Max watched her for some moments. Then suddenly he straightened himself, pushed back his brown hair that was brushed up in the German fashion, and crossed himself, dropping his knee as before an altar; crossed himself and dropped his knee once more; and then a third time crossed himself and inclined before the altar. Then he straightened himself again, and turned aside.
Louis also crossed himself. His tears burst out. He bowed and took the edge of a blanket to his lips, kissing it reverently. Then he covered his face with his hand.
Meanwhile Madame slept lightly and innocently on.
Alvina turned to go. Max silently followed, leading Louis by the arm. When they got downstairs, Max and Louis threw themselves in each other’s arms, and kissed each other on either cheek, gravely, in Continental fashion.
“She is better,” said Max gravely, in French.
“Thanks to God,” replied Louis.
Alvina witnessed all this with some amazement. The men did not heed her. Max went over and shook Geoffrey, Louis put his hand on Ciccio’s shoulder. The sleepers were difficult to wake. The wakers shook the sleeping, but in vain. At last Geoffrey began to stir. But in vain Louis lifted Ciccio’s shoulders from the table. The head and the hands dropped inert. The long black lashes lay motionless, the rather long, fine Greek nose drew the same light breaths, the mouth remained shut. Strange fine black hair, he had, close as fur, animal, and naked, frail-seeming, tawny hands. There was a silver ring on one hand.
Alvina suddenly seized one of the inert hands that slid on the tablecloth as Louis shook the young man’s shoulders. Tight she pressed the hand. Ciccio opened his tawny-yellowish eyes, that seemed to have been put in with a dirty finger, as the saying goes, owing to the sootiness of the lashes and brows. He was quite drunk with his first sleep, and saw nothing.
“Wake up,” said Alvina, laughing, pressing his hand again.
He lifted his head once more, suddenly clasped her hand, his eyes came to consciousness, his hand relaxed, he recognized her, and he sat back in his chair, turning his face aside and lowering his lashes.
“Get up, great beast,” Louis was saying softly in French, pushing him as ox-drivers sometimes push their oxen. Ciccio staggered to his feet.
“She is better,” they told him. “We are going to bed.”
They took their candles and trooped off upstairs, each one bowing to Alvina as he passed. Max solemnly, Louis gallant, the other two dumb and sleepy. They occupied the two attic chambers.
Alvina carried up the loose bed from the sofa, and slept on the floor before the fire in Madame’s room.
Madame slept well and long, rousing and stirring and settling off again. It was eight o’clock before she asked her first question. Alvina was already up.
“Oh—alors—Then I am better, I am quite well. I can dance today.”
“I don’t think today,” said Alvina. “But perhaps tomorrow.”
“No, today,” said Madame. “I can dance today, because I am quite well. I am Kishwégin.”
“You are better. But you must lie still today. Yes, really—you will find you are weak when you try to stand.”
Madame watched Alvina’s thin face with sullen eyes.
“You are an Englishwoman, severe and materialist,” she said.
Alvina started and looked round at her with wide blue eyes.
“Why?” she said. There was a wan, pathetic look about her, a sort of heroism which Madame detested, but which now she found touching.
“Come!” said Madame, stretching out her plump jewelled hand. “Come, I am an ungrateful woman. Come, they are not good for you, the people, I see it. Come to me.”
Alvina went slowly to Madame, and took the outstretched hand. Madame kissed her hand, then drew her down and kissed her on either cheek, gravely, as the young men had kissed each other.
“You have been good to Kishwégin, and Kishwégin has a heart that remembers. There, Miss Houghton, I shall do what you tell me. Kishwégin obeys you.” And Madame patted Alvina’s hand and nodded her head sagely.
“Shall I take your temperature?” said Alvina.
“Yes, my dear, you shall. You shall bid me, and I shall obey.”
So Madame lay back on her pillow, submissively pursing the thermometer between her lips and watching Alvina with black eyes.
“It’s all right,” said Alvina, as she looked at the thermometer. “Normal.”
“Normal!” reechoed Madame’s rather guttural voice. “Good! Well, then when shall I dance?”
Alvina turned and looked at her.
“I think, truly,” said Alvina, “it shouldn’t be before Thursday or Friday.”
“Thursday!” repeated Madame. “You say Thursday?” There was a note of strong rebellion in her voice.
“You’ll be so weak. You’ve only just escaped pleurisy. I can only say what I truly think, can’t I?”
“Ah, you Englishwomen,” said Madame, watching with black eyes. “I think you like to have your own way. In all things, to have your own way. And over all people. You are so good, to have your own way. Yes, you good Englishwomen. Thursday. Very well, it shall be Thursday. Till Thursday, then, Kishwégin does not exist.”
And she subsided, already rather weak, upon her pillow again. When she had taken her tea and was washed and her room was tidied, she summoned the young men. Alvina had warned Max that she wanted Madame to be kept as quiet as possible this day.
As soon as the first of the four appeared, in his shirtsleeves and his slippers, in the doorway, Madame said:
“Ah, there you are, my young men! Come in! Come in! It is not Kishwégin addresses you. Kishwégin does not exist till Thursday, as the English demoiselle makes it.” She held out her hand, faintly perfumed with eau de cologne—the whole room smelled of eau de cologne—and Max stooped his brittle spine and kissed it. She touched his cheek gently with her other hand.
“My faithful Max, my support.”
Louis came smiling with a bunch of violets and pinky anemones. He laid them down on the bed
