Part 57

At last he made his way through the mob, which was continually increasing and getting more and more turbulent, and reached the hotel. On his first inquiry he was told, with the impertinence peculiar to hired hackney-coachmen and innkeepers with their houses full, that there was no room for him at the Hôtel de Londres. Then he sent his card to Signor Pastrini, and asked for Albert de Morcerf. This plan succeeded; and Signor Pastrini himself ran to him, excusing himself for having made his excellency wait, scolding the waiters, taking the candlestick from the porter, who was ready to pounce on the traveller and was about to lead him to Albert, when Morcerf himself appeared. The apartment consisted of two small rooms and a parlor. The two rooms looked on to the street—a fact which Signor Pastrini commented upon as an inappreciable advantage. The rest of the floor was hired by a very rich gentleman who was supposed to be a Sicilian or Maltese; but the host was unable to decide to which of the two nations the traveller belonged. “Very good, signor Pastrini,” said Franz; “but we must have some supper instantly, and a carriage for tomorrow and the following days.” “As to supper,” replied the landlord, “you shall be served immediately; but as for the carriage——” “What as to the carriage?” exclaimed Albert. “Come, come, Signor Pastrini, no joking; we must have a carriage.” “Sir,” replied the host, “we will do all in our power to procure you one—this is all I can say.” “And when shall we know?” inquired Franz. “Tomorrow morning,” answered the innkeeper. “Oh, the deuce! then we shall pay the more, that’s all, I see plainly enough. At Drake’s or Aaron’s one pays twenty-five lire for common days, and thirty or thirty-five lire a day more for Sundays and feast days; add five lire a day more for extras, that will make forty, and there’s an end of it.” “I am afraid if we offer them double that we shall not procure a carriage.” “Then they must put horses to mine. It is a little worse for the journey, but that’s no matter.” “There are no horses.” Albert looked at Franz like a man who hears a reply he does not understand. “Do you understand that, my dear Franz—no horses?” he said, “but can’t we have post-horses?” “They have been all hired this fortnight, and there are none left but those absolutely requisite for posting.” “What are we to say to this?” asked Franz. “I say, that when a thing completely surpasses my comprehension, I am accustomed not to dwell on that thing, but to pass to another. Is supper ready, Signor Pastrini?” “Yes, your excellency.” “Well, then, let us sup.” “But the carriage and horses?” said Franz. “Be easy, my dear boy; they will come in due season; it is only a question of how much shall be charged for them.” Morcerf then, with that delighted philosophy which believes that nothing is impossible to a full purse or well-lined pocketbook, supped, went to bed, slept soundly, and dreamed he was racing all over Rome at Carnival time in a coach with six horses. Chapter 33. Roman Bandits The next morning Franz woke first, and instantly rang the bell. The sound had not yet died away when Signor Pastrini himself entered. “Well, excellency,” said the landlord triumphantly, and without waiting for Franz to question him, “I feared yesterday, when I would not promise you anything, that you were too late—there is not a single carriage to be had—that is, for the three last days” “Yes,” returned Franz, “for the very three days it is most needed.” “What is the matter?” said Albert, entering; “no carriage to be had?” “Just so,” returned Franz, “you have guessed it.” “Well, your Eternal City is a nice sort of place.” “That is to say, excellency,” replied Pastrini, who was desirous of keeping up the dignity of the capital of the Christian world in the eyes of his guest, “that there are no carriages to be had from Sunday to Tuesday evening, but from now till Sunday you can have fifty if you please.” “Ah, that is something,” said Albert; “today is Thursday, and who knows what may arrive between this and Sunday?” “Ten or twelve thousand travellers will arrive,” replied Franz, “which will make it still more difficult.” “My friend,” said Morcerf, “let us enjoy the present without gloomy forebodings for the future.” “At least we can have a window?” “Where?” “In the Corso.” “Ah, a window!” exclaimed Signor Pastrini,—“utterly impossible; there was only one left on the fifth floor of the Doria Palace, and that has been let to a Russian prince for twenty sequins a day.” The two young men looked at each other with an air of stupefaction. “Well,” said Franz to Albert, “do you know what is the best thing we can do? It is to pass the Carnival at Venice; there we are sure of obtaining gondolas if we cannot have carriages.” “Ah, the devil, no,” cried Albert; “I came to Rome to see the Carnival, and I will, though I see it on stilts.” “Bravo! an excellent idea. We will disguise ourselves as monster pulchinellos or shepherds of the Landes, and we shall have complete success.” “Do your excellencies still wish for a carriage from now to Sunday morning?” “_Parbleu!