“And, pray, who is this Maitre Pierre,” said Durward, interrupting him, “who confers such valuable gifts on strangers?”
“Who is Maitre Pierre?” said the host, dropping the words as slowly from his mouth as if he had been distilling them.
“Ay,” said Durward, hastily and peremptorily, “who is this Maitre Pierre, and why does he throw about his bounties in this fashion? And who is the butcherly looking fellow whom he sent forward to order breakfast?”
“Why, fair sir, as to who Maitre Pierre is, you should have asked the question of himself; and for the gentleman who ordered breakfast to be made ready, may God keep us from his closer acquaintance!”
“There is something mysterious in all this,” said the young Scot. “This Maitre Pierre tells me he is a merchant.”
“And if he told you so,” said the innkeeper, “surely he is a merchant.”
“What commodities does he deal in?”
“Oh, many a fair matter of traffic,” said the host; “and especially he has set up silk manufactories here which match those rich bales that the Venetians bring from India and Cathay. You might see the rows of mulberry trees as you came hither, all planted by Maitre Pierre's command, to feed the silk worms.”
“And that young person who brought in the confections, who is she, my good friend?” said the guest.
“My lodger, sir, with her guardian, some sort of aunt or kinswoman, as I think,” replied the innkeeper.