IX.
IN PARIS
The Unwiseman was up bright and early the next morning. Mollie andWhistlebinkie had barely got their eyes open when he came knocking atthe door.
"Better get up, Mollie," he called in. "It's fine weather and I'm goingto call on the Umpire. The chances are that on a beautiful day like thishe'll have a parade and I wouldn't miss it for a farm."
"What Umpire are you talking about?" Mollie replied, opening the door ona crack.
"Why Napoleon Bonaparte," said the Unwiseman. "Didn't you ever hear ofhim? He's the man that came up here from Corsica and picked the crown upon the street where the king had dropped it by mistake, and put it onhis own head and made people think he was the whole roil family. He wassmart enough for an American and I want to tell him so."
"Why he's dead," said Mollie.
"What?" cried the Unwiseman. "Umpire Napoleon dead? Why--when did thathappen? I didn't see anything about it in the newspapers."
"He died a long time ago," answered Mollie. "Before I was born, Iguess."
"Well I never!" ejaculated the Unwiseman, his face clouding over. "Thatbook I read on the History of France didn't say anything about his beingdead--that is, not as far as I got in it. Last time I heard of him hewas starting out for Russia to give the Czar a licking. I supposed hethought it was a good time to do it after the Japs had started the balla-rolling. Are you sure about that?"
"Pretty sure," said Mollie. "I don't know very much about Frenchhistory, but I'm almost certain he's dead."
"I'm going down stairs to ask at the office," said the Unwiseman."They'll probably know all about it."
So the little old gentleman pattered down the hall to the elevator andwent to the office to inquire as to the fate of the Emperor Napoleon. Infive minutes he was back again.
"Say, Mollie," he whispered through the key-hole. "I wish you'd askyour father about the Umpire. I can't seem to find out anything abouthim."
"Don't they know at the office?" asked Mollie.
"Oh I guess they know all right," said the Unwiseman, "but there's ahitch somewhere in my getting the information. Far as I can find outthese people over here don't understand their own language. I asked 'emin French, like this: 'Mounseer le Umpire, est il mort?' And they toldme he was _no_ more. Now whether _no_ more means that he is not mort, or_is_ mort, depends on what language the man who told me was speaking. Ifhe was speaking French he's not dead. If he was speaking English he _is_dead, and there you are. It's awfully mixed up."
"I-guess-seez-ded-orright," whistled Whistlebinkie. "He was dead lasttime I heard of him, and I guess when they're dead once there dead forgood."
"Well you never can tell," said the Unwiseman. "He was a very great man,the Umpire Napoleon was, and they might have only thought he was deadwhile he was playing foxy to see what the newspapers would say abouthim."
So Mollie asked her father and to the intense regret of everybody itturned out that the great Emperor had been dead for a long time.
"It's a very great disappointment to me," sighed the Unwiseman, whenMollie conveyed the sad news to him. "The minute I knew we were comingto France I began to read up about the country, and Napoleon Bonapartewas one of the things I came all the way over to see. Are the Boys deBologna dead too?"
"I never heard of them," said Mollie.
"I feel particularly upset about the Umpire," continued the Unwiseman,"because I sat up almost all last night getting up some politeconversation to be held with him this morning. I found just the thingfor it in my book."
"Howdit-go?" whistled Whistlebinkie.
"Like this," said the Unwiseman. "I was going to begin with:
"'Shall you buy a horse?'
"And the Umpire was to say:
"'I should like to buy a horse from you.'
"And then we were to continue with:
"'I have no horse but I will sell you my dog.' 'You are wrong; dogs are such faithful creatures.' 'But my wife prefers cats----'"
"Pooh!" cried Whistlebinkie. "You haven't got any wife."
"Well, what of it?" retorted the Unwiseman. "The Umpire wouldn't knowthat, and besides she _would_ prefer cats if I had one. You should notinterrupt conversation when other people are talking, Whistlebinkie,especially when it's polite conversation."
"Orright-I-pol-gize," whistled Whistlebinkie. "Go on with the rest ofit."
"I was then going to say:" continued the Unwiseman,
"'Will you go out this afternoon?' 'I should like to go out this afternoon.' 'Should you remain here if your mother were here?' 'Yes I should remain here even if my aunt were here.' 'Had you remained here I should not have gone out.' 'I shall have finished when you come.' 'As soon as you have received your money come to see me.' 'I do not know yet whether we shall leave tomorrow.' 'I should have been afraid had you not been with me.' 'So long.' 'To the river.'"
"To the river?" asked Whistlebinkie. "What does that mean?"
"It is French for, 'I hope we shall meet again.' Au river is the politeway of saying, 'good-bye for a little while.' And to think that afterhaving sat up until five o'clock this morning learning all that by heartI should find that the man I was going to say it to has been deadfor--how many years, Mollie?"
"Oh nearly a hundred years," said the little girl.
"No wonder it wasn't in the papers before I left home," said theUnwiseman. "Oh well, never mind----."
