CXV. La carte de Luigi Vampa.

CXV

Luigi Vampa's Bill of Fare.

To every sleep that is not the one Danglars dreaded, there is a waking.

Danglars awoke.

For a Parisian accustomed to silken curtains, to the velvet-lined walls, to the perfume rising from the whitening wood in the fireplace and descending from the satin vaults, awakening in a grotto of chalky stone must be like a dream of ill omen.

In touching his goat-skin hangings, Danglars must have believed himself dreaming of Samoyeds or Laplanders.

But in such a circumstance a single second suffices to change the most robust doubt into certainty.

"Yes, yes," he murmured, "I am in the hands of the bandits of whom Albert de Morcerf spoke to us."

His first movement was to breathe, to assure himself that he was neither killed nor wounded: it was a device he had found in Don Quixote, the only book, not that he had read, but of which he had retained something.

"No," said he, "they have neither killed nor wounded me, but they have perhaps robbed me?"

And he quickly carried his hands to his pockets. They were intact: the hundred louis he had kept for his journey from Rome to Venice were indeed in the pocket of his trousers, and the portfolio in which was the letter of credit for five million fifty thousand francs was indeed in the pocket of his coat.

"Singular bandits," said he to himself, "who have left me my purse and my portfolio! As I said yesterday on going to bed, they are going to hold me to ransom. Why, I have my watch too! Let us see what time it is."

Danglars' watch, a masterpiece of Breguet's, which he had carefully wound the evening before setting out, struck half-past five in the morning. Without it, Danglars would have remained completely uncertain of the hour, daylight not penetrating into his cell.

Ought he to provoke an explanation with the bandits? ought he to wait patiently until they demanded it? The latter alternative was the more prudent: Danglars waited.

He waited until noon.

During all that time a sentinel had watched at his door. At eight o'clock in the morning the sentinel had been relieved.

Then the wish came to Danglars to see by whom he was guarded.

He had noticed that rays of light, not of day, but of lamp, filtered through the ill-joined planks of the door; he approached one of these openings at the very moment when the bandit was drinking a few gulps of brandy, which, thanks to the skin flask that contained them, spread an odor most repugnant to Danglars.

"Ugh!" said he, retreating to the back of his cell.

At noon the man with the brandy was replaced by another guard. Danglars felt curious to see his new keeper; he approached the crack once more.

That one was an athletic bandit, a Goliath with great eyes, thick lips, a flattened nose; his red hair hung upon his shoulders in twisted locks like snakes.

"Oh! oh!" said Danglars, "that one here looks more like an ogre than a human creature; at all events, I am old and rather tough; fat old man not good to eat."

As may be seen, Danglars still had wit enough to jest.

At that very instant, as if to give him proof that he was no ogre, his guard sat down facing the door of his cell, drew from his knapsack some black bread, onions, and cheese, and began forthwith to devour them.

"The devil take me," said Danglars, casting through the chinks of his door a glance at the bandit's dinner, "the devil take me if I understand how one can eat such filth."

And he went to sit upon his goat-skins, which reminded him of the brandy smell of the first sentinel.

But Danglars might do what he would, and the secrets of nature are incomprehensible, there is much eloquence in certain material invitations which the coarsest substances address to empty stomachs.

Danglars suddenly felt that his own had no bottom at that moment: he saw the man less ugly, the bread less black, the cheese fresher.

At length, those raw onions, the frightful food of the savage, recalled to him certain Robert sauces and certain mirotons which his cook executed in superior fashion when Danglars said to him: "Mr. Deniseau, make me, for today, a nice little blackguard dish."

He rose and went to knock at the door.

The bandit lifted his head.

Danglars saw that he was understood, and redoubled.

"Che cosa?" asked the bandit.

"I say! I say! friend," said Danglars, drumming with his fingers against his door, "it seems to me it would be time someone thought of feeding me too!"

But whether he did not understand, or had no orders regarding Danglars' food, the giant returned to his dinner.

Danglars felt his pride humiliated, and, not wishing to demean himself further with this brute, he lay down again upon his goat-skins and said not another word.

