A Start in Life [28]
ago. My name is Schinner."
"Hey! bourgeois, may I offer you a glass of Alicante and some cheese-
cakes?" said Georges to the count.
"Thank you," replied the latter. "I never leave home without taking my
cup of coffee and cream."
"Don't you eat anything between meals? How bourgeois, Marais, Place
Royale, that is!" cried Georges. "When he 'blagued' just now about his
crosses, I thought there was something in him," whispered the Eastern
hero to the painter. "However, we'll set him going on his decorations,
the old tallow-chandler! Come, my lad," he added, calling to Oscar,
"drink me down the glass poured out for the chandler; that will start
your moustache."
Oscar, anxious to play the man, swallowed the second glass of wine,
and ate three more cheese-cakes.
"Good wine, that!" said Pere Leger, smacking his lips.
"It is all the better," said Georges, "because it comes from Bercy.
I've been to Alicante myself, and I know that this wine no more
resembles what is made there than my arm is like a windmill. Our made-
up wines are a great deal better than the natural ones in their own
country. Come, Pierrotin, take a glass! It is a great pity your horses
can't take one, too; we might go faster."
"Forward, march!" cried Pierrotin, amid a mighty cracking of whips,
after the travellers were again boxed up.
It was now eleven o'clock. The weather, which had been cloudy,
cleared; the breeze swept off the mists, and the blue of the sky
appeared in spots; so that when the coucou trundled along the narrow
strip of road from Saint-Denis to Pierrefitte, the sun had fairly
drunk up the last floating vapors of the diaphanous veil which swathed
the scenery of that famous region.
"Well, now, tell us why you left your friend the pacha," said Pere
Leger, addressing Georges.
"He was a very singular scamp," replied Georges, with an air that hid
a multitude of mysteries. "He put me in command of his cavalry,--so
far, so good--"
"Ah! that's why he wears spurs," thought poor Oscar.
"At that time Ali Tebelen wanted to rid himself of Chosrew pacha,
another queer chap! You call him, here, Chaureff; but the name is
pronounced, in Turkish, Cosserew. You must have read in the newspapers
how old Ali drubbed Chosrew, and soundly, too, faith! Well, if it
hadn't been for me, Ali Tebelen himself would have bit the dust two
days earlier. I was at the right wing, and I saw Chosrew, an old sly-
boots, thinking to force our centre,--ranks closed, stiff, swift, fine
movement a la Murat. Good! I take my time; then I charge, double-
quick, and cut his line in two,--you understand? Ha! ha! after the
affair was over, Ali kissed me--"
"Do they do that in the East?" asked the count, in a joking way.
"Yes, monsieur," said the painter, "that's done all the world over."
"After that," continued Georges, "Ali gave me yataghans, and carbines,
and scimetars, and what-not. But when we got back to his capital he
made me propositions, wanted me to drown a wife, and make a slave of
myself,--Orientals are so queer! But I thought I'd had enough of it;
for, after all, you know, Ali was a rebel against the Porte. So I
concluded I had better get off while I could. But I'll do Monsieur
Tebelen the justice to say that he loaded me with presents,--diamonds,
ten thousand talari, one thousand gold coins, a beautiful Greek girl
for groom, a little Circassian for a mistress, and an Arab horse! Yes,
Ali Tebelen, pacha of Janina, is too little known; he needs an
historian. It is only in the East one meets with such iron souls, who
can nurse a vengeance twenty years and accomplish it some fine
morning. He had the most magnificent white beard that was ever seen,
and a hard, stern face--"
"But what did you do with your treasures?" asked farmer Leger.
"Ha! that's it! you may well ask that! Those fellows down there
haven't any Grand Livre nor any Bank