Spite of fleas, rats, squalling cats, dog-fights, squealing of horses, and braying of donkeys, lamp-smoke, and heat or cold, the hours passed by Caper in Gigi's old barracks were among the pleasantest of his Roman life. There was such novelty, variety, and brilliancy in the costumes to be sketched, that every evening was a surprise; save those nights when Stella posed, and these were known and looked forward to in advance. She always insured a full class, and when she first appeared, was the beauty of all the models. Caper was sitting one afternoon in Rocjean's studio, when there was a tap at the door. '_Entrate_!' shouted Rocjean, and in came a female model, called Rita. It was the month of May, business was dull; she wanted employment. Rocjean asked her to walk in and rest herself. 'Well, Rita, you haven't any thing to do, now that the English have all fled from Rome before the malaria?' 'Very little. Some of the Russians are left up there in the Fratina; but since the Signore Giovanni sold all his paintings to that rich Russian banker, _diavolo_! he has done nothing but drink champagne, and he don't want any more models.' 'What is the Signore Giovanni's last name?' asked Caper. 'Who knows, Signore Giacomo? I don't. We others (_noi altri_) never can pronounce your queer names, so we find out the Italian for your first names, and call you by that. Signore Arturo, the French artist, told me once that the English and Russians and Germans had such hard names they often broke their front-teeth out trying to speak them; but he was joking. _I_ know the real, true reason for it.' 'Come, let us have it,' said Rocjean. '_Accidente_! I won't tell you; you will be angry.' 'No we won't,' spoke Caper, 'and what is more, I will give you two pauls if you will tell us. I am very curious to know this reason.' '_Bene_, now the _prete_ came round to see me the other day; it was when he purified the house with holy water, and he asked me a great many questions, which I answered so artlessly, yes, so artlessly! whew! [here Miss Rita smiled artfully.] Then he asked me all about you heretics, and he told me you were all going to--be burned up, as soon as you died; for the Inquisition couldn't do it for you in these degenerate days. After a great deal more twaddle like this, I asked him why you heretics all had such hard names, that we others never could speak them? Then he looked mysterious, so! [here Miss Rita diabolically winked one eye,] and said he: 'I will tell you, _per Bacco_! hush, it's because they are so abominably wicked, never give any thing to OUR Church, never have no holy water in their houses, never go to no confession, and are such monsters generally, that their police are all the time busy trying to catch them; but their names are so hard to speak that when the police go and ask for them, nobody knows them, and so they get off; otherwise, their country would have jails in it as large as St. Peter's, and they would be full all the time!'