The Man with the Double Heart Part 34

"Toob"--he pondered upon it as at last the old servant withdrew and he leaned back against the pillows, glad of the somewhat scanty breakfast.

Presently he heard steps. A knock sounded on the door, and in came four men, staggering under a heavy burden. It proved to be an enormous bath, of the kind one a.s.sociates with a fixed base and many fittings, utterly devoid of paint. McTaggart watched with wide eyes. It was b.u.mped down before the stove, which Mario proceeded to light, and then under Beppo's guidance a sheet was spread over the vast sarcophagus and tucked in to form a lining.

Then the men filed out. The bath was filled with cold water and beside it--like a tender offspring!--a small foot-tub was arranged. From the latter a cloud of steam arose--a welcome sight to McTaggart--and on a chair before the stove was laid a garment in bath-toweling.

Mario approached the bed.

"Good morning to Him. His 'toob' is ready." He smiled with a flash of strong white teeth that lit up the olive face and lingered in the sloe-like eyes.

His tub! McTaggart solved the enigma. And what a tub! He checked a laugh as Beppo gravely took his tray with a glance in which triumph lurked.

But still Mario stood, expectant. His coat was off, his sleeves rolled up and--Beppo, lingering in the rear--he began a long respectful inquiry.

McTaggart, bewildered, shook his head. He caught the words "fregamento"--"ma.s.sage" ... Good Heavens!--they were going to bathe him!

"Non, non!"--he stammered--"solo!" He pointed to the door, confused, as the two men consulted together.

Beppo resumed his pantomime. He took Mario's strong hand and rubbed it sharply across his chest.

"Ecco! ... 'friction'?" His anxious eyes watched his master's amazed face.

"Io," said McTaggart stoutly--"always ... sempre." He waved them away.

"Grazia--ma ... _addio_!"

At this very obvious hint the two servants slowly withdrew.

McTaggart shot from his bed and turned the key in the door. Then his stifled mirth exploded and he laughed until he cried.

"That was a narrow shave," he said, staring into the huge bath. "My uncle had some funny habits--muslin night-shirts and ma.s.sage!

Horrible, this wet sheet..." He dipped a finger in and shivered.

"I'll swear there's ice in it----" he said. "Happy thought!" He took the foot-tub and poured in the boiling water.

His bath over, he dressed quickly, then rang the bell for the man, after a vain hunt for razors among the many toilette articles.

But Mario was prepared for this. He shaved McTaggart skilfully, produced powder, produced perfumes--which Peter hurriedly declined.

Then Beppo reappeared, with a message from the Marchesa. She would receive her new nephew as soon as it suited him.

He followed the "maestro di casa" to the further wing of the palace and was shown into a small boudoir hung with a striped primrose silk. The room was dainty, filled with flowers and photographs, scattered about on the modern French furniture above the delicate Aubusson carpet. On an easel under a palm, stood a large portrait in pastel of a dapper little gentleman, with a slim waist and padded shoulders. The face, old but still handsome, bore lines of dissipation around the keen dark eyes. He had grizzled hair, grey eyebrows, and a startlingly black moustache.

"My uncle, I should imagine." McTaggart was bending down to examine the picture more closely when a door on his right was opened by a smiling maid.

"Par ici, Monsieur." She stood aside for him to pa.s.s and a musical voice from the room beyond welcomed him.

"Entrez donc!--Bonjour, mon neveu..."

He stood on the threshold, tall and eager, his blue eyes opening wide, as he looked into a dainty bedroom, dim and warm and heavily scented.

Before him was a high bed, draped in black, and against the pillows, vivid, alive, in the sable setting, a young and very lovely woman.

Her hair, of a glossy raven hue, was piled loosely on her head under a boudoir cap of lace and she wore a filmy negligee, from which her arms, white and rounded, escaped beneath knots of ribbon and lay on the black satin bedspread with the effect of chiselled marble.

Her face, oval and ivory-white, was faintly amused. Her great brown eyes, languorous and insolent, swept McTaggart from head to foot.

But what absorbed his attention most was her mouth, like a curved scarlet flower blown on to her still face by a breath of Spring ... He gazed at her.

Then his wits returned to him.

He walked forward and took the hand lazily extended, stooped, and, with a happy inspiration, raised it gravely to his lips.

The Marchesa's dark eyes flashed. The red mouth smiled at him.

"Mais vous etes tr ... es bien!" She rolled her r's with Italian emphasis.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, my aunt." And, indeed, he only spoke the truth. In a flash he found a valid excuse for his late uncle's dandyism; that somewhat pathetic defiance of age beside his youthful second wife.

"You have well slept?--Had all you needed?" Her French, full of liquid vowel sounds, fell musically on his ears.

"And the 'tub'? Ah! I know the English ways. I say to Beppo: See now!--a cold bath--cold ... cold ...! That is what the English love."

She gave a clear, rippling laugh.

"And then you appear--a true Italian! Ma si!" she nodded her head gaily. "A Maramonte--Mon Dieu, I am glad!--without the teeth. You understand?"

"Not quite," McTaggart smiled back, showing a white row as he spoke.

"The English teeth--quel horreur!--that stick out like the wild boar."

The young man laughed outright.

"Oh--we aren't all as bad as that! But Italy is the land of beauty----" he gazed at her--"I am learning that."

Then, suddenly, it flashed across him that his att.i.tude was hardly correct toward a newly made widow, and the mirth died out of his blue eyes.

"I wish," he said, "that my first visit had been at a less painful moment. Believe me..." He stammered, searching for words, trying to find the proper phrase.

She watched him with a shade of malice, divining his perplexity.

"Death is sad," she said calmly. "But it has to be ... and he was old."

McTaggart started. This cold philosophy struck him as distinctly heartless, and with quick intuition she guessed his thought, a touch of sadness in her eyes.

"You think it strange I speak like that?--My nephew, wait ... I am but nineteen. The marriage was arranged for me; I left the convent to come here. Ah! I was young--too young by far!"

Under the ivory of her cheek the colour rose and into her eyes came a shrinking look, like a hurt child, remembering past punishment.

"I come here, to this ... _tomb_," she shivered as she chose the word--"so gay, so fresh ... so innocent! He had seen me once among the Sisters--his cousin was the Mother Superior...

"And then--to be alone so much. He loved Paris well, you see"--(McTaggart remembered the phrase before and the shrewd glance of the French guard)--"He did not take me even to Rome, but left me here with old Beppo. And jealous!--jealous all the time ... of his own sons--of my music master!----