Memoirs of Mr. Charles J. Yellowplush [42]
says I, "the bailiffs are after you, and you must run for your life." "Bailiff?" says he: "nonsense! I don't, thank heaven, owe a shilling to any man." "Stuff, sir," says I, forgetting my respeck; "don't you owe money in England? I tell you the bailiffs are here, and will be on you in a moment." As I spoke, cling cling, ling ling, goes the bell of the antyshamber, and there they were sure enough! What was to be done? Quick as litening, I throws off my livry coat, claps my goold lace hat on master's head, and makes him put on my livry. Then I wraps myself up in his dressing-gown, and lolling down on the sofa, bids him open the dor. There they were--the bailiff--two jondarms with him--Toinette, and an old waiter. When Toinette sees master, she smiles, and says: "Dis donc, Charles! ou est donc ton maitre? Chez lui, n'est-ce pas? C'est le jeune a monsieur," says she, curtsying to the bailiff. The old waiter was just a-going to blurt out, "Mais ce n'est pas!" when Toinette stops him, and says, "Laissez donc passer ces messieurs, vieux bete;" and in they walk, the 2 jon d'arms taking their post in the hall. Master throws open the salong doar very gravely, and touching MY hat says, "Have you any orders about the cab, sir?" "Why, no, Chawls," says I; "I shan't drive out to-day." The old bailiff grinned, for he understood English (having had plenty of English customers), and says in French, as master goes out, "I think, sir, you had better let your servant get a coach, for I am under the painful necessity of arresting you, au nom de la loi, for the sum of ninety-eight thousand seven hundred francs, owed by you to the Sieur Jacques Francois Lebrun, of Paris;" and he pulls out a number of bills, with master's acceptances on them sure enough. "Take a chair, sir," says I; and down he sits; and I began to chaff him, as well as I could, about the weather, my illness, my sad axdent, having lost one of my hands, which was stuck into my busum, and so on. At last, after a minnit or two, I could contane no longer, and bust out in a horse laff. The old fellow turned quite pail, and began to suspect somethink. "Hola!" says he; "gendarmes! a moi! a moi! Je suis floue, vole," which means, in English, that he was reglar sold. The jondarmes jumped into the room, and so did Toinette and the waiter. Grasefly rising from my arm-chare, I took my hand from my dressing-gownd, and, flinging it open, stuck up on the chair one of the neatest legs ever seen. I then pinted majestickly--to what do you think?--to my PLUSH TITES! those sellabrated inigspressables which have rendered me famous in Yourope. Taking the hint, the jondarmes and the servnts rord out laffing; and so did Charles Yellowplush, Esquire, I can tell you. Old Grippard the bailiff looked as if he would faint in his chare. I heard a kab galloping like mad out of the hotel-gate, and knew then that my master was safe.
CHAPTER VIII. THE END OF MR. DEUCEACE'S HISTORY. LIMBO.
My tail is droring rabidly to a close; my suvvice with Mr. Deuceace didn't continyou very long after the last chapter, in which I described my admiral strattyjam, and my singlar self-devocean. There's very few servnts, I can tell you, who'd have thought of such a contrivance, and very few moar would have eggsycuted it when thought of. But, after all, beyond the trifling advantich to myself in selling master's roab de sham, which you, gentle reader, may remember I woar, and in dixcovering a fipun note in one of the pockets,-- beyond this, I say, there was to poar master very little advantich in what had been done. It's true he had escaped. Very good. But Frans is not like Great Brittin; a man in a livry coat, with 1 arm, is pretty easily known, and caught, too, as I can tell you. Such was the case with master. He coodn leave Paris, moarover, if he would. What was to become, in that case, of his bride--his unchbacked hairis? He knew that young lady's temprimong (as the Parishers say) too well to let her long out of his site. She had nine thousand a yer. She'd been in love a duzn times befor, and mite be
CHAPTER VIII. THE END OF MR. DEUCEACE'S HISTORY. LIMBO.
My tail is droring rabidly to a close; my suvvice with Mr. Deuceace didn't continyou very long after the last chapter, in which I described my admiral strattyjam, and my singlar self-devocean. There's very few servnts, I can tell you, who'd have thought of such a contrivance, and very few moar would have eggsycuted it when thought of. But, after all, beyond the trifling advantich to myself in selling master's roab de sham, which you, gentle reader, may remember I woar, and in dixcovering a fipun note in one of the pockets,-- beyond this, I say, there was to poar master very little advantich in what had been done. It's true he had escaped. Very good. But Frans is not like Great Brittin; a man in a livry coat, with 1 arm, is pretty easily known, and caught, too, as I can tell you. Such was the case with master. He coodn leave Paris, moarover, if he would. What was to become, in that case, of his bride--his unchbacked hairis? He knew that young lady's temprimong (as the Parishers say) too well to let her long out of his site. She had nine thousand a yer. She'd been in love a duzn times befor, and mite be