And he got the answer he expected from the girl: "A young French soldier."

Perhaps, again, Gonzague's voice was keener with his next question: "Whose name was—"

In this case Flora, suddenly recalling her conversation with Gabrielle on the previous day, became as suddenly cautious. "I have forgotten his name," she said, and looked as if nothing could rekindle her memory.

Gonzague affected to be busy with some of the papers that lay before him, and then, at a venture, and as if with no particular purpose in his thoughts, he said: "I wish I could get this Gabrielle to be your companion, child."

Flora clapped her hands, and forgot her caution in her joy at the prospect. "Well, that might be done. I will tell you a secret. Gabrielle and her guardian are in Paris."

Underneath the table, and hidden from the girl's sight, Gonzague's hands clinched tightly, as if they were clinching upon the throat of an enemy; but his face was still quite tranquil as he said, carelessly: "Where are they?"

Flora's voice was full of regret. "Ah! I do not know; but they were at the fair where we were playing, and I know that they are coming to Paris."

Gonzague rose to his feet and took both the girl's hands affectionately in his. His eyes looked affectionately into hers, and his voice was full of kindness. "If your friend can be found, be sure that I will find her for you. And now go. I will send for you when the time comes for the meeting with your mother."

Flora clasped her hands nervously. "My mother! Oh, what shall I say to her?" she cried.

Gonzague's smile soothed her fears. "Hide nothing from her, for I am sure you have nothing to hide. Speak the loving words that a mother would like to hear."

With a grateful look at her newly found protector, Flora darted from the room, and Gonzague was left alone.



XX

A CONFIDENTIAL AGENT

Gonzague was left alone, indeed, only in a sense, for on a sudden the great hall with its famous pictures had become the theatre of fierce emotions and menacing presences. Just at the moment when Gonzague believed his schemes to be at their best and his fortunes to be nearing their top, he was suddenly threatened with the renewal of the old terror that had been kept at bay through all the years that had passed since the night of Caylus. Through all these years Lagardere had been kept from Paris, at the cost, indeed, as he believed, of many lives, but that was a price Louis de Gonzague was always prepared to pay when the protection of his own life was in question. Now it would seem as if Lagardere had broken his exile, had forced his way through the thicket of swords, and was again in Paris. Nor was this the worst. Just when Gonzague, after all his failures to trace the missing child of his victim, just when he had so ingeniously found a substitute for that missing child, it would really seem as if the child herself, now a woman, had come to Paris to defy him and to destroy his plans. He sat huddled with black thoughts for a time which seemed to him an age, but was in reality not more than a few moments; then, extending his hand, he struck a bell and a servant entered.

"Tell Peyrolles I want him," the prince commanded, and was again alone with his dreads and his dangers until Peyrolles appeared. Gonzague turned to his factotum. "I have reason to suspect that Lagardere is in Paris. If it be true, he will come too late. The princess will have accepted the gypsy as her child, the mother's voice will have spoken. If Lagardere is in Paris, he and the girl must be found, and once found—"

The ivory-like face of Peyrolles was quickened with a cunning look. "I have a man who will find him if any one can."

Gonzague turned upon him sharply. "Who is it?"

"Monseigneur," said Peyrolles, "I have at my disposal, and at the disposal of your highness, a very remarkable man, the hunchback AEsop. He was in the moat of Caylus that night. He, with those two you saw yesterday, are the only ones left, except—"

Peyrolles paused for a moment, and his pale face worked uncomfortably. Gonzague interpreted his thought. "Except you and me, you were going to say."

Peyrolles nodded gloomily. "As AEsop," he said, "has been in Spain all these years hunting Lagardere—"

"Yes," Gonzague interrupted, "and never finding him."

Peyrolles bowed. "True, your highness, but at least up to now he has kept Lagardere on the Spanish side of the frontier, kept Lagardere in peril of his life. AEsop hates Lagardere, always has hated him. When the last of our men met with"—he paused for a moment as if to find a fitting phrase, and then continued—"the usual misfortune, I thought it useless to leave AEsop in Spain, and sent for him. He came to me to-day. May I present him to your highness?"

Gonzague nodded thoughtfully. Any ally was welcome in such a crisis. "Yes," he said.

Peyrolles went to the door that communicated with the prince's private apartments, and, opening it, beckoned into the corridor. Then he drew back into the room, and a moment later was followed by a hunchbacked man in black, who wore a large sword. The man bowed profoundly to the Prince de Gonzague.

Peyrolles introduced him. "This is the man, monseigneur."

Gonzague looked fixedly at the man. He could see little of his face, for the head was thrust forward from the stooping, misshapen shoulders, and his long, dark hair hung about his cheeks and shaded his countenance. The face seemed pale and intelligent. It was naturally quite unfamiliar to Gonzague, who knew nothing of AEsop except as one of the men who had played a sinister part in the murder at Caylus.

Gonzague addressed him. "You know much, they tell me?"

The man bowed again, and spoke, slowly: "I know that Lagardere is in Paris, and with the child of Nevers."

"Do you know where he is?" Gonzague questioned.

The man answered, with laconic confidence: "I will find out."

"How?" asked Gonzague.

The hunchback laughed dryly. "That is my secret. Paris cannot hold any mystery from me."

Gonzague questioned again: "Is it to your interest that Lagardere should die?"

"Indeed, yes," the hunchback answered. "Has he not sworn to kill every man who attacked Nevers that night? Has he not kept his word well? I am the last that is left—I and Monsieur Peyrolles, for, of course, I except your Excellence. I promise you I will find him, but I shall need help."

"Help?" Gonzague echoed.

The hunchback nodded. "He is a dangerous fellow, this Lagardere, as six of us have found to our cost. Are there not two of our number newly in your highness's service?"

"Cocardasse and Passepoil," Peyrolles explained.

The hunchback rubbed his hands. "The very men. Will your highness place them under my orders?"

"By all means," Gonzague answered, and, turning to Peyrolles, he said: "They are in the antechamber; bring them in."

Peyrolles turned to obey, when the hunchback delayed him with a gesture. "Your pardon, highness," he said; "but I think there is another service I can render you to-day."

"Another service?" Gonzague repeated, looking at the hunchback with some surprise.

The hunchback explained: "Your highness, as I understand, has summoned for this afternoon a small family council, ostensibly for the purpose of considering the position of affairs between madame the princess and yourself."

The hunchback paused. Gonzague nodded, but said nothing, and the hunchback resumed: "Your real purpose, however, as I understand, is to present to that council the young lady, the daughter of Nevers, whom I have been fortunate enough to discover in Spain. You wish this discovery to come as a surprise to madame the princess."

