“Here is detail enough to paint the man,” interrupted the general.
“But I do nothing but chatter,” said Raphael. “Adieu, cousin; I go, but I will soon return.”
“How, you go away leaving the poor Erin in the hands of the robbers. You must finish your history,” said the countess.
“I will then tell you, in two words, that the exasperated robbers ill-treated him, and fastened him to a tree. He was discovered by an old woman, who transported him to her cabin, where she took a mother’s care of him during all the illness which his misadventures had brought on him. I was for some time without any tidings from my friend, and recollecting the Spanish saying, ‘Que la esperanza era verde y se la comió un borrico’ (‘Hope is green; an ass might feed on it’), I began to believe that some accident had happened to Green Erin, when I received a letter from my Irishman, containing all the details of his romantic history. He instructed me to give six thousand reals to the woman who had nursed and saved him, so she could not doubt the state of his fortune: then the toilet left him by the robbers was simply that which he wore when he came into the world. As you see, the recompense was becoming. Let us be just; no one can deny the generosity of the English. But here comes Polo, with an elegy in his eyes. The prince waits for me. I will make up for being late by running, at the risk of breaking my nose.” And Raphael disappeared.
“Jesus!” said the marchioness, “Raphael is so restless, he gesticulates so much, he is witty with such volubility, that I lose half of what he says.”
“You do not lose any great things,” growled the general.
“Well,” said the countess, “I could love Raphael for the pleasure which he affords me, if I had never before had a love for every thing that is good.”
“Here, dear Gracia,” said Eloise, entering and embracing the countess, “here is Alexander Dumas’ ‘Travels in France.’ ”
The countess took the book. Polo and Eloise engaged in a long dissertation upon the works of this writer. Our readers will dispense with our reporting it here.
“How well the French know how to write!” said Eloise, resuming this literary dissertation.