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Somewhat reluctantly Monsieur Peyrolles produced from his doublet a small canvas bag and threw it into the hollow of Cocardasse's extended palm. It chinked pleasantly as it fell, and Cocardasse weighed it tenderly. "I will not affront your worthiness," he said, "by affecting to doubt the contents of this little bag, and putting it to the scrutiny of a count. I will take your word for the tale."
"Who is the gentleman we accost politely?" he asked, very blandly, but behind this blandness of Cocardasse's there was something menacing to those that knew him well. Peyrolles eyed the huge Gascon disdainfully. "That does not concern you," he said, sharply.
Cocardasse's air of distaste was suddenly transmuted into a raging, blazing air of hatred. He swore a great oath and sprang forward. "Then, by the powers, I will kill you!" "So will I!" cried Passepoil, no less furious than his friend, and advanced with him.
Something like surprise puckered Cocardasse's rubicund face. "You here, Æsop?" he questioned. The man whom he called Æsop looked up for a moment from his book and shrugged his shoulders. "Devil knows why!" he said. "If they want me, they don't want the others. If they want the others, they don't want me." His remarks were interrupted by a slight scuffle between Passepoil and Martine.
He had always held Monsieur Peyrolles in considerable respect, a respect that had been greatly shaken by Cocardasse's audacious and insolent treatment of the satellite of Gonzague. Now the bravo seemed ready to resent receiving an order from his employer's go-between. Peyrolles prudently took no notice of his sullenness. "Good-evening, gentlemen," he said, and walked towards the door.
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