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.