Clementina

M. Chateaudoux, the chamberlain, was a little portly person with a

round, red face like a cherub's. He was a creature of the house, one

that walked with delicate steps, a conductor of ceremonies, an expert in

the subtleties of etiquette; and once he held his wand of office in his

hand, there was nowhere to be found a being so precise and

consequential. But out of doors he had the timidity of a cat. He lived,

however, by rule and rote, and since it had always been his habit to

take the air between three and four of the afternoon, he was to be seen

between those hours at Innspruck on any fine day mincing along the

avenue of trees before the villa in which his mistress was held

prisoner.

On one afternoon during the month of October he passed a hawker, who,

tired with his day's tramp, was resting on a bench in the avenue, and

who carried upon his arm a half-empty basket of cheap wares. The man was

ragged; his toes were thrusting through his shoes; it was evident that

he wore no linen, and a week's growth of beard dirtily stubbled his

chin,--in a word, he was a man from whom M. Chateaudoux's prim soul

positively shrank. M. Chateaudoux went quickly by, fearing to be

pestered for alms. The hawker, however, remained seated upon the bench,

drawing idle patterns upon the gravel with a hazel stick stolen from a

hedgerow.

The next afternoon the hawker was in the avenue again, only this time on

a bench at the opposite end; and again he paid no heed to M.

Chateaudoux, but sat moodily scraping the gravel with his stick.

On the third afternoon M. Chateaudoux found the hawker seated in the

middle of the avenue and over against the door of the guarded villa. M.

Chateaudoux, when his timidity slept, was capable of good nature. There

was a soldier with a loaded musket in full view. The hawker, besides,

had not pestered him. He determined to buy some small thing,--a mirror,

perhaps, which was always useful,--and he approached the hawker, who for

his part wearily flicked the gravel with his stick and drew a curve here

and a line there until, as M. Chateaudoux stopped before the bench,

there lay sketched at his feet the rude semblance of a crown. The stick

swept over it the next instant and left the gravel smooth.

But M. Chateaudoux had seen, and his heart fluttered and sank. For here

were plots, possibly dangers, most certainly trepidations. He turned his

back as though he had seen nothing, and constraining himself to a slow

pace walked towards the door of the villa. But the hawker was now at his

side, whining in execrable German and a strong French accent the

remarkable value of his wares. There were samplers most exquisitely

worked, jewels for the most noble gentleman's honoured sweetheart, and

purses which emperors would give a deal to buy. Chateaudoux was urged to

take notice that emperors would give sums to lay a hand on the hawker's

purses.