Still Gonzague nodded, still Gonzague kept silence.

"I believe that you have requested madame the princess to attend this family council, and that up to the present you have not succeeded in obtaining her assent."

"That is so," said Gonzague.

"I was about to suggest," the hunchback went on, "if your highness will permit me, that you should employ me as your ambassador to madame the princess. I believe I could persuade her to be present at the family gathering."

Gonzague looked at the man in astonishment. "What persuasions could you employ," he asked, "which would be likely to succeed where mine have failed?"

Again AEsop made an apologetic gesture as he pleaded his former excuse. "That is my secret," he repeated; "but, prince, if you employ me you must let me attain my ends by my own means, so long as you find that those ends give you satisfaction and are of service to your purposes. Though I am by no means"—here he laughed a little, bitter laugh—"an attractive person, I believe I have a keen wit, and I think I have a clever tongue, thanks to which I have often succeeded in difficult enterprises where others have failed ignominiously—at least, it will be no harm to try."

"Certainly," Gonzague agreed, "it will be no harm to try. If the princess persists, I could, of course, in the end compel her by a direct order from the king himself, who is good enough to honor us with his presence to-day."

"But," the hunchback interrupted, "it would be far more agreeable to you if the princess could be induced to come of her own accord?"

"Certainly," Gonzague agreed.

"Then," said the hunchback, "have I permission to approach madame the princess and endeavor to persuade her to act in conformity to your wishes?"

"You have," said Gonzague, decisively. Something in the hunchback's manner attracted him. The suggestion of mysterious influences appealed to his Italian spirit, and the confidence of the hunchback inspired him with confidence. He pointed to the curtained alcove.

"Madame the princess," he said, gravely, "comes every day at this hour to spend some moments in contemplation and in prayer beside the picture of her former husband. That alcove shrines his sword. By virtue of a mutual understanding, this room is always left empty daily at this same time, that madame the princess may fulfil her pious duty untroubled by the sight of any who might be displeasing to her."

Here Gonzague sighed profoundly and summoned to his face the expression of a much-wronged, grievously misappreciated man. After an interval, which the hunchback silently respected, Gonzague resumed:

"If she were to find you here the princess might be, would be, pained; but if, indeed, you think you have any arguments that would serve to influence her mind, you could explain your presence as owing to ignorance due to the newness of your service here."

AEsop nodded sagaciously. "I understand," he said. "Leave it to me. And now if your highness will place those two fellows at my disposal, I will give them their instructions."

The prince rose and turned to Peyrolles. "Send the men to Master AEsop," he commanded.

Peyrolles went to the door of the antechamber, and returned in an instant with Cocardasse and Passepoil, now both gorgeously dressed in an extravagantly modish manner, which became them, if possible, less than their previous rags and tatters. Both men saluted Gonzague profoundly, and both started at seeing the hunchback standing apart from them with averted face.

Gonzague pointed to the hunchback. "Obey Master AEsop, gentlemen, as you would obey me." The two bravos bowed respectfully. Gonzague turned to the hunchback and spoke in a lower tone: "Find this Lagardere for me, and we will soon break his invincible sword."

"How?" the hunchback questioned, with a faint note of irony in his voice.

Gonzague continued: "By the hands of the hang-man, Master AEsop. Do your best. Those who serve me well serve themselves."

The hunchback answered, slowly: "Whenever you want me, I am here."

Gonzague, in spite of himself, started at the hunchback's last words, but the demeanor of AEsop was so simple and his bearing so respectful that Gonzague was convinced that their use was purely accident. He looked at his watch. "I must prepare for the ceremony," he said. "Come with me, Peyrolles," and the prince and his henchman quitted the apartment.

The hunchback muttered to himself: "The sword of Lagardere has yet a duty to perform before it be broken." Then he turned to Cocardasse and Passepoil where they stood apart: "Well, friends, do you remember me?"

Cocardasse answered him, thoughtfully: "'Tis a long time since we met, AEsop."

Passepoil, as usual, commented on his comrade's remark: "It might have been longer with advantage."

Indifferent to the bravos' obvious distaste for his society, the hunchback continued: "I have news for you. Lagardere and I met yesterday."

Cocardasse whistled. "The devil you did!"

The hunchback coolly continued: "We fought, and I killed him."

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. But when the pair were close upon the hunchback he suddenly drew himself up, flung back the hair from his face, and faced them, crying, "I am here!"

Cocardasse and Passepoil paused, gasping. Both had one name on their lips, and the name was the name of Lagardere. In another moment Lagardere was stooping again, the long hair was falling about his face, and the two men could scarcely believe that AEsop was not standing before them. "Hush! To you both, as to all the world, I am AEsop, Gonzague's attendant devil. Now I have work for you. Go to-night at eleven to No. 7, Rue de Chantre." As he spoke he drew a letter from his coat and gave it to Cocardasse. "Give this letter to the young lady who lives there. I have warned her of your coming. I have told her what she is to do. She will accompany you unquestioningly. I have to trust to you in this, friends, for I have my own part to play, and, by my faith, it is the hardest part I have ever played in my life." He laughed as he spoke; then he drew from his breast another packet and handed it to Passepoil. "Here," he said, "are three invitations for the king's ball to-night—one for the girl you will escort, one for each of you. When you go to the house you will wait till the girl is ready, and then you will escort her to the king's ball in the Palais Royal at midnight, and bring her into the presence of the king by the royal tent near the round pond of Diana."

"I will do that same," said Cocardasse, cheerfully.

"Never let her out of your sight at the ball," Lagardere insisted.

"Devil a minute," Passepoil affirmed.

"Let no one speak to her," Lagardere continued.

"Devil a word," said Cocardasse.

As the hunchback seemed to have no further instructions for them, the pair made to depart, but Lagardere restrained them, saying: "Ah, wait a moment. We are all the toys of fate. If any unlucky chance should arise, come to me in the presence of the king and fling down your glove."

"I understand," said Cocardasse.

Lagardere dismissed them. "Then, farewell, old friends, till to-night."



XXI

THE PRINCESS DE GONZAGUE

When Lagardere was left alone he placed himself at the table where Gonzague had been sitting so short a time before, and, taking pen and paper, wrote rapidly a short letter. When he had folded and sealed this, he rose, and, crossing the room, went to the door which opened on the antechamber to the princess's apartments. Here he found a servant waiting, wearing the mourning livery of Nevers, to whom he gave the letter, telling him that it was urgent, and that it should be delivered to the princess at once. When he had done this he returned to the great room and walked slowly up and down it, surveying in turn each of the three pictures of the three friends who had been called the Three Louis. He paused for a moment before the picture of Louis de Nevers. "Louis de Nevers," he said, softly, "you shall be avenged to-night."