"Perhaps you can swing that talk around so as to fit some FrenchRobert," suggested Whistlebinkie.
"The Police are not Roberts over here," said the Unwiseman. "In Francethey are Johns--John Darms is what they call the pleece in this country,and I never should think of addressing a conversation designed for anUmpire to the plebean ear of a mere John."
"Well I think it was pretty poor conversation," said Whistlebinkie. "AndI guess it's lucky for you the Umpire is dead. All that stuff didn'tmean anything."
"It doesn't seem to mean much in English," said the Unwiseman, "but itmust mean something in French, because if it didn't the man who wroteFrench in Five Lessons wouldn't have considered it important enough toprint. Just because you don't like a thing, or don't happen tounderstand it, isn't any reason for believing that the Umpire would notfind it extremely interesting. I shan't waste it on a John anyhow."
An hour or two later when Mollie had breakfasted the Unwiseman presentedhimself again.
"I'm very much afraid I'm not going to like this place any better than Idid London," he said. "The English people, even if they do drop theiraitches all over everywhere, understand their own language, which ismore than these Frenchmen do. I have tried my French on half a dozen ofthem and there wasn't one of 'em that looked as if he knew what I wastalking about."
"What did you say to them?" asked Mollie.
"HAVE YOU SEEN THE ORMOLU CLOCK OF YOUR SISTER'S MUSICTEACHER?"]
"Well I went up to a cabman and remarked, just as the book put it, 'howis the sister of your mother's uncle,' and he acted as if I'd hit himwith a brick," said the Unwiseman. "Then I stopped a bright looking boyout on the rue and said to him, 'have you seen the ormolu clock of yoursister's music teacher,' to which he should have replied, 'no I have notseen the ormolu clock of my sister's music teacher, but the candle-stickof the wife of the butcher of my cousin's niece is on the mantel-piece,'but all he did was to stick out his tongue at me and laugh."
"You ought to have spoken to one of the John Darms," laughedWhistlebinkie.
"I did," said the Unwiseman. "I stopped one outside the door and askedhim, 'is your grandfather still alive?' The book says the answer to thatis 'yes, and my grandmother also,' whereupon I should ask, 'how manygrandchildren has your grandfather?' But I didn't get beyond the firstquestion. Instead of telling me that his grandfather was living, and hisgrandmother also, he said something about Ally Voozon, a person of whomI never heard and who is not mentioned in the book at all. I wish Iwas back somewhere where they speak a language somebody can understand."
"Have you ha
d your breakfast?" asked Mollie.
A deep frown came upon the face of the Unwiseman.
"No--" he answered shortly. "I--er--I went to get some but they tried tocheat me," he added. "There was a sign in a window announcing FrenchTabble d'hotes. I thought it was some new kind of a breakfast food likecracked wheat, or oat-meal flakes, so I stopped in and asked for a smallbox of it, and they tried to make me believe it was a meal of four orfive courses, with soup and fish and a lot of other things thrown in,that had to be eaten on the premises. I wished for once that I knew someFrench conversation that wasn't polite to tell 'em what I thought of'em. I can imagine a lot of queer things, but when everybody tells methat oats are soup and fish and olives and ice-cream and several otherthings to boot, even in French, why I just don't believe it, that's all.What's more I can prove that oats are oats over here because I saw acab-horse eating some. I may not know beans but I know oats, and I told'em so. Then the garkon--I know why some people call these Frenchwaiters gason now, they talk so much--the garkon said I could order _ala carte_, and I told him I guessed I could if I wanted to, but until Iwas reduced to a point where I had to eat out of a wagon I wouldn't askhis permission."
"Good-for-you!" whistled Whistlebinkie, clapping the Unwiseman on theback.
"When a man wants five cents worth of oats it's a regular swindle to tryto ram forty cents worth of dinner down his throat, especially atbreakfast time, and I for one just won't have it," said the Unwiseman."By the way, I wouldn't eat any fish over here if I were you, Mollie,"he went on.
"Why not?" asked the little girl. "Isn't it fresh?"
"It isn't that," said the Unwiseman. "It's because over here it'spoison."
"No!" cried Mollie.
"Yep," said the Unwiseman. "They admit it themselves. Just look here."
The old gentleman opened his book on French in Five Lessons, and turnedto the back pages where English words found their French equivalents.
"See that?" he observed, pointing to the words. "Fish--poison.P-O-I-double S-O-N. 'Taint spelled right, but that's what it says."
"It certainly does," said Mollie, very much surprised.
"Smity good thing you had that book or you might have been poisoned,"said Whistlebinkie.
"I don't believe your father knows about that, does he, Mollie?" askedthe old man anxiously.
"I'm afraid not," said Mollie. "Leastways, he hasn't said anything to meabout it, and I'm pretty sure if he'd known it he would have told me notto eat any."
"Well you tell him with my compliments," said the Unwiseman. "I likeyour father and I'd hate to have anything happen to him that I couldprevent. I'm going up the rue now to the Loover to see the pictures."
