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.
