M. Chateaudoux, the chamberlain, was a little portly person with a
round, red face like a cherub's. He was a creature of the house, one
that walked with delicate steps, a conductor of ceremonies, an expert in
the subtleties of etiquette; and once he held his wand of office in his
hand, there was nowhere to be found a being so precise and
consequential. But out of doors he had the timidity of a cat. He lived,
however, by rule and rote, and since it had always been his habit to
take the air between three and four of the afternoon, he was to be seen
between those hours at Innspruck on any fine day mincing along the
avenue of trees before the villa in which his mistress was held
prisoner.

On one afternoon during the month of October he passed a hawker, who,
tired with his day's tramp, was resting on a bench in the avenue, and
who carried upon his arm a half-empty basket of cheap wares. The man was
ragged; his toes were thrusting through his shoes; it was evident that
he wore no linen, and a week's growth of beard dirtily stubbled his
chin,--in a word, he was a man from whom M. Chateaudoux's prim soul
positively shrank. M. Chateaudoux went quickly by, fearing to be
pestered for alms. The hawker, however, remained seated upon the bench,
drawing idle patterns upon the gravel with a hazel stick stolen from a
hedgerow.