When I returned to Alresca's house--or rather, I should say, to my own
house--after the moving and picturesque ceremony of the funeral, I
found a note from Rosetta Rosa, asking me to call on her at the Hôtel
du Commerce. This was the first news of her that I had had since she
so abruptly quitted the scene of Alresca's death. I set off instantly
for the hotel, and just as I was going I met my Anglo-Belgian lawyer,
who presented to me a large envelope addressed to myself in the
handwriting of Alresca, and marked "private." The lawyer, who had been
engaged in the sorting and examination of an enormous quantity of
miscellaneous papers left by Alresca, informed me that he only
discovered the package that very afternoon. I took the packet, put it
in my pocket, and continued on my way to Rosa. It did not occur to me
at the time, but it occurred to me afterwards, that I was extremely
anxious to see her again.
Everyone who has been to Bruges knows the Hôtel du Commerce. It is
the Ritz of Bruges, and very well aware of its own importance in the
scheme of things. As I entered the courtyard a waiter came up to me.
"Excuse me, monsieur, but we have no rooms."
"Why do you tell me that?"
"Pardon. I thought monsieur wanted a room. Mademoiselle Rosa, the
great diva, is staying here, and all the English from the Hôtel du
Panier d'Or have left there in order to be in the same hotel with
Mademoiselle Rosa."
Somewhere behind that mask of professional servility there was a
smile.
"I do not want a room," I said, "but I want to see Mademoiselle Rosa."
"Ah! As to that, monsieur, I will inquire." He became stony at once.
"Stay. Take my card."
He accepted it, but with an air which implied that everyone left a
card.
In a moment another servant came forth, breathing apologies, and led
me to Rosa's private sitting-room. As I went in a youngish, dark-eyed,
black-aproned woman, who, I had no doubt, was Rosa's maid, left the
room.
Rosa and I shook hands in silence, and with a little diffidence.
Wrapped in a soft, black, thin-textured tea-gown, she reclined in an
easy-chair. Her beautiful face was a dead white; her eyes were
dilated, and under them were dark semicircles.
"You have been ill," I exclaimed, "and I was not told."
She shrugged her shoulders in denial, and shivered.
"No," she said shortly. There was a pause. "He is buried?"
"Yes."
"Let me hear about it."
I wished to question her further about her health, but her tone was
almost imperious, and I had a curious fear of offending her.
Nevertheless I reminded myself that I was a doctor, and my concern for
her urged me to be persistent.