"Ah, c'est beau! Very nice, I mean. The worthy magyars name their departments after their ancient patriarchs. Touching, truly!"
"Then, may I ask to what nationality you yourself belong, sir?"
"I don't live here. Bon Dieu! what a terrible fate for any one to live here, where the puddles are bottomless and a man can see nothing but storks."
Peter Bús turned to leave the room; he was offended at being treated in this manner.
"Come, come, don't run away with the light, signore contadino!" cried the stranger.
"I beg your pardon, but I am of gentle birth myself. My name is Peter Bús,[4] and I am well content with it."
[4] Pronounced Bush.
"Ah, ah, ah, Monsignore Bouche, then you are a gentleman and an innkeeper in one, eh? That's nothing. James Stuart was of royal blood, and at last he also became an innkeeper. Well, tell me, if I am to remain here, have you some good wine and pretty girls, eh?"
"My wine is bad—'tis no drink for a gentleman—and my serving-maid is as ugly as night."