“Oh! monsieur,” said Mistigris’ master, “I am not blessed, like you, with an illustrious name; and I have not returned from Asia—­”

At this moment the count, hastening into the huge inn-kitchen lest his absence should excite inquiry, entered the place in time to hear the conclusion of the young man’s speech.

“—­I am only a poor painter lately returned from Rome, where I went at the cost of the government, after winning the ‘grand prix’ five years ago.  My name is Schinner.”

“Hey! bourgeois, may I offer you a glass of Alicante and some cheese-cakes?” said Georges to the count.

“Thank you,” replied the latter.  “I never leave home without taking my cup of coffee and cream.”

“Don’t you eat anything between meals?  How bourgeois, Marais, Place Royale, that is!” cried Georges.  “When he ‘blagued’ just now about his crosses, I thought there was something in him,” whispered the Eastern hero to the painter.  “However, we’ll set him going on his decorations, the old tallow-chandler!  Come, my lad,” he added, calling to Oscar, “drink me down the glass poured out for the chandler; that will start your moustache.”

Oscar, anxious to play the man, swallowed the second glass of wine, and ate three more cheese-cakes.

“Good wine, that!” said Pere Leger, smacking his lips.

“It is all the better,” said Georges, “because it comes from Bercy.  I’ve been to Alicante myself, and I know that this wine no more resembles what is made there than my arm is like a windmill.  Our made-up wines are a great deal better than the natural ones in their own country.  Come, Pierrotin, take a glass!  It is a great pity your horses can’t take one, too; we might go faster.”

“Forward, march!” cried Pierrotin, amid a mighty cracking of whips, after the travellers were again boxed up.

It was now eleven o’clock.  The weather, which had been cloudy, cleared; the breeze swept off the mists, and the blue of the sky appeared in spots; so that when the coucou trundled along the narrow strip of road from Saint-Denis to Pierrefitte, the sun had fairly drunk up the last floating vapors of the diaphanous veil which swathed the scenery of that famous region.

“Well, now, tell us why you left your friend the pacha,” said Pere Leger, addressing Georges.

“He was a very singular scamp,” replied Georges, with an air that hid a multitude of mysteries.  “He put me in command of his cavalry,—­so far, so good—­”

“Ah! that’s why he wears spurs,” thought poor Oscar.

“At that time Ali Tebelen wanted to rid himself of Chosrew pacha, another queer chap!  You call him, here, Chaureff; but the name is pronounced, in Turkish, Cosserew.  You must have read in the newspapers how old Ali drubbed Chosrew, and soundly, too, faith!  Well, if it hadn’t been for me, Ali Tebelen himself would have bit the dust two days earlier.  I was at the right wing, and I saw Chosrew, an old sly-boots, thinking to force our centre,—­ranks closed, stiff, swift, fine movement a la Murat.  Good!  I take my time; then I charge, double-quick, and cut his line in two,—­you understand?  Ha! ha! after the affair was over, Ali kissed me—­”