



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Cartouche
By Frances Peard
Published by Bernhard Tauchnitz,  Leipzig.
This edition dated 1879.

Cartouche, by Frances Peard.

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CARTOUCHE, BY FRANCES PEARD.

CHAPTER ONE.

LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG.

"Cartouche!  Cartouche!"

The call came from a young Englishman, who, having just walked through
the streets of Florence on his way from the station, now found himself
before a small house which stood not far from the Cascine in an open
space, pleasantly planted with trees, and within view of the Arno.  The
house itself was white, if so cold a colour may be taken to represent
that mellow and golden effect which quickly enriches the plaster of
Italy; and it was gay with green shutters and striped awnings, for it
was yet early autumn, and the City of Flowers had not long cooled down
from the extreme heats which make it unbearable in summer.  There was
still a hot and languid glow lying on the violet-tinted hills which on
either side surround the plain; still the Lung' Arno was avoided, and
people kept close under the shadows of the narrow streets; or, if they
must needs cross the river, crossed it by the Ponte Vecchio, under the
shelter of its quaint old shops.

The door of the house at which the young man had arrived was open, but
his call having produced no effect, instead of entering he stood still
and repeated it.  "Cartouche!"

This time there was a dull thud on the ground to his right; a great
black poodle had jumped from an upper window, and recovering himself in
a moment, broke into the most extravagant demonstrations of welcome,
leaping upon the new-comer, barking and rushing about with every hair
flying out from his body.  The young man, who was fair and curly-haired,
and tall, though inclined to stoop, looked at the window and then at the
dog, and gave a whistle of surprise.

"Let me advise you not to try that too often, my friend," he said
seriously.  "It is just as well for you that the house is not a trifle
higher, as I presume you would not have taken the difference into your
calculations.  And a nice time your mistress must be having, if these
are the ways in which you indulge."

The dog's answer was a vigorous bound, which almost upset the young
man's balance; then rushing wildly round and round the open place under
the plane trees, his black hair streaming in the wind, he suddenly
pulled himself up and stood watching his friend, his head on one side,
his small eyes gleaming from a dishevelled tangle, and his long tongue
hanging out of his mouth.

"Yes," said the tall Englishman, still regarding him meditatively, "I
understand what all that means, old fellow.  You have a good supply of
animal spirits, and a difficulty in working off the steam under present
circumstances.  I don't know that I feel as sympathetic as you have a
right to expect, but, at any rate, I shall be able to do something for
you, and if you could contrive to make over a little of what is really
inconveniencing you, I have not the slightest objection to be troubled
with it.  Where is your mistress?"

As he spoke he turned towards the door and went in.  The house seemed to
have fallen by accident among all the great buildings of Florence: it
had no porter, no staircase with flats going on and on; it had been
built or altered by some Englishman, who had a fancy for a home that
should be like England, although the beautiful Italian skies were
overhead; and Jack Ibbetson, when he came out with his aunt, Miss
Cartwright, to look for a house, fell upon this place, and did not rest
until he got hold of it for her.  Inside the door there were flowers; a
few steps led into a passage which turned off at right angles, and then
Ibbetson opened the door of a small salon, and walked through it towards
the window, while his eye took in certain evidences that Cartouche had
been holding high revel there to the detriment of cushions and covers.

"So you still go on the rampage, old fellow?" he said to the dog, who
kept close to his heels in a state of suppressed excitement.  "If I were
you I would leave off this style of thing, I really would.  It is
nothing short of tyranny on your part.  Hallo! what's up now?"

For with a wild swoop Cartouche pounced into a corner, dragged out a
basket, rushed to the window, and in a moment more was careering round
and round the little garden in which the proprietor had indulged his
English tastes.  It was an odd little garden, with a wall round it, and
a poor pretence at English grass, but the wall had capers and pretty
hanging things growing out