Part 22 (1/2)
in war-time don't bother about such trifles.”
A tank commander who was next to him laughed heartily. The captain, as green as a newly formed tomato, kept quiet and ate the stew.
That day there was a grand dinner for some French and British officers who had come on a mission to the front. Ciampanella had cooked one of his wonderful recipes. Pinocchio, who had stuck his nose and tongue into all the pots and pans, swore that even the King's cook was not equal to producing such a dinner. And he, too, wished to do himself honor. He set the table in a gra.s.sy spot surrounded by high trees and thick hedges. It wasn't possible to find a more picturesque spot, shady and safe from curious eyes, from reporters, and--spies. It was a little distance from the kitchen, but distances didn't bother Pinocchio, whose legs, longer than ordinary ones, could take steps like a giant's. He decorated the table with wild flowers and wove between the branches of the trees the flags of Italy, France, England, and America, tied together with the colors of Belgium, dressed himself afresh, and prepared to display all his good manners.
All the high officers seated at the table made a wonderful sight. The uniforms, starred with crosses and ribbons, s.h.i.+ning with gold and silver, were all the more sparkling against the green background of the trees and the meadow.
Pinocchio had served the finest _consomme_ with the air of a head waiter in an expensive restaurant. When he returned to serve a magnificent capon in jelly shaped like a cannon surrounded by hearts of green lettuce which appeared on the menu under the name ”William's Wishes, with Evasions of German Financiers,” he was struck by a strange sight. All the diners had fled from the table and were going hurriedly behind the hedge, overcome with nausea. A terrible idea flashed through Pinocchio's mind. He turned around and, his capon in his hand, rushed to the kitchen.
”Ciampanella! Ciampanella!”
”What's the matter?”
”The medicine?”
”What's the medicine got to do with dinner?”
”What did you put in the soup?”
”Are you crazy, youngster? Be quiet and let the officers eat.”
”Ciampanella, are you perfectly sure of yourself?”
”Why do you ask me if I am sure of myself?”
”Because ... the officers aren't eating.”
”What are they doing?”
”Just come and see, because I don't understand about cooking.”
They went running, but had scarcely pa.s.sed the threshold when a bomb from an enemy airplane burst a few feet from them. They were hit in the chest by a column of air which turned them round, were hurled back into the kitchen, and buried beneath a shower of masonry.
Ciampanella remained buried there, to the great misfortune of humanity, who, after all, had to do without his _Manual of War Cookery_, but Pinocchio was dug out alive. He was carried hastily to the nearest ambulance station and fell into the hands of a splendid surgeon, who, after having set a slender fracture of the arm and of the breastbone, swore to save him in spite of fate. He hurriedly amputated an arm, and a fortnight later in the hospital of a near-by city they extracted the broken ribs, for which they subst.i.tuted two silver plates.
When Fatina and the Bersaglierino hurried to his bed to help him and cheer him they found themselves face to face with a poor creature who, with his artificial legs, arm, and breast, seemed indeed ... a wooden puppet.
But Pinocchio was still himself, humorous, lively, and mischievous.
When he noticed that Fatina was looking at him with her big blue eyes full of tears and pity, he shrugged his shoulders and, scratching his left ear vigorously, made a face and said:
”Pretty object, heh? But you must be patient. In order to become a real boy I couldn't help but go back to ... the old one!”
CHAPTER XI
_And Now--Finished or Not Finished_
It was a beautiful morning, sparkling with suns.h.i.+ne and glory because the tricolor was waving from the windows of every house and the people in the streets had joy in their eyes and a smile on their lips. On the terrace of a handsome mansion, a terrace of marble decorated with exotic plants, at the end of which was a large stained-gla.s.s window, a man of mature age and military bearing was stretched out in a reclining-chair. He was smoking a large meerschaum pipe and blew out such puffs of smoke that it seemed as if he were trying to obscure the sun. By his side was a soldier awaiting orders, and near by was a stand on which a magnificent green parrot stood, scratching his head with his claw and rolling his big yellow eyes.
”Heh! What do you say to that, Duretti? Are we or are we not great?