The Queen turned on him with the haughtiness that came so naturally to the daughter of Maria Theresa: “The Prince seems to know Resina better than I should have expected.”
“Yes, your Majesty. The fact is, that there is an estate in the neighbourhood to which I go for hunting.”[4]
[4] More what we should call shooting in England.
“Indeed!” said the Queen; “and do you get good sport?”
“Oh, excellent, your Majesty—excellent.”
“The King will be glad to hear of it. He is always glad of fresh country to hunt so near Naples.”
“I should be most honoured,” said the Prince, turning round to scowl at the innkeeper, who had returned. We caught the scowl, and wondered if it conveyed more than that the Prince’s temper was ruffled. Our patience had been put to no great trial. The innkeeper had come to announce the buon pranzo, which consisted of a tolerable vermicelli soup, a pork fry, and a dish of delicate little fish unfortunately fried in oil. The Italian ladies turned up their noses at the fish: to cook in oil was the sign of a very poor eating-house. To us boys, however, all was manna in the desert, and Prince Caracciolo fell to with such energy and rapacity that before I had despatched four or five of the little transparent fish, which almost fell to pieces, he had emptied the dish in front of him altogether. The little creatures glided down his fauces unmasticated, much more quickly than they move in their native element.
Noticing the dismay on the faces of the men in the company, he mentioned that the supply was unlimited, and that more would be brought in hot from the pan as required. The Queen called for lachrime Christi, saying, “To dine at the foot of Vesuvio and not drink lachrime Christi, would be worse than being at Rome and not seeing St. Peter’s.”
“Vulite roba buona?”[5] asked mine host, not in the least knowing who she was, but gathering from her appearance that she was rich enough to like his best.
[5] “Would you like good stuff?”