The electrical nerve was again touched—“Oh!—oh!—oh! Caramighty! here comes anoder on dem,” roared Pegtop, sticking the slice of melon, which was intended for Mademoiselle Eugenie, into his own mouth, to quell the paroxysm, if possible, (while he fractured the plate on the black aide’s skull,) and immediately blew it out again, with an explosion, and a scattering of the fragments, as if it had been the blasting of a stone quarry.
“Zounds, this is too much,”—exclaimed Bang, as he rose and kicked the poor fellow out again, with such vehemence, that his skull, encountering the paunch of our friend the Baron, who was entering from the street at that instant, capsized him outright, and away rolled his Excellency the General de Division, Commandant de L’Arrondissement, &c. &c. digging his spurs into poor Pegtop’s transom, and sacring furiously, while the black servant roared as if he had been harpooned by the very devil. The aides started to their feet and one of them looked at Mr Bang, and touched the hilt of his sword, grinding the word ‘satisfaction’ between his teeth, while the other ordered the sentries to run the poor fellow, whose mirth had been so uproarious, through. However, he got off with one or two brogues in a very safe place; and when Monsieur B——explained how matters stood, and that the “pauvre diable,” as the black Baron coolly called him, was a mere servant, and an uncultivated creature, and that no insult was meant, we had all a hearty laugh, and every thing rolled right again. At length the Baron and his black tail rose to wish us a good evening, and we were thinking of finishing off with a cigar and a glass of cold grog, when Monsieur B——‘s daughter returned into the piazza, very pale, and evidently much frightened. “Mon pere,” said she while her voice quavered from excessive agitation—“My father—why do the soldiers remain?”
We all peered into the dark passage, and there, true enough, were the black sentries at their posts beside the doorway, still and motionless as statues. Monsieur B——, poor fellow, fell back in his chair at the sight, as if he had been shot through the heart.
“My fate is sealed—I am lost—oh, Eugenie!” were the only words he could utter.
“No, no,” exclaimed the weeping girl, “God forbid—the Baron is a kind hearted man—King Henry cannot—no, no—he knows you are not disaffected, he will not injure you.”
Here one of the black aides-de-camp suddenly returned. It was the poor fellow who had been making love to Eugenie during the entertainment. He looked absolutely blue with dismay; his voice shook, and his knees knocked together as he approached our host.
He tried to speak, but could not. “Oh, Pierre, Pierre,” moaned, or rather gasped Eugenie, “what have you come to communicate? what dreadful news are you the bearer of?” He held out an open letter to poor B——, who, unable to read it from excessive agitation, handed it to me. It ran thus:
“MONSIEUR LE BARON, Monsieur—has been arrested here this morning; he is a white Frenchman, and there are strong suspicions against him. Place his partner M. B——under the surveillance of the police instantly. You are made answerable for his safe custody.”
“Witness his Majesty’s hand and seal, at Sans Souci, this——”
The Count.