Staupitz grunted, angrily: "Shall one man dictate to nine?" and made an
appealing gesture to his comrades, inciting them against their censor.
Lagardere faced their menaces with the contemptuous indifference with
which a mastiff might have faced as many rats. He commanded, imperiously:
"Pack off, the whole gang of you, and leave Nevers to me!"
The bravos still buzzed and grumbled: Cocardasse rubbed his chin
thoughtfully; Passepoil pinched his long nose. The situation was becoming
critical. Lagardere was Lagardere, but he was only one man, after all, in
a narrow room, against great odds. Truly, the odds would be diminished if
the quarrel came to actual blows, for Cocardasse was resolved, and he
knew that Passepoil was resolved also, to side with Lagardere in such an
emergency. But even with the situation thus altered the result could only
be unnecessary bloodshed, which would be bad, for, if Lagardere was their
dear Little Parisian, the others were also their comrades. Further, it
would mean the postponing, probably the abandonment, of their enterprise
against Nevers, which would be much worse. Cocardasse plucked the Norman
to him with a strong finger and thumb, and whispered in his ear: "Get the
boys away and shift the keys."
Passepoil nodded, and glided discreetly among the bravos huddled together
at the table, whispering the words of Cocardasse in the ears of each.
Lagardere frowned at this mystery. "What are you whispering?" he asked,
angrily.
Cocardasse explained, plausibly. "Only that if you wanted to keep Nevers
to yourself--"