CHAPTER XVIII
Before the end of the week, the manager found himself in relations with'the family' once more. A telegram from Milan announced that Mr.Francis Westwick would arrive in Venice on the next day; and would beobliged if Number Fourteen, on the first floor, could be reserved forhim, in the event of its being vacant at the time.
The manager paused to consider, before he issued his directions.
The re-numbered room had been last let to a French gentleman. It wouldbe occupied on the day of Mr. Francis Westwick's arrival, but it wouldbe empty again on the day after. Would it be well to reserve the roomfor the special occupation of Mr. Francis? and when he had passed thenight unsuspiciously and comfortably in 'No. 13 A,' to ask him in thepresence of witnesses how he liked his bedchamber? In this case, ifthe reputation of the room happened to be called in question again, theanswer would vindicate it, on the evidence of a member of the veryfamily which had first given Number Fourteen a bad name. After alittle reflection, the manager decided on trying the experiment, anddirected that '13 A' should be reserved accordingly.
On the next day, Francis Westwick arrived in excellent spirits.
He had signed agreements with the most popular dancer in Italy; he hadtransferred the charge of Mrs. Norbury to his brother Henry, who hadjoined him in Milan; and he was now at full liberty to amuse himself bytesting in every possible way the extraordinary influence exercisedover his relatives by the new hotel. When his brother and sister firsttold him what their experience had been, he instantly declared that hewould go to Venice in the interest of his theatre. The circumstancesrelated to him contained invaluable hints for a ghost-drama. The titleoccurred to him in the railway: 'The Haunted Hotel.' Post that in redletters six feet high, on a black ground, all over London--and trustthe excitable public to crowd into the theatre!
Received with the politest attention by the manager, Francis met with adisappointment on entering the hotel. 'Some mistake, sir. No suchroom on the first floor as Number Fourteen. The room bearing thatnumber is on the second floor, and has been occupied by me, from theday when the hotel opened. Perhaps you meant number 13 A, on the firstfloor? It will be at your service to-morrow--a charming room. In themean time, we will do the best we can for you, to-night.'
A man who is the successful manager of a theatre is probably the lastman in the civilized universe who is capable of being impressed withfavourable opinions of his fellow-creatures. Francis privately set themanager down as a humbug, and the story about the numbering of therooms as a lie.
On the day of his arrival, he dined by himself in the restaurant,before the hour of the table d'hote, for the express purpose ofquestioning the waiter, without being overheard by anybody. The answerled him to the conclusion that '13 A' occupied the situation in thehotel which had been described by his brother and sister as thesituation of '14.' He asked next for the Visitors' List; and found thatthe French gentleman who then occupied '13 A,' was the proprietor of atheatre in Paris, personally well known to him. Was the gentleman thenin the hotel? He had gone out, but would certainly return for thetable d'hote. When the public dinner was over, Francis entered theroom, and was welcomed by his Parisian colleague, literally, with openarms. 'Come and have a cigar in my room,' said the friendly Frenchman.'I want to hear whether you have really engaged that woman at Milan ornot.' In this easy way, Francis found his opportunity of comparing theinterior of the room with the description which he had heard of it atMilan.
Arriving at the door, the Frenchman bethought himself of his travellingcompanion. 'My scene-painter is here with me,' he said, 'on thelook-out for materials. An excellent fellow, who will take it as akindness if we ask him to join us. I'll tell the porter to send him upwhen he comes in.' He handed the key of his room to Francis. 'I willbe back in a minute. It's at the end of the corridor--13 A.'
Francis entered the room alone. There were the decorations on thewalls and the ceiling, exactly as they had been described to him! Hehad just time to perceive this at a glance, before his attention wasdiverted to himself and his own sensations, by a grotesquelydisagreeable occurrence which took him completely by surprise.
He became conscious of a mysteriously offensive odour in the room,entirely new in his experience of revolting smells. It was composed(if such a thing could be) of two mingling exhalations, which wereseparately-discoverable exhalations nevertheless. This strangeblending of odours consisted of something faintly and unpleasantlyaromatic, mixed with another underlying smell, so unutterably sickeningthat he threw open the window, and put his head out into the fresh air,unable to endure the horribly infected atmosphere for a moment longer.
The French proprietor joined his English friend, with his cigar alreadylit. He started back in dismay at a sight terrible to his countrymenin general--the sight of an open window. 'You English people areperfectly mad on the subject of fresh air!' he exclaimed. 'We shallcatch our deaths of cold.'
Francis turned, and looked at him in astonishment. 'Are you really notaware of the smell there is in the room?' he asked.
'Smell!' repeated his brother-manager. 'I smell my own good cigar. Tryone yourself. And for Heaven's sake shut the window!'
Francis declined the cigar by a sign. 'Forgive me,' he said. 'I willleave you to close the window. I feel faint and giddy--I had better goout.' He put his handkerchief over his nose and mouth, and crossed theroom to the door.
The Frenchman followed the movements of Francis, in such a state ofbewilderment that he actually forgot to seize the opportunity ofshutting out the fresh air. 'Is it so nasty as that?' he asked, with abroad stare of amazement.
'Horrible!' Francis muttered behind his handkerchief. 'I never smeltanything like it in my life!'
There was a knock at the door. The scene-painter appeared. Hisemployer instantly asked him if he smelt anything.
'I smell your cigar. Delicious! Give me one directly!'
'Wait a minute. Besides my cigar, do you smell anything else--vile,abominable, overpowering, indescribable, never-never-never-smeltbefore?'
The scene-painter appeared to be puzzled by the vehement energy of thelanguage addressed to him. 'The room is as fresh and sweet as a roomcan be,' he answered. As he spoke, he looked back with astonishment atFrancis Westwick, standing outside in the corridor, and eyeing theinterior of the bedchamber with an expression of undisguised disgust.
The Parisian director approached his English colleague, and looked athim with grave and anxious scrutiny.
'You see, my friend, here are two of us, with as good noses as yours,who smell nothing. If you want evidence from more noses, look there!'He pointed to two little English girls, at play in the corridor. 'Thedoor of my room is wide open--and you know how fast a smell can travel.Now listen, while I appeal to these innocent noses, in the language oftheir own dismal island. My little loves, do you sniff a nasty smellhere--ha?' The children burst out laughing, and answered emphatically,'No.' 'My good Westwick,' the Frenchman resumed, in his own language,'the conclusion is surely plain? There is something wrong, very wrong,with your own nose. I recommend you to see a medical man.'
Having given that advice, he returned to his room, and shut out thehorrid fresh air with a loud exclamation of relief. Francis left thehotel, by the lanes that led to the Square of St. Mark. Thenight-breeze soon revived him. He was able to light a cigar, and tothink quietly over what had happened.