the blue-black shade of bronze. Then a queer tic seized him; he constantly licked his lips, as if he had eaten a dish that was much too sweet; then, with a hiss, and with set teeth, he spat upon the ground the saliva that had thus accumulated in his mouth. He left his words unfinished; his thoughts ran so fast that his tongue could no longer keep up with them.
One day the chief of the guards entered his cell, accompanied by a soldier. He squinted at the spittle with which the ground was spattered, and said rudely:
"See how he has dirtied his cell!"
The Tzigane replied quickly:
"And you, you ugly mug, you have soiled the whole earth, and I haven't said a word to you. Why do you annoy me?"
With the same rudeness the chief of the guards offered him the post of hangman. The Tzigane showed his teeth, and began to laugh:
"So they can find none! That's not bad! Go on then hanging people! Ah! Ah! There are necks and ropes, and nobody to do the hanging! My God, that's not bad."
"They will give your life as a reward!"
"I should say so: I could hardly play the hangman after I am dead!"
"Well, what do you say, yes or no?"
"And how do they hang here? They probably choke people secretly."
"No, they hang them to music!" retorted the chief.
"Imbecile! Of course there must be music . . . like this. . . ."
