“Blas el Ratonero,” he rejoined.
“Oh, Blas Maldonado!” I exclaimed. “Ay, that I do! I know him as well as I know my right arm, and have a long account to settle with him some day; for I owe him all my ills, and, por quien Dios es,[226] he shall have honest payment!”
“No, Leboucher,” said the governor, now turning to his factotum, “no; you are certainly mistaken—he is, decidedly, not the rat-catcher. I think I am a sufficient judge of human nature to pronounce, that no man could act the part of the injurié so well. This fellow’s hate is heartfelt, be assured, but I will probe him a little more;” and, again addressing himself to me, he asked, “Do you know where this Blas now is?”
“Not exactly,” I replied, “for he moves about like a ball of quicksilver. One day he is at Zeca, another at Meca. There is no catching him.”
“Where does he say?” asked the governor, addressing his secretary—“à Meca? où diable donc est Meca?”
“Allow me to question him,” said Señor Leboucher, with an ill-suppressed smile, a request to which the governor gave a pettish assent.
“Allons, mon brave! sans phrases! you know this Blas well?” commenced my new interrogator.
“Right well.”
“And is he a man of such determination as report says?”
“He is a bold fellow,” I replied, “one who is not to be trifled with. He is always as good as his word, and his promises are engraved with the knife’s point.”