"One must ejaculate in some language, Hugo, and I've been so often in Paris that I've got into the trick in some way."
"What about London?"
"Your city of fogs! Eh! You know I cannot master your tongue, Signor Hugo. 'You are a beautiful mees; I loove you'--Dio! what a difficulty I had in learning those two sentences."
"Which are perfectly useless."
"I have not found them so. But here is Signor Avenza, the doctor I spoke of. Good-day, for the second time, my friend. Permit me to introduce Signor Hugo Cranston, an Englishman."
The doctor, a fat little man with a round smiling face and two twinkling black eyes, executed an elaborate bow, for which purpose he brought his feet smartly together in military fashion, and, having thus saluted me, rashly entered into a contest with the English language, which vanquished him at once.
"I spik Inglis," he said, mincingly. Then, with a gigantic effort, "Gif me your tongue! Ah! he is bad. Dis writing is your cure. Goot-day! I vil taake a leetle valk wis you agin."
Signor Avenza had evidently learned these choice English phrases for the purposes of his profession.
While this lesson in philology was going on the Marchese had opened the door leading into the room where Pallanza was concealed, and called to us to enter. Both the doctor and myself, obeying the summons, went through the bedroom, and soon found ourselves by the couch, whereon lay the still form of the young man, with that terrible death-in-life look on his white face.
"See, Avenza, this is what I spoke about," said Beltrami, holding up a small phial filled with a red liquid. "It is the antidote to the poison which this Pallanza was foolish enough to take."