"Monseigneur," said Peyrolles, "I have at my disposal, and at the
disposal of your highness, a very remarkable man, the hunchback Æsop. He
was in the moat of Caylus that night. He, with those two you saw
yesterday, are the only ones left, except--"
Peyrolles paused for a moment, and his pale face worked uncomfortably.
Gonzague interpreted his thought. "Except you and me, you were going to
say."
Peyrolles nodded gloomily. "As Æsop," he said, "has been in Spain all
these years hunting Lagardere--"
"Yes," Gonzague interrupted, "and never finding him."
Peyrolles bowed. "True, your highness, but at least up to now he has kept
Lagardere on the Spanish side of the frontier, kept Lagardere in peril of
his life. Æsop hates Lagardere, always has hated him. When the last of
our men met with"--he paused for a moment as if to find a fitting phrase,
and then continued--"the usual misfortune, I thought it useless to leave
Æsop in Spain, and sent for him. He came to me to-day. May I present him
to your highness?"
Gonzague nodded thoughtfully. Any ally was welcome in such a crisis.
"Yes," he said.
Peyrolles went to the door that communicated with the prince's private
apartments, and, opening it, beckoned into the corridor. Then he drew
back into the room, and a moment later was followed by a hunchbacked man
in black, who wore a large sword. The man bowed profoundly to the Prince
de Gonzague.