A Start in Life [34]
a crowd!
like that for an execution. It fell upon me; I was seized, garroted,
gagged, and guarded by the police. Ah! you don't know--and I hope you
never may know--what it is to be taken for a murderer by a maddened
populace which stones you and howls after you from end to end of the
principal street of a town, shouting for your death! Ah! those eyes
were so many flames, all mouths were a single curse, while from the
volume of that burning hatred rose the fearful cry: 'To death! to
death! down with the murderer!'"
"So those Dalmatians spoke our language, did they?" said the count. "I
observe you relate the scene as if it happened yesterday."
Schinner was nonplussed.
"Riot has but one language," said the astute statesman Mistigris.
"Well," continued Schinner, "when I was brought into court in presence
of the magistrates, I learned that the cursed corsair was dead,
poisoned by Zena. I'd liked to have changed linen then. Give you my
word, I knew nothing of THAT melodrama. It seems the Greek girl put
opium (a great many poppies, as monsieur told us, grow about there) in
the pirate's grog, just to make him sleep soundly and leave her free
for a little walk with me, and the old duenna, unfortunate creature,
made a mistake and trebled the dose. The immense fortune of that
cursed pirate was really the cause of all my Zena's troubles. But she
explained matters so ingenuously that I, for one, was released with an
injunction from the mayor and the Austrian commissary of police to go
back to Rome. Zena, who let the heirs of the Uscoque and the judges
get most of the old villain's wealth, was let off with two years'
seclusion in a convent, where she still is. I am going back there some
day to paint her portrait; for in a few years, you know, all this will
be forgotten. Such are the follies one commits at eighteen!"
"And you left me without a sou in the locanda at Venice," said
Mistigris. "And I had to get from Venice to Rome by painting portraits
for five francs apiece, which they didn't pay me. However, that was my
halcyon time. I don't regret it."
"You can imagine the reflections that came to me in that Dalmatian
prison, thrown there without protection, having to answer to Austrians
and Dalmatians, and in danger of losing my head because I went twice
to walk with a woman. There's ill-luck, with a vengeance!"
"Did all that really happen to you?" said Oscar, naively.
"Why shouldn't it happen to him, inasmuch as it had already happened
during the French occupation of Illyria to one of our most gallant
officers of artillery?" said the count, slyly.
"And you believed that artillery officer?" said Mistigris, as slyly to
the count.
"Is that all?" asked Oscar.
"Of course he can't tell you that they cut his head off,--how could
he?" said Mistigris. "'Dead schinners tell no tales.'"
"Monsieur, are there farms in that country?" asked Pere Leger. "What
do they cultivate?"
"Maraschino," replied Mistigris,--"a plant that grows to the height of
the lips, and produces a liqueur which goes by that name."
"Ah!" said Pere Leger.
"I only stayed three days in the town and fifteen in prison," said
Schinner, "so I saw nothing; not even the fields where they grow the
maraschino."
"They are fooling you," said Georges to the farmer. "Maraschino comes
in cases."
"'Romances alter cases,'" remarked Mistigris.
CHAPTER V
THE DRAMA BEGINS
Pierrotin's vehicle was now going down the steep incline of the valley
of Saint-Brice to the inn which stands in the middle of the large
village of that name, where Pierrotin was in the habit of stopping an
hour to breathe his horses, give them their oats, and water them. It
was now about half-past one o'clock.
"Ha! here's Pere Leger," cried the inn-keeper, when the coach pulled
up before the door. "Do you breakfast?"
"Always once a day," said
like that for an execution. It fell upon me; I was seized, garroted,
gagged, and guarded by the police. Ah! you don't know--and I hope you
never may know--what it is to be taken for a murderer by a maddened
populace which stones you and howls after you from end to end of the
principal street of a town, shouting for your death! Ah! those eyes
were so many flames, all mouths were a single curse, while from the
volume of that burning hatred rose the fearful cry: 'To death! to
death! down with the murderer!'"
"So those Dalmatians spoke our language, did they?" said the count. "I
observe you relate the scene as if it happened yesterday."
Schinner was nonplussed.
"Riot has but one language," said the astute statesman Mistigris.
"Well," continued Schinner, "when I was brought into court in presence
of the magistrates, I learned that the cursed corsair was dead,
poisoned by Zena. I'd liked to have changed linen then. Give you my
word, I knew nothing of THAT melodrama. It seems the Greek girl put
opium (a great many poppies, as monsieur told us, grow about there) in
the pirate's grog, just to make him sleep soundly and leave her free
for a little walk with me, and the old duenna, unfortunate creature,
made a mistake and trebled the dose. The immense fortune of that
cursed pirate was really the cause of all my Zena's troubles. But she
explained matters so ingenuously that I, for one, was released with an
injunction from the mayor and the Austrian commissary of police to go
back to Rome. Zena, who let the heirs of the Uscoque and the judges
get most of the old villain's wealth, was let off with two years'
seclusion in a convent, where she still is. I am going back there some
day to paint her portrait; for in a few years, you know, all this will
be forgotten. Such are the follies one commits at eighteen!"
"And you left me without a sou in the locanda at Venice," said
Mistigris. "And I had to get from Venice to Rome by painting portraits
for five francs apiece, which they didn't pay me. However, that was my
halcyon time. I don't regret it."
"You can imagine the reflections that came to me in that Dalmatian
prison, thrown there without protection, having to answer to Austrians
and Dalmatians, and in danger of losing my head because I went twice
to walk with a woman. There's ill-luck, with a vengeance!"
"Did all that really happen to you?" said Oscar, naively.
"Why shouldn't it happen to him, inasmuch as it had already happened
during the French occupation of Illyria to one of our most gallant
officers of artillery?" said the count, slyly.
"And you believed that artillery officer?" said Mistigris, as slyly to
the count.
"Is that all?" asked Oscar.
"Of course he can't tell you that they cut his head off,--how could
he?" said Mistigris. "'Dead schinners tell no tales.'"
"Monsieur, are there farms in that country?" asked Pere Leger. "What
do they cultivate?"
"Maraschino," replied Mistigris,--"a plant that grows to the height of
the lips, and produces a liqueur which goes by that name."
"Ah!" said Pere Leger.
"I only stayed three days in the town and fifteen in prison," said
Schinner, "so I saw nothing; not even the fields where they grow the
maraschino."
"They are fooling you," said Georges to the farmer. "Maraschino comes
in cases."
"'Romances alter cases,'" remarked Mistigris.
CHAPTER V
THE DRAMA BEGINS
Pierrotin's vehicle was now going down the steep incline of the valley
of Saint-Brice to the inn which stands in the middle of the large
village of that name, where Pierrotin was in the habit of stopping an
hour to breathe his horses, give them their oats, and water them. It
was now about half-past one o'clock.
"Ha! here's Pere Leger," cried the inn-keeper, when the coach pulled
up before the door. "Do you breakfast?"
"Always once a day," said