Pog-Reis seemed thoughtful and oblivious of what was passing around him, although the murmurs of dissatisfaction increased to such violence that Trimalcyon said to the dwarf:
“Before you go out, place here by me, on the divan, my pistols and a stock of arms. Well, now go and see what is the matter. If it is anything serious, let Mello come and tell me. At the same time, inform those blowers of trumpets that I will make them swallow trumpets and buccinæ if they stop playing a moment.”
“My lord, they say they have not wind enough to play two hours together.”
“Ah, they lack wind, do they! Ah, well, tell them that if they give me that reason again I will have their stomachs opened, and by means of a blacksmith’s bellows put them in such a condition that they will not lack wind.”
At this coarse and brutal pleasantry, Orangine and Swan-skin looked at each other in astonishment.
“You can tell them besides,” added Trimalcyon, “that as they are not worth one piece of gold in the slave market, and as it costs me more to keep them than they are worth, I shall think nothing of gratifying my caprice on them.”
The negro went out.
“What I like in you,” said Pog, slowly, as he awakened from his reverie, “is that you are a stranger to every sentiment, I will not say of virtue, but of humanity.”
“And what in the devil do you say that to me for, friend Pog? You see that, as inhuman as I am, I do not forget who you are, and who I am. You say ‘tu’ to me, and I answer ‘vous’ to you.”
Just then two shots were fired and resounded through the galley.