"But what did you do on the ship?" asked Lobkowitz.
"I? I sailed on the ocean."
"Of course. But you were engaged to work. You must have done something to earn money."
"I played sixty-six with the first mate."
Finally Franck's story was extracted from him. It was by painting the portrait of the head-steward that he had lived so handsomely on the steamer and had landed on American soil with fifty dollars in his pocket, though a day later not a cent of the fifty dollars was left.
"Money's a nuisance," said Franck.
III
Up to this point a wholesome-looking waitress, in white cap and apron, had been serving. Now the Italian cook himself, Simone Brambilla, came in to bring on the dessert and cheese and inquire whether the dinner had been to the gentlemen's taste. The familiarity between masters and cook, who spoke Italian together, testified to the best relations between them. This little fragment of the artists' Italy in America enlivened them all, bringing back memories of the days they had spent in Italy, the days that signify the heyday of their youth to all German scholars and artists.
"Now then, strike up a tune, my boy!" Willy suddenly ordered the cook, "Signor Simone Brambilla, you will please perform for us now! And cantare. Understand? Ma forte not too mezza voce!" He took a mandolin from the sideboard and pressed it into the chef's arms.