“I must confess that I did not show you that consideration,” replied Christian, impatiently; “but I omitted to do so on purpose, so as to avoid the temptation of punishing you, as you deserved, for your drunkenness.”
“Punishing me!” cried Puffo, advancing upon him in a threatening manner. “Try it a little! Come on!”
At the same time he caught up a marionette, and brandished it over his master’s head like a club. The weapon, though comical, was none the less dangerous, for the head of the burattino is necessarily made of very hard wood, so as to prevent it from being broken in the stage fights. Holding the little figure by its leathern skirt, and hurling it like a flail, Puffo might have broken his adversary’s head, and, perhaps, wished to do so. Christian seized the marionette as it came, and, with the other hand, caught Puffo by the throat, and threw him at his feet.
“Cursed drunkard!” he said, putting his knee on his breast, “you deserve a sound beating, but I scorn to strike you. Off with you! I discharge you on the spot, and never want to hear of you again. I have paid you your week’s wages, and owe you nothing; but as you may have spent it all for drink, I will give you enough to return to Stockholm. Get up, and don’t try any more of your deviltries, or I will strangle you!”
Puffo, who was a good deal bruised, got up in silence. Though brutal, he was not naturally an assassin, and he was humiliated and cowed. Perhaps he felt that he was in the wrong; but his first and great anxiety was to pick up a dozen pieces of gold that had slipped from his belt, and rolled over the floor.
“What is that?” cried Christian, noticing what he was about, and seizing him by the arm. “Stolen money?”
“No!” cried the Livornese, lifting his hand with an heroic gesture, which was sufficiently absurd; “I have not stolen anything here. That money is mine. They gave it to me.”
“What for? Come, speak—I insist upon it!”
“They gave it to me because they wanted to. It is nobody’s business.”
“Who gave it to you? Was it not?—”