He said, "I was very much interested in what you wrote about Hamlet." "In spite of the lack of commas?" I asked. "Yes, in spite of the lack of commas. But I wonder if all you wrote was true?" "How can we ever find out?" "I hate to think of him as a myth." "Please don't think of him as a myth. Think of him as you always have; otherwise you will owe me a grudge." Looking across the table to Signor Bonghi, he said: "He is a wonderful man. I like his name, too--Ruggiero Bonghi, _tout court_." "It sounds," I said, "so full of strength and power and straight to the point, with no accessories, doesn't it?" "You say that to _me_, who have twenty-four names." "Twenty-four! Dear me! Do you know them all?" "I must confess that I do not, but I will look them up in the Gotha and write them out for you." "Twenty-four," I repeated. "How out of breath the priest who baptized you must have been!" "Oh," cried the Prince, "he did not mind; he got a louis [twenty-franc piece] for each name." ROME, PALAZZO SFORZA-CESARINI, _January, 1887_. My dear Aunt,--After the reception of the Diplomats on the 1st of January we moved from Palazzo Tittoni to this, our new home. We have in the largest _salon_ an enormous and gorgeously sculptured chimneypiece which has a tiny fire-place that, when crammed full of wood, and after we have puffed our lungs out blowing on it and prodded it with tongs, etc., consents to smile and warm the chair nearest to it, but nothing else. The ceiling (a work of art of some old master) is way up in the clouds; I am almost obliged to use an opera-glass to see which are angels' or cherubs' legs up there in the blue. The figures in the corners, I suppose, represent Faith, Hope, and Charity; the fourth must be the Goddess of Plenty. She is emptying an enormous cornucopia over our heads of the most tempting fruit, which makes my mouth water and makes me wish she would drop some of it in my lap. This palace used to belong to that nice hospitable family you've heard about--_the Borgias_. I dare say they did a good deal of their poisoning in these very _salons_. We were rather agitated the other day when a hole was discovered in one of the walls. I put my hand way down in it as far as I could and pulled out a little bottle which contained some dark liquid. Poison, for sure! It looked very suspicious. Giuseppe, our Italian butler, who is as Italian as an Italian can be, was frightened out of his senses (the few he possesses) and held the bottle at arm's-length. To test the contents of the vial he put half of it in some food he gave to a thin and forlorn cat who hovered about our kitchen, and for whom Giuseppe cherished no love. However, the cat survived with eight of its lives. Then a rabbit a friend of Giuseppe's wanted to get rid of was given the rest. He also lived and thrived. After these experiments we don't think much of Borgia poisons.