would dine with them at the Palace Aldobrandi. The marquise received but little society and that little consisted almost entirely of ecclesiastics.
On one occasion, however, she presented me to a German lady, a fresh convert to the faith and her intimate friend. This was a Madame de Strahlenheim, an extremely handsome person who had made Rome her dwelling-place for a long time. While these ladies were discussing the merits of a famous preacher I was scrutinizing the portrait of Lucrèce by the light of a lamp, when I thought it incumbent on me to put in my word.
"What eyes!" I exclaimed; "one would almost swear that he saw those lids move!"
At this rather high-flown hyperbole, which I put forth with a view to impress Madame de Strahlenheim with an idea of my connoisseurship, she started with affright and hid her face in her handkerchief.
"What ails you, my dear?" said the marquise.
"Ah, nothing! only what this gentleman has just said!"
She was at once overwhelmed with questions, and once she admitted that the expression I had made use of reminded her of a frightful story, she was obliged to tell it. It was briefly as follows:
Madame de Strahlenheim had a sister-in-law named Wilhelmine who was engaged to a young man of Westphalia, Julius de Katzenellenbogen, a volunteer in General Kleist's division. (It afflicts me to have to repeat so many barbarous cognomens, but it is a fact that these marvelous stories never happen except to people with unpronounceable names.)
Julius was an extremely nice young man, stuffed
