A Start in Life [25]
assembled. He saw in the count a
manufacturer of the second-class, whom he took, for some unknown
reason, to be a chandler; in the shabby young man accompanied by
Mistigris, a fellow of no account; in Oscar a ninny, and in Pere
Leger, the fat farmer, an excellent subject to hoax. Having thus
looked over the ground, he resolved to amuse himself at the expense of
such companions.
"Let me see," he thought to himself, as the coucou went down the hill
from La Chapelle to the plain of Saint-Denis, "shall I pass myself off
for Etienne or Beranger? No, these idiots don't know who they are.
Carbonaro? the deuce! I might get myself arrested. Suppose I say I'm
the son of Marshal Ney? Pooh! what could I tell them?--about the
execution of my father? It wouldn't be funny. Better be a disguised
Russian prince and make them swallow a lot of stuff about the Emperor
Alexander. Or I might be Cousin, and talk philosophy; oh, couldn't I
perplex 'em! But no, that shabby fellow with the tousled head looks to
me as if he had jogged his way through the Sorbonne. What a pity! I
can mimic an Englishman so perfectly I might have pretended to be Lord
Byron, travelling incognito. Sapristi! I'll command the troops of Ali,
pacha of Janina!"
During this mental monologue, the coucou rolled through clouds of dust
rising on either side of it from that much travelled road.
"What dust!" cried Mistigris.
"Henry IV. is dead!" retorted his master. "If you'd say it was scented
with vanilla that would be emitting a new opinion."
"You think you're witty," replied Mistigris. "Well, it IS like vanilla
at times."
"In the Levant--" said Georges, with the air of beginning a story.
"'Ex Oriente flux,'" remarked Mistigris's master, interrupting the
speaker.
"I said in the Levant, from which I have just returned," continued
Georges, "the dust smells very good; but here it smells of nothing,
except in some old dust-barrel like this."
"Has monsieur lately returned from the Levant?" said Mistigris,
maliciously. "He isn't much tanned by the sun."
"Oh! I've just left my bed after an illness of three months, from the
germ, so the doctors said, of suppressed plague."
"Have you had the plague?" cried the count, with a gesture of alarm.
"Pierrotin, stop!"
"Go on, Pierrotin," said Mistigris. "Didn't you hear him say it was
inward, his plague?" added the rapin, talking back to Monsieur de
Serizy. "It isn't catching; it only comes out in conversation."
"Mistigris! if you interfere again I'll have you put off into the
road," said his master. "And so," he added, turning to Georges,
"monsieur has been to the East?"
"Yes, monsieur; first to Egypt, then to Greece, where I served under
Ali, pacha of Janina, with whom I had a terrible quarrel. There's no
enduring those climates long; besides, the emotions of all kinds in
Oriental life have disorganized my liver."
"What, have you served as a soldier?" asked the fat farmer. "How old
are you?"
"Twenty-nine," replied Georges, whereupon all the passengers looked at
him. "At eighteen I enlisted as a private for the famous campaign of
1813; but I was present at only one battle, that of Hanau, where I was
promoted sergeant-major. In France, at Montereau, I won the rank of
sub-lieutenant, and was decorated by,--there are no informers here,
I'm sure,--by the Emperor."
"What! are you decorated?" cried Oscar. "Why don't you wear your
cross?"
"The cross of 'ceux-ci'? No, thank you! Besides, what man of any
breeding would wear his decorations in travelling? There's monsieur,"
he said, motioning to the Comte de Serizy. "I'll bet whatever you
like--"
"Betting whatever you like means, in France, betting nothing at all,"
said Mistigris's master.
"I'll bet whatever you like," repeated Georges, incisively, "that
monsieur here is covered with stars."
"Well," said the count, laughing,
manufacturer of the second-class, whom he took, for some unknown
reason, to be a chandler; in the shabby young man accompanied by
Mistigris, a fellow of no account; in Oscar a ninny, and in Pere
Leger, the fat farmer, an excellent subject to hoax. Having thus
looked over the ground, he resolved to amuse himself at the expense of
such companions.
"Let me see," he thought to himself, as the coucou went down the hill
from La Chapelle to the plain of Saint-Denis, "shall I pass myself off
for Etienne or Beranger? No, these idiots don't know who they are.
Carbonaro? the deuce! I might get myself arrested. Suppose I say I'm
the son of Marshal Ney? Pooh! what could I tell them?--about the
execution of my father? It wouldn't be funny. Better be a disguised
Russian prince and make them swallow a lot of stuff about the Emperor
Alexander. Or I might be Cousin, and talk philosophy; oh, couldn't I
perplex 'em! But no, that shabby fellow with the tousled head looks to
me as if he had jogged his way through the Sorbonne. What a pity! I
can mimic an Englishman so perfectly I might have pretended to be Lord
Byron, travelling incognito. Sapristi! I'll command the troops of Ali,
pacha of Janina!"
During this mental monologue, the coucou rolled through clouds of dust
rising on either side of it from that much travelled road.
"What dust!" cried Mistigris.
"Henry IV. is dead!" retorted his master. "If you'd say it was scented
with vanilla that would be emitting a new opinion."
"You think you're witty," replied Mistigris. "Well, it IS like vanilla
at times."
"In the Levant--" said Georges, with the air of beginning a story.
"'Ex Oriente flux,'" remarked Mistigris's master, interrupting the
speaker.
"I said in the Levant, from which I have just returned," continued
Georges, "the dust smells very good; but here it smells of nothing,
except in some old dust-barrel like this."
"Has monsieur lately returned from the Levant?" said Mistigris,
maliciously. "He isn't much tanned by the sun."
"Oh! I've just left my bed after an illness of three months, from the
germ, so the doctors said, of suppressed plague."
"Have you had the plague?" cried the count, with a gesture of alarm.
"Pierrotin, stop!"
"Go on, Pierrotin," said Mistigris. "Didn't you hear him say it was
inward, his plague?" added the rapin, talking back to Monsieur de
Serizy. "It isn't catching; it only comes out in conversation."
"Mistigris! if you interfere again I'll have you put off into the
road," said his master. "And so," he added, turning to Georges,
"monsieur has been to the East?"
"Yes, monsieur; first to Egypt, then to Greece, where I served under
Ali, pacha of Janina, with whom I had a terrible quarrel. There's no
enduring those climates long; besides, the emotions of all kinds in
Oriental life have disorganized my liver."
"What, have you served as a soldier?" asked the fat farmer. "How old
are you?"
"Twenty-nine," replied Georges, whereupon all the passengers looked at
him. "At eighteen I enlisted as a private for the famous campaign of
1813; but I was present at only one battle, that of Hanau, where I was
promoted sergeant-major. In France, at Montereau, I won the rank of
sub-lieutenant, and was decorated by,--there are no informers here,
I'm sure,--by the Emperor."
"What! are you decorated?" cried Oscar. "Why don't you wear your
cross?"
"The cross of 'ceux-ci'? No, thank you! Besides, what man of any
breeding would wear his decorations in travelling? There's monsieur,"
he said, motioning to the Comte de Serizy. "I'll bet whatever you
like--"
"Betting whatever you like means, in France, betting nothing at all,"
said Mistigris's master.
"I'll bet whatever you like," repeated Georges, incisively, "that
monsieur here is covered with stars."
"Well," said the count, laughing,