‘I had no idea that you had a garrison here,’ said Sidonia, as the distant sounds of martial music were wafted down a long, ancient street, that seemed narrower than it was from the great elevation of its fantastically-shaped houses, into the principal square in which was situate his hotel. The town was one of the least frequented of Flanders; and Sidonia, who was then a youth, scarcely of twenty summers, was on his rambling way to Frankfort, where he then resided.
‘It is not the soldiers,’ said the Flemish maiden in attendance, and who was dressed in one of those pretty black silk jackets that seem to blend so well with the sombre yet picturesque dwellings of the Spanish Netherlands. ‘It is not the soldiers, sir; it is only the Baroni family.’
‘And who are the Baroni family?’
‘They are Italians, sir, and have been here this week past, giving some representations.’
‘Of what kind?’
‘I hardly know, sir, only I have heard that they are very beautiful. There is tumbling, I know for certain; and there was the Plagues of Egypt; but I believe it changes every night.’
‘And you have not yet seen them?’
‘Oh no, sir, it is not for such as me; the second places are half a franc!’
‘And what is your name?’ said Sidonia.
‘Thérèse; at your service, sir.’