Four hours passed; the giant was replaced by another bandit. Danglars, who was suffering dreadful stomach pangs, rose softly, once more applied his ear to the chinks of the door, and recognized the intelligent face of his guide.

It was indeed Peppino who was preparing to mount the gentlest possible guard by sitting down facing the door, and placing between his two legs an earthen pot, which contained, hot and savory, chick-peas stewed with bacon.

Near these chick-peas Peppino also placed a pretty little basket of Velletri grapes and a flask of Orvietto wine.

Decidedly Peppino was a gourmet.

On seeing these gastronomic preparations, the mouth of Danglars watered.

"Ah! ah!" said the prisoner, "let us see if this one will be more tractable than the other."

And he gently knocked at his door.

"Coming," said the bandit, who, by frequenting the house of mine host Pastrini, had ended by learning French even in its idioms."

Indeed he came to open.

Danglars recognized him as the one who had cried to him so furiously: "Get your head in." But this was not the hour for recriminations. He took on the contrary his most pleasant face, and with a gracious smile:

"Pardon, sir," said he, "but am I not to be given any dinner, I too?"

"Why, of course!" cried Peppino, "would Your Excellency happen to be hungry?"

"Happen to be is charming," murmured Danglars; "it is just four-and-twenty hours since I have eaten."

"But yes, sir," added he, raising his voice, "I am hungry, and even rather hungry."

"And Your Excellency wishes to eat?"

"This instant, if possible."

"Nothing easier," said Peppino; "here one procures all one desires, on paying, of course, as is done among all honest Christians."

"That goes without saying!" cried Danglars, "though in truth the people who arrest you and imprison you ought at least to feed their prisoners."

"Ah! Excellency," replied Peppino, "that is not the custom."

"That is a poor reason," rejoined Danglars, who counted on winning over his guard by his amiability, "and yet I am content with it. Come, let me be served."

"This instant, Excellency; what do you desire?"

And Peppino set his bowl upon the ground, in such a way that its steam rose directly to Danglars' nostrils.

"Order," said he.

"You have then kitchens here?" asked the banker.

"How! if we have kitchens? perfect kitchens!"

"And cooks?"

"Excellent!"

"Well, a chicken, a fish, some game, anything, provided I eat."

"As Your Excellency pleases; we say a chicken, do we not?"

"Yes, a chicken."

Peppino, straightening up, cried at the top of his lungs:

"A chicken for His Excellency!"

Peppino's voice was still vibrating under the vaults when there already appeared a young man, handsome, slim, and half-naked like the antique fish-bearers; he brought the chicken upon a silver dish, and the chicken stood alone upon its feet.

"One would think oneself at the Café de Paris," murmured Danglars.

"Here, Excellency," said Peppino, taking the chicken from the young bandit's hands and placing it upon a worm-eaten table which, with a stool and the bed of goat-skins, made up the whole furniture of the cell.

Danglars asked for a knife and fork.

"Here, Excellency," said Peppino, offering a small knife with a blunted point and a wooden fork.

Danglars took the knife in one hand, the fork in the other, and set about carving the fowl.

"Pardon, Excellency," said Peppino, laying a hand upon the banker's shoulder, "here one pays before eating; one might not be satisfied on leaving..."

"Ah! ah!" said Danglars, "it is no longer as at Paris, not to mention that they are going to skin me probably; but let us do things handsomely. Come, I have always heard speak of the cheapness of living in Italy; a chicken must be worth twelve sous at Rome."

"There," said he, and he threw a louis to Peppino.

Peppino picked up the louis, Danglars brought the knife near the chicken.

"One moment, Excellency," said Peppino, rising; "one moment, Your Excellency still owes me something."

"When I said they would skin me!" murmured Danglars.

Then, resolved to make up his mind to this extortion:

"Come, how much do you still owe for this scrawny fowl?" he asked.

"Your Excellency has given a louis as earnest."

"A louis as earnest on a chicken?"

"Doubtless, as earnest."

"Well... Go on! go on!"

"It is only four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine louis that Your Excellency still owes me."

