I was sitting in the shadow of Mme. Poulard’s delightful inn at St. Michel when I first saw Baeader.  Dinner had been served, and I had helped to pay for my portion by tacking a sketch on the wall behind the chair of the hostess.  This high valuation was not intended as a special compliment to me, the wall being already covered with similar souvenirs from the sketch-books of half the painters in Europe.

Baeader, he pronounced it Bayder, had at that moment arrived in answer to a telegram from the governor, who the night before, in a moment of desperation, had telegraphed the proprietor of his hotel in Paris, “Send me a courier at once who knows Normandy and speaks English.”  The bare-headed man who, hat in hand, was at this moment bowing so obsequiously to the governor, was the person who had arrived in response.  He was short and thick-set, and perfectly bald on the top of his head in a small spot, friar-fashion.  He glistened with perspiration that collected near the hat-line, and escaped in two streams, drowning locks of black hair covering each temple, stranding them like wet grass on his cheek-bones below.  His full face was clean-shaven, smug, and persuasive, and framed two shoe-button eyes that, while sharp and alert, lacked neither humor nor tenderness.

He wore a pair of new green kid gloves, was dressed in a brown cloth coat bound with a braid of several different shades, showing different dates of repair, and surmounted by a velvet collar of the same date as the coat.  His trousers were of a nondescript gray, and flapped about a pair of brand-new gaiters, evidently purchased for the occasion, and, from the numerous positions assumed while he talked, evidently one size too small.

His hat ­the judicious use of which added such warmth, color, and picturesqueness to his style of delivery, now pressed to his chest, now raised aloft, now debased to the cobbles ­had once had some dignity and proportions.  Continual maltreatment had long since taken all the gay and frolicsome curl out of its brim, while the crown had so often collapsed that the scars of ill-usage were visible upon it.  And yet at a distance this relic of a former fashion, as handled by Baeader, ­it was so continually in his grasp and so seldom on his head, that you could never say it was worn, ­this hat, brushed, polished, and finally slicked by its owner to a state slightly confusing as to whether it were made of polished iron or silk, was really a very gay and attractive affair.

It was easy to see that the person before me had spared neither skill, time, nor expense to make as favorable an impression on his possible employers as lay in his power.

“At the moment of the arrival of ze dépêche télégraphique,” Baeader continued, “I was in ze office of monsieur ze propriétaire.  It was at ze conclusion of some arrangement commercial, when mon ami ze propriétaire say to me:  ’Baeader, it is ze abandoned season in Paris.  Why not arrange for ze gentlemen in Normandy?  The number of francs a day will be at least’” ­here Baeader scrutinized carefully the governor’s face ­’"at least to ze amount of ten’ ­is it not so, messieurs?  Of course,” noting a slight contraction of the eyebrows, “if ze service was of long time, and to ze most far-away point, some abatement could be posseeble.  If, par exemple, it was to St. Malo, St. Servan, Parame, Cancale spéciale, Dieppe petite, Dinard, and ze others, the sum of nine francs would be quite sufficient.”

The governor had never heard Dieppe called “petite” nor Cancale “spéciale,” and said so, lifting his eyebrows inquiringly.  Baeader did not waver.  “But if messieurs pretend a much smaller route and of few days, say to St. Michel, Parame, and Cancale,” ­here the governor’s brow relaxed again, ­“then it was imposseeble, ­if messieurs will pardon, ­quite imposseeble for less zan ten francs.”

So the price was agreed upon, and the hat, now with a decided metallic sheen, once more swept the cobblestones of the courtyard.  The ceremony being over, its owner then drew off the green kid gloves, folded them flat on his knee, guided them into the inside pocket of the brown coat with the assorted bindings as carefully as if they had been his letter of credit, and declared himself at our service.

