Having heard by chance that a famous portrait of Beatrice Cenci, the work of Guido Reni, is preserved at the Palazzo Barberini, Irene went to see it. She expected to see a queenly, tragic beauty, and found, instead, a simple girl, almost a child, in the very springtime of life—an innocent young soul to whom love and passion can as yet have had no meaning. The artist has represented her in prison, dressed in the white prisoners’ attire. Her little face is worn and drawn through sleepless nights, her beautiful eyes are red with tears, her little childish lips are swollen, just as all children’s lips are swollen when they cry. The whole touching little face seemed to say quite clearly: “Yes—I am a criminal! Everyone tells me that I must pay for my crime with my life; that I must leave the lovely world that I love so much, leave the sunshine and the birds and the flowers, and go away into a cold tomb. What can I do? I have no strength to protest! But you, who will live instead of me, do not curse poor Beatrice! Love her! Pity her!” Irene’s eyes filled with tears as she looked at this martyred child, and she hid her face under her veil to hide her emotion. Other visitors to the Palazzo Barberini were also weeping and trying to conceal their tears. “You are revenged, little Beatrice!” thought Irene. “Thousands are weeping at your sad fate, and are cursing your tyrants.” Irene soon became known in her _pension_ as the tourist who had been living in Rome for three months and had not seen the Forum. All the Englishwomen in the house, deeply shocked at this omission, persuaded, implored, and at last forcibly dragged her there. From that moment, the charms of the mediæval city vanished for her, and she lost herself entirely in the antique world.