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The Tenth Day: Marchesa

The Marchesa seemed little flurried, and Mrs.

Sinclair, in a way, shared her excitement. The menu, for the first time, was written in French, a F a fact which did not escape Sir John's eye. He made no remark as to the soup; it was the best of its kind, and its French name made it no better than the other triumphs in the same field which the Marchesa had achieved. But when Sir John tasted the first mouthful of the fish he paused, and after a reflective and regretful look at his plate, he cast his eye round the table. All the others, however, were too busily intent in consuming the Turbot à la Vatel to heed his interrogative glance, so he followed suit, and after he had finished his portion, asked, sotto voce, for another bit.

In the interval before the service of the next dish Sir John made several vain attempts to catch the Marchesa's eye, and more than once tried to get in a word; but she kept up a forced and rather nervous conversation with Lady Considine and Van der Roet, and refused to listen. As Sir John helped himself to the next dish, Venaison, sauce Grand Veneur, the feeling of astonishment which had seized him when he first tasted the fish deepened into something like consternation. Had his palate indeed deceived him, or had the Marchesa, by some subtle effort of experimental genius, divined the secret of Narcisse-the secret of that incomparable sauce, the recipe of which was safely bestowed in his pocket-book? Occasionally he had taken a brief nap under the verandah after lunch: was it possible that in his sleep he might have murmured, in her hearing, words which gave the key of the mystery, and the description of those ingredients which often haunted his dreams? One thing was certain, that the savour which rose from the venison before him was the same which haunted his memory as the parting effort of the ill-starred Narcisse.