“Mais, Monsieur,” said he, half stifled with laughter, “do you know the blunder I fell into? it is really too good. Could you only guess who I took you for, you would laugh too.”
Here he became so overcome with merriment, that he was obliged to sit down, which he did opposite to me, and actually shook with laughter.
“When this comedy is over,” thought I, “we may begin to understand each other.” Seeing no prospect of this, I became at length impatient, and jumping on my legs, said—
“Enough, sir, quite enough of this foolery. Believe me, you have every reason to be thankful that my present embarrassment should so far engross me, that I cannot afford time to give you a thrashing.”
“Pardon, mille pardons,” said he humbly; “but you will, I am sure, forgive me when I tell you that I was stupid enough to mistake you for the fugitive Englishman, whom the gens-d’armes are in pursuit of. How good, eh?”
“Oh! devilish good—but what do you mean?”
“Why, the fellow that caused the attack at Frascati, and all that, and—”
“Yes—well, eh? Did you think I was him?”
“To be sure I did, till I saw your passport.”
“Till you saw my passport!” Why, what on earth can he mean? thought I. “No, but,” said I, half jestingly, “how could you make such a blunder?”