He resolved to take a carriage, drive slowly to Posilipo, and eat his dinner there in some eyrie above the sea; watching the pageant that unfolds itself on the evenings of summer about the ristoranti and the osterie, round the stalls of the vendors of Fruitti di Mare, and the piano-organs, to the accompaniment of which impudent men sing love songs to the saucy, dark-eyed beauties posed upon balconies, or gathered in knots upon the little terraces that dominate the bathing establishments, and the distant traffic of the Bay. His brain longed for rest, but it longed also for the hum and the stir of men. His heart lusted for the sight of pleasure, and must be appeased.
Catching up his hat, almost with the hasty eagerness of a boy, he went down-stairs. On the opposite side of the road was a smart little carriage in which the coachman was asleep, with his legs cocked up on the driver's seat, displaying a pair of startling orange-and-black socks. By the socks Artois knew his man.
The coachman sprang up, showing a round, rosy face, and a pair of shrewd, rather small dark eyes.
"Ah--ah! Ah--ah!" he cried to his gayly bedizened little horse, who wore a long feather on his head, flanked by bunches of artificial roses.
"Not too fast, Pasqualino. I am in no hurry. Keep along by the sea."
The coachman let the reins go loose, and instantly the little horse went slowly, as if all his spirit and agility had suddenly been withdrawn from him.
"I have not seen you for several days, Signore. Have you been ill?"
Pasqualino had turned quite round on his box, and was facing his client.
Pasqualino made a grimace, as he nearly always did when he heard a rich Signore speak of working.
"And you? You have been spending money as usual. All your clothes are new."
Pasqualino smiled, showing rows of splendid teeth under his little twisted-up mustache.
"Si, Signore, all! And I have also new underclothing."
He pulled his trousers up to his knees, showing a pair of pale-blue drawers.
"The suspenders--they are new, Signore!" He drew attention to the scarlet elastics that kept the orange-and-black socks in place. "My boots!" He put his feet up on the box that Artois might see his lemon-colored boots, then unbuttoned and threw open his waistcoat. "My shirt is new! My cravat is new! Look at the pin!" He flourished his plump, brown, and carefully washed hands. "I have a new ring." He bent his head. "My hat is new."