“That wine is no good,” said the stout gentleman, vivaciously. “This is Genzano,” pointing to his fiasco. “I pay a small corkage and drink my own wine.”
The major-domo put a pint bottle in front of Cornélie: it was included in her pension without extra charge.
“If you like, I will give you the address where I get my wine. Via della Croce, 61.”
Cornélie thanked him. The pock-marked gentleman’s uncommon ease and vivacity diverted her.
“You’re looking at the major-domo?” he asked.
“You are a keen observer,” she smiled in reply.
“He’s a type, our major-domo, Giuseppe. He used to be major-domo in the palace of an Austrian archduke. He did I don’t know what. Stole something, perhaps. Or was impertinent. Or dropped a spoon on the floor. He has come down in the world. Now you behold him in the Pension Belloni. But the dignity of the man!”
He leant forward:
“The marchesa is economical. All the servants here are either old or very young. It’s cheaper.”
He bowed to two German ladies, a mother and daughter, who had come in and sat down beside him: