The fiddler rose from his chair, smoothing his hat, silently, with the cuff of his coat. He stood there, whimsical and piteous, as if the sense that he had still something to urge mingled with that of his having received his dismissal, and both of them were tinged with the oddity of another idea. “That’s exactly what I am afraid of!” he exclaimed. Then he added, continuing to look at her, “But he must be very fond of life.”
The Princess took no notice of the insinuation contained in these words, and indeed it was of a sufficiently impalpable character. “Leave him to me—leave him to me. I am sorry for your anxiety, but it was very good of you to come to see me. That has been interesting, because you have been one of our friend’s influences.”
“Unfortunately, yes! If it had not been for me, he would not have known Poupin, and if he hadn’t known Poupin he wouldn’t have known his chemical friend—what’s his name? Muniment.”
“And has that done him harm, do you think?” the Princess asked. She had got up.
“Surely: that fellow has been the main source of his infection.”
“I lose patience with you,” said the Princess, turning away.
And indeed her visitor’s persistence was irritating. He went on, lingering, with his head thrust forward and his short arms out at his sides, terminating in his hat and umbrella, which he held grotesquely, as if they were intended for emphasis or illustration: “I have supposed for a long time that it was either Muniment or you that had got him into his scrape. It was you I suspected most—much the most; but if it isn’t you, it must be he.”
“You had better go to him, then!”
“Of course I will go to him. I scarcely know him—I have seen him but once—but I will speak my mind.”
The Princess rang for her maid to usher the fiddler out, but at the moment he laid his hand on the door of the room she checked him with a quick gesture. “Now that I think of it, don’t go to Mr Muniment. It will be better to leave him quiet. Leave him to me,” she added, smiling.