“And his name—?” asked Monsieur de Sérizy.
He could not forbear a look of surprise when Georges, in fact, mentioned the name of one of our most distinguished Consuls-General, who was at Smyrna at the time.
“I was present, as it fell out, at the execution of the Commandant of Smyrna, the Padishah having ordered Chosrew to put him to death—one of the most curious things I ever saw, though I have seen many. I will tell you all about it by and by at breakfast.
“From Smyrna I went to Spain, on hearing there was a revolution there. I went straight to Mina, who took me for an aide-de-camp, and gave me the rank of Colonel. So I fought for the Constitutional party, which is going to the dogs, for we shall walk into Spain one of these days.”
“And you a French officer!” said the Comte de Sérizy severely. “You are trusting very rashly to the discretion of your hearers.”
“There are no spies among them,” said Georges.
“And does it not occur to you, Colonel Georges,” said the Count, “that at this very time a conspiracy is being inquired into by the Chamber of Peers, which makes the Government very strict in its dealings with soldiers who bear arms against France, or who aid in intrigues abroad tending to the overthrow of any legitimate sovereign?”
At this ominous remark, the painter reddened up to his ears, and glanced at Mistigris, who was speechless.
“Well, and what then?” asked old Léger.
“Why, if I by chance were a magistrate, would it not be my duty to call on the gendarmes of the Brigade at Pierrefitte to arrest Mina’s aide-de-camp,” said the Count, “and to summons all who are in this chaise as witnesses?”
This speech silenced Georges all the more effectually because the vehicle was just passing the Gendarmerie Station, where the white flag was, to use a classical phrase, floating on the breeze.
“You have too many Orders to be guilty of such mean conduct,” said Oscar.
“We will play him a trick yet,” whispered Georges to Oscar.
“Colonel,” said Léger, very much discomfited by the Count’s outburst, and anxious to change the subject, “in the countries where you have traveled, what is the farming like? What are their crops in rotation?”
“In the first place, my good friend, you must understand that the people are too busy smoking weeds to burn them on the land—”
The Count could not help smiling, and his smile reassured the narrator.
“And they have a way of cultivating the land which you will think strange. They do not cultivate it all; that is their system. The Turks and Greeks eat onions or rice; they collect opium from their poppies, which yields a large revenue, and tobacco grows almost wild—their famous Latakia. Then there are dates, bunches of sugarplums, that grow without any trouble. It is a country of endless resources and trade. Quantities of carpets are made at Smyrna, and not dear.”
“Ay,” said the farmer, “but if the carpets are made of wool, wool comes from sheep; and to have sheep they must have fields, farms, and farming—”
“There must, no doubt, be something of the kind,” replied Georges. “But rice, in the first place, grows in water; and then I have always been near the coast, and have only seen the country devastated by war. Besides, I have a perfect horror of statistics.”
“And the taxes?” said the farmer.
“Ah! the taxes are heavy. The people are robbed of everything, and allowed to keep the rest. The Pasha of Egypt, struck by the merits of this system, was organizing the Administration on that basis when I left.”
“But how?” said old Léger, who was utterly puzzled.
“How?” echoed Georges. “There are collectors who seize the crops, leaving the peasants just enough to live on. And by that system there is no trouble with papers and red tape, the plague of France.—There you are!”
“But what right have they to do it?” asked the farmer.
“It is the land of despotism, that’s all. Did you never hear Montesquieu’s fine definition of Despotism—‘Like the savage, it cuts the tree down to gather the fruit.’ ”
“And that is what they want to bring us back to!” cried Mistigris. “But a burnt rat dreads the mire.”
“And it is what we shall come to,” exclaimed the Comte de Sérizy. “Those who hold land will be wise to sell it. Monsieur Schinner must have seen how such things are done in Italy.”
“Corpo di Bacco! The Pope is not behind his times. But they are used to it there. The Italians are such good people! So long as they are allowed to do a little highway murdering of travelers, they are quite content.”
“But you, too, do not wear the ribbon of the Legion of Honor that was given you in 1819,” remarked the Count. “Is the fashion universal?”
Mistigris and the false Schinner reddened up to their hair.
“Oh, with me it is different,” replied Schinner. “I do not wish to be recognized. Do not betray me, monsieur. I mean to pass for a quite unimportant painter; in fact, a mere decorator. I am going to a gentleman’s house where I am anxious to excite no suspicion.”
“Oh, ho!” said the Count, “a lady! a love affair!—How happy you are to be young!”
Oscar, who was bursting in his skin with envy at being nobody and having nothing to say, looked from Colonel Czerni-Georges to Schinner the great artist, wondering whether he could not make something of himself. But what could he be, a boy of nineteen, packed off to spend a fortnight or three weeks in the country with the steward
