“Sweet and inexhaustible! I could feed all day on thy love. Yet, I think, for my stomach’s sake, I would rather be less gifted than the mouse. What is the use to be able to smell meat through glass when the window is shut?”
“Wait! There are other ways to the larder than by the door. In the meanwhile, we will go on. There are two ends to San Lorenzo, the upper and lower: we will try the lower. North and south sit with their backs to one another, like peevish sisters. What the one snubs the other may favour.”
He swung the box by its strap to his shoulder, closed the tripod, and, using it for a staff, trudged on dustily with his comrade. Half way down the village, a man for the first time accosted them. He was young, vehement, authoritative—the segundo jefe, or sub-prefect of San Lorenzo.
“Wait!” he said, halting the pair. “I know you, Caron. You should be de Charogne—a French carrion-crow. What do you here, spying for your masters?”
“Señor,” said the showman, “you are mistaken. I am of your people.”
“Since when? I know you, I say.”
“Many know me, caballero, in these parts, and nothing against me but my nationality. Now that is changed.”
“Since when? I repeat it.”
“Since the Emperor tore my brother from his plough in Rousillon to serve his colours, and our father was left to die of starvation. We are but now on our way back from closing the old man’s eyes, and at the foot of the hills we recovered our chattels, which we had hid there, on our journey north, for security. I speak of myself and my little comrade, Pepino, who is truly of this province, señor, having been born in Gerona, where he made stockings.”
The sub-prefect looked at Pepino attentively, for the first time, and his dark eyes kindled.