The old man crossed himself and shuffled his feet on the marble.

"The Duchess Violante," he repeated.

"The same as in the picture?"

"Eh--the same."

"But the face--what does it mean?"

He shrugged his shoulders and turned deaf eyes on me. Then he shot a glance
round the sepulchral place, clutched my sleeve and said, close to my ear:
"It was not always so."

"What was not?"

"The face--so terrible."

"The Duchess's face?"

"The statue's. It changed after--"

"After?"

"It was put here."

"The statue's face _changed_--?"

He mistook my bewilderment for incredulity and his confidential finger