Part 27 (1/2)

”s.h.!.+” said Max, holding up his finger and looking anxiously at Alvina and Madame, who still leaned back with the stump of the thermometer jauntily perking up from her pursed mouth, while her face was rather ghastly.

Max and Louis watched anxiously. Geoffrey sat blowing the smoke down his nose, while Ciccio callously lit another cigarette, striking a match on his boot-heel and puffing from under the tip of his rather long nose. Then he took the cigarette from his mouth, turned his head, slowly spat on the floor, and rubbed his foot on his spit. Max flapped his eyelids and looked all disdain, murmuring something about ”ein schmutziges italienisches Volk,” whilst Louis, refusing either to see or to hear, framed the word ”chien” on his lips.

Then quick as lightning both turned their attention again to Madame.

Her temperature was a hundred and two.

”You'd better go to bed,” said Alvina. ”Have you eaten anything?”

”One little mouthful,” said Madame plaintively.

Max sat looking pale and stricken, Louis had hurried forward to take Madame's hand. He kissed it quickly, then turned aside his head because of the tears in his eyes. Geoffrey gulped beer in large throatfuls, and Ciccio, with his head bent, was watching from under his eyebrows.

”I'll run round for the doctor--” said Alvina.

”Don't! Don't do that, my dear! Don't you go and do that! I'm likely to a temperature--”

”Liable to a temperature,” murmured Louis pathetically.

”I'll go to bed,” said Madame, obediently rising.

”Wait a bit. I'll see if there's a fire in the bedroom,” said Alvina.

”Oh, my dear, you are too good. Open the door for her, Ciccio--”

Ciccio reached across at the door, but was too late. Max had hastened to usher Alvina out. Madame sank back in her chair.

”Never for ten years,” she was wailing. ”Quoi faire, ah, quoi faire! Que ferez-vous, mes pauvres, sans votre Kishwegin. Que vais-je faire, mourir dans un tel pays! La bonne demoiselle--la bonne demoiselle--elle a du coeur. Elle pourrait aussi etre belle, s'il y avait un peu plus de chair. Max, liebster, schau ich sehr elend aus? Ach, oh jeh, oh jeh!”

”Ach nein, Madame, ach nein. Nicht so furchtbar elend,” said Max.

”Manca il cuore solamente al Ciccio,” moaned Madame. ”Che natura povera, senza sentimento--niente di bello. Ahime, che amico, che ragazzo duro, aspero--”

”Trova?” said Ciccio, with a curl of the lip. He looked, as he dropped his long, beautiful lashes, as if he might weep for all that, if he were not bound to be misbehaving just now.

So Madame moaned in four languages as she posed pallid in her arm-chair. Usually she spoke in French only, with her young men. But this was an extra occasion.

”La pauvre Kishwegin!” murmured Madame. ”Elle va finir au monde.

Elle pa.s.se--la pauvre Kishwegin.”

Kishwegin was Madame's Red Indian name, the name under which she danced her Squaw's fire-dance.

Now that she knew she was ill, Madame seemed to become more ill. Her breath came in little pants. She had a pain in her side. A feverish flush seemed to mount her cheek. The young men were all extremely uncomfortable. Louis did not conceal his tears. Only Ciccio kept the thin smile on his lips, and added to Madame's annoyance and pain.

Alvina came down to take her to bed. The young men all rose, and kissed Madame's hand as she went out: her poor jewelled hand, that was faintly perfumed with eau de Cologne. She spoke an appropriate good-night, to each of them.

”Good-night, my faithful Max, I trust myself to you. Good-night, Louis, the tender heart. Good-night valiant Geoffrey. Ah Ciccio, do not add to the weight of my heart. Be good _braves_, all, be brothers in one accord. One little prayer for poor Kishwegin.

Good-night!”

After which valediction she slowly climbed the stairs, putting her hand on her knee at each step, with the effort.