A Hungarian Nabob | Page 9

here
but Hungarian?"

"No."
"That's bad. Then where's the innkeeper?"
"I am. And may I ask, sir, who you are, whence you came, and where
you live?"
"I own property here, but I live at Paris, and what devils brought me
hither I don't know. I would have gone on further if the mud of your
roads hadn't stopped me. And now give me--comment s'appelle ça?"
And here he came to a stop because he could not find the word he
wanted.
"Give you what, sir?"
"Comment s'appelle ça? Tell me the name!"
"My name, sir? Peter Bús."
"Diable! not your name, but the name of the thing I want."
"What do you want, sir?"
"That thing that draws a coach, a four-legged thing; you strike it with a
whip."
"A horse, do you mean?"
"Pas donc! They don't call it that."
"A forspont?"[2]
[Footnote 2: Relay of horses: Ger. Vorspann.]
"That's it, that's it. A forspont! I want a forspont immediately."
"I have none, sir; all my horses are out to grass."
"C'est triste! Then here I'll remain. Tant mieux; it will not bore me. I

have travelled in Egypt and Morocco. I have spent the night in as
deplorable a hut as this before now; it will amuse me. I will fancy I am
in some Bedouin shanty, and this river here is the Nile, that has
overflowed, and these beasts that are croaking in the water--comment
s'appelle ça?--frogs? oh yes, of course--these frogs are the alligators of
the Nile. And this miserable country--what do you call this
department?"
"It is not a part of anything, sir; it is a dam, the dam of the cross-roads,
we call it."
"Fripon! I am not speaking of the mud in which I stuck fast, but of the
district all about here. What do they call it?"
"Oh, I see! They call it the county of Szabolcs."
"Szabolcs, eh? Szabolcs? C'est parceque, no doubt, so many szabos[3]
live in it, eh? Ha, ha! That was a good calembourg of mine, c'est une
plaisanterie. Dost understand?"
[Footnote 3: Tailors.]
"I can't say for certain, but I believe the Hungarians so called it after the
name of one of their ancient leaders who led them out of Asia."
"Ah, c'est beau! Very nice, I mean. The worthy magyars name their
departments after their ancient patriarchs. Touching, truly!"
"Then, may I ask to what nationality you yourself belong, sir?"
"I don't live here. Bon Dieu! what a terrible fate for any one to live here,
where the puddles are bottomless and a man can see nothing but
storks."
Peter Bús turned to leave the room; he was offended at being treated in
this manner.
"Come, come, don't run away with the light, signore contadino!" cried
the stranger.

"I beg your pardon, but I am of gentle birth myself. My name is Peter
Bús,[4] and I am well content with it."
[Footnote 4: Pronounced Bush.]
"Ah, ah, ah, Monsignore Bouche, then you are a gentleman and an
innkeeper in one, eh? That's nothing. James Stuart was of royal blood,
and at last he also became an innkeeper. Well, tell me, if I am to remain
here, have you some good wine and pretty girls, eh?"
"My wine is bad--'tis no drink for a gentleman--and my serving-maid is
as ugly as night."
"Ugly! Ah, c'est piquant! There's no need to take offence; so much the
better! 'Tis all the same to a gentleman. To-morrow an elegant lady of
fashion, to-day a Cinderella, one as beautiful as a young goddess, the
other as villainous as Macbeth's witches; there perfume, here the smell
of onions. C'est le même chose! 'tis all one; such is the streakiness of
life."
Mr. Peter Bús did not like this speech at all. "You would do better to
ask yourself where you are going to lie to-night, for I am sure I should
very much like to know."
"Ah, ça, 'tis interessant. Then is there no guest-chamber here?"
"There is, but it is already occupied."
"C'est rien! We'll go halves. If it is a man, he need not put himself out;
if it is a dame, tant pis pour elle, so much the worse for her."
"It is not as you think. Let me tell you that Master Jock is in that room."
"Qu'est-ce-que ça? Who the devil is Master Jock?"
"What! have you never even heard of Master Jock?"
"Ah, c'est fort. This is a little too strong. Folks lead such a patriarchal
life in these parts that they are only known by their Christian names!

Eh, bien, what do I care for Master Jock! Just you go to him and let him
know that I want to sleep in his room. I am a gentleman to whom
nothing must be refused."
"A likely tale," observed