A Hungarian Nabob | Page 9

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 ?a?--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 B��s 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 B��s,[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 m��me chose! 'tis all one; such is the streakiness of life."
Mr. Peter B��s 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, ?a, '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 ?a? 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 Peter B��s; and without saying another word, he put out the light and went to lie down, leaving the stranger to seek out for himself the door of the other guest's room if he was so minded.
The darkness was such as a man might feel, but the merry singing and howling served to guide the new-comer to the chamber of the mysterious Nabob, who went by the name of Master Jock; why, we shall find out later on. The fun there had by this time reached its frantic climax. The heydukes had raised into the air by its four legs the table on which the jester lay, and were carrying it round the room, amidst the bellowing of long-drawn-out dirges; behind them marched the poet, with the table-cloth tied round his neck by way of mantle, declaiming d--d bad Alexandrine verses on the spur of the moment; while Master Jock himself had shouldered a fiddle (he always