m! Cover yourself up; cover
yourself up again! We are going up to Boglia on account of that accursed
bull, you know."

"Oh, Lord! What are you talking about? There is no bull at Boglia at
this time of the year. Oh! I am all bathed in sweat!"

"Never mind. I tell you we are going to see the place, to see where he
used to be. But the Commissary has very good reasons for strictly
forbidding you to accompany us; he forbids you, moreover, to go out
until we return, and he has even ordered me to remove your clothes."

Then he began rapidly collecting Puttini's garments, commanding him in
the name of the Commissary to be silent. He took possession of the tall
hat, seized the bamboo walking-stick, ordered the wretched man to bolt
the door as soon as he should have left the room, and to open it to no
one, to speak to no one, until the Commissary's return; all this in the
name of that dreaded functionary. Then, leaving the poor man more dead
than alive, he once more joined his companions, who, by dint of much
searching, had found a filthy dress of Marianna's, a big, red kerchief
for the head, a _gerla_, and a bottle of _Anesone triduo_.[R] "The
deuce!" swore the lawyer, on examining the loathsome garments he must
don. His disguise was indeed most unsatisfactory. The skirt was too
short, and the kerchief did not hide his face sufficiently. However
there was no time to look for anything better. But Pedraglio, in the
tall hat, with the bamboo walking-stick in his hand, was a perfect
_Scior Zacomo_. The lawyer thrust an old manuscript pamphlet he found in
the kitchen under his friend's arm, and showed him how to walk and puff.
Finally he took the keys to the wine-cellar, two enormous keys, gave one
to Pedraglio and put the other in his own pocket. These would prove
valuable weapons in case of need; one, he said, would strike in the
treble key, the other in the bass. And so they went out, the prefect
first, followed by the false _Scior Zacomo_ puffing like a steam-engine,
and then the false Marianna and her _gerla_ bringing up the rear. Hardly
had they reached the street when the real Marianna appeared, returning
from S. Mamette with an empty flask. Catching sight of her master's tall
hat looming in the uncertain light, she faced about and made off as fast
as her legs would carry her.

"Miserable thief!" the prefect exclaimed. "Excellent! Your disguise is
splendid!" In five minutes they had reached the Boglia road. Then the
prefec