"Who is there?" I asked.
"Does not Mr. Moses, the wine-merchant, live here?" asked the man in a blouse and broad-brimmed felt hat, with his whip on his shoulder—a wagoner's figure, in short. I turned pale as I heard him, and replied: "Yes, my name is Moses. What do you want?"
He came in, and took out a large leather portfolio from under his blouse. I trembled as I looked on.
"There!" said he, giving me two papers, "my invoice and my bill of lading! Are not the twelve pipes of three-six from Pézenas for you?"
"Yes, where are they?"
"On the Mittelbronn hill, twenty minutes from here," he quietly answered. "Some Cossacks stopped my wagons, and I had to take off the horses. I hurried into the city by a postern under the bridge."
My legs failed me as he spoke. I sank into my arm-chair, unable to speak a word.
"You will pay me the portage," said the man, "and give me a receipt for the delivery."
"Sorlé! Sorlé!" I cried in a despairing voice. And she and Zeffen ran to me. The wagoner explained it all to them. As for me, I heard nothing. I had strength only to exclaim: "Now all is lost! Now I must pay without receiving the goods."
"We are willing to pay, sir," said my wife, "but the letter states that the twelve pipes shall be delivered in the city."