In old Europe, Milutinovich would have been called an actor; but his
deportment, if it had the originality, had also the childish
simplicity of nature.
When the hour of departure arrived, I descended to the court yard,
which would have furnished good materials for a _tableau de genre_, a
lofty, well built, German-looking house, rising on three sides,
surrounded a most rudely paved court, which was inclosed on the fourth
by a stable and hay-loft, not one-third the height of the rest.
Various mustachioed _far niente_ looking figures, wrapped _cap-a-pie_
in dressing gowns, lolled out of the first floor corridor, and smoked
their chibouques with unusual activity, while the ground floor was
occupied by German washer-women and their soap-suds; three of the
arcades being festooned with shirts and drawers hung up to dry, and
stockings, with apertures at the toes and heels for the free
circulation of the air. Loud exclamations, and the sound of the click
of balls, proceeded from the large archway, on which a cafe opened. In
the midst of the yard stood our horses, which, with their heavily
padded and high cantelled Turkish saddles, somewhat _a la
Wouvermans_, were held by Fonblanque's robust Pandour in his crimson
jacket and white fustanella.
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