He moved a little away, and paused again before the portrait of the king. "Louis of France," he said, "you shall be convinced to-night."

A third time he resumed his walk, and a third time he paused, this time before the portrait of the Prince de Gonzague. Here he stood a little while longer in silence, studying curiously the striking lineaments of his enemy, that enemy who, through all the change of years, had retained the grace and beauty represented on the canvas. "Louis de Gonzague," he murmured, "you shall be judged to-night."

Then he resumed his steady pacing up and down the room, with his hands clasped lightly behind his humped shoulders, busy in thought. For, indeed, he had much to think of, much to plan, much to execute, and but little time in which to do what he had to do. Fortune had greatly favored him so far. The friends he had summoned had come at his call. One more of his enemies had been swept from his path, and by the destruction of that enemy he had been able, thanks to his old training as a play-actor, to enter unsuspected into the household and the councils of the man who most hated him, of the man whom he most hated. But, though much was done, there was yet much to do, and it needed all his fortitude, all his courage, and all his humor to face without hesitation or alarm the problems that faced him.

His reflections were interrupted by the opening of a door, and, turning rapidly, he found himself in the presence of a woman clad entirely in black, whom he knew at once, in spite of the ravages that time and an unchanging grief had wrought upon her beauty, to be the Princess de Gonzague, the widow of Nevers. The princess was accompanied by a lady-in-waiting, a woman older than herself, and, like herself, clad wholly in black, on whose arm she leaned for support. Lagardere bowed respectfully to the woman he had last seen so many years before in the short and terrible interview in the moat at Caylus.

"You requested to see me," the princess said, gravely and sternly.

"I requested permission to wait upon you," Lagardere answered, deferentially.

"You are," the princess continued, "I presume, in the service of the Prince de Gonzague?"

Lagardere bowed in silence.

"It is not my custom," the princess said, "to receive messengers from his highness, but it is my custom daily to visit these rooms for a few moments at this time to look at one of the pictures they contain, and at this time his highness leaves the room at my disposal. From the earnestness of your letter, I have, therefore, consented to see you here in the course of this, my daily pilgrimage. What have you got to say to me?"

"Your highness," said Lagardere, "I am, as you imagine, in the service of his highness the Prince de Gonzague, but I have been out of France for many years, and know little or nothing of the events which have taken place in my absence. I understand, however, that there is to be a family council held in the palace to-day, and that it is my master's earnest wish that you should be present at that council."

The princess drew herself up and surveyed the hunchback coldly. "There is no need," she said, "for any such council nor any need for my presence. I have told your master so already, and do not see why I should be importuned to repeat my words."

Lagardere bowed again, and made as if to retire. Then, as if suddenly recollecting something, he drew from his breast a small, sealed package. "As I was coming to the Hotel de Gonzague this morning," he said, "a man whom I do not know stopped me in the street and gave me this package, with the request that I should deliver it to your highness. I explained to the man that I was in the service of his highness the Prince de Gonzague, and had not the honor of being included among your highness's servants. But the man still pressed me to take charge of this packet, asking me to deliver it to the care of one of your highness's women, and I should have done so but that I thought upon reflection it might be better, if possible, to deliver it into your own hands."

As he spoke he extended the package, which the princess received in silence and scrutinized carefully. It was addressed to her in a handwriting that was wholly unfamiliar, and carefully sealed with seals in black wax, that bore the impression of the word "Adsum." The princess looked keenly at the hunchback, who stood quietly before her with bent head in an attitude of respectful attention.

"Do you know anything further respecting this package?" the princess asked.

Lagardere shook his head. "I have told your highness," he said, "all I know of the matter. I never saw the man who gave it to me. I do not think I should know him again."

The princess again examined the packet closely, and then, advancing to the table, seated herself for a moment and broke the seals. The contents of the packet seemed to startle her, for she suddenly turned to her waiting-woman and beckoned her to her side. Then, with a gesture, she motioned to Lagardere to stand farther apart. Lagardere withdrew to the remotest corner of the apartment, and seemed lost in contemplation of the portrait of Louis de Gonzague.

The princess spoke to her companion in low, hurried tones. "Brigitte," she said, "here is something strange." And she showed her a little book which she had taken from the packet. "This is the prayer-book which I gave to my husband at Caylus seventeen years ago, and see what is written in it." And she pointed to some words which were written on the blank page inside the cover in the same handwriting as that in which the packet was addressed. These words the princess read over to her companion:

"'God will have pity if you have faith. Your child lives and shall be restored to you to-day. Distrust Gonzague more than ever. Remember the motto of Louis de Nevers. During the council sit near his picture, and at the right time, for you and for you alone, the dead shall speak.'" These words were signed, "Henri de Lagardere."

The princess turned and beckoned to the hunch-back, who immediately approached her. "You are my husband's servant," she said. "Are you much in his confidence?"

"Madame," Lagardere replied, "I am too new to Paris to consider myself in any sense the confidential servant of his highness, but I can assure you that I hope to serve him as he deserves to be served."

The princess seemed thoughtful, then she asked again: "Did you ever hear of a man named Henri de Lagardere?"

The hunchback appeared agitated. "Madame," he replied, "Henri de Lagardere is the enemy of my master, and he is my enemy. I have been seeking him unsuccessfully for many years, both in my master's interests and in my own."

The princess rose. "Enough, sir," she said. "I will consider his highness's wishes. Come, Brigitte."

Holding the packet in her hand and leaning on her companion's arm, she went towards the picture of Louis de Nevers and knelt for a moment in prayer. Then she rose and silently quitted the room, still leaning on Brigitte's arm.



XXII

THE FAMILY COUNCIL

Lagardere remained alone for a while in the room, pensively contemplating the portraits of the Three Louis. Then the sound of footsteps came to his ears, footsteps advancing from many directions, footsteps all making towards the great hall. He smiled as a man smiles who is prepared to encounter cheerfully great odds, and then, as if there were observing eyes upon him, though indeed no eyes beheld him save those that were painted in the canvases of the three friends, he slouched across the room, more markedly the hunchback than ever, till he came to the curtained door by the side of the picture of Louis de Nevers. He lifted the curtain, glanced round him for a moment at the empty room, and then dipped behind the curtain.

