"Ah! he is a strange man, and he gives my son too many things to do. I am afraid that there is something wrong going on. . . . . Ah, my poor boy!"
She made a step toward the door as if desirous of ending the conversation.
"No one lives here, then?" I continued, stopping her.
"Not a soul."
"And why is that?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Listen," said I, giving her a piastre, "tell me the truth. There is a woman who comes here."
"Holy Jesus, a woman!"
"Yes, I saw her last night. I spoke to her."
"Holy Madonna!" cried the old woman, making a dash for the stairs;" it must have been Madame Lucrèce! Let us go, let us go, good gentleman! I had been told that she walked by night, but I did not wish to tell you of it for fear of doing the owner a bad turn, for I thought that you were inclined to hire the house."
I could not keep her. She was in haste to leave the house, in order, she said, to carry a wax candle to the nearest church without delay. I let her go, and left the house myself, despairing of learning anything further from her.
It may be imagined that I did not tell my story at the Aldobrandi palace: the marquise was too prudish, and Don Ottavio was too much wrapped up in his politics to be a competent adviser in a love affair. I went and hunted up my painter, however, who knew all Rome, from the cedar to the hyssop, and asked him what he thought of it.
