At the portal of the château I hesitated for a moment. I had grown suspicious, and suddenly it occurred to me that this might be some other little practical joke, and part of the programme; but I dismissed the thought as base. The countess was a woman—a sick woman; deception in that line was impossible, at least in my profession. I could not be "jumped."
In the château everybody went on tiptoe, as usual when Diodora had her nervous attacks, but I did not heed that. My step was as firm as ever; the reverberation of the physician's step is soothing to the patient, and fills him with hope and assurance.
The servant conducted me to the room in which Countess Flamma sat; the adjacent room was that of the sufferer. Flamma sat reading before the lamp when I entered. She laid down the book, got up, and extended her hand. "Diodora expects you impatiently. She is more excited than ever, and has just driven out Cenni because she smelt of wine."
"So Cenni was here already, possibly for the sake of an alibi."
"Don't speak of that! She told me all that has occurred. Have you drunk wine also, or is your breath pure? Bend down a little, so. You are all right, and I'll take you to Diodora; only wait here a little."
She went in, but returned instantly, and beckoned me to follow her into a boudoir lighted by a lamp with a shade of green glass. Rich tapestry hangings divided the apartment. Flamma drew the hangings partly aside, motioned me to go near, and left the room, softly closing the entrance.
So I was here on that sacred spot, the first and only male being alive who had ever been granted the privilege of seeing the sublime Diodora on her couch. Only her head and arms were visible—such arms as might have been lost by the Venus of Milo and found by this, her divine sister. The thick tresses of raven hair were uncoiled and scattered in rich skeins on the pillows and the coverlet. One of the silken coils fell down heavily to the carpet, and another was thrown high over the sculptured ornaments of the mahogany bedstead. It was an embarras de richesses rarely met with; and in the rich and precious braids the ivory fingers were clutched, dishevelling them, tearing at them, in the excess of pain. The beautiful face was pale and lustrous, the eyes bright and glittering, surrounded by broad, dark blue circles; the lips were parted, and the breath came short. Her hands were hot and dry, and the pulse beat intermittently. When I laid my hand on her head and my thumb pressed against the crown, she groaned—"Yes, there it is. Hell itself, with all its tortures!"
My hands went down on her neck, between the musculus cucullaris and the sternocleido mastoideus. "Ah, that is the way the pain goes down," she sighed; and when I asked, "Will your ladyship give me leave to make use of my skill?" she answered, "Don't call me 'ladyship'! I am no countess now; I am nothing but a suffering animal, and you may call me what you please. Give me the title of dog, so you can help me."
"Then pray sit up first, and let me gather and secure your hair; it hinders my movements."
She obeyed; and, while I gathered the loose tresses and coiled them around the head, the coverlet slipped down unnoticed, and the lace nightgown, torn open by the restless fingers, revealed the marble bust and shoulders; but for the physician, in the execution of his professional duty, female charms do not exist. The warm, soft, creamy skin is nothing to him but epidermis, stratum mucosum Malpighii; the white, sculptured neck only the regio nuchæ, and then comes the regio scapularis, the deltoidea, and then the sacrospinalis.