Francis turned, and looked at him in astonishment. ’Are you really not aware of the smell there is in the room?’ he asked.
‘Smell!’ repeated his brother-manager. ’I smell my own good cigar. Try one yourself. And for Heaven’s sake shut the window!’
Francis declined the cigar by a sign. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ’I will leave you to close the window. I feel faint and giddy— I had better go out.’ He put his handkerchief over his nose and mouth, and crossed the room to the door.
The Frenchman followed the movements of Francis, in such a state of bewilderment that he actually forgot to seize the opportunity of shutting out the fresh air. ‘Is it so nasty as that?’ he asked, with a broad stare of amazement.
‘Horrible!’ Francis muttered behind his handkerchief. ‘I never smelt anything like it in my life!’
There was a knock at the door. The scene-painter appeared. His employer 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-smelt before?’
The scene-painter appeared to be puzzled by the vehement energy of the language addressed to him. ’The room is as fresh and sweet as a room can be,’ he answered. As he spoke, he looked back with astonishment at Francis Westwick, standing outside in the corridor, and eyeing the interior of the bedchamber with an expression of undisguised disgust.
The Parisian director approached his English colleague, and looked at him 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. ’The door 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 of their own dismal island. My little loves, do you sniff a nasty smell here—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 the horrid fresh air with a loud exclamation of relief. Francis left the hotel, by the lanes that led to the Square of St. Mark. The night-breeze soon revived him. He was able to light a cigar, and to think quietly over what had happened.
Avoiding the crowd under the colonnades, Francis walked slowly up and down the noble open space of the square, bathed in the light of the rising moon.