uproar we made was something quite indescribable; we three outscreamed all Billingsgate-market in the olden time. At last I calmed the storm by giving the porter every farthing I had about me, and asking the Marchesina to accept the sword part of my sword stick as a new spit to adorn the kitchen department of the palace. She called me 'an angel;' and hugged me furiously on the spot. If this hugging is not stopped by to-morrow I shall put myself under the protection of the British ambassador -- I will, or my name isn't Potts!
6th -- No protection is henceforth available! No British ambassador can now defend my rights! No threats of assassination from Polycarp the Second can terrify me more! -- All my other calamities are now merged in one enormous misfortune that will last for the rest of my life: the Marchesina has declared her intention of marrying me!
It was done at supper last night, after I had pinked the porter. We sat round the inevitable, invariable salad, on which we were condemned to graze -- the Nebuchadnezzars of modern life -- in this accursed gazebo of a palace. My stomach began to ache beforehand as I saw the Marchesina pouring in the vinegar, and heard her, at the same time, dropping certain hints in my direction -- frightfully broad hints, with which she has terrified and bewildered me for the last three or four days. I sat silent. In England I should have rushed to the window and screamed for the police; but I was in Florence, defenceless and a stranger, before an Amazon who was fast ogling me into terrified submission to my fate. She soon got beyond even the ogling. When we were all three helped to salad, just at the pause before eating, the Marchesina looked round at her fleshless, yellow old parent.
'Mother,' says she, 'shall I have him?'
'Beloved angel,' was the answer, 'you are of age, I leave your choice to yourself; pick where you like?'
'Very well then,' pursued the Amazonian daughter, 'very well! Potts! here is my hand.' She held out her mighty fist towards me, with a diabolical grin. I felt I must either take it or have my head broken. I now sincerely wish I had preferred the latter alternative; but an unlucky emotion of terror misled me into accepting the former. I received an amorous squeeze that made the bones of my fingers crack again.
'You are a little man, and not noble,' observed the Marchesina, critically looking me over, as if I had been a piece of meat that she was purchasing in the market, 'but you get both size and rank in getting me. Let us therefore be perfectly happy, and proceed with our salad.'
'I beg your pardon,' said I, faintly shivering all over in a sort of cold horror, 'I beg your pardon; but really --'
'Come, come!' interrupted the Marchesina, crushing my hand with another squeeze; 'too much diffidence is a fault; you have genius and wealth to offer in exchange for all I confer on you, you have, you modest little cherub of a man! As for the day, my venerated mother!' she continued, turning towards the old woman; 'shall we say this day week?'
'Certainly, this day week,' said mamma, looking yellower than ever, as she mopped up all the oil and vinegar in her plate with a large spoon. The next minute I received the old woman's blessing; I was ordered to kiss the Marchesina's hand; I was wished good night, -- and then found myself alone with three empty salad plates; 'left for execution' that very day week; left without the slightest chance of a reprieve!
I write these lines at the dead of night, -- myself, more dead than alive. I am in my bed-room; the door is locked and barricaded against the possible entrance of the Marchesina and her mamma. I am covered from head to foot with a cold perspiration, but am nevertheless firm in my resolution to run away to-morrow. I must leave all my luggage behind me, and resort to stratagem or I shall not get off. Tomorrow, the moment the palace gate is opened, I shall take to my heels, carrying with me nothing but my purse, my passport, and my nightcap. Hush! a stealthy breathing sounds outside the door -- an eye is at the key-hole -- it is the old woman watching me! Hark! a footstep in the street outside -- Polycarp the Second, with his stiletto lying in wait before the house! I shall be followed, I know I shall, however cunningly and secretly I get away to-morrow! Marriage and murder -- murder and marriage, will alternately threaten me for the remainder of my life! Art, farewell! henceforth the rest of my existence is dedicated to perpetual flight!
[NOTE BY THE EDITOR OF THE FOREGOING FRAGMENTS]
With the ominous word 'flight,' the journal of Mr Potts abruptly ends. I became possessed of the manuscript in this manner: The other day, while I was quietly sitting in my study in London, the door of the room was flung violently open, and the ill-fated Potts himself rushed in, his eyes glaring, his hair dishevelled.
'Print that!' cried my gifted, but unhappy friend; 'enlist for me the sympathies, procure for me the protection, of the British public! The Marchesina is after me -- she has followed me to England -- she is at the bottom of the street! Farewell, farewell, for ever!'
'Who is the Marchesina? Where are you going to?' I exclaimed, aghast.
'To Scotland! To hide myself in the inaccessible caverns of the most desolate island I can find among the Hebrides!' cried Potts, dashing out of the room like a madman. I ran to my window, which opens on the street, just in time to see my friend fly past, at the top of his speed. The next passenger proceeding in the same direction was a woman of gigantic stature, striding over the pavement in a manner awful to behold. Could that be the Marchesina? For my friend's sake I devoutly hope not.