"She is my sister-in-law, sir!" he replied in a fury, his voice swelling
louder and louder: "She is my brother's wife, sir; and he's no fool, no
more am I, sir!----Twenty-one years of service, eleven campaigns, and
sub-lieutenant of the Customs at Toulon, sir!----So you shall just let
me know how it was my sister-in-law fainted through your fault; and what
you meant by taking the liberty of exposing her in a way that no decent
man would be guilty of, not even with the consent of her family, nor if
she were in mortal danger of her life, sir!"
"And where do you live?" continued my uncle, sipping his madeira, and
still fixing upon the fair one's brother-in-law the same charming gaze.
"Hôtel des Bouches-du-Rhone, Rue Pagevin. I am escorting my
sister-in-law, and I am responsible for her to her husband."
"My compliments to you, sir! She is a charming young person."
This magnificent composure of my uncle's so completely disconcerted the
lieutenant of the Customs that he stopped short. But he had been carried
on too far by his hot meridional temper not to launch out again very
soon. He followed up with a perfect flood of abuse, interlarded with the
most approved insults, with violent epithets and noisy oaths. My uncle
listened to him quietly, stroking his chin, and contemplating him as if
watching the performance of some surprising feat. The Toulonnais said
that he considered this fainting fit of his sister-in-law's, and the
very unceremonious proceedings which had followed it, equally suspicious
and irregular.
"My brother's honour has been outraged," and so on, he observed.
But at last the good fellow was obliged to pause in order to take
breath. Barbassou-Pasha took advantage of the opening.
"Pray what is your name?" he asked, still smiling affably.
"My name, my good man," loftily replied the man of Toulon, "is Firmin
Bonaffé, lieutenant in the Customs, seen twenty-one years of service and
eleven campaigns. And if that is not enough for you----"
"Why, dear me! then this charming young person has married your brother,
has she?"
"A week ago, sir, at Cadiz, where she lives! It was because he had to
go back over the sea to Brazil that he confided her to my charge. And
you must not imagine that I can let your outrageous behaviour to her
pass without further notice, sir!"
"You are a man of spirit, sir, that I can see!" replied my uncle. He was
gradually falling into his native assent, charmed, no doubt, by the
soothing example of his adversary. "I can understand your feelings," he
continued; "and for my part, my good fellow, I confess I should not have
the slightest objection to taking a sabre and slicing off a piece of
your person." (He uttered this latter word, individu, in French, with
the Marseillais pronunciation, inndividu.) "Indeed," he continued
quite placidly, "I should have no objection to throwing you through the
window here, just as you are."