"Up the what?" asked Whistlebinkie.
"Up the rue," said the Unwiseman. "That's what these foolish people overhere call a street. I'm going up the street. There's a guide downstairs who says he'll take me all over Paris in one day for threedollars, and we're going to start in ten minutes, after I've had aspoonful of my bottled chicken broth and a ginger-snap. Humph! Tabbled'hotes--when I've got a bag full of first class food from New York! Itell you, Mollie, this travelling around in furry countries makes a mandepreciate American things more than ever."
"I guess you mean _ap_preciate," suggested Mollie.
"May be I do," returned the Unwiseman. "I mean I like 'em better.American oats are better than tabble d'hotes. American beef is betterthan French buff. American butter is better than foreign burr, and whiletheir oofs are pretty good, when I eat eggs I want eggs, and notsomething else with a hard-boiled accent on it that twists my tongue outof shape. And when people speak a language I like 'em to have one theycan understand when it's spoken to them like good old Yankamerican."
"Hoorray for-Ramerrica!" cried Whistlebinkie.
"Ditto hic, as Julius Caesar used to say," roared the Unwiseman.
And the Unwiseman took what was left of his bottleful of their nativeland out of his pocket and the three little travellers cheered it untilthe room fairly echoed with the noise. That night when they had gatheredtogether again, the Unwiseman looked very tired.
"Well, Mollie," he said, "I've seen it all. That guide down stairsshowed me everything in the place and I'm going to retire to mycarpet-bag again until you're ready to start for Kayzoozalum----"
"Swizz-izzer-land," whistled Whistlebinkie.
"Switzerland," said Mollie.
"Well wherever it is we're going Alp hunting," said the Unwiseman. "I'mtoo tired to say a word like that to-night. My tongue is all out ofshape anyhow trying to talk French and I'm not going to speak it anymore. It's not the sort of language I admire--just full o' nonsense.When people call pudding 'poo-dang' and a bird a 'wazzoh' I'm throughwith it. I've seen 8374 miles of pictures; some more busted statuary;one cathedral--I thought a cathedral was some kind of an animal with ahairy head and a hump on its back, but it's nothing but a big overgrownchurch--; Napoleon's tomb--he is dead after all and France is aRepublic, as if we didn't have a big enough Republic home without comingover here to see another--; one River Seine, which ain't much biggerthan the Erie Canal, and not a trout or a snapping turtle in it frombeginning to end; the Boys de Bologna, which is only a Park, with noboys or sausages anywhere about it; the Champs Eliza; an obelisk; andabout sixteen palaces without a King or an Umpire in the whole lot; andI've paid three dollars for it, and I'm satisfied. I'd be bettersatisfied if I'd paid a dollar and a half, but you can't travel fornothing, and I regard the extra dollar and fifty cents as well spentsince I've learned what to do next time."
"Wass-that?" whistled Whistlebinkie.
"Stay home," said the Unwiseman. "Home's good enough for me and when Iget there I'm going to stay there. Good night."
And with that the Unwiseman jumped into his carpet-bag and for a weeknothing more was heard of him.
"I hope he isn't sick," said Whistlebinkie, at the end of that period."I think we ought to go and find out, don't you, Mollie."
"I certainly do," said Mollie. "I know I should be just stufficated todeath if I'd spent a week in a carpet-bag."
So they tip-toed up to the side of the carpet-bag and listened. At firstthere was no sound to be heard, and then all of a sudden their fearswere set completely at rest by the cracked voice of their strange oldfriend singing the following patriotic ballad of his own composition:
"Next time I start out for to travel abroad I'll go where pure English is spoken. I'll put on my shoes and go sailing toward The beautiful land of Hoboken.
"No more on that movey old channel I'll sail, The sickening waves to be tossed on, But do all my travelling later by rail And visit that frigid old Boston.
"Nay never again will I step on a ship And go as a part of the cargo, But when I would travel I'll make my next trip Out west to the town of Chicago.
"My sweet carpet-bag, you will never again Be called on to cross the Atlantic. We'll just buy a ticket and take the first train To marvellous old Williamantic.
"No French in the future will I ever speak With strange and impossible, answers. I'd rather go in for that curious Greek The natives all speak in Arkansas.
"To London and Paris let other folks go I'm utterly cured of the mania. Hereafter it's me for the glad Ohi-o, Or down in dear sweet Pennsylvania.
"If any one asks me to cross o'er the sea I'll answer them promptly, 'No thanky-- There's beauty enough all around here for me In this glorious land of the Yankee.'"
Mollie laughed as the Unwiseman's voice died away.
"I guess he's all right, Whistlebinkie," she said. "Anybody who can singlike that can't be very sick."
"No I guess not," said Whistlebinkie. "He seems to have got his tongueout of tangle again. I was awfully worried about that."
"Why, dear?" asked Mollie.
"Because," said Whistlebinkie, "I was afraid if he didn't he'd begin totalk like me and that would be perf'ly awful."