_The Chevalier of the Tournelles._
It was a long walk to the Rue des Tournelles, which lay in our own
quarter, not a dozen streets from the Hôtel St. Quentin itself. We found
the Gilded Shears hung before a tailor's shop in the cellar of a tall,
cramped structure, only one window wide. Its narrow door was
inhospitably shut, but at our summons the concierge appeared to inform
us that M. Peyrot did truly live here and, moreover, was at home, having
arrived but half an hour earlier than we. He would go up and find out
whether monsieur could see us.
But M. Étienne thought that formality unnecessary, and was able, at
small expense, to convince the concierge of it. We went alone up the
stairs and crept very quietly along the passage toward the door of M.
Peyrot. But our shoes made some noise on the flags; had he been
listening, he might have heard us as easily as we heard him. Peyrot had
not yet gone to bed after the night's exertion; a certain clatter and
gurgle convinced us that he was refreshing himself with supper, or
breakfast, before reposing.
M. Étienne stood still, his hand on the door-knob, eager, hesitating.
Here was the man; were the papers here? If they were, should we secure
them? A single false step, a single wrong word, might foil us.
The sound of a chair pushed back came from within, and a young man's
quick, firm step passed across to the far side of the room. We heard a
box shut and locked. M. Étienne nipped my arm; we thought we knew what
went in. Then came steps again and a loud yawn, and presently two whacks
on the floor. We knew as well as if we could see that Peyrot had thrown
his boots across the room. Next a clash and jangle of metal, that meant
his sword-belt with its accoutrements flung on the table. M. Étienne,
with the rapid murmur, "If I look at you, nab him," turned the
door-handle.
But M. Peyrot had prepared against surprise by the simple expedient of
locking his door. He heard us, too, for he stopped in the very middle of
a prolonged yawn and held himself absolutely still. M. Étienne called
out softly:
"Peyrot!"
"Who is it?"
"I want to speak with you about something important."
"Who are you, then?"
"I'll tell you when you let me in."
"I'll let you in when you tell me."
"My name's Martin. I'm a friend of Bernet. I want to speak to you
quietly about a matter of importance."
"A friend of Bernet. Hmm! Well, friend of Bernet, it appears to me you
speak very well through the door."
"I want to speak with you about the affair of to-night."
"What affair?"
"To-night's affair."
"To-night? I go to a supper-party at St. Germain. What have you to say
about that?"
"Last night, then," M. Étienne amended, with rising temper. "If you want
me to shout it out on your stairs, the St. Quentin affair."
"Now, what may you mean by that?" called the voice from within. If
Peyrot was startled by the name, he carried it off well.
"You know what I mean. Shall I take the house into our confidence?"
"The house knows as much of your meaning as I. See here, friend of
Bernet, if you are that gentleman's mate, perhaps you have a password
about you."
"Aye," said M. Étienne, readily. "This is it: twenty pistoles."
No answer came immediately; I could guess Peyrot puzzled. Presently he
called to us:
"By the bones of St. Anne, I don't believe a word you've been saying.
But I'll have you in and see what you look like."
We heard him getting into his boots again and buckling on his baldric.
Then we listened to the turning of a key; a lid was raised and banged
down again, and the lock refastened. It was the box once more. M.
Étienne and I looked at each other.
At length Peyrot opened the door and surveyed us.
"What, two friends of Bernet, ventre bleu!" But he allowed us to enter.
He drew back before us with a flourishing bow, his hand resting lightly
on his belt, in which was stuck a brace of pistols. Any idea of doing
violence on the person of M. Peyrot we dismissed for the present.
Our eyes travelled from his pistols over the rest of him. He was small,
lean, and wiry, with dark, sharp face and deep-set twinkling eyes. One
moment's glance gave us to know that Peyrot was no fool.
My lord closed the door after him and went straight to the point.
"M. Peyrot, you were engaged last night in an attack on the Duke of St.
Quentin. You did not succeed in slaying him, but you did kill his man,
and you took from him a packet. I come to buy it."
He looked at us a little dazed, not understanding, I deem, how we knew
this. Certes, it had been too dark in the lane for his face to be seen,
and he had doubtless made sure that he was not followed home. He said
directly:
"You are the Comte de Mar."
"Even so, M. Peyrot. I did not care to have the whole stair know it, but
to you I have no hesitation in confiding that I am M. de Mar."