in Rome from the years 1856 to 1860, introducing an
Italian head, whether a Madonna or sausage-seller, he can tell you the
name of the model it was painted from nine times out of ten! The fact
is, they do want a new model for the Madonna badly in Rome, for Giacinta
is growing old and fat, and Stella, since she married that cobbler, has
lost her angelic expression. The small boy who used to pose for angels
has smoked himself too yellow, and the man who stood for Charity has
gone out of business.

'I have,' said Caper to me the other day, 'too much respect for the
public to tell them who the man with red hair and beard used to pose
for; but he has taken to drinking, and it's all up with him.'

Spite of fleas, rats, squalling cats, dog-fights, squealing of horses,
and braying of donkeys, lamp-smoke, and heat or cold, the hours passed
by Caper in Gigi's old barracks were among the pleasantest of his Roman
life. There was such novelty, variety, and brilliancy in the costumes to
be sketched, that every evening was a surprise; save those nights when
Stella posed, and these were known and looked forward to in advance. She
always insured a full class, and when she first appeared, was the beauty
of all the models.

Caper was sitting one afternoon in Rocjean's studio, when there was a
tap at the door.

'_Entrate_!' shouted Rocjean, and in came a female model, called Rita.
It was the month of May, business was dull; she wanted employment.
Rocjean asked her to walk in and rest herself.

'Well, Rita, you haven't any thing to do, now that the English have all
fled from Rome before the malaria?'

'Very little. Some of the Russians are left up there in the Fratina; but
since the Signore Giovanni sold all his paintings to that rich Russian
banker, _diavolo_! he has done nothing but drink champagne, and he don't
want any more models.'

'What is the Signore Giovanni's last name?' asked Caper.

'Who knows, Signore Giacomo? I don't. We others (_noi altri_) never can
pronounce your queer names, so we find out the Italian for your first
names, and call you by that. Signore Arturo, the French artist, told me
once that the English and Russians and Germans had such hard names they
often broke their front-teeth out trying to speak them; but he was
joking. _I_ know the real, true reason for it.'

'Come, let us have it,' said Rocjean.

'_Accidente_! I won't tell you; you will be angry.'

'No we won't,' spoke Caper, 'and what is more, I