CHAPTER VIII
The Hotel du Lac may be approached in two ways. The ordinary, obviousway, which incoming tourists of necessity choose, is by the highroad andthe gate. But the romantic way is by water. One sees only the garden thenand the garden is the distinguished feature of the place; it was plannedlong before the hotel was built to adorn a marquis's pleasure house.There are grottos, arbors, fountains, a winding stream; and, stretchingthe length of the water front, a deep cool grove of interlaced planetrees. At the end of the grove, half a dozen broad stone steps dip downto a tiny harbor which is carpeted on the surface with lily pads. Thesteps are worn by the lapping waves of fifty years, and are grown overwith slippery, slimy water weeds.
The world was just stirring from its afternoon siesta, when the_Farfalla_ dropped her yellow sails and floated into the shady littleharbor. Giuseppe prodded and pushed along the fern-grown banks until thekeel jolted against the water steps. He sprang ashore and steadied theboat while Constance alighted. She slipped on the mossy step--almost wentunder--and righted herself with a laugh that rang gaily through thegrove.
She came up the steps still smiling, shook out her fluffy pink skirts,straightened her rose-trimmed hat, and glanced reconnoiteringly about thegrove. One might reasonably expect, attacking the hotel as it were fromthe flank, to capture unawares any stray guest. But aside from achaffinch or so and a brown-and-white spotted calf tied to a tree, thegrove was empty--blatantly empty. There was a shade of disappointment inConstance's glance. One naturally does not like to waste one's bestembroidered gown on a spotted calf.
Then her eye suddenly brightened as it lighted on a vivid splash ofyellow under a tree. She crossed over and picked it up--a paper coveredFrench novel; the title was _Bijou_, the author was Gyp. She turned tothe first page. Any reasonably careful person might be expected to writehis name in the front of a book--particularly a French book--beforeabandoning it to the mercies of a foreign hotel. But the several flyleaves were immaculately innocent of all sign of ownership.
So intent was she upon this examination, that she did not hear footstepsapproaching down the long arbor that led from the house; so intent wasthe young man upon a frowning scrutiny of the path before him, that hedid not see Constance until he had passed from the arbor into the grove.Then simultaneously they raised their heads and looked at each other. Fora startled second they stared--rather guiltily--both with the air ofhaving been caught. Constance recovered her poise first; she nodded--anod which contained not the slightest hint of recognition--and laughed.
"Oh!" she said. "I suppose this is your book? And I am afraid you havecaught me red-handed. You must excuse me for looking at it, but usuallyat this season only German Alpine-climbers stop at the Hotel du Lac, andI was surprised you know to find that German Alpine-climbers did anythingso frivolous as reading Gyp."
The man bowed with a gesture which made her free of the book, but hecontinued his silence. Constance glanced at him again, and this time sheallowed a flash of recognition to appear in her face.
"Oh!" she re-exclaimed with a note of interested politeness, "you are theyoung man who stumbled into Villa Rosa last Monday looking for the gardenof the prince?"
He bowed a second time, an answering flash appearing in his face.
"The man bowed with a gesture which made her free of thebook"]
"And you are the young woman who was sitting on the wall beside a rowof--of--"
"Stockings?" She nodded. "I trust you found the prince's garden withoutdifficulty?"
"Yes, thank you. Your directions were very explicit."
A slight pause followed, the young man waiting deferentially for her totake the lead.
"You find Valedolmo interesting?" she inquired.
"Interesting!" His tone was enthusiastic. "Aside from the prince's gardenwhich contains a cedar of Lebanon and an India rubber plant from SouthAmerica, there is the Luini in the chapel of San Bartolomeo, and thestatue of Garibaldi in the piazza. And then--" he waved his hand towardthe lake, "there is always the view."
"Yes," she agreed, "one can always look at the view."
Her eyes wandered to the lake, and across the lake to Monte Maggiore withclouds drifting about its peak. And while she obligingly studied themountain, he studied the effect of the pink gown and the rose-bud hat.She turned back suddenly and caught him; it was a disconcerting habit ofConstance's. He politely looked away and she--with frankinterest--studied him. He was bareheaded and dressed in white flannels;they were very becoming, she noted critically, and yet--they needed justa touch of color; a red sash, for example, and earrings.
"The guests of the Hotel du Lac," she remarked, "have a beautiful gardenof their own. Just the mere pleasure of strolling about in it ought tokeep them contented with Valedolmo."
