American fiction -- 19th century; California -- Fiction; Short stories
As he entered his consulate he was confronted with another aspect of
Schlachtstadt quite as wonderful, yet already familiar to him. For,
in spite of these “alarums without,” which, however, never seem to
penetrate beyond the town itself, Schlachtstadt and its suburbs were
known all over the world for the manufactures of certain beautiful
textile fabrics, and many of the rank and file of those warriors had
built up the fame and prosperity of the district over their peaceful
looms in wayside cottages. There were great depots and counting-houses,
larger than even the cavalry barracks, where no other uniform but that
of the postman was known. Hence it was that the consul's chief duty
was to uphold the flag of his own country by the examination
and certification of divers invoices sent to his office by the
manufacturers. But, oddly enough, these business messengers were chiefly
women,--not clerks, but ordinary household servants, and, on busy days,
the consulate might have been mistaken for a female registry office,
so filled and possessed it was by waiting Madchen. Here it was that
Gretchen, Lieschen, and Clarchen, in the cleanest of blue gowns, and
stoutly but smartly shod, brought their invoices in a piece of clean
paper, or folded in a blue handkerchief, and laid them, with fingers
more or less worn and stubby from hard service, before the consul for
his signature. Once, in the case of a very young Madchen, that signature
was blotted by the sweep of a flaxen braid upon it as the child turned
to go; but generally there was a grave, serious business instinct and
sense of responsibility in these girls of ordinary peasant origin which,
equally with their sisters of France, were unknown to the English or
American woman of any class.
That morning, however, there was a slight stir among those who, with
their knitting, were waiting their turn in the outer office as the
vice-consul ushered the police inspector into the consul's private
office. He was in uniform, of course, and it took him a moment to
recover from his habitual stiff, military salute,--a little stiffer than
that of the actual soldier.
It was a matter of importance! A stranger had that morning been arrested
in the town and identified as a military deserter. He claimed to be an
American citizen; he was now in the outer office, waiting the consul's
interrogation.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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