The curtain fell, the room was empty, save for the painted presences of the Three Louis. But the room was not empty long. A few moments later Gonzague entered the room respectfully escorting his illustrious master and friend, Louis of France. At their heels followed a little crowd of notabilities, eminent lawyers, eminent ecclesiastics, all of whom had claim, by virtue of their kinship or by virtue of their authority on delicate, contested family matters, to a seat and a voice in the council that Louis of Gonzague had been pleased to summon. After these again came Gonzague's own little tail of partisans, Navailles and Noce, Taranne and Oriol, Choisy and Gironne, Albret and Montaubert, with Chavernay fluttering about them like an impudent butterfly, laughing at them, laughing at his august cousin, laughing at the king, laughing at himself—laughing at everything. To him such a family gathering as this which he attended was almost the most ridiculous thing imaginable on the face of the whole world, and therefore deserving of consideration, if not of serious consideration.

The king took his place upon the kind of little throne which had been set apart for him. The rest of the company arranged themselves with instinctive sense of precedence upon the chairs that were ranged behind it. To Chavernay the whole thing looked like a pompous parody of a trial where there was nobody to be tried, and he made unceasing jokes to his neighbors, which compelled them to laugh. This earned for him a disapproving glance from the dark eyes of Gonzague, which had no effect whatever in depressing his spirits.

When all the guests were duly seated, Gonzague gravely rose, and, turning towards the king, saluted him respectfully. "I thank your majesty," he said, "for honoring us on this occasion, when matters of great moment to me and to the lady whom I am proud to call my wife, and to the great family with which I am associated at once by ties of blood and alliance, are in question. Your majesty will readily understand that nothing but the gravest sense of duty could have urged me to bring together so learned, so just, so brilliant an assembly of men to deal with delicate matters which have perhaps been too long left undealt with. Such differences of opinion as may perhaps be admitted to exist between madame the Princess de Gonzague and myself, however trivial in the beginning, have in a sense grown with the passing of time into an importance which calls imperatively for some manner or form of adjustment."

He paused in his speech, as if to control his emotions and to collect his thoughts. The king leaned forward and addressed him. "Does any one," he asked, "appear here for madame the Princess de Gonzague?"

Gonzague looked about him with a melancholy glance. "I had hoped, sire," he said, "that madame the princess would have chosen some one to represent her." But even as he spoke he paused, for the door that led to the princess's apartment was thrown open, and the Princess de Gonzague appeared, clad in black as usual, and as usual leaning upon the arm of her faithful Brigitte.

As the princess entered the room, every one rose, and all eyes were fixed upon the stately figure and melancholy features of the still beautiful, if prematurely aged, widow of Nevers. The princess made a deep inclination to the king, and then spoke: "Your majesty, I need no one to represent me. I am here."

Gonzague allowed his features to betray the satisfaction he felt at the presence of his consort. He hastened to advance to her as she seated herself close to the curtained alcove, saying as he did so: "Madame, you are indeed welcome." And there was a sincerity in his tone not always characteristic of his utterances.

The king bowed in his courtliest manner to the unhappy lady, and addressed her: "Princess, you know why we are assembled here?"

Slowly the princess inclined her head. "I do," she said, and said no more, but sat looking fixedly before her, the image of a patience that shielded a strong purpose and a resignation that was now kindled by a new hope.

The king turned to his friend and host: "Prince de Gonzague, we await your pleasure."

Louis de Gonzague rose to his feet and surveyed his assembled guests with a grave countenance that seemed to suggest boldness without effrontery and a grief nobly borne. All present admired his beauty, his dignity, the proud humility of his carriage towards the great lady who was in name his wife. Many sympathized with him in what they knew to be his strange position, and felt that the princess was indeed to blame in refusing friendship and sympathy to such a man.

Gonzague bowed respectfully to the king, and his eyes travelled over the whole range of his audience as he spoke. "Sire," he said, "I have to speak to-day of the sorrow that has haunted me, as it has haunted your majesty, for seventeen years. Louis de Lorraine, Duke de Nevers, was my cousin by blood, my brother by affection. His memory lives here, eternal as is the grief of his widow, who has not disdained to wear my name after wearing his."

He paused for a moment, and in that pause the princess spoke in a voice that was shaken with emotion, in spite of her determination to be firm: "Do not speak of that. I have passed those seventeen years in solitude and in tears."

Gonzague paid to her and her sorrow the homage of a bow; then he resumed: "When madame the princess did me the honor to accept my name, she made public her secret but legitimate marriage with the late Duke de Nevers and the birth of a daughter of that union. This child disappeared on the night of Nevers's death. The registration of its birth is torn out of the chapel register and lost. For seventeen years the princess has patiently sought for her lost child, and has sought in vain."

The princess sighed: "Alas!" Gonzague paused for a moment as if to allow the princess to say more, and then, seeing she kept silent, he continued: "Calumniators have hinted that it was my wish that the child should not be found. Have they not, madame?"

"Such things have been said," the princess replied, gravely.

Again Gonzague spoke: "There were even those who hinted that my hand might strike at a child's life. Is not that so?"

Again the princess repeated her former phrase: "Such things have been said."

Now Gonzague questioned her directly: "And you believed the accusation?"

The princess inclined her head: "I believed it."

At this reply a murmur not to be repressed ran through the assembly. Those that sympathized with Gonzague before now sympathized more deeply on hearing such an answer come so coldly from his wife's lips. Gonzague allowed himself the luxury of a little, patient sigh, the privileged protest of the good and just under an intolerable suspicion.

"I am not surprised. The princess does not know me. For seventeen years the princess and I have been strangers. Now, for the first time, I can show myself to my wife as I am." He addressed himself directly to the princess: "Through all these seventeen years I, too, have been seeking what you sought; but, more fortunate than you, I have succeeded where you have failed."

He turned to Peyrolles, who was standing close to his master's side, and commanded: "Bring in Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Nevers."

In a moment Peyrolles had vanished from the room, leaving every man in the assembly impressed and startled by Gonzague's statement. The king looked from Gonzague, whose face he had been studying while he spoke with admiration and approval, and fixed his keen gaze upon the princess. She alone, of all those in the room, seemed unmoved by the momentous tidings that her husband had communicated. The younger men whispered among themselves, the elders kept silence, but it was plain that their curiosity was very great.

In a few moments Peyrolles returned to the room escorting Flora, now very beautifully attired in a dress of simple richness.

Chavernay could not restrain his surprise as she entered. "The little dancing-girl," he whispered to his right-hand neighbor, Choisy, but he said no more. Even his airy nature was impressed by the stillness of the company and the gravity of the situation.

