“So much for curiosity,” said McElvina, continuing his mirth. The proprietor of the dog, a young Frenchman, dressed very much “en calicot,” did not, however, seem quite so much amused with this practical joke; he cocked his hat fiercely on one side, raised his figure to the utmost of its height, and walking up, en grand militaire addressed McElvina, with “Comment, monsieur, vous avez fait une grande bêtise-là—vous m’insultez—”
“I think I had better not understand French,” said McElvina, aside to Debriseau; then turning to the Frenchman, with a grave face, and air of incomprehension,—“What did you say, sir?”
“Ah! you are Inglishman. You not speak French?”—McElvina shook his head, and began to puff away his cigar.
“Den, sare, if you not speak de French language, I speak de Englis like von natif; and I tell you, sare, que vous m’avez insulté. Got for dam!—you burnt my dog nose; vat you mean, sare?”
“The dog burnt his own nose,” answered McElvina, mildly.
“Vat you mean? de dog burnt his own nose! How is a dog capable to burn his own nose? Sare, you put de cigar to my dog nose. I must have de satisfaction or de apology tout de suite.”
“But, sir, I have not insulted you.”
“Sare, you insult my dog—he is von and de same ting—mon chien est un chien de sentiment. He feel de affront all de same vid me—I feel de affront all de same vid him. Vous n’avez qu’à choisir, monsieur.”
“Between you and your dog,” answered McElvina—“Well, then, I’d rather fight the dog.”
“Bah! fight de dog—de dog cannot fight, sare: mais je suis son maître et son ami and I vill fight for him.”