Now this was a fair market price enough as the tariff went for ambuscades
and assassinations of the kind. It meant twenty-five pistoles each to the
eight subordinates of the band, and a comfortable hundred pistoles for
old Papa Staupitz to pocket as the patron of the enterprise. But
Cocardasse held up his hands in well-affected horror and amazement.
"Three hundred pistoles!" he echoed; "for ruddling the blades and
risking the lives of nine of the finest swordsmen in Europe?
Preposterous!--there must be some mistake! We won't haggle. We must have
three thousand pistoles or--good-bye."
At this audacious proposal to raise their blood-wages exactly ten times,
the eyes of the bravos glittered avariciously, and they drummed approval
on the table with their fists. Cocardasse deprecated this display of
interest with a gentle wave of the hand, and, leaning back in his chair,
eyed Peyrolles coolly, sure that he plied him with a vise. And Cocardasse
was right.
Peyrolles hesitated, but also Peyrolles reflected. It had been his wish
to buy his bandits as cheaply as he could, but it was evident that they
were better informed about the night's business than he intended them to
be. It was essential that the work must be done that night, and it was
also evident that the gentlemen of the sword were quite prepared to take
their leaves if their terms were not agreed to. He sighed and said, "You
shall have the money."
Cocardasse nodded approvingly. He was enjoying himself immensely in this
baiting of the valet of Gonzague, but he allowed no sign of entertainment
to ripple over his crimson countenance.
"Good," he said, quietly, "but I take it that you have not got such a sum
as three thousand pistoles about you."
Peyrolles shook his head. "I have brought with me the three hundred
pistoles that were agreed upon," he said, sourly, with an emphasis upon
the closing words of his speech. Cocardasse caught him up promptly.
"Agreed upon in ignorance of the services demanded," he corrected. "Well,
good Monsieur Peyrolles, let us have that three hundred pistoles as
earnest money for the larger sum."
Somewhat reluctantly Monsieur Peyrolles produced from his doublet a small
canvas bag and threw it into the hollow of Cocardasse's extended palm. It
chinked pleasantly as it fell, and Cocardasse weighed it tenderly.
"I will not affront your worthiness," he said, "by affecting to doubt the
contents of this little bag, and putting it to the scrutiny of a count. I
will take your word for the tale."
As he spoke he tossed the bag over to Staupitz, who caught it dexterously
and put it in his pocket. On this Peyrolles made to rise, and again found
that the hand of Passepoil, obedient to a glance from Cocardasse,
descended upon his shoulder and nailed him to his place.
"Wait," said Cocardasse, amiably, "we must have some surety for the lave
of the money."
"Is not my word enough?" Peyrolles asked, with an ineffective air of
dignity. Cocardasse smiled very sweetly.
"The best of us may have a bad memory," he said, and sighed over the
frailties of humanity. He turned to his nominal leader. "Papa Staupitz,"
he said, "will you not see if a pen and ink be available?"
Staupitz rose while Peyrolles glowered, and going to the door that led to
the kitchen, summoned Martine. Martine, heedless of the adoring homage
renewed in Passepoil's eyes, went to a cupboard in the wall and extracted
from its depths a dingy ink-horn and a stubby quill, together with a page
of fairly clean paper torn from the back of an old account-book. Setting
these on the table, she departed as quietly as she came, wholly
indifferent to the languishing glances of the Norman. Cocardasse waved a
space for Peyrolles at the table.
"Be so good," he said, with a quiet insistence, "as to write a formal
promise to pay Papa Staupitz two thousand seven hundred pistoles
to-morrow. Date it carefully, and sign it with your excellent and
honorable name, my dear Monsieur Peyrolles."
Peyrolles frowned, but there was no help for it; so he rose to his feet,
untroubled this time by the restraining fingers of Passepoil, and, going
to the table, wrote the demanded document, with every appearance of
repugnance at the task and its conditions, for the pen was vile, the ink
viler, and the paper vilest. When he had finished, Cocardasse took it
from him and scanned it carefully.
"That is all right," he said, and placed the still wet writing on the
table in front of Staupitz. Peyrolles made as if to move towards the
door, but again Passepoil, who was watching intently the face of
Cocardasse, read a meaning there, and, pouncing upon Peyrolles,
persuaded him firmly back into the seat he had quitted.
"That is not all," said Cocardasse to the astonished and angry valet.
"This night's work is a big night's work, and not to be paid for over the
counter and done with. We want the money first, but afterwards we want
the protection and favor of Louis de Gonzague."
Peyrolles frowned and made a vehement effort to assert his authority.
"You talk very freely and loosely of great names," he said, with as much
sharpness as he could muster in the presence of that ring of rascality.
"You should know very well, if you know anything at all about the
scandals of grandees, that Monseigneur the Marquis of Caylus has every
reason to dislike Monseigneur the Duke of Nevers, and to wish him out of
the way."
Cocardasse laid a whimsical finger to the side of his jolly, tropical
nose and grinned impishly.
"We know what we know, Monsieur Peyrolles," he said, urbanely. "If it
were merely necessary to kill the Duke of Nevers to gratify the hate of
any private enemy, one place would do as well as another, and we might
take him any time on his way here, instead of waiting till the precise
moment when he enters the moat of Caylus. But you wish us to wait for
that precise moment because you, and your master, wish it to seem patent
to all the world that the deed was done by the Marquis of Caylus on his
own ground, to defend his own honor. Once again, we demand hereafter the
favor and protection of his highness the Prince of Gonzague."
