"My dear daughter!" she cried. "Something has frightened her, or she is suddenly taken worse. She is always being taken worse, though worse from what I cannot possibly imagine. Sometimes I think it is fancy or hysteria. She is really perfectly well all the time."
At this moment the mysterious daughter appeared upon the scene, running downstairs at a speed that testified to the soundness of her limbs, whatever her state of nerves.
"A dreadful mouse," she moaned, throwing herself into her mother's capacious protection. "It ran right over my feet, across the room, and went into my little cupboard."
"Perhaps you have some cake there?" said this sensible mamma.
"A mere fragment," acknowledged the daughter.
"Poor little mouse," said the mother soothingly. "It is hungry, perhaps, and fond of cake. My dear, it will eat cake; it will not eat you."
We caught sight of our industrious host in his garden surveying his possessions, and escaped. The cook stood in his doorway in white cap and apron, a satisfactory object in all hotels. Over the slanting tiled roof grew the fruitful vine, a picture of beauty. Our host, surrounded by his birds and pigeons, was vainly imploring the nightingales to sing. They only looked at him with their little black eyes, opened their beaks, shook their heads, and said as plainly as possible that the song had left them. It would return with next year's leaves and garlands, more glorious for the rest.
"I should have liked you to hear them," said their proud owner in quite a melancholy voice. "You would have thought yourselves in Italy, as I often do."
"Or on the Rhine, or the Blue Moselle, or the Dauphiné Alps, Señor Lasoli, where the nightingales assemble in myriads, and sing and rave night and day through the weeks of spring. We have heard them."
"They are more beautiful near water," said our host. "The song gains volume and vibration by being carried across. But I have chiefly heard them in our woods on the Mediterranean shores. France to me is a sealed book. So, señor, you leave us, and I cannot even wish you to remain. To-morrow you would not be in your element. Gerona will be out of joint until we settle down again to our normal condition. I trust you will one day return, and that your friend will write an epic poem in honour of our town. It would certainly be translated and might be dedicated to the Señorita Costello. He would be fêted on his arrival; fireworks, illuminations, and municipal addresses. The hubbub of conscription would be nothing to it. At five o'clock, señor, the omnibus will be at your service."