“Ask Caproni, here,” he boasted, “if I am not Italian.”
Gorgas inquired in their language.
“Him?” their eyes opened in surprise at the question. “Oh, but, yes, milady. He is grand signor, Italian gentleman. He has lived in Milan, Napoli, everywhere, even in our own Sicily. Italian? Oh, but yes. French? You would make fun, milady? He speak French as we in Sicily speak French; ah! he talk Italian from the heart.”
While Gorgas translated, Bardek sat transfigured.
“You see!” he shook his great, round head in pride.
“And I would take oath you are French,” Leopold remarked quietly. “You have tones and nuances of the Loire—”
“Oh, yes, I have lived on the Loire,” he admitted, “and also in Brittany.” For example, he shifted back and forth between the patois of the north and south of France.
“I say again that I am cosmopolitan,” he averred. “The Bohemian belongs to all countries. In New York city is a Bohemia which New York city does not know. There we talk all languages and listen to the pulses of the world. New York is a little place, full of the small thinkings of little places. It has great pride and wonderful industry—just like little places—but of the doings of the great world, it knows everything too late. Long before the big wars the Bohemia of New York city knows what is to be, and prepares; one day New York city wake up and scream the stale news. So wit’ everyt’ing.
“But I should not so talk,” he shook his head sadly. “I am no longer cosmopolitan.”
They tried for some time to get him to tell them why. At first he would not speak. Sadness enveloped him. After a while he laughed.