PONT-SUR-SAMBRE

THE TRAVELLING MERCHANT

Like the lackeys in Moliere’s farce, when the true nobleman broke in on their high life below stairs, we were destined to be confronted with a real pedlar.  To make the lesson still more poignant for fallen gentlemen like us, he was a pedlar of infinitely more consideration than the sort of scurvy fellows we were taken for:  like a lion among mice, or a ship of war bearing down upon two cock-boats.  Indeed, he did not deserve the name of pedlar at all:  he was a travelling merchant.

I suppose it was about half-past eight when this worthy, Monsieur Hector Gilliard of Maubeuge, turned up at the ale-house door in a tilt cart drawn by a donkey, and cried cheerily on the inhabitants.  He was a lean, nervous flibbertigibbet of a man, with something the look of an actor, and something the look of a horse-jockey.  He had evidently prospered without any of the favours of education; for he adhered with stern simplicity to the masculine gender, and in the course of the evening passed off some fancy futures in a very florid style of architecture.  With him came his wife, a comely young woman with her hair tied in a yellow kerchief, and their son, a little fellow of four, in a blouse and military kepi.  It was notable that the child was many degrees better dressed than either of the parents.  We were informed he was already at a boarding-school; but the holidays having just commenced, he was off to spend them with his parents on a cruise.  An enchanting holiday occupation, was it not? to travel all day with father and mother in the tilt cart full of countless treasures; the green country rattling by on either side, and the children in all the villages contemplating him with envy and wonder?  It is better fun, during the holidays, to be the son of a travelling merchant, than son and heir to the greatest cotton-spinner in creation.  And as for being a reigning prince—­indeed I never saw one if it was not Master Gilliard!

While M. Hector and the son of the house were putting up the donkey, and getting all the valuables under lock and key, the landlady warmed up the remains of our beefsteak, and fried the cold potatoes in slices, and Madame Gilliard set herself to waken the boy, who had come far that day, and was peevish and dazzled by the light.  He was no sooner awake than he began to prepare himself for supper by eating galette, unripe pears, and cold potatoes—­with, so far as I could judge, positive benefit to his appetite.

The landlady, fired with motherly emulation, awoke her own little girl; and the two children were confronted.  Master Gilliard looked at her for a moment, very much as a dog looks at his own reflection in a mirror before he turns away.  He was at that time absorbed in the galette.  His mother seemed crestfallen that he should display so little inclination towards the other sex; and expressed her disappointment with some candour and a very proper reference to the influence of years.