“The doctor will soon be here.”
“The doctor?” cried the old lady, striking her fan on the marble top of the table. “Who permitted you, Belotti—”
“We are Christians,” interrupted the servant, not without dignity.
“Very well, very well,” she cried. “Do what you please, call whom you choose, but Henrica can’t stay here. Contagion in the house, the plague, a black tablet.”
“Excellenza is disturbing herself unnecessarily. Let us first hear what the doctor says.”
“I won’t hear him; I can’t bear the plague and the small-pox. Go down at once, Belotti, and have the sedan-chair prepared. The old chevalier’s room in the rear building is empty.”
“But, Excellenza, it’s gloomy, and so damp that the north wall is covered with mould.”
“Then let it be aired and cleaned. What does this delay mean? You have only to obey. Do you understand?”
“The chevalier’s room isn’t fit for my mistress’s sick niece,” replied Belotti civilly, but resolutely.
“Isn’t it? And you know exactly?” asked his mistress scornfully. “Go down, Denise, and order the sedan-chair to be brought up. Have you anything more to say, Belotti?”