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Gonzague muttered to himself: "Now for the death-struggle." The king looked at his visitor. "Who are you?" he asked. And Lagardere answered: "I am Henri de Lagardere." At that moment Peyrolles, privileged as his master's henchman, entered the tent and made his way to Gonzague's side. "All is well," he whispered. "We have got the girl, and the papers are upon her."
Then the two shadows flitted away in the darkness as nebulously as they had come, and the castle swallowed them up, and Lagardere was alone again in the moat among the bundles of hay. "May the devil fly away with you for a pair of knaves!" he said beneath his breath, apostrophizing the vanished shadows. "But I'll save the child and Nevers in spite of you."
Something in Lagardere's carriage, something in his voice, convinced the little marquis that his enemy was speaking the truth, and that he was, indeed, a gentleman. "Braggart!" he cried, and, drawing his sword, he struck Lagardere across the breast with the flat of his blade. Lagardere was quite unmoved by the affront.
Lagardere spoke, exultingly: "Yes, break the seals and read your doom, assassin. The packet contains only the birth-lines of Mademoiselle de Nevers, but still it contains the proof I ask. As Nevers lay dying in my arms, he dipped his finger in his blood and traced on the parchment the name of his murderer. Open the packet and see what name is there."
Thereafter Lagardere stooped and picked up the fallen sword of Gonzague. Then, advancing towards his enemy, he made a sign to those that held him to release their captive a sign that was immediately obeyed. He held out the weapon by its blade to Gonzague, who caught it. In another moment the two men were engaged in combat.
The bravos looked at one another uneasily, trying to seem devil-may-care and failing wofully. Nobody appeared to want to speak. At last Passepoil spoke. "That some one is Louis de Nevers," he said, and wished heartily that he did not have to say it. Lagardere at first appeared to be puzzled by the answer.
"You must know, sirs, that this pair of rapiers were my fairy godfathers in the noble art of fence." The Norman looked at Lagardere with a very loving expression. "You were a sad little rag of humanity when first you came to our fencing-academy." "You are right there," said Lagardere. "I was the poorest, hungriest scrap of mankind in all Paris.
But, and Lagardere smiled as he remembered this, Æsop had forgotten or overlooked the possibility that Lagardere's own sword-play would improve with time that Lagardere's own sword-play was little likely to rust for lack of usage. The few minutes that followed upon the encounter of the hostile steels were minutes of sheer enjoyment to Lagardere.
He offered her his arm as he spoke, and Gabrielle, believing indeed that Lagardere had sent for her, accepted his guidance down the alley, and so she disappeared from the noise and mirth and light and color of the royal ball.
Also, it was decidedly the voice of a young man. Whoever the speaker might be, he certainly was not the crabbed old Marquis de Caylus. Lagardere endeavored eagerly but unsuccessfully to see the face of the speaker. Night had by this time fallen completely.
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