On one such occasion, Irene, to her cost, asked the price of a piece of lace. The vendor, having asked a hundred lire, followed her twice round the Piazza, lowering his price at each step, and setting out in detail all the tragic circumstances that were forcing him to part with such a treasure. He had received the lace as a present from the Marquise Abrakadabra-Abrakadabrini. This highly aristocratic name was undoubtedly familiar to the signora? His “mamma” had been the wet-nurse of the young Marchesina, so that he, Beppo, was her foster-brother. He had hoped to mend his fortunes for life by selling this priceless lace, but poverty (he spoke with great pathos, tragically smiting his chest)—poverty, signora, was obliging him to act hurriedly, and to abandon his last hope. At least, he had the one consolation of knowing that this family treasure was falling into the hands of such a sympathetic signora—“_Look out!_” he screamed suddenly, clutching hold of the shafts of a cab that threatened to run them over. He was only too happy to have been able to render the signora two services: first, that of saving her life, since, but for his intervention, the _vetturino_ would undoubtedly have run over her; and second, that of selling her, for a song, a priceless piece of lace, in which the signora would look as beautiful as a queen. When he had dropped his price from a hundred lire to twenty, Irene, only too anxious to be rid of her irksome follower, paid him, and hurried away with her purchase, for which she had not only lost all interest, but which she by that time positively detested. On her return home, she showed it to the landlord of her _pension_. He shook his head pityingly, twirled his finger in front of his nose, smacked his lips, and announced that “la pauvre signorina a été volée comme dans un bois.” Irene began to think that old, mediæval Rome had bewitched her. On many occasions, she started out with the intention of visiting some museum or picture gallery, but always it was as if some magic power was drawing her towards those dingy streets, with their stench and their dirt, and their smell of cookery, where the poor of Rome were preparing their unceremonious dinners out-of-doors. Perhaps, indeed, she may have felt that there was something in common between those gloomy localities and her own joyless life. She was greatly attracted by one grim-looking palace, situated at a particularly dingy, dirty spot, in the neighbourhood of the Ghetto. A terrible deed had once been perpetrated in this palace. Its owner, that famous Cenci, so noted for his depravity, had fallen in love with Beatrice, the daughter of his first marriage, and persecuted her with his shameful desires. The whole family rose against the mad old villain, and, under the influence of her brothers and her step-mother, Beatrice poisoned her father. The crime was discovered, Beatrice was imprisoned, made a full confession, and was executed.