“Here!” cried Monsieur Rigaud. “You may drink. You may finish this.”
It was no great gift, for there was mighty little wine left; but Signor Cavalletto, jumping to his feet, received the bottle gratefully, turned it upside down at his mouth, and smacked his lips.
“Put the bottle by with the rest,” said Rigaud.
The little man obeyed his orders, and stood ready to give him a lighted match; for he was now rolling his tobacco into cigarettes by the aid of little squares of paper which had been brought in with it.
“Here! You may have one.”
“A thousand thanks, my master!” John Baptist said in his own language, and with the quick conciliatory manner of his own countrymen.
Monsieur Rigaud arose, lighted a cigarette, put the rest of his stock into a breast-pocket, and stretched himself out at full length upon the bench. Cavalletto sat down on the pavement, holding one of his ankles in each hand, and smoking peacefully. There seemed to be some uncomfortable attraction of Monsieur Rigaud’s eyes to the immediate neighbourhood of that part of the pavement where the thumb had been in the plan. They were so drawn in that direction, that the Italian more than once followed them to and back from the pavement in some surprise.
“What an infernal hole this is!” said Monsieur Rigaud, breaking a long pause. “Look at the light of day. Day? the light of yesterday week, the light of six months ago, the light of six years ago. So slack and dead!”
It came languishing down a square funnel that blinded a window in the staircase wall, through which the sky was never seen—nor anything else.
“Cavalletto,” said Monsieur Rigaud, suddenly withdrawing his gaze from this funnel to which they had both involuntarily turned their eyes, “you know me for a gentleman?”
“Surely, surely!”
“How long have we been here?”
“I, eleven weeks, tomorrow night at midnight. You, nine weeks and three days, at five this afternoon.”
“Have I ever done anything here? Ever touched the broom, or spread the mats, or rolled them up, or found the draughts, or collected the dominoes, or put my hand to any kind of work?”
“Never!”
“Have you ever thought of looking to me to do any kind of work?”
John Baptist answered with that peculiar backhanded shake of the right forefinger which is the most expressive negative in the Italian language.
“No! You knew from the first moment when you saw me here, that I was a gentleman?”
“Altro!” returned John Baptist, closing his eyes and giving his head a most vehement toss. The word being, according to its Genoese emphasis, a confirmation, a contradiction, an assertion, a denial, a taunt, a compliment, a joke, and fifty other things, became in the present instance, with a significance beyond all power of written expression, our familiar English “I believe you!”
“Haha! You are right! A gentleman I am! And a gentleman I’ll live, and a gentleman I’ll die! It’s my intent to be a gentleman. It’s my game. Death of my soul, I play it out wherever I go!”
He changed his posture to a sitting one, crying with a triumphant air:
“Here I am! See me! Shaken out of destiny’s dice-box into the company of a mere smuggler;—shut up with a poor little contraband trader, whose papers are wrong, and whom the police lay hold of besides, for placing his boat (as a means of getting beyond the frontier) at the disposition of other little people whose papers are wrong; and he instinctively recognises my position, even by this light and in this place. It’s well done! By Heaven! I win, however the game goes.”
Again his moustache went up, and his nose came down.
“What’s the hour now?” he asked, with a dry hot pallor upon him, rather difficult of association with merriment.
“A little half-hour after midday.”
“Good! The President will have a gentleman before him soon. Come! Shall I tell you on what accusation? It must be now, or never, for I shall not return here. Either I shall go free, or I shall go to be made ready for shaving. You know where they keep the razor.”
Signor Cavalletto took his cigarette from between his parted lips, and showed more momentary discomfiture than might have been expected.
“I am a”—Monsieur Rigaud stood up to say it—“I am a cosmopolitan gentleman. I own no particular country. My father was Swiss—Canton de Vaud. My mother was French by blood, English by birth. I myself was born in Belgium. I am a citizen of the world.”
His theatrical air, as he stood with one arm on his hip within the folds of his cloak, together with his manner of disregarding his companion and addressing the opposite wall instead, seemed to intimate that he was rehearsing for the President, whose examination he was shortly to undergo, rather than troubling himself merely to enlighten so small a person as John Baptist Cavalletto.
“Call me five-and-thirty years of age. I have seen the world. I have lived here, and lived there, and lived like a gentleman everywhere. I have been treated and respected as a gentleman universally. If you try to prejudice me by making out that I have lived by my wits—how do your lawyers live—your politicians—your intriguers—your men of the Exchange?”
He kept his small smooth hand in constant requisition, as if it were a witness to his gentility that had often done him good service before.
“Two years ago I came to Marseilles. I admit that I was poor; I had been ill. When your lawyers, your politicians, your intriguers, your men of the Exchange fall ill, and have not scraped money together, they become poor. I put up at the Cross of Gold—kept then by Monsieur Henri Barronneau—sixty-five at least, and in a failing state of health. I had lived in the house some four months when Monsieur Henri Barronneau had the misfortune to die;—at any rate, not a rare misfortune, that. It happens without any aid of mine, pretty