_” said Albert, “do you think we are going to run about on foot in the streets of Rome, like lawyers’ clerks?” “I hasten to comply with your excellencies’ wishes; only, I tell you beforehand, the carriage will cost you six piastres a day.” “And, as I am not a millionaire, like the gentleman in the next apartments,” said Franz, “I warn you, that as I have been four times before at Rome, I know the prices of all the carriages; we will give you twelve piastres for today, tomorrow, and the day after, and then you will make a good profit.” “But, excellency”—said Pastrini, still striving to gain his point. “Now go,” returned Franz, “or I shall go myself and bargain with your _affettatore_, who is mine also; he is an old friend of mine, who has plundered me pretty well already, and, in the hope of making more out of me, he will take a less price than the one I offer you; you will lose the preference, and that will be your fault.” “Do not give yourselves the trouble, excellency,” returned Signor Pastrini, with the smile peculiar to the Italian speculator when he confesses defeat; “I will do all I can, and I hope you will be satisfied.” “And now we understand each other.” “When do you wish the carriage to be here?” “In an hour.” “In an hour it will be at the door.” An hour after the vehicle was at the door; it was a hack conveyance which was elevated to the rank of a private carriage in honor of the occasion, but, in spite of its humble exterior, the young men would have thought themselves happy to have secured it for the last three days of the Carnival. “Excellency,” cried the _cicerone_, seeing Franz approach the window, “shall I bring the carriage nearer to the palace?” Accustomed as Franz was to the Italian phraseology, his first impulse was to look round him, but these words were addressed to him. Franz was the “excellency,” the vehicle was the “carriage,” and the Hôtel de Londres was the “palace.” The genius for laudation characteristic of the race was in that phrase. Franz and Albert descended, the carriage approached the palace; their excellencies stretched their legs along the seats; the _cicerone_ sprang into the seat behind. “Where do your excellencies wish to go?” asked he. “To Saint Peter’s first, and then to the Colosseum,” returned Albert. But Albert did not know that it takes a day to see Saint Peter’s, and a month to study it. The day was passed at Saint Peter’s alone. Suddenly the daylight began to fade away; Franz took out his watch—it was half-past four. They returned to the hotel; at the door Franz ordered the coachman to be ready at eight. He wished to show Albert the Colosseum by moonlight, as he had shown him Saint Peter’s by daylight. When we show a friend a city one has already visited, we feel the same pride as when we point out a woman whose lover we have been. He was to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, skirt the outer wall, and re-enter by the Porta San Giovanni; thus they would behold the Colosseum without finding their impressions dulled by first looking on the Capitol, the Forum, the Arch of Septimus Severus, the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, and the Via Sacra. They sat down to dinner. Signor Pastrini had promised them a banquet; he gave them a tolerable repast. At the end of the dinner he entered in person. Franz thought that he came to hear his dinner praised, and began accordingly, but at the first words he was interrupted. “Excellency,” said Pastrini, “I am delighted to have your approbation, but it was not for that I came.” “Did you come to tell us you have procured a carriage?” asked Albert, lighting his cigar. “No; and your excellencies will do well not to think of that any longer; at Rome things can or cannot be done; when you are told anything cannot be done, there is an end of it.” “It is much more convenient at Paris,—when anything cannot be done, you pay double, and it is done directly.” “That is what all the French say,” returned Signor Pastrini, somewhat piqued; “for that reason, I do not understand why they travel.” “But,” said Albert, emitting a volume of smoke and balancing his chair on its hind legs, “only madmen, or blockheads like us, ever do travel. Men in their senses do not quit their hotel in the Rue du Helder, their walk on the Boulevard de Gand, and the Café de Paris.” It is of course understood that Albert resided in the aforesaid street, appeared every day on the fashionable walk, and dined frequently at the only restaurant where you can really dine, that is, if you are on good terms with its waiters. Signor Pastrini remained silent a short time; it was evident that he was musing over this answer, which did not seem very clear. “But,” said Franz, in his turn interrupting his host’s meditations, “you had some motive for coming here, may I beg to know what it was?” 20099m “Ah, yes; you have ordered your carriage at eight o’clock precisely?” “I have.” “You intend visiting _Il Colosseo_.” “You mean the Colosseum?” “It is the same thing. You have told your coachman to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, to drive round the walls, and re-enter by the Porta San Giovanni?” “These are my words exactly.” “Well, this route is impossible.” “Impossible!” “Very dangerous, to say the least.” “Dangerous!—and why?” “On account of the famous Luigi Vampa.” “Pray, who may this famous Luigi Vampa be?” inquired Albert; “he may be very famous at Rome, but I can assure you he is quite unknown at Paris.” “What! do you not know him?” “I have not that honor.” “You have never heard his name?” “Never.” “Well, then, he is a bandit, compared to whom the Decesaris and the Gasparones were mere children.” “Now then, Albert,” cried Franz, “here is a bandit for you at last.” “I forewarn you, Signor Pastrini, that I shall not believe one word of what you are going to tell us; having told you this, begin. ‘Once upon a time——’ Well, go on.” Signor Pastrini turned toward Franz, who seemed to him the more reasonable of the two; we must do him justice,—he had had a great many Frenchmen in his house, but had never been able to comprehend them. “Excellency,” said he gravely, addressing Franz, “if you look upon me as a liar, it is useless for me to say anything; it was for your interest I——” “Albert does not say you are a liar, Signor Pastrini,” said Franz, “but that he will not believe what you are going to tell us,—but I will believe all you say; so proceed.” “But if your excellency doubt my veracity——” “Signor Pastrini,” returned Franz, “you are more susceptible than Cassandra, who was a prophetess, and yet no one believed her; while you, at least, are sure of the credence of half your audience. Come, sit down, and tell us all about this Signor Vampa.” “I had told your excellency he is the most famous bandit we have had since the days of Mastrilla.”