"Té! Are you trying to make a fool of me?" exclaimed the Toulonnais,
bursting out upon us like a bomb with another explosion. "Do you
suppose, then, that I am going down on my knees to thank you for having
undressed Jean Bonaffé's wife?"
"Jean Bonaffé's wife? No, no, my good fellow!" briefly replied my uncle.
"Why 'No'?"
"Why, in the first place, because she is actually my own wife!"
"Yours?"
"As I have the pleasure of informing you. And consequently it is I who
would be entitled not to be at all pleased by your intervention in the
little domestic occurrence which took place just now."
The Toulonnais, for the moment, was struck dumb with astonishment.
"Then, bagasse! who are you?" he asked.
"The late Barbassou, retired general, seen fifty years of service, and
thirty-nine campaigns, and the husband of your sister-in-law, who is
now a bigamist--rather an awkward mistake for a lady."
My uncle might have gone on speaking for the rest of the day, and had it
all his own way. The unfortunate lieutenant stared at him, crushed and
dumbfounded by this astounding revelation. All at once, and without
waiting to hear any more, he turned on his heels, and beat a precipitate
retreat by the door.
The late Barbassou indulged in a smile at this very intelligible
discomfiture of his adversary. He had finished his madeira, and we went
out to get our horses again.
Directly he had mounted into the saddle, he said to me, reverting to the
subject of our interrupted conversation: "Do you know, I think it's all up with the Madeira vines; but as to
those of the Douro, with careful grafting, we might still pull them
through!"
"I hope so, uncle!" I replied.
And, as a matter of fact, I think he is right. Perhaps we shall soon
know.
Come, I must tell you about a new occurrence which is already
influencing my romance in the most unexpected manner.
I don't suppose you have forgotten our Captain Picklock and the famous
story of the camels which were recovered through his good offices. Well,
the captain, having returned from Aden with the fever, and being at
Paris on his way home, accepted the hospitality of Baron de Villeneuve,
late consul at Pondicherry, whom you know. Two days ago we were invited
to a farewell dinner, given in his honour. It was quite a love-feast:
half a dozen friends, all of whom had been several times round the
world, and had met each other in various latitudes. The ladies consisted
of the amiable Baroness de Villeneuve, Mrs. Picklock, and my aunt. You
may imagine what a number of old recollections they discussed during
dinner. After the coffee we went into the drawing-room, where a
card-table was being set out for whist, when my uncle said: "By the bye, what has become of our good friend Montague?"