A carriage rattled down the dusty road from Florence to Rome, moving fast but not suspiciously so. Inside sat a Frenchman wrapped in a travel-worn coat, though the ribbon of the Legion of Honor on his chest still gleamed bright and new. His accent gave him away immediately, he was unmistakably French, knowing only two Italian words, "Allegro!" when they climbed hills, and "Moderato!" when they descended. The postilions found this endlessly amusing.
When they reached La Storta, where travelers usually crane their necks for their first glimpse of Saint Peter's dome, the Frenchman showed no interest. Instead, he pulled out a folded paper from his pocketbook and examined it with something close to reverence.
"Good! I still have it," he muttered to himself.
