Several of your first-rate people made a bargain
with me when they were in the fog, and owe me a trifle. Patronage they
call it. I hook the high and the low. Too-little and too-much serve me
better than Beelzebub. A weak stomach is certainly more carnally
virtuous than a full one. Consequently my kingdom is becoming too
respectable. They've all got titles, and object to being asked to poke
the fire without--Honourable-and-with-Exceeding-Brightness-Beaming
Baroness This! Admirably-Benignant-Down-looking Highness That!
Interrupts business, especially when you have to ask them to fry
themselves, according to the rules . . . Would you like Mainz and the
Rheingau? . . . You don't care for Beauty--Puella, Puellae? I have
plenty of them, too, below. The Historical Beauties warmed up at a
moment's notice. Modern ones made famous between morning and night--
Fame is the sauce of Beauty. Or, no--eh?'
'Four!'
'Not quite so fast, if you please. You want me gone. Now, where's
your charity? Do you ask me to be always raking up those poor devils
underneath? While I'm here, they've a respite. They cannot think you
kind, Father Gregory! As for the harm, you see, I'm not the more
agreeable by being face to face with you--though some fair dames do take
to my person monstrously. The secret is, the quantity of small talk I
can command: that makes them forget my smell, which is, I confess,
abominable, displeasing to myself, and my worst curse.
Pages:
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100