He recited this rapidly and with much more assurance than his ordinary command of French had indicated, giving complexion to the thought, as did his gestures, that this was his public confession. Not to be outdone in civility, Markham replied:
"Mademoiselle—" he paused and changed her title to "Madame" (a discretion which the others acknowledged with nods of the head)—Madame was Yvonne Deschamps, Premièr lady musician of the world, who played five separate and distinct musical instruments at one and the same time—an artist known, as the Signor would perhaps be aware, from Sicily to Sweden, from Brittany to the Russias.
Hermia bowed.
As for himself, he was Monsieur Philidor, the lightning portrait artist, of Paris. Likenesses, two francs—soldiers, ten sous.
Signor Fabiani was glad. Madonna mia! It was not often that such persons met. Would the visitors not join him at a pitcher of Calvados which was not cooling in the stream?
Markham fastened Clarissa's halter to the wheel of the roulette near the shaggy horse, and joined Hermia, who was already at her ease by the fire and playing with the bambino. They were a jolly lot and made a fine plea for Markham's philosophy of content. Signor Fabiani brought the pitcher from the stream and Luigi cups from the house-wagon, and there they all sat, as thick as thieves, drinking healths and wishing one another a prosperous pilgrimage. The Fabiani family had never been to Alençon. This was one of the few parts of the world into which their fame had not yet spread. All the more their profit and glory! Sacro mento! They would see what they would see. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, would snap heavy chains about his chest. He would put a great stone on his stomach, and, while he supported himself on his feet and hands, Luigi would break the stone with a sledge hammer. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, would lift her far above his head, tossing her to Luigi, who would catch her upon his shoulders. And the Signora meanwhile would juggle with a piece of paper, an egg, and a cannonball. O Jesu! They should see!
He stopped and looked at Hermia. A Femme Orchestre! In all his travels in Italy he had never seen one. The signora was an artista, though. That was clear. One only had to look at her to see that. He would listen with delight to her music. And Signor Philidor—would Signor Philidor do his portrait? He would pay—
He straightened, put his enormous hand upon his chest, elbow out, and took a dramatic pose of the head. He was wonderful. Markham at once fetched his sketching materials and drew him, while the others crowded about, looking over the shoulders of Monsieur Philidor, and watched the feat accomplished. Not until it was done was Cleofonte permitted to see. It would spoil the pose.
And then! Che magnifico pitture! It was nothing short of a miracle! The nose perhaps a little shorter—but Madre Dio! what could one expect in twenty minutes! Did not the mustache need a little smoothing? Upon the morning of the performance it was Cleofonte's custom to dress it with pomatum. The cap, the earrings, the mole upon his cheek—everything was as like as possible. Si, Monsieur Philidor was a great artist—a very great artist. He, Cleofonte Fabiani, said so.
But when Philidor took the sketch from his pad and presented it to Cleofonte with his compliments, the athlete's delight knew no bounds. He shoed his teeth, and stood first upon one foot and then upon the other, the sketch held before him by the very tips of his stubby fingers. The Signora, relinquishing the bambino to Hermia, looked over his shoulder, more pleased, even, than he. After that nothing would do but that the visitors must stay for supper. Nothing much—a soup, some rye bread, peas, and lettuce, but, if they would condescend, he, Fabiani, would be highly honored. Hermia accepted with alacrity. She was hungry again. Markham smiled and glanced up at the smiling heavens, unfastened Clarissa's pack, and brought out a roasted chicken cold, a loaf of bread, a new tin pot, and a bag of coffee, which he brought to the fireside.