It was when he had been installed as custodian not only of our hand luggage, but to a certain extent of our bank accounts and persons for some days, that he urged upon the governor the advisability of our at once proceeding to Cancale, or Cancale spéciale, as he insisted on calling it.  I immediately added my own voice to his pleadings, arguing that Cancale must certainly be on the sea.  That, from my recollection of numerous water-colors and black-and-whites labeled in the catalogue, “Coast near Cancale,” and the like, I was sure there must be the customary fish-girls, with shrimp-nets carried gracefully over one shoulder, to say nothing of brawny-chested fishermen with flat, rimless caps, having the usual little round button on top.

The governor, however, was obdurate.  He had a way of being obdurate when anything irritated him, and Baeader began to be one of these things.  Cancale might be all very well for me, but how about the hotel for him, who had nothing to do, no pictures to paint?  He had passed that time in his life when he could sleep under a boat with water pouring down the back of his neck through a tarpaulin full of holes.

“The hotel, messieurs!  Imagine!  Is it posseeble that monsieur imagine for one moment that Baeader would arrange such annoyances?  I remember ze hotel quite easily.  It is not like, of course, ze Grand Hotel of Paris, but it is simple, clean, ze cuisine superb, and ze apartment fine and hospitable.  Remembare it is Baeader.”

“And the baths?” broke out the governor savagely.

Baeader’s face was a study; a pained, deprecating expression passed over it as he uncovered his head, his glazed headpiece glistening in the sun.

“Baths, monsieur ­and ze water of ze sea everywhere?”

These assurances of future comfort were not overburdened with details, but they served to satisfy and calm the governor, I pleading, meanwhile, that Baeader had always proved himself a man of resource, quite ready when required with either a meal or an answer.

So we started for Cancale.

On the way our courier grew more and more enthusiastic.  We were traveling in a four-seated carriage, Baeader on the box, pointing out to us in English, after furtive conversations with the driver in French, the principal points of interest.  With many flourishes he led us to Parame, one of those Normandy cities which consist of a huge hotel with enormous piazzas, a beach ten miles from the sea, and a small so-called fishing-village as a sort of marine attachment.  To give a realistic touch, a lone boat is always being tarred somewhere down at the end of one of its toy streets, two or three donkey-carts and donkeys add an air of picturesqueness, and the usual number of children with red pails and shovels dig in the sand of the roadside.  All the fish that are sold come from the next town.  It was too early in the season when we reached there for girls in sabots and white caps, the tide from Paris not having set in.  The governor hailed it with delight.  “Why the devil didn’t you tell me about this place before?  Here we have been fooling away our time.”

“But it is only Parame, monsieur,” with an accent on the “only” and a lifting of the hands.  “Cancale spéciale will charm you; ze coast it is so immediately flat, and ze life of ze sea charmante.  Nevare at Parame, always at Cancale.”  So we drove on.  The governor pacified but anxious ­only succumbing at my argument that Baeader knew all Normandy thoroughly, and that an old courier like him certainly could be trusted to select a hotel.

You all know the sudden dip from the rich, flat country of Normandy down the steep cliffs to the sea.  Cancale is like the rest of it.  The town itself stands on the brink of a swoop to the sands; the fishing-village proper, where the sea packs it solid in a great half-moon, with a light burning on one end that on clear nights can be seen as far as Mme. Poulard’s cozy dining-room at St. Michel.

One glimpse of this sea-burst tumbled me out of the carriage, sketch-trap in hand.  Baeader and the governor kept on.  If the latter noticed the discrepancy between Baeader’s description of the country and the actual topography, no word fell from him at the moment of departure.

From my aerie, as I worked under my white umbrella below the cliff, I could distinctly make out our traveling-carriage several hundred feet below and a mile away, crawling along a road of white tape with a green selvage of trees, the governor’s glazed trunk flashing behind, Baeader’s silk hat burning in front.  Then the little insect stopped at a white spot backed by dots of green; a small speck broke away, and was swallowed up for a few minutes in the white dot, ­doubtless Baeader to parley for rooms, ­and then to my astonishment the whole insect turned and began crawling back again, growing larger every minute.  All this occurred before I had half finished my outline or opened my color-box.  Instantly the truth dawned upon me, ­the governor was going back to Parame.  An hour, perhaps, had elapsed when Baeader, with uncovered head and beaded with perspiration, the two locks of hair hanging limp and straight, stood before me.

