Bagasse, with his grotesque ferruginous face all aglow with a dozen emotions, sprang up with a stamp which shook the room, dropped into his seat again, and slapped his heart with his hand.
“Hah!” he hoarsely cried, “it is superb! By dam! I sall fly. My heart is too big for his box. And zat beautifool, rich, vair, fine ladee say zat? Sublime! She is great, she is grand, she is more zan ze great Empress Josephine of ze great Nap-oleon. Ah, Hypolite Bagasse my frien’, you haf ze biggest compliment I sall evair hear!”
“You must see my wife, Bagasse,” continued Harrington. “She feels very grateful to you, first for defending me from poor Witherlee’s talk”—
“Sacre!” growled Bagasse, interrupting, “I catch zat pup Witterly in my acadamee once more, and I break him in two pieces ovair my knee!”
“No,” said Harrington, gently, “for my sake, don’t touch him. He has been punished enough already. Say that you won’t touch him, Bagasse.”
“Missr Harrington, I do evairysing you want,” replied the pacified fencing-master. “You say let Witterly off, I let him off. I treat him wis civilitee.”
“That’s right,” returned Harrington; “do. But as I was saying, my wife feels especially grateful to you for having given her the charming idea of making that speech to me, and she wants to see you, and know you, and thank you herself. So the first opportunity I get, I am going to take you to her house.”
Bagasse turned swarthy-red at this, and looked embarrassed.
“Pardon me, Missr Harrington—ex-cuse me, sir, please,” he said, with suave shamefacedness, bowing low as he sat. “But it is too mush honor—vair many too mush. You beautifool, vair, fine, ladee wife, she is so high, she is so distingué, she is ze count-ess, ze duch-ess, ze queen. She is so far up like ze beautifool sun. I am so low down like ze paving-stone ze sun shine on. You zink now! I am ze poor old fencing-mastair—ze man zat eat ze garleek and drink ze brandee-bottel—ze ugly old devail Bagasse, so low down. Br-r-r-r! It is not propair zat I make ze viseet zoo ze vair, fine, beautifool rich ladee-wife—I, zee poor way low down child of ze people. Sacrebleu, no!”
“Oh, Bagasse, Bagasse,” said Harrington, in a tone of good natured chiding, “fie upon you to talk in that way! Suppose my wife is the sun, as you say. Well, the sun is a democrat. The sun shines as sweetly on you as on the emperor. Now my wife is like the sun in that particular at least. Ah, Bagasse, she, too, is a child of the people, and she will be proud to know a man who could make the manly speech you made! She is not a lady who respects coats and bank-stock, but heart, honor, manhood. Come, now, you fancy her a bit of a Marie Antoinette. Not at all, Bagasse. Think of that dear child of the people whom Frenchmen love—Josephine. That is a better image of her. Don’t say a word—you shall visit her, and then you’ll see how much at home she’ll make you feel.”