“Ah! Monsieur, when a lady say she will play comment faire, what can you do?”
“But why did you never play at this house, Monsieur?”
“Ah! Monsieur Turnbull, it is for de lady of de house to propose de game.”
“Very true,” replied Mr Turnbull, writing a cheque for the two hundred pounds; “there is your money, Mr Tagliabue; and now that you are paid, allow me to observe that I consider you and your wife a couple of swindlers; and beg that you will never enter my doors again.”
“Vat you say, sir! Swind-lare! God dam! Sar, I will have satisfaction.”
“You’ve got your money—is that sufficient, or do you want anything else?” replied Mr T, rising from his chair.
“Yes, sar, I do want more—I will have more.”
“So you shall, then,” replied Mr Turnbull, kicking him out of the room along the passage, and out of the front door.
Monsieur Tagliabue turned round every now and then, and threatened, and then tried to escape, as he perceived the upraised boot of Mr Turnbull. When fairly out of the house he turned round, “Monsieur Turnbull, I will have de satisfaction, de terrible satisfaction, for this. You shall pay. By God, sar, you shall pay—de money for this.”
That evening Mr Turnbull was summoned to appear at Bow Street on the following morning for the assault. He met Monsieur Tagliabue with his lawyer, and acknowledged that he had kicked him out of his house for swindling his wife, refused all accommodation, and was prepared with his bail. Monsieur Tagliabue stormed and blustered, talked about his acquaintance with the nobility; but the magistrate had seen too much of foreigners to place much reliance on their asseverations. “Who are you, monsieur?”