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Updated: May 9, 2025
The nose of the pistol pointed around to me. "Go over there to the door, you." I retreated, covered by the shining muzzle, to a spot that pleased him. "Now are we more comfortable," Peyrot observed, pulling a chair over against the wall and seating him, the pistol on his knee. "Monsieur was saying?" Monsieur crossed his legs, as if of all seats in the world he liked his present one the best.
I knew there was something wrong about you that is to say, I mean, I thought there was; I mean I knew he wasn't what he seemed you were not. And Peyrot fooled us, and I didn't want to be fooled again." "Then I am a good master?" he demanded truculently, advancing upon me. I put up my hands to my ears. "The best, monsieur. And monsieur wrestled well, too."
"Monsieur's remarks about his noble father and the general-duke are interesting, but humble Jean Peyrot, who does not move in court circles, is at a loss to translate them. In other words, I have no notion what you are talking about." "Oh, come," M. Étienne cried, "no shuffling, Peyrot. We know as well as you where you were before dawn." "Before dawn?
M. Étienne nipped my arm; we thought we knew what went in. Then came steps again and a loud yawn, and presently two whacks on the floor. We knew as well as if we could see that Peyrot had thrown his boots across the room. Next a clash and jangle of metal, that meant his sword-belt with its accoutrements flung on the table.
Monsieur rolls in wealth, of course?" Peyrot shrugged his shoulders, his eyes leaving the ceiling and making a mocking pilgrimage of the room, resting finally on his own rusty clothing. "Do I look it?" he answered. "Oh," said M. Étienne, slowly, as one who digests an entirely new idea, "I supposed monsieur must be as rich as a Lombard, he is so cold on the subject of turning an honest penny."
He was small, lean, and wiry, with dark, sharp face and deep-set twinkling eyes. One moment's glance gave us to know that Peyrot was no fool. My lord closed the door after him and went straight to the point. "M. Peyrot, you were engaged last night in an attack on the Duke of St. Quentin. You did not succeed in slaying him, but you did kill his man, and you took from him a packet.
As for friend Peyrot, he still looked dazed. I thought it was because he had not yet made up his mind what line to take; but had I viewed him with neutral eyes I might easily have deemed his bewilderment genuine. "Perhaps we should get on better if I could understand what monsieur is driving at?" he suggested.
He had brought none of the airs of the noble into this business, realizing shrewdly that they would but hamper him, as lace ruffles hamper a duellist. Peyrot, treeless adventurer, living by his sharp sword and sharp wits, reverenced a count no more than a hod-carrier. His occasional mocking deference was more insulting than outright rudeness; but M. Étienne bore it unruffled.
"For if I look new to you, I think I may look so to the Hôtel de Lorraine." "Monsieur goes to the Hôtel de Lorraine as a jeweller?" I cried, enlightened. "Aye. And if the ladies do not crowd about me " he broke off with a gesture, and put his trays back in his box. "Well, I wondered, monsieur. I wondered if we were going to sell ornaments to Peyrot."
Peyrot might have the packet, or he might know who had it, or he might be in honest ignorance of its existence. If he had it, it were a crying shame to pay out honest money for what we might take by force; to buy your own goods from a thief were a sin. But supposing he had it not?
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