Evidently he was not known there. The woman stared curiously at him as she passed the glass of curaçao for which he asked, and the man scowled. He took no notice of either, but, with his glass in his hand, made his way across the sawdust-covered floor to the most remote of the small tables.
A few feet only from him was the man who slept, or who seemed to sleep, and all around quaint shadows of the tall buildings outside stealing in through the open window almost shut the two men off from the rest of the wine shop where the gas jets hung. The Sicilian smoked on in silence; his neighbor commenced to move. Presently the woman and her admirer resumed their talk, with their heads a little closer together and their voices lowered. They were absorbed in themselves and their coarse flirtation. The man sipped more liquor, and the woman filled his glass with no sparing hand. The strong brandy ran through his veins quicker and quicker. He tried to embrace the woman, and failed, owing to the barrier between them. He tried again, and this time partially succeeded. Then he tried to clamber over the counter, but missed his footing and fell in a heap on the floor, where he lay, to all appearance, too drunk to get up—helpless and stupefied.
The woman peered over at him with a sneer on her face. Then she arranged the bottles in their places, and called out a noisy greeting to the Sicilian who was smoking silently among the shadows with only the red tip of his cigarette visible in the darkness. He made no reply. She yawned, and looked downward at the drunken man once more. There was no sign of life in his coarse face. He was wrapped deep in a drunken sleep, and he still had money in his pockets. Ah, well! It should be hers when these two strangers had gone.
She turned to a little recess behind the bar, and, approaching the wall, looked at herself in a cracked looking-glass which hung there. Something in her hair needed rearrangement, and she remained there straightening it with her fingers. From where she stood she was within hearing distance if any one descended the steps and entered the wine shop, so she did not hurry. The contemplation of her coarse features and small black eyes seemed to inspire her with a strange pleasure. She remained at the glass, turning her head from side to side with a curiously grotesque satisfaction. Then one of her large glass earrings was dull. She took it out, and rubbed it vigorously on her skirt, humming a popular tune to herself the while. The whole thing took time; but what matter? There was no one in the vault save two drunken men, and another who chose to sit in the darkness without making any response to her advances. If a fresh customer had descended the greasy stone steps, and pushed open the rickety swing door, he would have found her in her place, ready with the usual coarse greeting or jest, should he chance to be a neighbor or an acquaintance. Meanwhile, she was happy where she was.
In the wine shop itself things were not exactly as she supposed. No sooner had her back been turned, than the man near whom the Sicilian had seated himself slowly raised his head, and looked around. Assured of her departure, and after a moment's contemplation of the man who lay upon the floor to all appearance so hopelessly drunk, he turned toward the Sicilian.
"My orders, Signor," he whispered. "It is to be to-night?"
"Yes."
"The Signorina will not listen to reason, then?"
In the darkness the Sicilian felt the deep flush which stole into his olive cheeks. He was not there without an effort. In all his deeds and thoughts he had always reckoned himself as others had reckoned him, an honorable man. His presence in this place, and the means he was stooping to use, filled him with the most intense humiliation. Only one thing was stronger—his passionate love for Adrienne Cartuccio.
"Do not breathe the Signorina's name," he muttered. "Receive your instructions, but make no comments."