“‘Behold the house’ says he, ‘of Signor Larthoor!’—at the same time pointing with his whip into the seventh heaven, where the early stars were shining.
“‘But the Signor Larthoor,’ returns the Inimitable darling, ‘lives at Pausilippo.’
“‘It is true,’ says the coachman (still pointing to the evening star), ‘but he lives high up the Salita Sant’ Antonio, where no carriage ever yet ascended, and that is the house’ (evening star as aforesaid), ‘and one must go on foot. Behold the Salita Sant’ Antonio!’
“I went up it, a mile and a half I should think. I got into the strangest places, among the wildest Neapolitans—kitchens, washing-places, archways, stables, vineyards—was baited by dogs, answered in profoundly unintelligible Neapolitan, from behind lonely locked doors, in cracked female voices, quaking with fear; could hear of no such Englishman or any Englishman. By-and-by I came upon a Polenta-shop in the clouds, where an old Frenchman, with an umbrella like a faded tropical leaf (it had not rained for six weeks) was staring at nothing at all, with a snuff-box in his hand. To him I appealed concerning the Signor Larthoor.
“‘Sir,’ said he, with the sweetest politeness, ‘can you speak French?’
“‘Sir,’ said I, ‘a little.’
“‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I presume the Signor Lootheere’—you will observe that he changed the name according to the custom of his country—‘is an Englishman.’
“I admitted that he was the victim of circumstances and had that misfortune.
“‘Sir,’ said he, ‘one word more. Has he a servant with a wooden leg?’
“‘Great Heaven, sir,’ said I, ‘how do I know? I should think not, but it is possible.’