“What was the matter with the governor, Baeader?  No hotel after all?”

“On the contraire, pardonnez-moi, monsieur, a most excellent hotel, simple and quite of ze people, and with many patrons.  Even at ze moment of arrival a most distinguished artist, a painter of ze Salon, was with his cognac upon a table at ze entrance.”

“No bath, perhaps,” I remarked casually, still absorbed in my work, and with my mind at rest, now that Baeader remained with me.

“On the contraire, monsieur, les bains are most excellent ­primitive, of course, simple, and quite of ze people.  But, monsieur lé gouverneur is no more young.  When one is no more young,” ­with a deprecating shrug, ­“parbleu, it is imposseeble to enjoy everything.  Monsieur lé gouverneur, I do assure you, make ze conclusion most regretfully to return to Parame.”

I learned the next morning that he evinced every desire to drown Baeader in the surf for bringing him to such an inn, and was restrained only by the knowledge that I should miss his protection during my one night in Cancale.

“Moreover, it is ze grande fête to-night ­ze fête of ze République.  Zare are fireworks and illumination and music by ze municipality.  It is simple, but quite of ze people.  It is for zis reason that I made ze effort special with monsieur lé gouverneur to remain with you.  Ah! it is you, monsieur, who are so robust, so enthusiastic, so appreciative.”

Here Baeader put on his hat, and I closed my sketch-trap.

“But monsieur has not yet dined,” he said as we walked, “nor even at his hotel arrived.  Ze inn of Mme. Flamand is so very far away, and ze ascent up ze cliffs difficile.  If monsieur will be so good, zare is a cafe near by where it is quite posseeble to dine.”

Relieved of the governor’s constant watchfulness Baeader became himself.  He bustled about the restaurant, called for “Cancale spéciale,” a variety of oysters apparently entirely unknown to the landlord, and interviewed the chef himself.  In a few moments a table was spread in a corner of the porch overlooking a garden gay with hollyhocks, and a dinner was ordered of broiled chicken, French rolls, some radishes, half a dozen apricots, and a fragment of cheese.  When it was over, ­Baeader had been served in an adjoining apartment, ­there remained not the amount mentioned in a former out-of-door feast, but sufficient to pack at least one basket, ­in this case a paper box, ­the drumsticks being stowed below, dunnaged by two rolls, and battened down with fragments of cheese and three apricots.

“What’s this for, Baeader?  Have you not had enough to eat?”

Baeader’s face wore its blandest smile.  “On ze contraire, I have made for myself a most excellent repast; but if monsieur will consider ­ze dinner is a prix fixe, and monsieur can eat it all, or it shall remain for ze propriétaire.  Zis, if monsieur will for one moment attend, will be stupid extraordinaire.  I have made ze investigation, and discover zat ze post depart from Cancale in one hour.  How simple zen to affeex ze stamps, ­only five sous, ­and in ze morning, even before Mme. Baeader is out of ze bed, it is in Paris ­a souvenir from Cancale.  How charmante ze surprise!”

I discovered afterward that since he had joined us Baeader’s own domestic larder had been almost daily enriched with crumbs like these from Dives’s table.

The fête, despite Baeader’s assurances, lacked one necessary feature.  There was no music.  The band was away with the boats, the triangle probably cooking, the French horn and clarinet hauling seines.

But Baeader, not to be outdone by any contretemps, started off to find an old blind fellow who played an accordéon, collecting five francs of me in advance for his pay, under the plea that it was quite horrible that the young people could not dance.  “While one is young, monsieur, music is ze life of ze heart.”

