The vaulted ceiling was painted in
fresco with a representation of Apollo in the act of drawing his
bow, arrayed for the time being in his quiver, while his other
garments, of yellow and blue, floated everywhere save over his
body. The floor of the room was of red bricks, which had once been
waxed, and the furniture was scanty, massive and very old.
Anastase Gouache lay in one corner in a queer-looking bed covered
with a yellow damask quilt the worse for a century or two of wear,
upon which faded embroideries showed the Montevarchi arms
surmounted by a cardinal's hat. Upon a chair beside the patient
lay the little heap of small belongings he had carried in his
pocket when hurt, his watch and purse, his cigarettes, his
handkerchief and a few other trifles, among which, half concealed
by the rest, was the gold pin he had picked up by the bridge on
the previous evening. There was a mingled smell of dampness and of
stale tobacco in the comfortless room, for the windows were
closely shut, in spite of the bright sunshine that flooded the
opposite side of the street.
Gouache lay on his back, his head tied up in a bandage and
supported by a white pillow, which somehow conveyed the impression
of one of those marble cushions upon which in old-fashioned
monuments the effigies of the dead are made to lean in eternal
prayer, if not in eternal ease.
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