"Why shouldn't it happen to him, inasmuch as it had already happened
during the French occupation of Illyria to one of our most gallant
officers of artillery?" said the count, slyly.

"And you believed that artillery officer?" said Mistigris, as slyly to
the count.

"Is that all?" asked Oscar.

"Of course he can't tell you that they cut his head off,--how could
he?" said Mistigris. "'Dead schinners tell no tales.'"

"Monsieur, are there farms in that country?" asked Pere Leger. "What
do they cultivate?"

"Maraschino," replied Mistigris,--"a plant that grows to the height of
the lips, and produces a liqueur which goes by that name."

"Ah!" said Pere Leger.

"I only stayed three days in the town and fifteen in prison," said
Schinner, "so I saw nothing; not even the fields where they grow the
maraschino."

"They are fooling you," said Georges to the farmer. "Maraschino comes
in cases."

"'Romances alter cases,'" remarked Mistigris.