stains on the wall only a few years ago.
Returning to the room of the concierge, who, being a little stiff with
age, had sent an attendant round with us, instead of accompanying us in
person, he showed us a picture of Rienzi, the last of the Roman tribunes,
who was once a prisoner here. On a table, beneath the picture, stood a
little vase of earthenware containing some silver coin. We took it as a
hint, in the customary style of French elegance, that a fee should be
deposited here, instead of being put into the hand of the concierge; so
the French gentleman deposited half a franc, and I, in my magnificence,
twice as much.
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