Gonzague took the hand of Flora and conducted her across the room to the princess. "Madame," he said, "I restore your child."

The princess looked fixedly at the girl, her thin hands clasping the arms of her chair convulsively, and it could be seen that she was trembling from head to foot. She was waiting for a voice, she was wondering if she would hear a voice, and as she waited and wondered she heard a voice from behind the curtain near where she sat apart, a voice which reached her ears, a voice with a mysterious message—"I am here."

The princess clasped her hand to her heart. "Ah!" she murmured, "will the dead speak? Is this my child?" And again the voice spoke and answered: "No."

By this time Gonzague and the girl had reached the princess, who now rose to her feet and confronted the pair as she spoke. "My child should have with her a packet containing the page torn away from the register of the chapel of Caylus, torn away with my own hands." She turned to Flora and questioned her: "Have you that packet?"

Flora dropped on her knees and stretched out her hands with a pretty, pathetic air of supplication. "Madame, I have nothing. Ah, madame, the poor little gypsy girl asks of you neither wealth nor station; she only entreats you to love her as she loves you."

The princess prayed silently: "Oh, Heaven help me! Heaven inspire me!"

Gonzague was startled by this sudden hostility to his scheme, but spoke with respectful earnestness: "Madame," he said, slowly, "we have depositions, sworn to and duly attested in Madrid, that this girl, then a year-old child, was given to a band of gypsies by a man whose description coincides exactly with that of one of the men believed to have been concerned in the attack upon Louis de Nevers in the moat of Caylus. We have their statements that in their hearing the man called the child Gabrielle, that he said to the head gypsy that she was of noble birth, and that he gave her up to them because he wished the child to suffer for the hate he bore her father. All this and more than this we can prove. For my part, I say that in this girl's lineaments I seem to see again the features of my dear dead friend. Madame, to reject the child whom we believe to be the daughter of Nevers, you must have reasons grave indeed—the strongest proofs. Have you such reasons, such proofs?"

From behind the curtain a voice travelled to the princess's ears, murmuring, "Yes," and the princess repeated, "Yes," confidently.

Gonzague drew himself up with a look of pain and sorrow. "I understand, madame. Some impostor, speculating upon your sorrow, has told you that he has found your child."

Chavernay whispered behind his hand to Navailles: "Our cousin is losing his temper."

As the princess kept silent, Gonzague pressed his question: "Is that not so, madame? Speak! Is this not so? Some one has told you that she is alive?"

The princess heard the voice behind the curtain whisper: "She lives." Looking steadily at Gonzague, she said: "She lives, in spite of you, by the grace of God."

The agitation of the audience was very great. The king directly addressed the princess: "Can you produce her?"

Again the voice whispered to the Princess, "Yes," and again the Princess repeated, "Yes," as confidently as before.

"When?" asked the king, to whom Gonzague had at once yielded the privilege of question.

The voice whispered, "To-night," and the princess repeated the words.

The voice whispered again, "At the ball in the Palais Royal," and again the Princess echoed it, "At the ball in the Palais Royal."

The king had no more to say; he was silent. Gonzague groaned aloud as he turned to Flora. "My poor child, only God can give you back the heart of your mother."

The girl, with the quick impulsiveness of her race, again flung herself on her knees before the princess, while she cried: "Madame, whether you are my mother or not, I respect you, I love you!"

The princess laid her hand gently on the girl's dark hair. "My child, my child, I believe you are no accomplice of this crime. I wish you well."

Flora was now sobbing bitterly, and seemed unable to rise. Peyrolles hastened to her side, hastened to lift her to her feet, and hurriedly conducted the weeping girl from the room. The princess, holding her head high, turned and addressed the king: "Your majesty, my mourning ends to-day. I have recovered my daughter. I shall be your guest to-night, sire."

The king bowed profoundly. "Believe that we shall be most proud to welcome you."

The princess made him a reverence and turned to leave the room. The king quitted his chair, hastened to her side, and gave her his arm to the door. When she had departed, Louis of France hastened to Gonzague where he stood alone, the centre of wondering eyes. "What is the meaning of this double discovery?" he asked.

Gonzague shook his head with the air of one who is faced by a shameful conspiracy, but who is not afraid to face it. "I have found Nevers's child. Who the impostor is I do not know, but I shall know—and then—"

He paused, but his menacing silence was more impressive than any speech. The king wrung his friend's hand warmly. "I hope you may. Till to-night, gentlemen."

All were standing now. The king embraced the company in a general salutation and went out, followed by his friends. The lawyers, the ecclesiastics took their leave. Only the friends of Gonzague remained in the room, and they stood apart, eying their master dubiously, uncertain whether he would wish them to go or to stay. Chavernay took it upon himself, with his usual lightness of heart, to play their spokesman. He advanced to Gonzague and addressed him.

"Can we condole with you on this game of cross-purposes?"

Gonzague turned to Chavernay, and his countenance was calm, bold, almost smiling. "No. I shall win the game. We shall meet to-night. Perhaps I shall need your swords."

"Now, as ever, at your service," Navailles protested, and the rest murmured their agreement with the speaker. Then Gonzague's partisans slowly filed out of the room, Chavernay, as usual, smiling, the others unusually grave. Gonzague turned to Peyrolles, who had returned from his task of convoying Flora to her apartments. "Who has done all this?" he asked.

He thought he was alone with his henchman, but he was mistaken. AEsop had quietly entered the room, and was standing at his side. AEsop answered the question addressed to Peyrolles. "I can tell you. The man you can neither find nor bind."

Gonzague started. "Lagardere?"

AEsop nodded. "Lagardere, whom I will give into your hands if you wish."

Gonzague caught at his promise eagerly. "When?" he asked.

"To-night, at the king's ball," AEsop answered.



XXIII

THE KING'S BALL

The gardens of the Palais Royal made a delightful place for such an entertainment as the king's ball. In its contrasts of light and shadow, in its sombre alleys starred with colored lights, in its blend of courtly pomp and sylvan simplicity, it seemed the fairy-like creation of some splendid dream. Against the vivid greenness of the trees, intensified by the brightness of the blazing lamps, the whiteness of the statues asserted itself with fantastic emphasis. Everywhere innumerable flowers of every hue and every odor sweetened the air and pleased the eye, and through the blooming spaces, seemingly as innumerable as the blossoms and seemingly as brilliant, moved the gay, many-colored crowd of the king's guests. The gardens were large, the gardens were spacious, but the king's guests were many, and seemed to leave no foot of room unoccupied. Hither and thither they drifted, swayed, eddied, laughing, chattering, intriguing, whispering, admiring, wondering, playing all the tricks, repeating all the antics that are the time-honored attributes and privileges of a masquerade. Here trained dancers executed some elaborate measure for the entertainment of those that cared to pause in their wandering and behold them; there mysterious individuals, in flowing draperies, professed to read the stars and tell the fortunes of those that chose to spare some moments from frivolity for such mystic consultations.