Danglars opened enormous eyes at the statement of this gigantic jest.

"Ah! very droll," murmured he, "in truth."

And he tried to return to carving the chicken; but Peppino stopped his right hand with his left hand and held out his other hand.

"Come," said he.

"What! you are not laughing?" said Danglars.

"We never laugh, Excellency," replied Peppino, serious as a Quaker.

"How, a hundred thousand francs for that chicken!"

"Excellency, it is incredible what trouble one has to rear poultry in these accursed caves."

"Come! come!" said Danglars, finding this very buffoonish, very diverting, in truth; "but as I am hungry, let me eat. Here, there is another louis for you, my friend."

"Then that will make only four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis," said Peppino, preserving the same coolness; "with patience, we shall get there."

"Oh! as for that," said Danglars, revolted at this perseverance in railing at him, "as for that, never. Go to the devil! You do not know whom you have to deal with."

Peppino made a sign, the young lad stretched out his two hands and nimbly carried off the chicken. Danglars threw himself upon his bed of goat-skins, Peppino closed the door again and resumed eating his bacon with peas.

Danglars could not see what Peppino was doing, but the champing of the bandit's teeth could leave the prisoner in no doubt as to the exercise he was engaged in.

It was clear he was eating, even that he was eating noisily, and like an ill-bred man.

"Blockhead!" said Danglars.

Peppino pretended not to hear, and, without even turning his head, continued to eat with a wise slowness.

Danglars' stomach seemed to himself pierced like the cask of the Danaides; he could not believe he would ever succeed in filling it.

However, he exercised patience another half-hour, but it is but just to say that this half-hour seemed to him a century.

He rose and went again to the door.

"Come, sir," said he, "do not keep me languishing any longer, and tell me at once what is wanted of me?"

"But, Excellency, say rather what you want of us... Give your orders and we will execute them."

"Then open to me first."

Peppino opened.

"I wish," said Danglars, "zounds! I wish to eat!"

"You are hungry?"

"And you know it, besides."

"What does Your Excellency desire to eat?"

"A bit of dry bread, since chickens are beyond price in these accursed cellars."

"Bread! be it so," said Peppino.

"Ho there! bread!" cried he.

The young lad brought a small loaf.

"There!" said Peppino.

"How much?" asked Danglars.

"Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis, two louis paid in advance."

"What, a loaf, a hundred thousand francs?"

"A hundred thousand francs," said Peppino.

"But you asked only a hundred thousand francs for a chicken!"

"We do not serve à la carte, but at a fixed price. Whether one eats little, whether one eats much, whether one asks for ten dishes or but one, it is always the same sum."

"Still that jest! My dear friend, I declare to you it is absurd, it is stupid! Tell me at once that you want me to die of hunger, it will be sooner done."

"But no, Excellency, it is you who wish to commit suicide. Pay and eat."

"With what to pay, triple animal?" said Danglars, exasperated. "Do you think one carries a hundred thousand francs in one's pocket?"

"You have five million fifty thousand francs in yours, Excellency," said Peppino; "that makes fifty chickens at a hundred thousand francs and half a chicken at fifty thousand."

Danglars shuddered; the bandage fell from his eyes: it was still a jest, certainly, but he understood it at last.

It is even but just to say he no longer found it as flat as the moment before.

"Come," said he, "come: in giving these hundred thousand francs, will you at least hold me quit, and shall I be able to eat at my ease?"

"Doubtless," said Peppino.

"But how to give them?" said Danglars, breathing more freely.

"Nothing easier; you have a credit open with Messrs. Thomson and French, via dei Banchi, at Rome; give me a note for four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis on those gentlemen, our banker will take it."

Danglars wished at least to claim the merit of good will; he took the pen and paper Peppino presented to him, wrote the bill, and signed.

"There," said he, "there is your note to bearer."

"And there, for you, is your chicken."

Danglars carved the fowl sighing: it seemed to him very scrawny for so large a sum.

As for Peppino, he read the paper attentively, put it in his pocket, and continued eating his chick-peas.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”