He brought the old man back, and with a certain care and tenderness set him down on a stone bench, the sightless eyes of the poor peasant turning up to the stars as he swayed the primitive instrument back and forth.  The young girls clung to Baeader’s arm, and blessed him for his goodness.  I forgave him his duplicity, his delight in their happiness was so genuine.  Perhaps it was even better than a fête.

When, later in the evening, we arrived at Mme. Flamand’s, we found her in the doorway, her brown face smiling, her white cap and apron in full relief under the glare of an old-fashioned ship’s light, which hung from a rafter of the porch.  Baeader inscribed my name in a much-thumbed, ink ­stained register, which looked like a neglected ship’s log, and then added his own.  This, by the by, Baeader never neglected.  Neither did he neglect a certain little ceremony always connected with it.

After it was all over and “Moritz Baeader Courrier et Interprete” was duly inscribed, ­and in justice it must be confessed it was always clearly written with a flourish at the end that lent it additional dignity, ­Baeader would pause for a moment, carefully balance the pen, trying it first on his thumb-nail, and then place two little dots of ink over the first a, saying, with a certain wave of his hand, as he did so, “For ze honor of my families, monsieur.”  This peculiarity gained for him from the governor the sobriquet of “old fly-specks.”

The inn of Mme. Flamand, although less pretentious than many others that had sheltered us, was clean and comfortable, the lower deck and companionway were freshly sanded, ­the whole house had a decidedly nautical air about it, ­and the captain’s state-room on the upper deck, a second-floor room, was large and well-lighted, although the ceiling might have been a trifle too low for the governor, and the bed a few inches too short.

I ascended to the upper deck, preceded by the hostess carrying the ship’s lantern, now that the last guest had been housed for the night.  Baeader followed with a brass candlestick and a tallow dip about the size of a lead pencil.  With the swinging open of the bedroom door, I made a mental inventory of all the conveniences:  bed, two pillows, plenty of windows, washstand, towels.  Then the all-important question recurred to me, Where had they hidden the portable tub?

I opened the door of the locker, looked behind a sea-chest, then out of one window, expecting to see the green-painted luxury hanging by a hook or drying on a convenient roof.  In some surprise I said: ­

“And the bath, Baeader?”

“Does monsieur expect to bathe at ze night?” inquired Baeader with a lifting of his eyebrows, his face expressing a certain alarm for my safety.

“No, certainly not; but to-morrow, when I get up.”

“Ah, to-morrow!” with a sigh of relief.  “I do assure you, monsieur, zat it will be complete.  At ze moment of ze deflexion of monsieur lé gouverneur zare was not ze time.  Of course it is imposseeble in Cancale to have ze grand bain of Paris, but then zare is still something, ­a bath quite special, simple, and of ze people.  Remember, monsieur, it is Baeader.”

And so, with a cheery “Bon soir” from madame, and a profound bow from Baeader, I fell asleep.

The next morning I was awakened by a rumbling in the lower hold, as if the cargo was being shifted.  Then came a noise like the moving of heavy barrels on the upper deck forward of the companionway.  The next instant my door was burst open, and in stalked two brawny, big-armed fish-girls, yarn-stockinged to their knees, and with white sabots and caps.  They were trundling the lower half of a huge hogshead.

“Pour lé bain, monsieur,” they both called out, bursting into laughter, as they rolled the mammoth tub behind my bed, grounded it with a revolving whirl, as a juggler would spin a plate, and disappeared, slamming the door behind them, their merriment growing fainter as they dropped down the companionway.

I peered over the head-board, and discovered the larger half of an enormous storage-barrel used for packing fish, with fresh saw-marks indenting its upper rim.  Then I shouted for Baeader.

Before anybody answered, there came another onslaught, and in burst the same girls, carrying a great iron beach-kettle filled with water.  This, with renewed fits of laughter, they dashed into the tub, and in a flash were off again, their wooden sabots clattering down the steps.

There was no mistaking the indications; Baeader’s bath had arrived.