In the handsomest part of the garden, hard by the Pond and Fountain of Diana, a magnificent tent had been pitched, which was reserved for the accommodation of the king himself and for such special friends as he might choose to invite to share his privacy. Around this tent a stream of mirth-makers flowed at a respectful distance, envying—for envy is present even at a masquerade—those most highly favored where all were highly favored in being admitted into the sovereign's intimacy.

At the door of this tent, Monsieur Breant, who had been one of the cardinal's principal servants, and who still remained the head custodian of the palace, was standing surveying the scene with a curiosity dulled by long familiarity. He was unaware that a sombrely clad hunchback, quite an incongruous figure in the merry crowd, was making for him, until the hunchback, coming along beside him, touched him on the arm and called him by name: "Monsieur Breant!"

Breant turned and gazed at the hunchback with some surprise. "Who are you?" he asked.

The hunchback laughed as he answered: "Don't you know me? Why, man, I am AEsop the Second. My illustrious ancestor laughed at all the world, and so do I. He loved the Greek girl Rhodopis, who built herself a pyramid. I am wiser than he, for I love only myself."

Breant shrugged his shoulders and made to turn upon his heel. "I have no time for fooling."

AEsop detained him. "Don't leave me; I am good company."

Breant did not seem to be tempted by the offer. "That may be, but I must attend on his majesty."

AEsop still restrained him. "You can do me a favor."

Breant eyed the impertinent hunchback with disfavor. "Why should I do you a favor, AEsop the Second?"

The hunchback explained, gayly: "In the first place, because I am the guest of his Majesty the King. In the second place, because I am the confidential devil of his Highness the Prince de Gonzague. But my third reason is perhaps better."

As he spoke he took a well-filled purse from his pocket and tossed it lightly from one hand to the other, looking at Breant with a sneering smile. Breant would have been no true servant of the time if he had not liked money for the sake of the pleasure that money could give; Breant would have been no true servant of the time if he had not been always in want of money. He eyed the purse approvingly, and his manner was more amiable.

"What do you want?" he asked.

AEsop made his wishes clear. "There is a little lodge yonder in the darkness at the end of that alley, hard by the small gate that is seldom used. You know the gate, for you sometimes used to wait in that little lodge when a late exalted personage chose to walk abroad incognito."

Breant frowned at him. "You know much, Master AEsop."

AEsop shrugged his shoulders. "I am a wizard. But it needs no wizard to guess that, as the exalted personage is no longer with us, he will not walk abroad to-night, and you will not have to yawn and doze in the lodge till he return."

"What then?" asked Breant.

AEsop lowered his voice to a whisper. "Let me have the key of the little lodge for to-night."

Breant lifted his hands in protest. "Impossible!" he said.

AEsop shook his head. "I hate that word, Monsieur Breant. 'Tis a vile word. Come now, twenty louis and the key of the lodge for an hour after midnight."

Breant looked at the purse and looked at the hunchback. "Why do you want it?" he asked.

AEsop laughed mockingly. "Vanity. I wish to walk this ball like a gentleman. I have fine clothes; they lie now in a bundle on the lodge step. If I had the key I could slip inside and change and change again and enjoy myself, and no one the worse or the wiser."

The purse seemed to grow larger to Breant's eyes, and his objections to dwindle proportionately. "A queer whim, crookback," he said.

AEsop amended the phrase: "A harmless whim, and twenty louis would please the pocket."

Breant slipped his hand into a side-pocket, and, producing a little key, he handed it to AEsop. "There's the key, but I must have it back before morning."

AEsop took the key, and the purse changed owners. "You shall," he promised. "Good. Now I shall make myself beautiful."

Breant looked at him good-humoredly. "Good sport, AEsop the Second." He turned and disappeared into the tent.

AEsop, looking at the key with satisfaction, murmured to himself: "The best."

As he moved slowly away from the king's tent a little crowd of Gonzague's friends—Chavernay, Oriol, Navailles, Noce, Gironne, Choisy, Albret, and Montaubert—all laughing and talking loudly, crossed his path and perceived the hunchback, who seemed to them, naturally enough, a somewhat singular figure in such a scene. "Good Heavens! What is this?" cried Navailles.

Noce chuckled: "A hunchback brings luck. May I slap you on the back, little lord?"

AEsop answered him, coolly: "Yes, Monsieur de Noce, if I may slap you in the face."

Noce took offence instantly. "Now, by Heaven, crookback!" he cried, and made a threatening gesture against AEsop, who eyed him insolently with a mocking smile.

Chavernay interposed. "Nonsense!" he cried. "Nonsense, Noce, you began the jest." Then he added, in a lower voice: "You can't pick a quarrel with the poor devil."

The hunchback paid him an extravagant salutation. "Monsieur de Chavernay, you are always chivalrous. You really ought to die young, for it will take so much trouble to turn you into a rogue."

Fat Oriol, staring in amazement at the controversy, questioned: "What does the fellow mean?"

Chavernay burst into a fit of laughing, and patted Oriol on the back. "I'm afraid he means that you are a rogue, Oriol."

While the angry gentlemen stood together, with the hunchback apart eying them derisively, and Chavernay standing between the belligerents as peace-maker, Taranne hurriedly joined the group. He was evidently choking with news and eager to distribute it.

"Friends, friends," he cried, "there is something extraordinary going on here to-night!"

"What is it?" asked Chavernay.

Taranne answered him, with a voice as grave as an oracle: "All the sentinels are doubled, and there are two companies of soldiers in the great court."

Navailles protested: "You are joking!"

Taranne was not to be put down. "Never more serious. Every one who enters is scrutinized most carefully."

"That is easy to explain," said Chavernay; "it is just to make sure that they really are invited."

Taranne declined to admit this interpretation of his mystery: "Not so, for nobody is allowed on any pretext to leave the gardens."

Oriol flushed with a sudden wave of intelligence: "Perhaps some plot against his majesty."

"Heaven knows," Navailles commented.

AEsop interrupted the discussion with a dry laugh, dimly suggestive of the cackle of a jackdaw. "I know, gentlemen."

Oriol stared at him. "You know?"

