In order to show the wealth at their command an
ox was roasting whole on a flaming fire, revolving as it roasted, while
two men, one on each side, basted it well with bacon fat held on iron
forks. Close behind it was a gigantic vat of wine, everybody was free to
drink out of it as much as he chose. Right in front of the smithy, too,
was another gigantic vat holding about fifty firkins, filled to the brim
with the finest eau de vie. A couple of young fellows lolled in front of
the vat; they were already too lazy to dip their glasses into the fluid,
they sucked it in from the brim of the vat itself.
The glare of the smelting oven no longer shone from the windows of the
stone building in the midst of the cavern, the smoke intermingled with
sparks no longer welled out of the flue, the subterranean hubbub no
longer accompanied the stroke of the hammers, the machinery was silent,
its work was done.
Two hundred and fifty thousand coined ducats await distribution; of
these, fifty thousand belong to Fatia Negra and twenty thousand to old
Onucz.
The smithy to-day is adorned with green twigs and bright ribbons, and on
its massive chimneys all the requisites for a pyrotechnical display have
been heaped up; it is from these that the rockets will ascend, it is
here the blue and red Catherine wheels will revolve. The vaulted ceiling
of the cavern is so high that the rockets in their highest flight will
not graze it.
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