His head, bald no doubt, was tied up in a crimson
handkerchief that gave him the value of a rare picture by the hand of
some old master. Seeing the cure, the pair stopped under an immense
olive tree, a tree so twisted, so contorted that it seemed to have
settled down to treehood only after the wild whirl of a maenad dance. Now
in its old age, which had been youth in Caesar's day, it was more like a
gray, ruined tower than an olive tree. It had divided itself into a few
crumbling, leaning walls with sad oriel windows and a broken
ornamentation of queer gargoyles. Behind the woman with the basket and
the old man with the red handkerchief was the distant background of the
Prince's garden, like a drop curtain at a theatre: a wall overgrown with
flowering creepers; the delicate tracery of wrought-iron gates between
tall pillars; bare branches of peach and plum trees, pink as children's
fingers held close before the fire, or the hands of Arab girls after the
henna-staining; and two cypresses, close together, rising against the
blue sky with pure architectural value. As they hurried along, the man
and woman crushed under foot, without knowing what they did, the sheeny
brown curves of wild orchids, "Jacks in the pulpit," that were like
little hooded snakes rearing heads in rage, to guard the baby violets
sprouting in the grass.
"This is Filomena, the cook I myself secured for your brother's house,"
said the cure; "the best cook and one of the best women on the coast.
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