Читать книгу Marivosa - Baroness Orczy - Страница 14

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The impression which Timothy retained of that evening at the Club Nacional always remained rather vague. He remembered the smart club servant, who took his hat and stick when he arrived. He remembered being ushered into the lounge, a room level with the busy street and with great windows—something like Harrods’ or Whiteley’s—right down to the ground. He had a swift impression of large arm-chairs, small tables, ash-trays and cuspidors, of a bar groaning under an army of bottles of every colour, shape and size, and adorned with small flags of all nations, and large dolls fantastically dressed, such as he had seen and cordially detested in all the fashionable resorts in Europe; of a room full of people, terribly hot and airless, the atmosphere heavy with the scent of powder and perfume; of a crowd of men and women, of white-coated barmen flitting in and out amongst them, of the glitter of diamonds, the buzz of conversation interspersed with shrill ejaculations and ear-piercing bursts of laughter.

It was the same impression that one invariably receives when entering the parrot-house at the Zoo, with the gay macaws and parakeets chattering and shrieking.

Of the dinner itself, Tim’s impressions were equally elusive and dim. The host, Dom Manoël da Lisbao, was cordiality and hospitality personified. He introduced Timothy to all his friends. There was the Senhor This and the Conde That; there was Fra Martino, whom the dear Major already knew, and above all, there were the ladies: the dowager Marqueza Guimarães, a bony image—smothered in diamonds which appeared too heavy for her meagre shoulders—but obviously the greatest power in this tiny social world. Whenever she raised her shrill high-pitched voice the younger people stopped talking and listened with deference to what she had to say. Her husband, the Marquez, was there; an insignificant, silent old man, whose most conspicuous characteristic was a huge blond beard, and a single stone diamond the size of a thrush’s egg on his little finger.

Two other ladies flashed dark eyes at Timothy as he was introduced to them; handsome, both of them, with perfectly shingled and water-waved hair, and the latest Paris creations that accentuated rather than veiled the somewhat full curves beneath. They were very cordial, very engaging, rattled off a whole series of questions at Timothy about the latest social events in Europe—Paris, London, Deauville, and especially Monte Carlo which they had both visited and liked extremely. They each had a husband—nice, gentlemanly-looking men, in well-tailored dress-suits, very amiable; and one had a son who had been up at Oxford and spoke English with a perfect Oxford drawl.

But all these impressions remained vague, blurred; the people themselves like characters in a dream or in a play. Only four of those who were there that night left the impress of their personality on Tim’s consciousness. There was the host, of course, pleasant, convivial, hospitable, speaking perfect English with just enough hint of foreign intonation to make it attractive. Well read and well informed too. Had travelled a great deal. Knew England well and had hunted in Ireland. Seemingly not a complicated character, with nothing sinister about the pleasant, rather prominent dark eyes, the sensuous mouth and somewhat fleshy jaw. Everyone at the table, even the ladies, drank freely and so did he; but obviously, he held his liquor well, for though he, like all the rest, became very hilarious towards the end of dinner, he never forgot his good manners, and his conversation as well as his gestures remained well within the bounds of propriety.

An altogether different personage was the senhor doutor da Pinto, the man who, according to Fra Martino, had been an obscure practitioner in an outlying provincial city, and then had the good fortune to attract the attention and gain the friendship of Dom Manoël da Lisbao, and forthwith became a fashionable consultant among the élite of Monsataz. Da Pinto was in every respect the antithesis of his friend and patron. In appearance he was more like one of his former patients—a vaqueiro rather than a doctor. His evening suit had very obviously not been cut by a London tailor, and sat ill upon his large, stocky figure. His shirt was already creased when he first entered the room; it was adorned with three large diamond studs. He wore a soft collar of Byronic shape, which gave free play to his thick neck, and displayed the powerful throat with its prominent Adam’s apple. He wore patent-leather Oxford shoes of which the laces had turned green with age, red cotton socks and a voluminous black tie.

His hair, once coal-black, now of a pepper-and-salt mixture, was cropped quite short and stood up like a stiff brush above his large, florid face. He had very small, deep-set black eyes, a nose shaped like the ace of spades, a stubbly beard, no moustache, and an immense square jaw.

Certainly an ugly customer to have to deal with, thought Timothy, say in a street fight, or a quarrel over a card table. As for having him by your bedside when you were sick, he, Tim, was quite sure that for his part he would far sooner die. It was difficult to associate him in a parental capacity with the lovely Teresa. Of her, Timothy retained a very vivid impression, even on that first night, when everything was so blurred. She came into the lounge rather late, when the little party had already assembled round one of the tables and was drinking cocktails. She had had an accident with her dress, she explained, and had to run into the cloak-room to have a stitch put to the damage. She was small and thin and exquisite, with a perfect oval of a face, delicate features, and glossy dark hair which she wore in the old-fashioned mode in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. But it was her eyes that were arresting, for they expressed so many emotions all at one and the same time. All through dinner Timothy could not make up his mind whether those eyes were tender and feminine and appealing, or whether they were masterful and passionate. She had a trick of veiling her eyes without closing them, drawing an invisible veil over them so that all expression vanished from them and only a kind of mysterious light remained.

She had adorable manners, girlish and graceful, without any shyness or self-consciousness. Though she entered the crowded room all alone and must have felt a whole battery of eyes turned upon her, she walked across to her host without any affectation or swagger. She kissed the hand of the old Marqueza, bobbed a little curtsy to Fra Martino, greeted the others with smile, nod or handshake, and paid very little heed to the newcomer; but to Dom Manoël she just gave a glance, which revealed a whole romance to the observant Irishman. He recollected what Fra Martino had told him in the car—the engagement between Dom Manoël and the pretty girl soon to be announced—but, in that one glance, Timothy had guessed which of the two it was who was still holding aloof—and put Dom Manoël down for a fool.

The dinner went off splendidly; it was excellently cooked and excellently served. There was plenty of champagne and liqueurs, and the coffee was beyond praise.

Throughout the dinner there was no mention of Dudley Stone.