“Signor Pazzoletto, it is thou!” he exclaimed, regularly taken aback, as the sailors say.
“Altro! altro!” ejaculated the poor man, who sadly wanted to make his escape, but could see no better chance now than there had been all the night.
For the passage was blocked, while in the hall were collected together all the pupils and the servants—that gawky James coming back and towering above all, like a horrible lamp-post in a crowd.
“My vinaigrette,” murmured Madame Blunt.
When if that dreadful Achille did not place another arm around her; and that nasty old thing liked it, I could see, far more than Miss Furness did, and hung upon him horribly, pretending to faint; when I could have given anything to have snatched her away.
“Pauvre chère dame” murmured Achille, giving me at the same moment a comical look out of the corner of his eye.
“Oh! Monsieur Achille,” said Mrs Blunt, feebly, “oh, help! Send away that wretch. Otez moi cet homme là.”
“Aha! yais! mais oui!” exclaimed Achille—the base deceiver, to play such a part!—“Sare, you are not business here. Madame dismiss. Take away yourself off. Cut yourself! Go!”
I give this just as Achille spoke it; for I cannot but feel angry at the deceitful part he had played.
The Signor looked at Achille, and gave him a diabolical grin—just as if he would have liked to stiletto him upon the spot, with one of the pieces of broken glass. Then he looked at me, bestowing upon me a meaning glance, as he made a rush past us all, and escaped by the front door; but not without splashing right through the puddle, and sending the water all over the Fraülein, so that she exclaimed most indignantly, until the front door closed with a heavy bang.