“And what is Egypt like?” asked Monsieur de Sérizy.
“Egypt is all sand,” replied Georges, quite undaunted. “There is nothing green but the Nile valley. Draw a green strip on a sheet of yellow paper, and there you have Egypt.—The Egyptians, the fellaheen, have, I may remark, one great advantage over us; there are no gendarmes. You may go from one end of Egypt to the other, and you will not find one.”
“I suppose there are a good many Egyptians there,” said Mistigris.
“Not so many as you would think,” answered Georges. “There are more Abyssinians, Giaours, Vechabites, Bedouins, and Copts.—However, all these creatures are so very far from amusing that I was only too glad to embark on a Genoese polacra, bound for the Ionian Islands to take up powder and ammunition for Ali of Tebelen. As you know, the English sell powder and ammunition to all nations, to the Turks and the Greeks; they would sell them to the Devil if the Devil had money. So from Zante we were to luff up to the coast of Greece.
“And, I tell you, take me as you see me, the name of Georges is famous in those parts. I am the grandson of that famous Czerni-Georges who made war on the Porte; but instead of breaking it down, he was unluckily smashed up. His son took refuge in the house of the French Consul at Smyrna, and came to Paris in 1792, where he died before I, his seventh child, was born. Our treasure was stolen from us by a friend of my grandfather’s, so we were ruined. My mother lived by selling her diamonds one by one, till in 1799 she married Monsieur Yung, a contractor, and my stepfather. But my mother died; I quarreled with my stepfather, who, between ourselves, is a rascal; he is still living, but we never meet. The wretch left us all seven to our fate without a word, nor bit nor sup. And that is how, in 1813, in sheer despair, I went off as a conscript.—You cannot imagine with what joy Ali of Tebelen hailed the grandson of Czerni-Georges. Here I call myself simply Georges.—The Pasha gave me a seraglio—”
“You had a seraglio?” said Oscar.
“Were you a Pasha with many tails?” asked Mistigris.
“How is it that you don’t know that there is but one Sultan who can create pashas?” said Georges, “and my friend Tebelen—for we were friends, like two Bourbons—was a rebel against the Padishah.—You know—or you don’t know—that the Grand Signor’s correct title is Padishah, and not the Grand Turk or the Sultan.
“Do not suppose that a seraglio is any great matter. You might just as well have a flock of goats. Their women are great fools, and I like the grisettes of the Chaumière at Mont Parnasse a thousand times better.”
“And they are much nearer,” said the Comte de Sérizy.
“These women of the seraglio never know a word of French, and language is indispensable to an understanding. Ali gave me five lawful wives and ten slave girls. At Janina that was a mere nothing. In the East, you see, it is very bad style to have wives; you have them, but as we here have our Voltaire and our Rousseau; who ever looks into his Voltaire or his Rousseau? Nobody.—And yet it is quite the right thing to be jealous. You may tie a woman up in a sack and throw her into the water on a mere suspicion by an article of their Code.”
“Did you throw any in?”
“I? What! a Frenchman! I was devoted to them.”
Whereupon Georges twirled up his moustache, and assumed a pensive air.
By this time they were at Saint-Denis, and Pierrotin drew up at the door of the inn where the famous cheesecakes are sold, and where all travelers call. The Count, really puzzled by the mixture of truth and nonsense in Georges’ rhodomontade, jumped into the carriage again, looked under the cushion for the portfolio which Pierrotin had told him that this mysterious youth had bestowed there, and saw on it in gilt letters the words, “Maître Crottat, Notaire.” The Count at once took the liberty of opening the case, fearing, with good reason, that if he did not, farmer Léger might be possessed with similar curiosity; and taking out the deed relating to the Moulineaux farm, he folded it up, put it in the side pocket of his coat, and came back to join his fellow-travelers.
“This Georges is neither more nor less than Crottat’s junior clerk. I will congratulate his master, who ought to have sent his head-clerk.”
From the respectful attention of the farmer and Oscar, Georges perceived that in them at least he had two ardent admirers. Of course, he put on lordly airs; he treated them to cheesecakes and a glass of Alicante, and then did the same to Mistigris and his master, asking them their names on the strength of this munificence.
“Oh, monsieur,” said the elder, “I am not the proud owner of so illustrious a name as yours, and I have not come home from Asia.” The Count, who had made haste to get back to the vast inn kitchen, so as to excite no suspicions, came in time to hear the end of the reply.—“I am simply a poor painter just returned from Rome, where I went at the expense of the Government after winning the Grand Prix five years ago. My name is Schinner.”
“Hallo, master, may I offer you a glass of Alicante and some cheesecakes?” cried Georges to the Count.
“Thank you, no,” said the Count. “I never come out till I have had my cup of coffee.”
“And you never eat anything between meals? How Marais, Place Royale, and Ille Saint-Louis!” exclaimed Georges. “When he crammed us just now about his Orders, I fancied him
