'_Mais, monsieur, la porte--la porte--elle ferme_ pas--_elle s'ouvre_--'
He skipped to the door and showed me the whole tragic mystery. The door,
it is shut--_ecco_! He releases the catch, and pouf!--she flies open.
She flies _open_. It is quite final.
The brown, expressionless, ageless eyes, that remind me of a monkey's,
or of onyx, wait for me. I feel the responsibility devolve upon me. I
am anxious.
'Allow me,' I said, 'to come and look at the door.'
I feel uncomfortably like Sherlock Holmes. The padrone protests--_non,
monsieur, non, cela vous derange_--that he only wanted me to translate
the words, he does not want to disturb me. Nevertheless, we go. I feel I
have the honour of mechanical England in my hands.
The Casa di Paoli is quite a splendid place. It is large, pink and
cream, rising up to a square tower in the centre, throwing off a painted
loggia at either extreme of the facade. It stands a little way back from
the road, just above the lake, and grass grows on the bay of cobbled
pavement in front. When at night the moon shines full on this pale
facade, the theatre is far outdone in staginess.
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