“Take this outrage back to the kitchen,” he would order. “I asked for pommes soufflées, not greasy goloshes—and get that Sauce Béarnaise remade, and be quick! I have clients waiting to be fed.”
Gian-Luca was cordially hated these days by all save Millo and his clients; but he kept the flag flying against terrific odds—he had pity neither for himself nor for others. Through all the stress and anxiety of war the Doric still stood forth proudly supreme, so that men home on leave said:
“Let’s go to the Doric; it’s the only place now where the service is decent and where you still get decent food.”
And they came in their dozens, these men home on leave, most of them still very young; some of them whole but some of them maimed, with eyes that no longer saw very clearly, or a leg that dragged between crutches.
“Hallo, Gian-Luca! Still here?” they would say, glad to find an old friend. “Well, thank the Lord, no one’s grabbed you yet—yes, all right, if you say so—it sounds jolly good—and bring us a bottle of champagne.” For they thought of him always as an Italian who was waiting to be called to his class.
Then Gian-Luca would see that they got food and wine, would see that they feasted on the fat of the Doric, for even against his will he must like them—they had seemed very different from this in the old days. Sometimes he would want to hurry away as he had that night when war was declared, but now it would be because he liked them too well. All the manhood that was in him would leap out towards them, towards the thing that they stood for. He would feel a sudden, imperative impulse to seize some brown-faced young soldier by the hand, to say:
“Take me along; I too want to fight.” But then he would remember himself and smile bitterly: “These English are not my people,” he would think. “Why should I go until I am taken? Here I am quickly making my fortune—well, why not? I am surely poorer than they are, for I have not even got a country.”
VII
Another seven months of the war dragged by, and then came conscription in England. At first they took only the unmarried men which, however, did not deceive Millo. That February he said to Gian-Luca:
“I am going to lose you quite soon—the question is, how shall I replace you when it happens?”
Gian-Luca answered. “I will stay until they fetch me.” And his mouth looked arrogant and stubborn.
“You have served me faithfully and well,” Millo told him. “I do not forget good service. You have worked like ten men to keep your rooms going, and for that I want to say that I am grateful—well, I think that is all, Gian-Luca.”
That March came the news that Riccardo had been killed. Riccardo would never come back to the Doric, in spite of that feeling in his bones.
“So now I am sure of his place,” thought Gian-Luca. He felt no particular pity for Riccardo—after all, Riccardo had died for his country, and could there be a better way to die?
But Millo was secretly grieved in his heart, for the little Alano was also dead. Oh, but many who had faithfully served the Doric would never serve it again. Day after day alone in his office sat Millo, thinking always of food; struggling with problems of luncheons and dinners, of dwindling provisions and a dwindling staff. Secretly grieved in his heart, yes, perhaps; but doggedly determined to see the thing through; for war or no war, there were people to feed, people who still expected to be fed very much as they always had been.
VIII
When Gian-Luca was conscripted in the June of that year he was conscious of a great relief; thankful that the moment had arrived at last when he no longer had any choice in the matter.
He said to Maddalena: “I am ready to go, I am ready to fight side by side with the English. There have been days lately when I have felt that I must fight. As a woman you may not understand; it is something that lies hidden in all men, I think—a kind of primitive instinct.”
And she answered: “I am only a woman, amore, and my heart is terribly afraid—and yet I am glad to think that you go—so perhaps I do understand.”
Then his mind became practical again from long habit, and he smiled contentedly at her: “I have managed to make certain of my job before going, my job will be waiting for me when I come back. I am lucky, for now I can go to the war with Millo tucked away in my pocket; he will never forget the work I have done, what the Doric owes to Gian-Luca.”
But a few days later he was greatly disturbed to find himself placed in the Army Service Corps. They said that with so much experience as a waiter, he might prove very useful to them.
“This is not what I want at all,” he protested. “I wish to go out and fight.”
“Everyone must go where they are most useful now,” was all the reply he got.
“If you had your little fancies why didn’t you enlist in
