III
At this moment a brace of soldiers came in.
'The French! the French! See!' exclaimed Gorgoglio, nudging his companions.
One of the newcomers was a Gascon; young, tall, and shapely, with a handsome impudent face adorned by red moustachios; a cavalry sergeant named Bonnivart. The other old, fat, bull-necked, red-faced, swollen-eyed, ear-ringed, was a gunner from Picardy named Groguillioche. Both were a little drunk.
'Sacrement de l'autel!' said the sergeant slapping the others on the back. 'Shall we at last find a mug of good wine in this accursed town? The sour stuff of this Lombardy burns my throat like vinegar.' And stretching himself on a bench, and throwing a contemptuous glance at the company, he rapped with his knuckles, and shouted in bad Italian:—
'White wine, dry, your oldest; and brain-sausage for the first course!'
'You are right, comrade,' said Groguillioche; 'when I think of our wine of Burgundy, of the precious Beaune gold as my Lison's hair, my heart bursts with melancholy. Most true is it: "Like people, like wine." Let us drink, comrade, to the prosperity of our France.'
'Du grand Dieu soit mauldit à outrance
Qui mal vouldroit au royaume de France!'
'What say they?' murmured Scarabullo into Gorgoglio's ear.
'Scurvy talk!' said the latter. 'They praise their own wine, and praise not ours.'
'Just look at those two French cocks,' grumbled the tinman; 'my hand itches to be at them.'
Meanwhile Tibaldo, the German host, with fat belly on thin legs, and a formidable bunch of keys at his leathern girdle, drew from the cask half brentas of wine, and served them to the foreigners in an earthenware jug, looking most suspiciously at his guests. Bonnivart drank his potion at one draught, and found it excellent: none the less, he spat, making a face of disgust. Just then Lotte, Tibaldo's daughter passed by; a slim, flaxen-haired little lass, with kind blue eyes like her father's. The Gascon nudged his comrade, twirled his moustaches seductively, drank, and trolled out a song, to which Groguillioche added a husky chorus:—
'Charles fera si grandes batailles
Qu'il conquerra les Itailles,
En Jerusalem entrera
Et mont Olivet montera.'
Presently Lotte passed them again, modestly dropping her eyes, but the sergeant caught her by the waist and tried to pull her to his knee. She pushed him away, broke loose, and fled. He jumped up, caught her and kissed her cheek, his lips still wet with wine. The girl screamed, dropped the pitcher she was carrying, and struck the Frenchman so hard a blow that for a moment he was stunned, at which there was a general laugh.
'Well done, wench!' cried the goldsmith. 'By St. Gervaso, I ne'er saw a heartier smack, nor one more seasonably applied.'
Groguillioche tried to restrain his companion.
'Let her alone. Don't make a fool of yourself,' he said.
But the Gascon was flown with wine, and, laughing with a laugh that was but at one side of his mouth, he cried:—
'That's your way, is it, my beauty? Ventre bleu! next time it shall not be on your cheek, but fair on your lips.'
Upsetting the table, he sprang after her, captured her, and would have executed his threat, had not the powerful hand of Scarabullo seized him by the throat.
'Ha! son of a dog! Hideous mug of a Frenchman! I'll teach you how to insult the girls of Milan!' and he shook his victim backwards and forwards, nearly choking him.
'Sacrebleu! Sacrebleu!' roared Groguillioche infuriated; 'hands off, ruffian! Vive la France! St. Denis et St. George!' His sword was out, and prompt to be thrust into the tinman's back, but Mascarello, Gorgoglio, Maso, and the rest intervening, tied his hands. Now was utter confusion; tables overset, benches smashed, casks rolling, shards of smashed pitchers under the feet, everywhere pools of wine. Seeing blood, naked swords, and brandished knives, Tibaldo rushed into the street, and, in a voice fit to fill the square, yelled:—
'Assassination! Homicide! The French are sacking the town!'
At once the market bell rang forth and was answered by its brother of the Broletto. The dealers closed their shops. Fruit-sellers and rag-wives ran hither and thither packing their goods.
'San Gervaso and San Protaso! our protecting saints; lend us aid!' cried the fat vegetable-woman with the tremendous voice.
'What is on foot? What is happening? Is it a conflagration?'
'Down! Down with the Frenchmen!'
Farfannichio, the naughty boy, danced with delight, whistling and yelling.
'Down with the Frenchmen! Down with the Frenchmen!'
Guards and soldiers now appeared on the scene, mighty with arquebuses and pikes. They were just in time to rescue Groguillioche and Bonnivart from death at the hands of the mob. Laying hands right and left, they arrested amongst others Corbolo the shoemaker.
His wife, who had run up on sound of the tumult, now wrung her hands piteously, and wailed:—
'For pity's sake, let him go! Have mercy on my poor little husband! I will chastise him at home, and never allow him into a street squabble again. Believe me, Messeri, he is a perfect natural, and not worth the rope you would hang him with.'
But Corbolo, hanging his head, fixing his eyes on the ground, and pretending not to hear these intercessions, hid behind the stout person of one of the guards, who seemed to him far less terrible than his spouse.