“Madame, I will obey.”

At this moment a wagon of singular appearance drew up before my windows.  I knew it well enough:  it was the vehicle of a handy, convenient man who came along every other morning to pick up odd jobs from me and my neighbors.  He could tinker, carpenter, mend harness:  his wife, seated in the wagon by his side, was good at a button, or could descend and help Josephine with her ironing.  A visit at this hour, however, was unprecedented.

As Charles was beginning a conversation under the hood of the wagon, I opened the window.  “Come into the room,” I said.

Hohenfels maliciously opened his.  “Come in,” he added “Monsieur Flemming is especially anxious to do you a benefit.”

The man, uncovering, was now standing in the little garden before the house—­a man with a face at once intelligent and candid, which is unfortunately rare among the poor rascals of his grade.  Although still young, he was growing gray:  his blouse, patched and re-sewed at all the seams, was clean and whole.  Poverty had tested him, but had as yet picked no flaws in him.  By this time my windows were alive with faces.

The man, humble but not awkward, made two or three respectful bows.  “Monsieur,” he said to me, “I hope you are fond of chickens.  I am desirous to sell you a fine pair.”

[Illustration:  The laughing lackey.]

Chickens for me! and what was it supposed I should do with them?  At this point the voice of the Frau Kranich was heard, clear and malicious:  “It is a bargain:  bring them in.”

At the same time the canvas cover of the wagon puffed outward, giving issue to a heavy sigh.

The man went to a sort of great cage in lattice-work occupying the back of the vehicle.  Then he backed his wagon up to the sidewalk, and we saw, sitting on the cage and framed by the oval of the wagon-cover, a young woman of excellent features, but sadly pale.  She now held the two chickens in her lap, caressing them, laying their heads against her cheek, and enwreathing them in the folds of her great shawl.  I could only close the bargain with the utmost speed, to be safe from ridicule.

“Your price?” I asked.

“Fix it yourself, sir,” said the man, determined to confuse me.  “You are doubtless thoroughly acquainted with poultry.”

“The nankeen—­colored one,” spoke up again the bell-like and inexorable voice from the other window, “is a yellow Crevecoeur, very well formed and lively-looking:  the slate-colored one is a Cochin-China, with only a few of the white feathers lacking from the head.  They are chef-d’oeuvres, and are worth fully forty francs apiece.”

“Only look, sir, at their claws and bills, see their tongues, and observe under their wings:  they are young, wholesome and of fine strain—­”

He was running on when I stopped him:  “Here are a hundred francs for you, brave man.”