This time Peyrolles needed no pause for reflection. So much was wise to
promise to men who could draw conclusions so dexterously. "You shall have
it," he said, and rose from his seat, this time unrestrained by the
Norman's pressure. "There is my hand on it," he added.
Cocardasse appeared not to perceive the extended hand as he slapped the
hilt of his sword. "Here is my rapier, which answers for me."
Peyrolles smiled sourly. "You had better place a sentinel in the moat,"
he said, addressing Staupitz. "He can give the signal when the mouse
walks into the trap. Till then let the others keep in the background so
as to cut off our gentleman's retreat."
Staupitz nodded sulkily. He had always held Monsieur Peyrolles in
considerable respect, a respect that had been greatly shaken by
Cocardasse's audacious and insolent treatment of the satellite of
Gonzague. Now the bravo seemed ready to resent receiving an order from
his employer's go-between. Peyrolles prudently took no notice of his
sullenness. "Good-evening, gentlemen," he said, and walked towards the
door. As he reached it, he turned again and spoke significantly:
"Remember--if you fail, no pay."
Cocardasse grinned impudently at him. "Sleep in peace, Monsieur
Peyrolles." Peyrolles made a wry face and went out.
As soon as he had gone the bravos gathered about Cocardasse and patted
him enthusiastically on the back. Only Æsop remained in his corner,
apparently indifferent to the whole proceedings.
"Well done, comrade," cried Passepoil, wringing the hand of his
brother-in-arms; and the others, whose pay had been so notably increased
by the diplomacy of Cocardasse, were equally as effusive in their
expressions of gratitude.
Cocardasse met their applause with an impressive monosyllable. "Wine," he
said to Martine, who had peeped in to see if her services were needed,
and in a twinkling the pannikins were filled again and lifted to eight
thirsty mouths, and set down again empty of their contents. The first
business was to share the contents of Monsieur Peyrolles's bag, which
Staupitz duly divided according to the original understanding, giving
each man twenty-five pistoles, and keeping the remainder for himself. By
this time the ink on the promissory note was dry, and Staupitz folded it
up carefully and put it in his pocket.
After this for another half-hour the talk was all about the young Duke de
Nevers and his secret thrust, and the woman he loved, and the Prince de
Gonzague, his friend, who meant to kill him. Here, as before, Æsop
dominated the party by his superior knowledge of all the individuals in
the little tragedy in which they were invited to play subordinate parts.
He told them of the life feud between the family of Caylus and the family
of Nevers, a feud as bitter as that of the Capulets and Montagues of old
time. He told them of Gonzague's passions, Gonzague's poverty. He told
them all about Monsieur Peyrolles, Gonzague's discreet and infamous
factotum. He told them, also, being as it seemed a very gold-mine of
court scandals, much of the third Louis, the august friend of Louis of
Nevers and Louis of Gonzague, the third Louis who was the king of
France.
The bravos hung upon his words. In many ways they were simple folk, and,
like all simple folk, they loved to be told stories, and Æsop prided
himself upon being something of a man of letters, a philosopher, and an
historian. It was, therefore, no small annoyance to narrator and audience
when the narrative was interrupted, as it was nearing its conclusion, by
the opening of the Inn door. Every face expressed astonishment as it was
pushed sufficiently apart to admit the entry of a slender and graceful
boy in the rich habit of a page. The boy came a little way into the room,
looking cautiously about him. He acted as if at first he took the room in
its dimness to be unoccupied, and he seemed to be somewhat disconcerted
at discovering that it contained so many occupants. He stood still while
his bright eyes ran rapidly, and indeed fearfully, over the somewhat
alarming features of the guests. Failing, apparently, to find among them
the person, whoever it was, whom he had come there to seek, he turned to
leave as quietly as he had entered, but his egress was barred by Æsop,
who had slipped between him and the door, and who now questioned him,
with a grin of malignant intelligence on his face.
"Whom are you looking for, pygmy?"
The page put a bold face on it and answered with a bold voice: "I have a
letter for a gentleman."
Æsop pointed to the group at the table. "We are all gentlemen. Let's have
a look at your letter." Then he added to his companions: "It may be
useful. The imp wears the livery of Nevers."
Instantly the others approved by signs and grunts of Æsop's action, and
the page, now really alarmed, made a desperate effort to escape. "Let me
pass!" he cried, and tried to rush under Æsop's arm. But Æsop caught the
boy in an iron grip, and, though the courageous page drew a dagger and
tried to stab his assailant, he was disarmed in a second and seized by
the others, who sprang from the table and clustered about him, fierce
birds of prey about a helpless quarry. The lad cried for help, hopelessly
enough. Strong, dirty fingers were tearing open his jerkin and fumbling
for the concealed letter, when suddenly it seemed to the astonished
swordsmen that an earthquake and a whirlwind had combined for their
undoing. Æsop rolled to one end of the room, Staupitz to another;
Cocardasse and Passepoil, Saldagno, Pepe, Pinto, Faenza, and Joel were
scattered like sparrows, and the little page found himself liberated and
crouching at the feet of a man who was standing with folded arms
surveying the discomfited bravos mockingly.