“He is stranger than ever today, amico; we had better look out for trouble.”
And trouble there was on more than one occasion, especially with the Milady who was little and lovely and who liked her good food, and whose table Gian-Luca might forget to reserve, because he was worrying over Jane Coram or some other unfortunate creature.
“What is the matter?” the waiters asked each other. “He is going to pieces, our Signor Gian-Luca. He no longer takes command; a man cannot be certain of receiving an order correctly.”
But because of the splendid headwaiter that he had been, they rallied in something like pity. They who had borne his hard yoke for so long, whose smallest misdeeds had been severely censured, who had never expected mercy from Gian-Luca, must now show mercy and hide him from Millo; and in this they were led by the little Roberto—he was loyal, the little Roberto. But it could not go on, and one day in September, Millo sent for Gian-Luca.
“Deceive Signor Millo? Ma che!” sighed Roberto, “he has eyes in the back of his head!”
“In the back of his head, do you say!” snapped Giovanni, who remembered his own short period of transgression; “he has even more eyes than a peacock’s tail! I am sorry for Signor Gian-Luca.”
Millo said: “Will you please to sit down, Gian-Luca, so that we can have a little talk? It appears to me that you work badly lately, indeed I may say that you do not work at all. For the most part you stand about doing nothing, and when you do make some sort of an effort you only confuse your waiters. Moreover, I have noticed a strange thing about you—you look at our clients with pity. Now nobody comes to the Doric to be pitied; for the most part they come to amuse their stomachs, they come to forget the necessity to pity themselves or anyone else. Your waiters have been trying to shield you, I know, hoping that Millo would not see; but Millo sees all things pertaining to the Doric, and he sees that the restaurant is not what it was, and that clients grow angry because their orders are neglected—is not that so, Gian-Luca?”
Gian-Luca bowed slightly, and Millo went on to check off a list of complaints. Milady’s table, it had twice been forgotten; the Duchess’s supper, she had ordered oysters and had been given smoked salmon instead; Jane Coram’s brandy—moderation in all things, but Jane had not yet signed the pledge—Gian-Luca omitted to order her brandy if Roberto was busy, and this made her fretful, and when she was fretful she was like a spoilt child, complaining of all sorts of things. And then there was Gian-Luca’s uncontrolled face, which looked pitiful and gloomy by turns. He no longer smiled, and all clients expected a perpetual smile from their waiter.
“Dio Santo!” exclaimed Millo, “they pay for our smiles, and we make them pay high at the Doric! A smile will often cover an omission, a smile will often make good food taste better, a smile is the best appetizer in the world, and do not forget that, Gian-Luca.”
Gian-Luca nodded but found nothing to reply, for Millo was speaking the truth.
“Here we have no time for moods,” he was saying; “the man who feels moody is a nuisance at the Doric; you have been a fine waiter, but now you are a nuisance. What is the reason, Gian-Luca?”
Gian-Luca said slowly: “It is something, signore, that I find it hard to explain—a kind of great sadness has come over me lately—” And he looked at Millo with his strange light eyes as though he felt sorry for him also.
Millo frowned and tapped on the desk with his fingers: “Your nerves are out of order,” he said firmly. “What you need is a rest; you have worked hard for years, you worked like ten men before you went to France, while possessing only one body.” He paused, then went on: “I have seen Maddalena. I went to see her last week, and I want you to go to my doctor at once; you will please go not later than tomorrow. I have spoken to Daniele, he can manage quite well, at all events he must manage,” and he scribbled something on a half-sheet of paper. “Here is the doctor’s address, Gian-Luca; I have made an appointment for tomorrow at eleven. In the evening I will come and see you and Maddalena—I shall not expect you to come back to work until I have seen you again.”
VII
The next morning Gian-Luca went to see the doctor, who pronounced him to be suffering from a bad nervous breakdown. He was much too thin for a man of his height, his pulse was thready and unduly fast, he must eat nourishing food—plenty of it, said the doctor—the more he could eat the better. As for his depression, that was easily explained, it was simply the outcome of weakness. But overstrained nerves were not things to ignore, Gian-Luca must try to get some months of rest; a thorough change of air and scene was what he needed, but above all he must not worry.
“You know what I mean,” said the doctor soothingly; “get your mind off troubles, and don’t
