"My dear Monsieur Schmidt, I feel a vehement, insatiable desire to sleep in the Green Room."
We were standing on the threshold of the inn, and I pointed to the room. The good man looked at me distrustfully.
"Fear nothing," I said; "I have no desire to hang myself.".
"À la bonne heure! à la bonne heure! For frankly that would give me pain; an artist of such merit! When do you wish the room, Master Christian?"
"This evening."
"Impossible! it is occupied!"
"Monsieur can enter immediately," said a voice just behind me, "I will not be in the way."
We turned around in great surprise; the peasant of Nassau stood before us, with his three-cornered hat, and his packet at the end of his walking stick. He had just learned the history of his three predecessors in the Green Room, and was trembling with rage.
"Rooms like yours!" cried he, stuttering; "but it is murderous to put people there—it is assassination! You deserve to be sent to the galleys immediately!"
"Go—go—calm yourself," said the innkeeper; "that did not prevent you from sleeping well."