Noce gave vent to an angry laugh. "The hunchback knows."

While this conversation was going on a group of middle-aged gentlemen had been moving down the avenue that led to the Pond of Diana. These were the Baron de la Hunaudaye, Monsieur de Marillac, Monsieur de Barbanchois, Monsieur de la Ferte, and Monsieur de Vauguyon. They had been taking a peaceful interest in the spectacle afforded them, had been comparing it with similar festivities that they recalled in the days of their youth, and had been enjoying themselves tranquilly enough. Perceiving a group of young men apparently engaged in animated discussion, the elders quickened their pace a little to join the party and learn the cause of its animation.

When they arrived AEsop was speaking. "Something extraordinary is going on here to-night, Monsieur de Navailles. The king is preoccupied. The guard is doubled, but no one knows why, not even these gentlemen. But I know, AEsop the Wise."

"What do you know?" asked Navailles.

AEsop looked at him mockingly. "You would never guess it if you guessed for a thousand years. It has nothing to do with plots or politics, with foreign intrigues or domestic difficulties—"

Oriol thirsted for information. "What is it for, then?"

AEsop answered, gravely, with an amazing question: "Gentlemen, do you believe in ghosts?" And the gravity of his voice and the strangeness of his question forced his hearers, surprised and uneasy, in spite of themselves, to laugh disdainfully.

AEsop accepted their laughter composedly. "Of course not. No one believes in ghosts at noonday, on the crowded street, though perhaps some do at midnight when the world is over-still. But here, to-night, in all this glitter and crowd and noise and color, the king is perturbed and the guards are doubled because of a ghost—the ghost of a man who has been dead these seventeen years."

The Baron de la Hunaudaye, bluff old soldier of the brave days of the dawning reign, was interested in the hunchback's words. "Of whom do you speak?" he asked.

AEsop turned to the new-comers, and addressed them more respectfully than he had been addressing the partisans of Gonzague: "I speak of a gallant gentleman—young, brave, beautiful, well-beloved. I speak to men who knew him. To you, Monsieur de la Hunaudaye, who would now be lying under Flemish earth if his sword had not slain your assailant; to you, Monsieur de Marillac, whose daughter took the veil for love of him; to you, Monsieur de Barbanchois, who fortified against him the dwelling of your lady love; to you, Monsieur de la Ferte, who lost to him one evening your Castle of Senneterre; to you, Monsieur de Vauguyon, whose shoulder should still remember the stroke of his sword."

As AEsop spoke, he addressed in turn each of the elder men, and as he spoke recognition of his meaning showed itself in the face of each man whom he addressed.

Hunaudaye nodded. "Louis de Nevers," he said, solemnly.

Instantly AEsop uncovered. "Yes, Louis de Nevers, who was assassinated under the walls of the Castle of Caylus twenty years ago."

Chavernay came over to AEsop. "My father was a friend of Louis de Nevers."

AEsop looked from the group of old men to the group of young men. "It is the ghost of Nevers that troubles us to-night. There were three Louis in those days, brothers in arms. Louis of France did all he could to find the assassin of Nevers. In vain. Louis de Gonzague did all he could to find the assassin of Nevers. In vain. Well, gentlemen, would you believe it, to-night Louis of France and Louis de Gonzague will be told the name of the assassin of Nevers?"

"And the name?" asked Chavernay.

Choisy plucked him impatiently by the sleeve. "Don't you see that the humpbacked fool is making game of us?"

AEsop shrugged his shoulders. "As you please, sirs, as you please; but that is why the guards are doubled."

He turned on his heel, and walked leisurely away from the two groups of gentlemen. The elders, having little in common with Gonzague's friends, followed his example, and drifted off together, talking to one another in a low voice of the gallant gentleman whose name had suddenly been recalled to their memories at that moment. Gonzague's gang stared at one another, feeling vaguely discomfited.

"The man is mad," said Gironne.

"There seems a method in his madness," said Chavernay, dryly.

Albret interrupted them. "Here comes his majesty."

"And, as I live, with the Princess de Gonzague!" Montaubert cried, amazed.

Oriol elevated his fat palms. "Wonders will never cease!"



XXIV

THE ROSE-COLORED DOMINO

All the party bowed respectfully as the king came slowly down the great walk, giving his arm to the Princess de Gonzague. Then, anxious to avoid any appearance of intruding upon the privacy of the monarch, they drifted off in search of fresh amusement.

Louis addressed the princess, indicating the gayety around him with a wave of his arm. "After so long an absence from the world, all this folly must worry you a little."

The princess looked at him sadly. "The world and I have little more to say to each other. I come here to-night to meet one who has promised to tell me of my husband, of my child."

"Lagardere?" said the king, gravely.

And as gravely the princess answered: "Lagardere."

"At midnight?" asked the king.

"Yes," said the princess.

The king looked at his watch. It was half-past eleven. "Will you rest in my pavilion, princess, until the time comes?"

Louis conducted the princess into the tent, where he was followed by his escort. As they did so, Gonzague, coming slowly down the avenue, watched them thoughtfully. It was strange, indeed, to see his wife in such a place and in such company. It was strange to feel that her passive hostility through all these years was now turned suddenly into action.

"Bah!" he said to himself; "it is my word against that of an adventurer who has hidden for twenty years."

Peyrolles, pushing his way through the crowd and peering to right and left, caught sight of his master and hurriedly joined him. "Well," said Gonzague, "have you found the girl?"

Peyrolles made a gesture of despair. "We have searched Paris without success. Not a sign of her, nor of him."

Gonzague frowned. "She must be here. If she be the real child, the princess may recognize her."

"And all is lost," said Peyrolles, with a groan.

Gonzague almost smiled. "No. We will charge Lagardere with having assassinated the father and stolen the child for his own ends. He shall be hanged out of hand. Dona Flora will seem the commendable error of my over-zealous heart, and as for the new princess—well, even princesses are mortal."

Peyrolles had always admired his master, but never perhaps so much as now. "Your Excellency is a man of genius," he said, enthusiastically.

Gonzague smiled. "Forethought, my good Peyrolles—only forethought. But it would save trouble if the girl were out of the way."

Peyrolles bowed. "I will do my best, monseigneur."

"Good," said Gonzague. "I must wait upon his majesty. And upon the princess," he added.

