In a second Æsop had sprung to his feet angrily, and, leaning over the
table, thrust his own twisted visage close to the yellow mask in front
of him. "Damn you!" he screamed--"damn you! are you too proud to drink
with a man who has travelled all the way from Madrid on your dirty
business? Let me tell you--"
The man's attitude of menace, the man's violent words, clearly alarmed
Monsieur Peyrolles, who interrupted him nervously with a voice quavering
with protestation: "No, no, you need not. Of course, not too proud.
Delighted."
Æsop dropped into his seat again. "That's better. Your health." He lifted
the glass to his lips as he spoke and slowly drained it. There was no
sound of solicitation for his companion's welfare in his words, there was
no expression of pleasure on his face as he did so. He took the good wine
as he took all bright and kindly things, sourly.
Peyrolles hastened to follow the example of his pledge. "Your health," he
said, and sipped diffidently at the wine, and then, finding it agreeable,
finished it.
There was a little pause, and then Æsop spoke again.
"Seventeen years," he murmured, with a chuckle--"seventeen years since we
last met, on the morning, as I remember, after the little mishap in the
moat of Caylus."
Peyrolles shivered, and seemed uneasy. Æsop paid no heed to his evident
discomfort.
"What a wild-goose chase you sent us all on, I and Staupitz and the
others--flying into Spain to find Lagardere and the child. The others
hunted for him, as I suppose you know, with the results which, also, I
suppose you know."
Peyrolles nodded feebly. His yellow face was several tinges yellower, his
teeth seemed to threaten to chatter, and he looked very unhappy. His
voice was grave as he spoke: "Those who did find him were not fortunate."
Æsop laughed.
"They were fools," he asserted. "Well, for my part, I said to myself that
the wise course for me to follow was not to waste my strength, my energy,
and my breath in chasing Lagardere all over a peninsula, but to wait
quietly for Lagardere to come to me. Madrid, I reasoned, is the centre of
Spain; everyone in Spain comes to Madrid sooner or later; _ergo_, sooner
or later Lagardere will come to Madrid."
"Well, did he?" Peyrolles asked, forcing himself to give tongue, and
eying the hunchback dubiously. He found Æsop too humorous for his fancy.
Æsop grinned like a monkey whose nuts have been filched.
"No," he said--"no, not as yet, to my knowledge, or he would be dead. But
I have a conviction that our paths will cross one day, and when that day
comes you may be sorry for Lagardere if your heart is inclined to be
pitiful."
The unpleasant expression on Monsieur Peyrolles's face whenever the name
of Lagardere was mentioned now deepened sufficiently to make it quite
plain that he cherished no such inclination. Æsop went on:
"He proved himself a pretty good swordsman on the night of the--shall we
say altercation?--and he certainly succeeded in persuading me that there
was something to be said for those secret thrusts that I treated too
lightly. When I first met Lagardere I knew all that Italy and all that
France could teach me of sword-play. Now I know all that Spain can teach.
I tell you, friend Peyrolles, I think I am the best swordsman alive."
Peyrolles did not at all like to be hailed as friend in this familiar
manner by the hunchback, but he had his reasons for mastering his
feelings, and he showed no signs of distaste. Perhaps he had begun to
realize that Æsop would not mind in the least if he did manifest
displeasure.
"Now, finding myself in Madrid," Æsop resumed, "and not being inclined to
follow the foolish example of my companions, which led each of them in
turn to you know what, I cast about to make myself comfortable in Madrid.
I soon found a way. I set up an excellent bagnio; I lured rich youths to
the altars and alcoves of play and pleasure. I made a great deal of
money, and enjoyed myself very much incidentally. It is always a pleasure
to me to see straight, smooth, suave men killing themselves with sweet
sins."
The expression of his face was so hideous, as he spoke in his demoniacal
air of triumph over those that were less afflicted than himself, that
Peyrolles, who was not at all squeamish, shuddered uncomfortably. Æsop
seemed for a while to be absorbed in soothing memories, but presently he
made an end of rubbing his hands together silently, and resumed his
speech:
"It was all in the way of my ancient and honorable trade to have no small
traffic with pretty women and the friends of pretty women and the parents
of pretty women. And it was this part of my trade which put the idea into
my head which prompted me to write to you, friend Peyrolles, and which
persuaded me to uproot myself from my comfortable house and my responsive
doxies, and jog all the way from Madrid to Paris."
The sense of what he had sacrificed in making the journey seemed suddenly
to gall him, for he glared ferociously at Peyrolles, and said, sharply:
"Here have I been talking myself dry while you sit mumchance. Tell me
some tale for a change. Why in the name of the ancient devil did Nevers's
widow marry Gonzague?"