"It is the nose of an intrepid man." "It reminds me of Garnache's," laughed the Seneschal.
"You flatter the Parisian," commented Marius.
The mercenary, meanwhile, stood blandly smiling at the party, showing at least a fine array of teeth, and wearing the patient, attentive air of one who realizes himself to be under discussion, yet does not understand what is being said.
"A countryman of yours, Fortunio ?" sneered Marius.
The captain, whose open, ingenuous countenance dissembled as villainous a heart as ever beat in the breast of any man, disowned the compatriotism with a smile.
"Hardly, monsieur," said he.

"'Battista' is a Piedmontese." Fortunio himself was a Venetian.
"Is he to be relied upon, think you ?" asked madame.

Fortunio shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands.

It was not his habit to trust any man inordinately.
"He is an old soldier," said he.

"He has trailed a pike in the Neapolitan wars.