“Indeed; I am beholden to the Signora Contessa Violante.  As you say most judiciously, Signora, it is best to speak quite plainly.  With regard to any professional services, which it might be otherwise in my power to render you, it is necessary to say at once that I am engaged in this most unhappy business on the behalf of my old client and friend the Marchese Ludovico di Castelmare.  There can be no question, therefore, of any professional remuneration to me in the matter from any other quarter.  Anything that may pass between us,” he continued, perceiving that his visitor had not fully comprehended what he sought to convey to her, “must be of the nature of private conversation, and will not entail on you,” he added, yet more plainly with a good-humoured smile, and putting his hand on her sleeve as he spoke, “any possible expense whatever.”

“Thank you kindly, sir; and, truth to say, it is not so much that I wanted to ask you to say or to do anything, as only just not to say what a many people in this city are wicked enough to say and to think,” said old Orsola, much re-assured, and persuaded that she was approaching the business in band in the most cautious and clever manner imaginable.

“I hope, Signora, that I shall not say anything which it is wicked to say; but what is it that people are wicked enough to say?” rejoined the lawyer, who knew now perfectly well what the wicked saying was.

“Why they say, Signor Dottore—­some of them—­some of them are wicked enough to say that that dear blessed child has—­it is enough to blister one’s tongue to say it—­has done that dreadful thing; Santa Maria abbia misericordia—­that murder in the forest.  O Dio mio!  Why—­”

“Is she any relative of yours, Signora, the Signorina Paolina Foscarelli?” asked the lawyer, quietly.

“No relative by blood, Signor; but she is the same to me as a daughter.  I took her when she was left an orphan—­”

“And she has lived with you ever since?”

“Ever since she has lived with me as if she was my own, Signor; and if anybody in the world ever knew another, I know her; and, bless your heart, she isn’t capable of lifting her hand against a fly, let alone a Christian.  There never was such wicked nonsense talked in this world since world it was; and I’m told, Signor Dottore, that you have said that she had been the one as did this deed; and—­”

“Stop, stop, my good Signora Orsola!  Are you aware that you are accusing me of being guilty of punishable defamation and slander?  I say that the Signorina Paolina Foscarelli committed murder?  Who on earth could ever have told you so monstrous an untruth?  Allow me to assure you that I never said anything of the kind.”

“Oh, Signor Dottore, I am so glad to hear you say so.  What lies people do tell, to be sure; I am sure it was a very good thought of the Contessa Violante to tell me to come to you; and since you say that the poor child is innocent, as innocent she is, as the child unborn—­”