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
[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 szabos3 live in it, eh? Ha, ha! That was a good calembourg of mine, c'est une plaisanterie. Dost understand?"
[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."
[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 Peter Bús; 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 carried one about with him wherever he went), and was dashing off one friss-magyar after another with all the grace and dexterity of a professional gipsy fiddler, at the same time making the two little peasant girls dance in front of him with a couple of the heydukes.
At this moment the stranger burst into the room.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he cried, "I have the honour to salute you!"
The tumult instantly subsided. Every one gazed open-mouthed at the stranger who had suddenly appeared in their midst, and saluted them with such affability. Master Jock let his fiddle-bow fall from his hand, for though he loved a practical joke to excess, he did not like strangers to see him at it. But the new-comer was not a stranger for long, for the jester, surprised at the sudden silence, looking up, and perceiving a gentleman attired not altogether unlike himself, thought fit to come to life again, and, springing from his bier, rushed towards the stranger, embraced and kissed him, and exclaimed—
"My dear brother, Heaven has surely sent you hither!"
At this mad idea the laughter burst forth anew.
"Ah! ce drôle de gipsy!" said the stranger, trying to free himself from the gipsy's embraces. "That's quite enough; kiss me no more, I say."
Then he bowed all round to the distinguished company, wiped away all traces of the gipsy's kisses with his pocket-handkerchief,
