“No, Signore. Whatever comes is destiny. If I have food to-day it is enough for me. Why should I bother about to-morrow’s maccheroni?”
Artois smiled. The boat was close in now to the platform of stone that projected beneath the wall of the Marina.
As he stepped out he gave the boatman a generous buonamano.
“You are quite right, comrade,” he said. “It is the greatest mistake in the world to bother about to-morrow’s maccheroni.”
CHAPTER V
Three days after Artois’ conversation with Hermione in the Grotto of Virgil the Marchesino Isidoro Panacci came smiling into his friend’s apartments in the Hotel Royal des Etrangers. He was smartly dressed in the palest possible shade of gray, with a bright pink tie, pink socks, brown shoes of the rather boat-like shape affected by many young Neopolitans, and a round straw hat, with a small brim, that was set slightly on the side of his curly head. In his mouth was a cigarette, and in his buttonhole a pink carnation. He took Artois’ hand with his left hand, squeezed it affectionately, murmured “Caro Emilio,” and sat down in an easy attitude on the sofa, putting his hat and stick on a table near by.
It was quite evident that he had come for no special reason. He had just dropped in, as he did whenever he felt inclined, to gossip with “Caro Emilio,” and it never occurred to him that possibly he might be interrupting an important piece of work. The Marchesino could not realize work. He knew his friend published books. He even saw him sometimes actually engaged in writing them, pen in hand. But he was sure anybody would far rather sit and chatter with him, or hear him play a valse on the piano, or a bit of the “Boheme,” than bend over a table all by himself. And Artois always welcomed him. He liked him. But it was not only that which made him complaisant. Doro was a type, and a singularly perfect one.
Now Artois laid down his pen, and pulled forward an arm-chair opposite to the sofa.
“Mon Dieu, Doro! How fresh you look, like a fish just pulled out of the sea!”