The two men were seated, but rose and bowed as he entered. The tall fair man, who had candid blue eyes and an insinuating smile, informed Hugh, in laboured but fairly correct English, that they had been recommended to consult him by the Spanish ambassador, whose son had been cured by him last season in so marvellous a manner.
“But your highness is surely not Spanish?” asked Hugh, glancing at the card he still held between his fingers.
“The prince,” said the fair man, bowing deferentially in the direction of the dark little gentleman, who was watching them while he nervously twisted his moustache, “is from Italy—is Italien. It is madame la princesse who is from the land of chivalry. It is for madame la princesse that we come to visit you.”
Hugh bowed.
“She is not very ill, I hope?” he said, awkwardly.
He had had but little experience of the denizens of other countries, and this had been of their learned men, who have a family likeness no matter in what latitude they are born. These two élégants embarrassed him.
“How shall I explain?” said the fair man, knitting his brow and gazing at the skylight. “You speak French? No? My friend the prince speak French as Italien. I am sorry. But I tell you, monsieur le docteur, best way I can: you so clever, you understand me with all my faults. M. le prince here, he marry this lady, who is the daughter of the Duke de Saldanhés. You know his name, of course? He is great at the Court of Spain. You must surely hear that the princesse is one of the most beautiful ladies in all the world; for the papers de Société, as you call them, tell everyone that. The princesse adore M. le prince; he adore her. But soon after the noces madame becomes more delicate, and she likes not to walk or drive; she shows no inclination for the world; she goes much to the church, and gets pâle, maigre. In the truth, monsieur le docteur, she shows symptoms of being, what you call, a sainte.”
The fair man raised his eyebrows, and looked so oddly at Dr. Paull as he half-whispered the last sentence, that Hugh felt inclined to laugh.
“I fear I cannot presume to cure a disposition to sanctity, sir,” he said. His voice sounded rough, in contra-distinction to the suave, delicately-pitched tones of his interlocutor. “I try to cure nervous diseases; I cannot cure a tendency which the most exacting husband can scarcely disapprove.”
“Monsieur is Catholique?” insinuated the fair man, sweetly.