"Not necessarily," he objected. "Think of the garden of Eden--the mostbeautiful garden there has ever been if report speaks true--and yet themere pleasure of strolling about didn't keep Adam contented. One getslonely you know."
"Are you the only guest?"
"Oh, no, there are four of us, but we're not very companionable; there'ssuch a discrepancy in languages."
"And you don't speak Italian?"
He shook his head.
"Only English and--" he glanced at the book in her hand--"Frenchindifferently well."
"I saw someone the other day who spoke Magyar--that is a beautifullanguage."
"Yes?" he returned with polite indifference. "I don't remember ever tohave heard it."
She laughed and glanced about. Her eyes lighted on the arbor hung withgrape-vines and wistaria, where, far at the other end, Gustavo's figurewas visible lounging in the yellow stucco doorway. The sight appeared torecall an errand to her mind. She glanced down at a pink wicker-basketwhich hung on her arm, and gathered up her skirts with a movement ofdeparture.
The young man hastily picked up the conversation.
"It _is_ a jolly old garden," he affirmed. "And there's somethingpathetic about its appearing on souvenir post-cards as a mere adjunct toa blue and yellow hotel."
She nodded sympathetically.
"Built for romance and abandoned to tourists--German tourists at that!"
"Oh, not entirely--we've a Russian countess just now."
"A Russian countess?" Constance turned toward him with an air ofreawakened interest. "Is she as young and beautiful and fascinating andwicked as they always are in novels?"
"Oh, dear no! Seventy, if she's a day. A nice grandmotherly old soul whosmokes cigarettes."
"Ah!" Constance smiled; there was even a trace of relief in her manner asshe nodded to the young man and turned away. His face reflected hisdisappointment; he plainly wished to detain her, but could think of noexpedient. The spotted calf came to his rescue. The calf had beenwatching them from the first, very much interested in the visitor; andnow as she approached his tree, he stretched out his neck as far as thetether permitted and sniffed insistently. She paused and patted him onthe head. The calf acknowledged the caress with a grateful _moo_; therewas a plaintive light in his liquid eyes.
"Poor thing--he's lonely!" She turned to the young man and spoke with anaccent of reproach. "The four guests of the Hotel du Lac don't show himenough attention."
The young man shrugged.
"We're tired of calves. It's only a matter of a day or so before he'll bebreaded and fried and served Milanese fashion with a sauce of tomato andgarlic."
Constance shook her head sympathetically; though whether her sympathy wasfor the calf or the partakers of _table d'hote_, was not quite clear.
"I know," she agreed. "I've been a guest at the Hotel du Lac myself--it'sa tragedy to be born a calf in Italy!"
She nodded and turned; it was evident this time that she was reallygoing. He took a hasty step forward.
"Oh, I say, please don't go! Stay and talk to me--just a little while.That calf isn't half so lonely as I am."
"I should like to, but really I mustn't. Elizabetta is waiting for me tobring her some eggs. We are p
lanning a trip up the Maggiore tomorrow, andwe have to have a cake to take with us. Elizabetta made one this morningbut she forgot to put in the baking powder. Italian cooks are not used tomaking cakes; they are much better at--" her eyes fell on the calf--"vealand such things."
He folded his arms with an air of desperation.
"I'm an American--one of your own countrymen; if you had a grain ofcharity in your nature you would let the cake go."
She shook her head relentlessly.
"Five days at Valedolmo! You would not believe the straits I've beendriven to in search of amusement."
"Yes?" There was a touch of curiosity in her tone. "What for example?"
"I am teaching Gustavo how to play tennis."
"Oh!" she said. "How does he do?"
"Broken three windows and a flower pot and lost four balls."
She laughed and turned away; and then as an idea occurred to her, sheturned back and fixed her eyes sympathetically on his face.
"I suppose Valedolmo _is_ stupid for a man; but why don't you trymountain climbing? Everybody finds that diverting. There's a guide herewho speaks English--really comprehensible English. He's engaged fortomorrow, but after that I dare say he'll be free. Gustavo can tell youabout him."
She nodded and smiled and turned down the arbor.
The young man stood where she left him, with folded arms, watching herpink gown as it receded down the long sun-flecked alley hung with purpleand green. He waited until it had been swallowed up in the yellowdoorway; then he fetched a deep breath and strolled to the water-wall.After a few moments' prophetic contemplation of the mountain across thelake, he threw back his head with a quick amused laugh, and got out acigarette and lighted it.