“A quarter to seven; it’s a two hours’ drive to Hanau, and we must be the first on the field. Russians are always beforehand with their enemies! I have engaged the best carriage in Frankfort!”
Sanin began washing. “And where are the pistols?”
“That ferroflucto Tedesco will bring the pistols. He’ll bring a doctor too.”
Pantaleone was obviously putting a good face on it as he had done the day before; but when he was seated in the carriage with Sanin, when the coachman had cracked his whip and the horses had started off at a gallop, a sudden change came over the old singer and friend of Paduan dragoons. He began to be confused and positively faint-hearted. Something seemed to have given way in him, like a badly built wall.
“What are we doing, my God, Santissima Madonna!” he cried in an unexpectedly high pipe, and he clutched at his head. “What am I about, old fool, madman, frenetico?”
Sanin wondered and laughed, and putting his arm lightly round Pantaleone’s waist, he reminded him of the French proverb: “Le vin est tiré—il faut le boire.”
“Yes, yes,” answered the old man, “we will drain the cup together to the dregs—but still I’m a madman! I’m a madman! All was going on so quietly, so well … and all of a sudden: ta-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta!”
“Like the tutti in the orchestra,” observed Sanin with a forced smile. “But it’s not your fault.”
“I know it’s not. I should think not indeed! And yet … such insolent conduct! Diavolo, diavolo!” repeated Pantaleone, sighing and shaking his topknot.
The carriage still rolled on and on.