He was chuckling.
At Heidelberg, making the acquaintance of M. Fortnoye
contemporaneously with my departure, he had become more enthralled
than he ever confessed to this radiant traveler--whom he called a
packman, but regarded as a Mercury--and his pretty scheme of matrimony
in motion. Even now, if I can believe my eyes, he goes up to the
"vintner" and "peddler" of his objurgations, and meekly whispers into
his ear with the air of a conspirator reporting a plot to his chief.
Having engaged to produce me at the wedding of Fortnoye, and finding
me unexpectedly recusant, he had adopted a little stratagem for
bringing me to the scene while thinking to escape from it.
"Thou too, Brutus!" I said, and gave it up. It only remained for me
to return all round, after five minutes of petrified stupidity,
the hand-grasps that had been offered from every quarter of the
compass-box.
Next morning, at an early hour, I was interrupted by a knock, just
as Charles had buttoned my gaiters and the young man from the
perruquier's (who had stolen in with that air of delicacy and of
almost literary refinement which belongs to his gentle profession) had
lathered me. A nick he gave my chin at the shock made my countenance
all argent and gules, and the visitor entering saw me thus emblazoned,
while the barber and Charles, "like two wild men supporters of a
shield," could only stare at the untimely apparition.
"Do you know him, Charles?" I asked, not recognizing my guest, and
putting over my painted face a mask of wet toweling.
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