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.

One of the rooms behind the _salon_ (so large that it is divided into
four) has the most beautiful frescoed ceiling. It is a pity that it is
so dark there that one cannot see it properly. Perhaps originally it
was a chapel and the frescoes were easier seen when the altar-candles
were burning. But can one imagine a Borgia needing a chapel or a Borgia
ever praying?

Just around the corner from us is the _campo di fiori_ (field of
flowers), where one might expect to buy flowers, but it is the one
thing you do not find there. Everything else, from church ornaments to
umbrellas, from silver candlesticks to old clothes, you can buy for a
song not so musical as Mendelssohn's "without words"; on the contrary,
the buying of the most insignificant object is accompanied by a volume
of words screamed after the non-buyer in true Jewish style.

Then around another corner you come across the Torso, made famous by
that witty tailor called Pasquino, where he placarded his satirical
witticisms; his post-office for anonymous letters!

We have just come home from the Pantheon. There is held every year for
the anniversary of King Victor Emmanuel's death a memorial service
_pour le repos de son ame_. If it had been my soul it would never have
reposed; it would have jumped up and clapped its wings to applaud the
music, which, though always beautiful, to-day was divine.

I even forgot to freeze during the long two hours we stayed in the
icy-cold building, open to wind and weather above and full of piercing
draughts below. The marble pavement, which has collected damp and mold
since 27 B.C., has long since become so wavy and uneven that you walk
very unsteadily over it;