Oscar, anxious to play the man, drank the second glass of wine, and ate three more cheesecakes.
“Very good wine it is!” said old Léger, smacking his tongue.
“And all the better,” remarked Georges, “because it comes from Bercy. I have been to Alicante, and, I tell you, this is no more like the wine of that country than my arm is like a windmill. Our manufactured wines are far better than the natural products.—Come, Pierrotin, have a glass. What a pity it is that your horses cannot each drink one; we should get on faster!”
“Oh, that is unnecessary, as I have a gray horse already,” said Pierrotin (gris, which means gray, meaning also screwed).
Oscar, as he heard the vulgar pun, thought Pierrotin a marvel of wit.
“Off!” cried Pierrotin, cracking his whip as soon as the passengers had once more packed themselves into the vehicle.
It was by this time eleven o’clock. The weather, which had been rather dull, now cleared; the wind swept away the clouds; the blue sky shone out here and there; and by the time Pierrotin’s chaise was fairly started on the ribbon of road between Saint-Denis and Pierrefitte, the sun had finally drunk up the last filmy haze that hung like a diaphanous veil over the views from this famous suburb.
“Well, and why did you throw over your friend the Pasha?” said the farmer to Georges.
“He was a very queer customer,” replied Georges, with an air of hiding many mysteries. “Only think, he put me in command of his cavalry! Very well—”
“That,” thought poor Oscar, “is why he wears spurs.”
“At that time, Ali of Tebelen wanted to rid himself of Chosrew Pasha, another queer fish.—Chaureff you call him here, but in Turkey they call him Cosserev. You must have read in the papers at the time that old Ali had beaten Chosrew, and pretty soundly too. Well, but for me, Ali would have been done for some days sooner. I led the right wing, and I saw Chosrew, the old sneak, just charging the centre—oh, yes, I can tell you, as straight and steady a move as if he had been Murat.—Good! I took my time, and I charged at full speed, cutting Chosrew’s column in two parts, for he had pushed through our centre, and had no cover. You understand—
“After it was all over Ali fairly hugged me.”
“Is that the custom in the East?” said the Comte de Sérizy, with a touch of irony.
“Yes, monsieur, as it is everywhere,” answered the painter.
“We drove Chosrew back over thirty leagues of country—like a hunt, I tell you,” Georges went on. “Splendid horsemen are the Turks. Ali gave me yataghans, guns, and swords.—‘Take as many as you like.’—When we got back to the capital, that incredible creature made proposals to me that did not suit my views at all. He wanted to adopt me as his favorite, his heir. But I had had enough of the life; for, after all, Ali of Tebelen was a rebel against the Porte, and I thought it wiser to clear out. But I must do Monsieur de Tebelen justice, he loaded me with presents; diamonds, ten thousand talari, a thousand pieces of gold, a fair Greek girl for a page, a little Arnaute maid for company, and an Arab horse. Well, there! Ali, the Pasha of Janina, is an unappreciated man; he lacks a historian.—Nowhere but in the East do you meet with these iron souls who, for twenty years, strain every nerve, only to be able to take a revenge one fine morning.
“In the first place, he had the grandest white beard you ever saw, and a hard, stern face—”
“But what became of your treasure?” asked the farmer.
“Ah! there you are! Those people have no State funds nor Bank of France; so I packed my moneybags on board a Greek tartane, which was captured by the Capitan-Pasha himself. Then I myself, as you see me, was within an ace of being impaled at Smyrna. Yes, on my honor, but for Monsieur de Rivière, the Ambassador, who happened to be on the spot, I should have been executed as an ally of Ali Pasha’s. I saved my head, or I could not speak so plainly; but as for the ten thousand talari, the thousand pieces of gold, and the weapons, oh! that was all swallowed down by that greedy-guts the Capitan-Pasha. My position was all the more ticklish because the Capitan-Pasha was Chosrew himself. After the dressing he had had, the scamp had got this post, which is that of High Admiral in France.”
“But he had been in the cavalry, as I understood?” said old Léger, who had been listening attentively to this long story.
“That shows how little the East is understood in the Department of Seine-et-Oise!” exclaimed Georges. “Monsieur, the Turks are like that.—You are a farmer, the Padishah makes you a Field-Marshal; if you do not fulfil your duties to his satisfaction, so much the worse for you. Off with your head! That is his way of dismissing you. A gardener is made préfet, and a prime minister is a private once more. The Ottomans know no laws of promotion or hierarchy.—Chosrew, who had been a horseman, was now a sailor. The Padishah Mohammed had instructed him to fall on Ali by sea; and he had, in fact, mastered him, but only by the help of the English, who got the best of the booty, the thieves! They laid hands on the treasure.
“This Chosrew, who had not forgotten the riding-lesson I had given him, recognized me at once. As you may suppose, I was settled—oh! done for!—if it had not occurred to me to appeal, as a Frenchman and
