The main consideration which induced me to call on the Marquis of
Villarel was the fact that after all I was a discovery of Dona
Rita's, her own recruit. My fidelity and steadfastness had been
guaranteed by her and no one else. I couldn't bear the idea of her
being criticized by every empty-headed chatterer belonging to the
Cause. And as, apart from that, nothing mattered much, why, then--
I would get this over.
But it appeared that I had not reflected sufficiently on all the
consequences of that step. First of all the sight of the Villa
looking shabbily cheerful in the sunshine (but not containing her
any longer) was so perturbing that I very nearly went away from the
gate. Then when I got in after much hesitation--being admitted by
the man in the green baize apron who recognized me--the thought of
entering that room, out of which she was gone as completely as if
she had been dead, gave me such an emotion that I had to steady
myself against the table till the faintness was past. Yet I was
irritated as at a treason when the man in the baize apron instead
of letting me into the Pompeiian dining-room crossed the hall to
another door not at all in the Pompeiian style (more Louis XV
rather--that Villa was like a Salade Russe of styles) and
introduced me into a big, light room full of very modern furniture.
The portrait en pied of an officer in a sky-blue uniform hung on
the end wall. The officer had a small head, a black beard cut
square, a robust body, and leaned with gauntleted hands on the
simple hilt of a straight sword. That striking picture dominated a
massive mahogany desk, and, in front of this desk, a very roomy,
tall-backed armchair of dark green velvet. I thought I had been
announced into an empty room till glancing along the extremely loud
carpet I detected a pair of feet under the armchair.
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