Again the applause broke forth. Oriol, his round eyes growing rounder,
echoed the last words as a question: "A wedding?"
Gonzague nodded. "A wonderful wedding. The bride is a beauty, and the
bridegroom is Æsop."
Navailles looked round over his companions and sighed for the absence of
a choice spirit. "How Chavernay would have laughed!" he said. "I wish he
were here."
"I did not invite Chavernay," Gonzague replied, coldly.
And even as he spoke the door of the antechamber opened and Chavernay
made his appearance unannounced, as briskly impudent, as cheerfully
self-confident as ever. He shook a finger in playful reproof at Gonzague
as he advanced, wholly unimpressed by the slight frown which knitted the
brows of his unexpected host. "It was most unkind of you; but another
makes good your neglect, whose invitation I really had not the strength
of purpose to refuse."
Gonzague's irritation was not altogether dissipated by the coolness of
his kinsman, but he judged that any show of anger was unbefitting so
felicitous an occasion, so he smiled slightly as he asked: "Who invites
you?"
Chavernay looked all around him, scanning the faces of the men in the
brilliant group of Gonzague's guests, as if seeking there a countenance
he failed to find. Then he answered, in a tone of voice that was
unusually grave for the light-hearted marquis: "Henri de Lagardere."
At the sound of that name a thrill ran through the guests, and all echoed
with astonishment the name of Lagardere.
Gonzague looked at Chavernay with a pitying smile. "You come too late,"
he said, "if you come at the summons of such a host. Lagardere is dead."
Chavernay gave a little start of surprise, while the others, to whom the
news had been good news some little while ago, but was no news at all
now, laughed boisterously at his expected discomfiture. But Chavernay did
not seem to be discomfited, and seemed inclined to doubt the tidings.
"Dead?" he said. "Why, he wrote to me to meet him here at two o'clock."
As he spoke he drew from his breast a folded piece of paper and extended
it to Gonzague, who took it with a reluctance, even with a repugnance,
which he controlled because it was so clearly unreasonable. The paper
contained a few words written in a bold, soldierly hand. They ran thus:
"Meet me to-night at two o'clock at the palace of the
Prince de Gonzague. HENRI DE LAGARDERE."
Gonzague returned the paper to Chavernay with an ironical smile.
"Somebody has been hoaxing you," he said. "You will not meet Lagardere
here."
Taranne consulted his watch. "It is now two o'clock," he said, and showed
the dial to Chavernay, who looked puzzled, but also unconvinced.
"No one will come," said Navailles, mockingly.
At that moment Chavernay's quick ear caught the sound of footsteps in the
private passage outside, and called attention to the sound. "Some one is
coming. Is it Lagardere?"
As he spoke all eyes were fixed upon the door. So firmly had the fear of
Lagardere emanated from the consciousness of Gonzague to impress the
hearts of his party that even then, when all present had the assurance
from their leader that Lagardere was dead and done with, their conviction
not unsettled, indeed, but somewhat disturbed by Chavernay's words and
Chavernay's strange message, waited with uneasy expectation for what
might happen. Then the door opened fully, and the hunchback came into the
room, dressed now with a splendor of attire which seemed to contrast more
grotesquely than his wonted sable with his twisted, withered figure. All
present, including Gonzague, had for the moment forgotten the existence
of the hunchback. All present, with the exception of Chavernay, burst
into the loud laughter of relieved nerves as they beheld him.
"This is not Lagardere," said Oriol, holding his fat sides.
The hunchback laughed a mocking laugh in answer to the amusement of the
company and the amazement of Chavernay. "Who speaks of Lagardere? Who
remembers Lagardere? Æsop is the hero of this feast; Æsop is a gentleman
to-night, with a silk coat on his back and a lace kerchief in his
fingers. He woos a beauty, and the chivalry of France shall witness his
triumph. Lagardere is dead! Long live Æsop, who killed him!"
The little marquis advanced towards the jesting hunchback with clinched
hands and angry eyes. "Assassin!" he cried, and seemed as if he would
take the hunchback by the throat, but Gonzague came between his kinsman
and his servant, saying, coldly: "Whoever insults Æsop, insults me. Æsop
marries the girl whom Lagardere called Gabrielle de Nevers."
Chavernay folded his arms and looked fiercely around him. "Now I know why
Lagardere sent for me--to defend a helpless woman."
The hunchback drolled at him: "She will not need your championship. She
will accept with joy the hunchback's hand."