"What are you doing, sir?" said the Professor, in his college tone.
"Taking notes," replied Inness, respectfully. "Miss Trescott may feel willing to trust her memory, but I wish to preserve your remarks for future reference," and he went on with his writing.
The Professor looked at him sharply, but the youth's face remained immovable, and he went on.
"These three little towns, then, Mentone, Roccabruna, and Monaco, have belonged to the Princes of Monaco since the early Middle Ages."
"Those dear Middle Ages!" said Mrs. Clary.
The Professor gravely looked at her, and then repeated his phrase, as if linking together his remarks over her unimportant head. "As I observed—the early Middle Ages. But in 1848 Mentone and Roccabruna, unable longer to endure the tyranny of their rulers, revolted and declared their independence. The Prince at that time lived in Paris, knew little of his subjects, and apparently cared less, save to get from them through agents as much income as possible for his Parisian luxuries." (Impossible to describe the accent which our Puritan Professor gave to those two words.) "His little territory produced only olives, oranges, and lemons. By his order the oranges and lemons were taxed so heavily that the poor peasant owner made nothing from his toil; his olives, also, must be ground at the 'Prince's mill,' where a higher price was demanded than elsewhere. Finally an even more odious monopoly was established: all subjects were compelled to purchase the 'Prince's bread,' which, made from cheap grain bought on the docks of Marseilles and Genoa, was often unfit to eat. So severe were the laws that any traveller entering the principality must throw away at the boundary line all bread he might have with him, and the captain of a vessel having on board a single slice upon arrival in port was heavily fined. This state of things lasted twenty-five years, during which period the Prince in Paris spent annually his eighty thousand dollars, gained from this poor little domain of eight or nine thousand souls." The Professor in his heat stood still, and we all stood still with him. The Mentonnais, looking down from their high windows and up from their dark little doors, no doubt wondered what we were talking about; they little knew it was their own story.
"A revolution made by bread. And ours was made by tea," observed Janet, thoughtfully.
"We need now only one made by butter, to be complete," said Inness.
Again the Professor scrutinized him, but discovered nothing.
