There the scene was certainly a curious one. Around a large table sat a party of some twenty persons, the singularity of whose appearance may be conjectured when I mention that all those who appeared to be British officers were dressed in the robes of the échevins (or aldermen) of the village; while some others, whose looks bespoke them as sturdy Flemings, sported the cocked hats and cavalry helmets of their associates. He who appeared the ruler of the feast sat with his back towards me, and wore, in addition to the dress of burgomaster, a herald’s tabard, which gave him something the air of a grotesque screen at its potations. A huge fire blazed upon the ample hearth, before which were spread several staff uniforms, whose drabbled and soaked appearance denoted the reason of the party’s change of habiliments. Every imaginable species of drinking-vessel figured upon the board, from the rich flagon of chased silver to the humble cruche we see in a Teniers picture. As well as I could hear, the language of the company seemed to be French, or, at least, such an imitation of that language as served as a species of neutral territory for both parties to meet in.
He of the tabard spoke louder than the others, and although, from the execrable endeavors he made to express himself in French, his natural voice was much altered, there was yet something in his accents which seemed perfectly familiar to me.
“Mosheer l’Abbey,” said he, placing his arm familiarly on the shoulder of a portly personage, whose shaven crown strangely contrasted with a pair of corked moustachios,—“Mosheer l’Abbey, nous sommes frères, et moi, savez-vous, suis évèque,—‘pon my life it’s true; I might have been Bishop of Saragossa, if I only consented to leave the Twenty-third. Je suis bong Catholique. Lord bless you, if you saw how I loved the nunneries in Spain! J’ai tres jolly souvenirs of those nunneries; a goodly company of little silver saints; and this waistcoat you see—mong gilet—was a satin petticoat of our Lady of Loretto.”
Need I say, that before this speech was concluded, I had recognized in the speaker nobody but that inveterate old villain, Monsoon himself.
“Permettez, votre Excellence,” said a hale, jolly-looking personage on his left, as he filled the major’s goblet with obsequious politeness.
“Bong engfong,” replied Monsoon, tapping him familiarly on the head. “Burgomaster, you are a trump; and when I get my promotion, I’ll make you prefect in a wine district. Pass the lush, and don’t look sleepy! ‘Drowsiness,’ says Solomon, ‘clothes a man in rags;’ and no man knew the world better than Solomon. Don’t you be laughing, you raw boys. Never mind them, Abbey; ils sont petits garçongs—fags from Eton and Harrow; better judges of mutton broth than sherry negus.”
“I say, Major, you are forgetting this song you promised us.”
“Yes, yes,” said several voices together; “the song, Major! the song!”
“Time enough for that; we’re doing very well as it is. Upon my life, though, they hold a deal of wine. I thought we’d have had them fit to bargain with before ten, and see, it’s near midnight; and I must have my forage accounts ready for the commissary-general by to-morrow morning.”
This speech having informed me the reason of the Major’s presence there, I resolved to wait no longer a mere spectator of their proceedings; so dismounting from my position, I commenced a vigorous attack upon the door.