“Who was this Regina?” Ercole asked.  “What has she to do with it?”

“Regina?  She was the servant girl we had before this one.  We took her out of charity.”

“The daughter of some relation, no doubt,” Ercole suggested.

“May that never be, if it please the Madonna!” cried Paoluccio.  “A relation?  Thank God we have always been honest people in my father’s house!  No, it was not a relation.  She came of a crooked race.  Her mother took a lover, and her father killed him, here on the Frascati road, and almost killed her too; but the law gave him the right and he went free.”

“And then, what did he do?” asked Ercole, slowly putting the remains of his bread into his canvas bag.

“What did he do?  He went away and never came back.  What should he do?”

“Quite right.  And the woman, what became of her?”

“She took other men, for she had no shame.  And at last one of them was jealous, and struck her on the head with a paving stone, not meaning to kill her; but she died.”

“Oh, she died, did she?”

“She died.  For she was always spiteful.  And so that poor man went to the galleys, merely for hitting her on the head, and not meaning to kill her.”

“And you took the girl for your servant?”

“Yes.  She was old enough to work, and very strong, so we took her for charity.  But for my part, I was glad when she ran away, for she grew up handsome, and with that blood there surely would have been a scandal some day.”

“One sees that you are a very charitable person,” Ercole observed thoughtfully.  “The girl must have been very ungrateful if she told untrue stories about your inn, after all you had done for her.  You had nourished a viper in your house.”

“That is what my wife says,” Paoluccio answered, now quite calm.  “Those are my wife’s very words.  As for believing that the young man was ever in this house, I tell you that the story is a wicked lie.  Where should we have put him?  In the cellar with the hogsheads, or in the attic with the maid? or in our own room?  Tell me where we could have put him!  Or perhaps they will say that he slept on the ceiling, like the flies?  They will say anything, chattering, chattering, and coming here with their questions and their photographing machines, and their bicycles, and the souls of their dead!  If you do not believe me, you can see the place where they say that he lay!  I tell you there is not room for a cat in this house.  Believe me if you like!”

“How can I not believe such a respectable person as you seem to be?” inquired Ercole gravely.

“I thank you.  And since it happens that you are in the service of the young gentleman himself, I hope you will tell him that if he fancies he was in my house, he is mistaken.”

“Surely,” said Ercole.

“Besides,” exclaimed Paoluccio, “how could he know where he was?  Are not all inns on these roads alike?  He was in another, that is all.  And what had I to do with that?”