′What an infernal hole this is!′ said Monsieur Rigaud, breaking a long pause. ′Look at the light of day. Day? the light of yesterday week, the light of six months ago, the light of six years ago. So slack and dead!′
It came languishing down a square funnel that blinded a window in the staircase wall, through which the sky was never seen—nor anything else.
′Cavalletto,′ said Monsieur Rigaud, suddenly withdrawing his gaze from this funnel to which they had both involuntarily turned their eyes, ′you know me for a gentleman?′
′Surely, surely!′
′How long have we been here?′ ′I, eleven weeks, to-morrow night at midnight. You, nine weeks and three days, at five this afternoon.′
′Have I ever done anything here? Ever touched the broom, or spread the mats, or rolled them up, or found the draughts, or collected the dominoes, or put my hand to any kind of work?′
′Never!′
′Have you ever thought of looking to me to do any kind of work?′
John Baptist answered with that peculiar back-handed shake of the right forefinger which is the most expressive negative in the Italian language.
′No! You knew from the first moment when you saw me here, that I was a gentleman?′
′ALTRO!′ returned John Baptist, closing his eyes and giving his head a most vehement toss. The word being, according to its Genoese emphasis, a confirmation, a contradiction, an assertion, a denial, a taunt, a compliment, a joke, and fifty other things, became in the present instance, with a significance beyond all power of written expression, our familiar English ′I believe you!′
′Haha! You are right! A gentleman I am! And a gentleman I′ll live, and a gentleman I′ll die! It′s my intent to be a gentleman. It′s my game. Death of my soul, I play it out wherever I go!′
He changed his posture to a sitting one, crying with a triumphant air:
′Here I am! See me! Shaken out of destiny′s dice-box into the company of a mere smuggler;—shut up with a poor little contraband trader, whose papers are wrong, and whom the police lay hold of besides, for placing his boat (as a means of getting beyond the frontier) at the disposition of other little people whose papers are wrong; and he instinctively recognises my position, even by this light and in this place. It′s well done! By Heaven! I win, however the game goes.′
Again his moustache went up, and his nose came down.
′What′s the hour now?′ he asked, with a dry hot pallor upon him, rather difficult of association with merriment.
′A little half-hour after mid-day.′
′Good! The President will have a gentleman before him soon. Come!
Shall I tell you on what accusation? It must be now, or never, for I shall not return here. Either I shall go free, or I shall go to be made ready for shaving. You know where they keep the razor.′
Signor Cavalletto took his cigarette from between his parted lips, and showed more momentary discomfiture than might have been expected.
′I am a′—Monsieur Rigaud stood up to say it—′I am a cosmopolitan gentleman. I own no particular country. My father was Swiss— Canton de Vaud. My mother was French by blood, English by birth. I myself was born in Belgium. I am a citizen of the world.
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