I had already opened the door and was holding it for my master to pass,
when Peyrot picked up from the floor and held out to him a battered and
dirty toque, with its draggled feather hanging forlornly over the side.
Chafed as he was, M. Étienne could not deny a laugh to the rascal's
impudence.
"I cannot rob monsieur," he said.
"M. le Comte need have no scruple. I shall buy me better out of his
fifty pistoles."
But M. Étienne was out in the passage, I following, banging the door
after me. We went down the stair in time to Peyrot's lusty carolling:
_Mirth I'll keep, though riches fly,
While Folly's sure to linger by!_
"Think you we'll get the packet?" I asked.
"Aye. I think he wants his fifty pistoles. Mordieu! it's galling to let
this dog set the terms."
"Monsieur," I cried, "perhaps he'll not stir out at once. I'll run home
for Vigo and his men, and we'll make the rascal disgorge."
"Now are you more zealous than honest, boy."