I climbed up, and, dropping in with both feet, avoiding the splinters and the nails, sat on the sawed edge, ready for total immersion.  Before I could adjust myself to its conditions there came another rush along the companionway, accompanied by the same clatter of sabots and splashing of water.  There was no time to reach the bed, and it was equally evident that I could not vault out and throw myself against the door.  So I simply ducked down, held on, and shouted, in French, Normandy patois, English: ­

“Don’t come in!  Don’t open the door!  Leave the water outside!” and the like.  I might as well have ruined my throat on a Cancale lugger driving before a gale.  In burst the door, and in swept the Amazons, letting go another kettleful, this time over my upper half, my lower half being squeezed down into the tub.

When the girls had emptied the contents of this last kettle over the edge, and caught sight of my face, ­they evidently thought I was still behind the head-board, ­both gave one prolonged shriek that literally roused the house.  The brawnier of the two, ­a magnificent creature, with her corsets outside of her dress, ­after holding her sides with laughter until I thought she would suffocate, sank upon the sea-chest, from which her companion rescued her just as Mme. Flamand and Baeader opened the door.  All this time my chin was resting on the jagged rim of the tub, and my teeth were chattering.

“Baeader, where in thunder have you been?  Drag that chest against that door quick, and come in.  Is this what you call a bath?”

“Monsieur, if you will pardon.  I arouse myself at ze daylight; I rely upon Mme. Flamand that ze Englishman who is dead had left one behind; I search everywhere.  Zen I make inquiry of ze mother of ze two demoiselles who have just gone.  She was much insulted; she make ze bad face.  She say with much indignation:  ’Monsieur, since I was a baby ze water has not touched my body.’  At ze supreme moment, when all hope was gone, I discover near ze house of ze same madame this grand arrangement.  Immediately I am on fire, and say to myself, ’Baeader, all is not lost.  Even if zare was still ze bath of ze Englishman, it would not compare.’  In ze quickness of an eye I bring a saw, and ze demoiselles are on zare knees making ze arrangement, one part big, one small.  I say to myself, ’Baeader, monsieur is an artist, and of enthusiasm, and will appreciate zis utensile agréable of ze fisherman.’  If monsieur will consider, it is, of course, not ze grand bain of Paris, but it is simple, and quite of ze people.”

Some two months later, the governor and I happened to be strolling through the flower-market of the Madeleine.  He had been selecting plants for the windows of his apartment, and needed a reliable man to arrange them in suitable boxes.

“That fellow Baeader lives down here somewhere; perhaps he might know of some one,” he said, consulting his notebook.  “Yes; N Rue Chambord.  Let us look him up.”

In five minutes we stood before a small, two-story house, with its door and wide basement-window protected by an awning.  Beneath this, upon low shelves, was arranged a collection of wicker baskets, containing the several varieties of oysters from Normandy and Brittany coasts greatly beloved by Parisian epicures of Paris.  On the top of each lid lay a tin sign bearing the name of the exact locality from which each toothsome bivalve was supposed to be shipped.  These signs were all of one size.

The governor is a great lover of oysters, especially his own Chesapeakes, and his eye ran rapidly over the tempting exhibit as he read aloud, perhaps, unconsciously, to himself, the several labels:  “Dinard, Parame, Dieppe petite, Cancale spéciale.”  Then a new light seemed to break in upon him.

“Dieppe petite, Cancale spéciale,” ­here his face was a study, ­“why, that’s what Baeader always called Cancale.  By thunder!  I believe that’s where that fellow got his names.  I don’t believe the rascal was ever in Normandy in his life until I took him.  Here, landlord!” A small shop-keeper, wearing an apron, ran out smiling, uncovering the baskets as he approached.  “Do you happen to know a courier by the name of Baeader?”

“Never as courier, messieurs ­always as commissionaire; he sells wood and charcoal to ze hotels.  See! zare is his sign.”

“Where does he live?”

“Upstairs.”