They reached Aulnettes. The pedler deposited in the hall his scaffold of hats, and stood there humbly enough. But Jack led him into the dining-room, saying, “You must have a glass of wine and a bit of bread.” Mother Archambauld frowned, but nevertheless put on the table a big loaf and a pot of wine. “Now a slice of ham,” said Jack, in a tone of command. “But the master does not wish any one to touch the ham,” said the old woman, grumbling. In fact, D’Argenton was something of a glutton, and there were always some dainties in the pantry preserved for his especial enjoyment. “Never mind! bring it out!” said the child, delighted at playing the part of host. The good woman obeyed reluctantly. The pedler’s appetite was of the most formidable description, and while he supped he told his simple story. His name was Bélisaire, and he was the eldest of a large family, and spent the summer wandering from town to town.—A violent thunder-clap shook the house, the rain fell in torrents, and the noise was terrific. At that moment some one knocked. Jack turned pale. “They have come!” he said with a gasp. It was D’Argenton who entered, accompanied by Charlotte. They were not to have returned until late, but seeing the approach of the storm, they had given up their plan. They were, however, wet to the skin, and the poet was in a fearful rage with himself and every one else. “A fire in the parlor,” he said, in a tone of command. But while they were taking off their wraps in the hall; D’Argenton perceived the formidable pile of hats. “What is that?” he asked. Ah! if Jack could but have sunk a hundred feet under ground with his stranger guest and the littered table! The poet entered the room, looked about, and understood everything. The child stammered a word or two of apology, but the other did not listen. “Come here, Charlotte. Master Jack receives his friends to-day, it seems.” “O, Jack! Jack!” cried the mother in a horrified tone of reproach. “Do not scold him, madame,” stammered Bélisaire. “I only am in fault!” Here D’Argenton, out of all patience, threw open the door with a most imposing gesture. “Go at once,” he said, violently; “how dare you come into this house?” Bélisaire, to whom no manner of humiliation was new, offered no word of remonstrance, but snatched up his basket, cast one look of distress at the tempest out-of-doors, and another of gratitude toward little Jack—who sighed as he heard the rain falling like hail on the Panamas,—and hurried down the garden walk. No sooner had the man reached the highway, than his melancholy voice resumed the cry, “Hats! Hats to sell!” In the dining-room profound silence reigned; the servant was kindling a fire, and Charlotte was shaking the poet’s coat, while he sulkily strode up and down the room.