“The LUSIADES, an admirable epic, which—”
“The LUSIADES!” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Yes, my friend, the LUSIADES of the great Camoens, neither more nor less.”
“Camoens!” repeated Glenarvan; “but Paganel, my unfortunate fellow, Camoens was a Portuguese! It is Portuguese you have been learning for the last six weeks!”
“Camoens! LUISADES! Portuguese!” Paganel could not say more. He looked vexed, while his companions, who had all gathered round, broke out in a furious burst of laughter.
The Indian never moved a muscle of his face. He quietly awaited the explanation of this incomprehensible mirth.
“Fool, idiot, that I am!” at last uttered Paganel. “Is it really a fact? You are not joking with me? It is what I have actually been doing? Why, it is a second confusion of tongues, like Babel. Ah me! alack-a-day! my friends, what is to become of me? To start for India and arrive at Chili! To learn Spanish and talk Portuguese! Why, if I go on like this, some day I shall be throwing myself out of the window instead of my cigar!”
To hear Paganel bemoan his misadventures and see his comical discomfiture, would have upset anyone’s gravity. Besides, he set the example himself, and said:
“Laugh away, my friends, laugh as loud as you like; you can’t laugh at me half as much as I laugh at myself!”
“But, I say,” said the Major, after a minute, “this doesn’t alter the fact that we have no interpreter.”