“But he ayve hurt me, dreadful,” cried the poor dancing master, capering about upon the gravel, and then stooping to tie his handkerchief over his leg, to hide the place where the dog had taken out a piece of the cloth, and was now coolly lying down and tearing it to pieces. “I am hurt! I am scare—I am fright horrible!” cried poor Monsieur de Kittville; “and my nerves and strings—oh, my nerves and strings—and my leetle feetle shall be broken all to pieces. Ah, Madame Bloont, Madame Bloont, why you keep such monster savage to attack vos amis? I shall not dare come for give lessons. I am ver bad, ver bad indeed.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear! how can I sufficiently apologise?” exclaimed Mrs Blunt, who had hurried up, and now began tapping the great dog upon the head with her fan. “I am so extremely sorry, Monsieur de Kittville. Naughty dog, then, to try and bite its mistress’s friends.”
“Aha, madame,” said the poor little man, forgetting his trouble in his excessive politeness and gallantry—“mais ce n’est rien; just nosing at all; but I am agitate. If you will give me one leetle glass wine, I shall nevare forget your bonté.”
“Oh, yes, yes—pray come in,” said Mrs Blunt.
And then we all came round the poor, trembling little martyr; and although we could not help laughing, yet all the while we pitied the good-tempered, inoffensive little man, till he had had his glass of wine and gone away; for, of course, he gave no lesson that day, and I must chronicle the fact that Mrs Blunt gave him a guinea towards buying a new instrument.
“But, oh, Clara,” I said, when we were alone, “suppose that had been poor Achille?”
“Oh, what’s the good of supposing?” said Clara, pettishly. “It was not him, and that ought to be enough.”
“But it might have been, though,” I said; “and then, only think!”
“Think,” said Clara, “oh, yes, I’ll think. Why, he is sure to have him some day.”
“Don’t dear, pray,” I said.