Clementina

M. Chateaudoux pretended not to hear.

"I want nothing," he said, "nothing in the world;" and he repeated the

statement in order to drown the other's voice.

"A purse, good gentleman," persisted the hawker, and he dangled one

before Chateaudoux's eyes. Not for anything would Chateaudoux take that

purse.

"Go away," he cried; "I have a sufficiency of purses, and I will not be

plagued by you."

They were now at the steps of the villa, and the sentry, lifting the

butt of his musket, roughly thrust the hawker back.

"What have you there? Bring your basket here," said he; and to

Chateaudoux's consternation the hawker immediately offered the purse to

the sentinel.

"It is only the poor who have kind hearts," he said; "here's the proper

purse for a soldier. It is so hard to get the money out that a man is

saved an ocean of drink."

The hawker's readiness destroyed any suspicions the sentinel may have

felt.

"Go away," he said, "quick!"

"You will buy the purse?"

The sentinel raised his musket again.

"Then the kind gentleman will," said the hawker, and he thrust the purse

into M. Chateaudoux's reluctant hand. Chateaudoux could feel within the

purse a folded paper. He was committed now without a doubt, and in an

extreme alarm he flung a coin into the roadway and got him into the

house. The sentinel carelessly dropped the butt of his musket on the

coin.

"Go," said he, and with a sudden kick he lifted the hawker half across

the road. The hawker happened to be Charles Wogan, who took a little

matter like that with the necessary philosophy. He picked himself up and

limped off.

Now the next day a remarkable thing happened. M. Chateaudoux swerved

from the regularity of his habits. He walked along the avenue, it is

true; but at the end of it he tripped down a street and turned out of

that into another which brought him to the arcades. He did not appear to

enjoy his walk; indeed, any hurrying footsteps behind startled him

exceedingly and made his face turn white and red, and his body hot and

cold. However, he proceeded along the arcades to the cathedral, which he

entered; and just as the clock struck half-past three, in a dark corner

opposite to the third of the great statues he drew his handkerchief from

his pocket.

The handkerchief flipped out a letter which fell onto the ground. In the

gloom it was barely visible; and M. Chateaudoux walked on, apparently

unconscious of his loss. But a comfortable citizen in a snuff-coloured

suit picked it up and walked straight out of the cathedral to the Golden

Fleece Inn in the Hochstrasse, where he lodged. He went up into his room

and examined the letter. It was superscribed "To M. Chateaudoux," and

the seal was broken. Nevertheless, the finder did not scruple to read

it. It was a love-letter to the little gentleman from one Friederika.