My uncle Nicolas kept a mercer's shop, and his shelves and counters were now so laden with goods that it was difficult to steer our way through them to the steep stair which led to the floor above; and that, too, was converted, for the time, into a kind of warehouse; but above that was the living-room, and above that, again, numerous bedrooms with sloping sides, and small windows piercing the steep roof. My aunt Jeanne was good and hospitable to excess. She would not let M. Bourdinave and his family return to their lodging till they had supped with her, though there were other guests; so we were jammed rather closely around the table with little elbow-room. Then ensued clinking of glasses, clatter of plates, dishes, knives, forks, the buzzing of many tongues, savory smells of hot viands, and much helping and pressing of one another; much talk of the price of silks, velvets, and serges; of the credit of such and such a house; of the state of trade; of the court; and of the country. I, wedged between Madeleine and her sister, had the opportunity of giving her many tender looks, though few words passed between us. Among the strangers at table was a strangely unpleasant Englishman, who prefaced every speech with "I want to know--" and would not be satisfied with a short answer. At length my father mildly said-- "Sir, you seek to know trade secrets. You know there are secrets in all trades." "That is precisely why I want to know them," said he, laughing. "But a good reason why we should not tell them," said my father; who then turned from him, and addressed some one else. Gabrielle whispered, "I shall call that man Monsieur I-want-to-know." "Ah, well, I know already what I chiefly want," pursued the Englishman, who, had he not been drinking more freely than was good for him, would probably have been less communicative. "I've been to Italy, and have seen the Italian machinery for throwing silk, and shall carry back a pretty good idea of the process." "That man shall never carry anything back," whispered a vindictive-looking Italian, whose eyes glittered like fire. "Hush! he is only an empty boaster." "We want no empty boasters. We will not let him steal our trade secrets." That night, going home to his lodging, the Englishman was set upon by the Italian, and pricked with his stiletto, narrowly escaping with his life. He gave him what he called "a good English black-eye," and bawled loudly for justice. The Italian ran off, and was no more seen; and the Englishman, whose ugly name was Hogg, talked big about applying to his ambassador, Sir William Trumbull, but was induced to let the matter drop. The ambassador shortly had worse things to complain of.