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Updated: June 20, 2025
If there was any hidden mockery, any latent contempt, any unconscious hate felt by the brave scoundrels for the cowardly scoundrel in their reverence, it was not evident to the new-comer, who took the greetings with offensive condescension, eying the bandits over the lace edges of his kerchief. Staupitz advanced some few feet to greet him. "Welcome, Monsieur Peyrolles," he said.
For Monsieur Peyrolles knew as well as his master all about that night at Caylus seventeen years before, and could, if he chose but he never did choose have told exactly how the Duke de Nevers came to his death, and how the child of Nevers disappeared, and how it was that the battered survivors of a little army of bravos had been overawed by the muskets of a company of Free Companions.
And it was this part of my trade which put the idea into my head which prompted me to write to you, friend Peyrolles, and which persuaded me to uproot myself from my comfortable house and my responsive doxies, and jog all the way from Madrid to Paris."
Peyrolles, with a grimace, again consented to be frank: "As Mademoiselle de Nevers is not proved to be dead, the law assumes her to be alive, and it is as the guardian of this impalpable young person that my dear master handles the revenues of Nevers. If she were certainly dead, my master would inherit." Æsop still required information. "Then why the devil does he want to prove that she lives?"
Æsop snapped at her, sharply: "Do as you are told. You are not a princess yet." The girl frowned, the girl's eyes flashed, but her acquaintance with Æsop had given her the thoroughly justifiable impression that he was a man whom it was better to obey, and she retired into the caravan and shut the green-and-red door with a bang behind her. Æsop turned with a questioning grin to Peyrolles.
Peyrolles unceremoniously took the actress by the wrist, and pointed to where Gabrielle and her escort were wandering. "You see that girl in rose-color, escorted by two giants? Your friends will gather about them and begin to hustle the giants.
Destiny, however, as if eager at last to work in her favor, throws in her way a handsome young Swiss, Rudolf Engemann by name, a bank-clerk, with whom she falls deeply in love. Everything is progressing to Madame's content, when a little convent-girl, Marie Peyrolles, comes to Berne to live with her old aunt, a glove-seller, whose sign in the Spitalgasse gives the name to the story.
Cocardasse waved a space for Peyrolles at the table. "Be so good," he said, with a quiet insistence, "as to write a formal promise to pay Papa Staupitz two thousand seven hundred pistoles to-morrow. Date it carefully, and sign it with your excellent and honorable name, my dear Monsieur Peyrolles."
"Gentlemen, stand aside!" she said, in a tone partly of entreaty, partly of command. At that moment Peyrolles came to her side and saluted her respectfully. "Do not be alarmed. We come from him." Gabrielle stared in amazement at the unfamiliar face. Peyrolles bent to her ear and whispered: "From Lagardere." Gabrielle gave a cry. "Ah! Where is he?"
The departing guests found that every exit was guarded by soldiers, and that their faces were carefully scanned before they were suffered to leave the precincts of the Palais Royal. Gonzague remained alone in the solitude by the Fountain of Diana, waiting for Peyrolles, who presently joined him. "Well?" Gonzague asked, anxiously. Peyrolles looked disappointed. "He has not left by any of the gates.
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