It was the facetious Englishman who was answerable for this.
“Ya, mein Prinz, ya,” was the more serious response of the Prussian diplomatist. “Give ’em grape, instead of grapes,” put in the punster. “And you, Highness, bind Russia to do the same for these hog-drovers of the Hungarian Puszta?”
“Two hundred thousand men are ready to march down upon them,” responded the Grand Duke.
“Take care you don’t catch a Tartar, mon cher altesse!” cautioned the punning plenipotentiary.
“You’re quite sure of Geörgei, Marshal?” went on the President, addressing himself to the Austrian.
“Quite. He hates this Kossuth as the devil himself; and perhaps a little worse. He’d see him and his Honveds at the bottom of the Danube; and I’ve no doubt will hand them over, neck and crop, as soon as our Russian allies show themselves over the frontier.”
“And a crop of necks you intend gathering, I presume?” said the heartless wit.
“Très bien!” continued the President, without noticing the sallies of his old friend, the lord. “I, on my part, will take care of Italy. I think I can trust superstition to assist me in restoring poor old Pio Nono.”
“Your own piety will be sufficient excuse for that, mon Prince. ’Tis a holy crusade, and who more fitted than you to undertake it? With Garibaldi for your Saladin, you will be called Louis of the Lion-heart!”
The gay viscount laughed at his own conceit; the others joining him in the cachinnation.