“I knew him before!—I have met him often in London with the Baroness and my lord, his cousin,” said the Baron.
A smoking soup for Harry here came in, borne by the smiling host. “Behold, sir! Behold a potage of my fashion!” says my landlord, laying down the dish and whispering to Harry the celebrated name of the nobleman opposite. Harry thanked Monsieur Barbeau in his own language, upon which the foreign gentleman, turning round, grinned most graciously at Harry, and said, “Fous bossedez notre langue barfaidement, monsieur.” Mr. Warrington had never heard the French language pronounced in that manner in Canada. He bowed in return to the foreign gentleman.
“Tell me more about the Croesus, my good Baron,” continued his lordship, speaking rather superciliously to his companion, and taking no notice of Harry, which perhaps somewhat nettled the young man.
“What will you, that I tell you, my dear lord? Croesus is a youth like other youths; he is tall, like other youths; he is awkward, like other youths; he has black hair, as they all have who come from the Indies. Lodgings have been taken for him at Mrs. Rose's toy-shop.”
“I have lodgings there too,” thought Mr. Warrington. “Who is Croesus they are talking of? How good the soup is!”
“He travels with a large retinue,” the Baron continued, “four servants, two postchaises, and a pair of outriders. His chief attendant is a black man who saved his life from the savages in America, and who will not hear, on any account, of being made free. He persists in wearing mourning for his elder brother from whom he inherits his principality.”
“Could anything console you for the death of yours, Chevalier?” cried out the elder gentleman.
“Milor! his property might,” said the Chevalier, “which you know is not small.”
“Your brother lives on his patrimony—which you have told me is immense—you by your industry, my dear Chevalier.”
“Milor!” cries the individual addressed as Chevalier.