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Updated: June 23, 2025
Lagardere counted them as they came: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Even in the darkness he thought he could recognize certain figures: the twisted form of the hunchback, the burly body of Cocardasse, the gaunt figure of the Norman, the barrel bulk of Staupitz.
There was an awkward pause, and then Cocardasse suddenly spoke in a decisive tone. "Captain, you have no right to kill us," he growled, and Passepoil, nodding his long head, repeated his companion's phrase with Norman emphasis. Lagardere looked from one to the other of the pair, and there was a twinkle in his eyes that reassured them. "Are you scared, old knaves? No explanations; let me speak.
Presently he came to an end, reread his letter, shook over the final writings some silver sand, then folded it and sealed it leisurely. When he had done he spoke to Peyrolles: "This letter is to go to his majesty. Send Doña Flora here. Stay! Who is in the antechamber?" Peyrolles answered with a bow: "The Chevalier Cocardasse and the Chevalier Passepoil, monseigneur."
"There is only one Lagardere," he said, and looked as if the subject were ended. Æsop yawned. "I should like to meet your Lagardere." Cocardasse eyed him ironically. "Sword in hand?" he questioned. "When that day comes, pray for your soul." Æsop shrugged his shoulders, and with an air of indifference produced a watch and consulted its dial.
Æsop rolled to one end of the room, Staupitz to another; Cocardasse and Passepoil, Saldagno, Pepe, Pinto, Faenza, and Joel were scattered like sparrows, and the little page found himself liberated and crouching at the feet of a man who was standing with folded arms surveying the discomfited bravos mockingly.
It meant twenty-five pistoles each to the eight subordinates of the band, and a comfortable hundred pistoles for old Papa Staupitz to pocket as the patron of the enterprise. But Cocardasse held up his hands in well-affected horror and amazement. "Three hundred pistoles!" he echoed; "for ruddling the blades and risking the lives of nine of the finest swordsmen in Europe?
The Norman shook his head, and the expression of his face was very dubious. "Gonzague is a powerful personage." Cocardasse did not appear to be so much impressed by the power of Gonzague, but then it must be remembered that he came from Marseilles, while Passepoil arrived from Calais, which is more impressed by Paris.
Here we are, nine of us, nine picked swordsmen, and we are going to fight one man." Cocardasse had returned to the table and filled himself a monstrous measure of wine. He was thirsty, an habitual state with him, and he eyed the rough wine lovingly. "Who is the giant who is going to fight nine of us?" he asked as he lifted his cup from the board.
At this moment the curtains were parted, and the figure of Cocardasse appeared for a moment in the opening. As Lagardere saw him, Cocardasse lifted his glove in the air and let it fall to the ground. Then, in a moment, he had vanished before any one had noticed the episode. Lagardere gave a sharp cry of pain as he turned to the princess.
Passepoil appealed to him, pathetically: "Can you ever forgive us?" "Yes," Lagardere answered "yes, on one condition. There is a snake in this garden. Kill him for me." Cocardasse gave a grin of appreciation. "Peyrolles it is."
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