An unwonted stir pervaded the streets of Basle, as if some festival were being celebrated. No signs of traffic were visible, and the people were in holiday attire. The streets were full of strangers, who were easily distinguished by the curious glances with which they regarded the houses and public buildings; while at every corner burghers might be seen directing men-at-arms with swords at their sides through the maze of narrow lanes.
Two horsemen slowly made their way through the throng, the foremost of whom wore the uniform of an officer and displayed the badge of the Duke of Burgundy. The other, a few paces behind, was a groom. At length they reined in their steeds.
“Ho there! my friend,” cried the officer in good Swiss dialect to a citizen, “can you direct me to an inn called The Bears?”
“Aye, truly, sir,” was the answer; “you have only to ride up this street, then turn to the right; again to the left at the next cross street, and you cannot miss it.”
“Thank you,” said the officer as he rode off followed by his servant, the horses carefully picking their way over the rough pavement, through the centre of which a row of large stones had been laid. Indeed, it was scarcely safe for the riders themselves to leave the middle of the passageway, for long iron bars protruded from the houses, bearing signs denoting the trade of their occupants, such as glass work for a glazier, the horseshoe for a smith, and the key for a locksmith. At one place the signboard of an alehouse almost carried away the officer’s iron helm. They turned to the right and then to the left, according to their directions, and found themselves in a street somewhat wider than the rest, where they soon discovered The Bears, a new and well-built tavern, over the door of which hung a sign emblazoned with the beasts that gave the inn its name. A serving man sprang from the huge gateway to assist the officer to dismount, and led his horse away to the stables, while the host himself, Ulrich Iseli, came forward to escort his guest up the stairs.
“This is a fine place you have here,” said the latter. “Inns like this, whether Swiss or German, are seldom to be found.”
“You are quite right, sir,” replied the landlord. “I conduct my business after the French fashion. Having been much in Paris in my younger days, I learned how distinguished guests should be accommodated; and I try to keep my own house accordingly. Will you go to the public room for the time being? The private parlor is unfortunately occupied by some deputies from the various Swiss States who are holding a council there, and they would doubtless be ill pleased were I to bring a stranger in upon them. A chamber shall be made ready for you at once. I have a houseful of guests, to be sure, but room shall be found for you, depend on it.”
He pushed open the door of the public room. “Here, Werni!” he called to a servant, who was engaged at that moment in delivering one of the latest patriotic songs to a number of country people, who crowded about him with shouts of applause, “come and place yourself at this gentleman’s service.” Then, taking leave of the newcomer, he hastened away to see about a lodging for his guest.
The officer’s attendant soon appeared, bringing his master’s luggage, and after depositing it in the neatly appointed room assigned to him, went back to the stables, where, ranged in long rows, stood a hundred horses enjoying their fodder. When the latest arrival had also been provided for, the groom betook himself to the public room, where he found his master already partaking of a good breakfast. The officer ordered something to be brought for him at once, and he modestly seated himself at another table where two Burgundian soldiers were vainly endeavoring to enjoy the sour Swiss wine.
Meanwhile it was getting very noisy up in the private parlor, the envoys disagreeing violently in their views regarding France, Germany, and Burgundy.