Gonzague, whose intimacy with the king always made him the first to be bidden to any special festivity, entered the tent unchallenged, and was warmly welcomed by Louis. Peyrolles remained outside, walking up and down, immersed in distasteful reflections. He had failed to find the girl; he had failed to get on the traces of Lagardere; he had seen nothing of AEsop. The ball, so pleasant to everybody else, seemed to him full of menace, and he eyed with some disapproval the jolly, noisy folk that thronged the alleys and shook the night with laughter. Swollen with sour humors, he leaned against a tree, cursing in his heart the folly of those swordsmen who had failed to get rid of a cursed enemy. Enveloped, as it were, in bitterness, he failed to notice a not unnoticeable group that detached itself from the crowd beyond and came slowly down the alley towards the Fountain of Diana. The group was composed of a woman in a rose-colored domino and mask, accompanied by two tall, masculine figures muffled from head to heels in black dominos, and their features completely hidden by bearded black masks. The pink domino and the twin black dominos seemed to be seeking their way.

"This," said the bigger of the black dominos, and his voice was the voice of Cocardasse—"this must be the Fountain of Diana."

The second of the black dominos pointed to the statue shining in the many-tinted water, and spoke with the voice of Passepoil: "There's some such poor heathen body."

The woman in the rose-pink domino turned to Cocardasse and asked: "Is Henri here?" And her voice was the voice of Gabrielle.

"I don't see him yet, mademoiselle," Cocardasse answered.

Gabrielle sighed. "I wish he were come. All this noise and glitter bewilder me." And the trio proceeded slowly to make the tour of the fountain.

But if Peyrolles, propped against his tree, was too preoccupied to notice the not unnoticeable group, light-hearted Chavernay was more alert. Drifting, as every one drifted that night, again and again, towards the Fountain of Diana as the centre of festivity, he turned to Navailles and pointed to Gabrielle. "Who is that mask in the rose-colored domino? She seems to seek some one."

Navailles laughed. "She goes about with two giants like some princess in a fairy tale."

Noce was prepared with an explanation. "It is Mademoiselle de Clermont, who is looking for me."

Taranne pooh-poohed him. "Nonsense. It is Madame de Tessy, who is looking for me."

"It might be Mademoiselle Nivelle, looking for me," Oriol suggested, fatuously.

Choisy, Gironne, Albret, Montaubert—each in turn offered a possible name for the unknown.

Chavernay would have none of their suggestions. "No, no. That is not any one we know. She is neither court lady nor a play actress; she is some goddess in disguise, and I am going to reveal divinity."

Then he tripped daintily forward and intercepted Gabrielle and her companions as they accomplished their first tour of the pond. "Fair lady," said Chavernay, with a graceful bow, "are you looking for some one?"

The large arm of Cocardasse was interposed between Chavernay and Gabrielle, and the large voice of Cocardasse counselled Chavernay: "Stand aside, little man."

Quite indifferent to the counsels of the mighty mask, Chavernay persisted: "Fair lady, dismiss this monster and accept my arm."

This time it was Passepoil's turn to intervene. "Out of the way!" he commanded, and gave Chavernay a little push.

Instantly Chavernay's hot blood was in a flame, and he clapped his hand to his sword. "How dare you, fellow—" he began.

But now Gabrielle, greatly alarmed at the prospect of a brawl in such a place, and perfectly recognizing the marquis, removed her mask from her face for a moment while she spoke: "Monsieur de Chavernay, you will let me pass."

It was only for a moment, but it was long enough to give Chavernay time to recognize her, and he fell back with a respectful salutation. It was long enough, also, for Peyrolles, leaning against his tree and at last roused from saddened thoughts to contemplation of the outer world, to get a glimpse of the girl's face and to recognize its extraordinary resemblance to the dead duke. He gave a start of surprise. Was fortune playing into his hands, after all?

Chavernay bowed. "Your pardon, lady; your path is free," he said, and stood aside while Gabrielle moved slowly forward with her escort on a second tour of the fountain. Navailles and the others had seen, indeed, the lady unmask, but were not near enough to descry her features.

"Well," said Navailles, eagerly, to Chavernay—"well, who was the lady?"

Chavernay answered, coolly: "I do not know."

At this moment the lean form and yellow face of Monsieur de Peyrolles intruded itself into the group of Gonzague's friends.

"Monsieur de Chavernay," he said, "my illustrious master is looking for you. He is with his majesty."

"I will join him," Chavernay answered, readily. He was, like his kinsman, a privileged person with the sovereign, and he, too, was permitted to enter the tent unchallenged. He entered it with a graver demeanor than he had worn that evening, for he was strangely perplexed by the presence at the king's ball this night of the girl whom he had seen at the country Inn. As soon as Chavernay had disappeared, Peyrolles, hurriedly beckoning, gathered about him Navailles, Noce, and the others, and addressed them in an eager whisper:

"Gentlemen, you are all devoted to the interests of the Prince de Gonzague?"

Noce spoke for himself and his comrades: "We are."

Peyrolles went on: "Then, as you value his friendship, secure the person of that girl whom Monsieur de Chavernay spoke to just now."

"Why?" Navailles questioned.

Peyrolles answered him, sharply: "Don't ask; act. To please our master it should be done at once."

"How is it to be done?" asked Taranne.

Peyrolles looked about him. "Is there no other woman here who wears a rose-colored domino?"

Navailles pointed to a group in an adjacent arbor. "Cidalise, yonder, is wearing a rose-colored domino. She will do anything for me."

"Bring her," Peyrolles said, in a tone of command which he sometimes assumed when he was on his master's business, and which no one of his master's friends ever took it upon himself to resent. Navailles went towards the arbor and came back with Cidalise upon his arm. Cidalise was a pretty, young actress, wearing just such a pink domino as that worn by Gabrielle.

Navailles formally presented her to Peyrolles. "Monsieur Peyrolles, this is the divine Cidalise. What do you want of her?"

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. In the confusion you will slip between the pair, who will then be left to march off, believing that you are their charge, who will, however, be in the care of these gentlemen. Do you understand?"

Cidalise nodded. "Perfectly. And if I do this?"

"You may rely upon the generosity of the Prince of Gonzague," Peyrolles answered. If he said little, he looked much, and Cidalise understood him as she accepted.

"It will be rare sport. Come, gentlemen."

By this time Gabrielle and her companions, having completed their second circumnavigation of the pond, were going slowly across the open space again. The crowd was very great about them, the noise and laughter made everything confused. Gonzague's friends took advantage of the crowd and the confusion. They huddled around Gabrielle and her escort, laughing and chattering volubly. They hustled Cocardasse, they hustled Passepoil, treading on their toes and tweaking their elbows, much to the indignation of the Gascon and the Norman, each of whom tried angrily and unavailingly to get hold of one of his nimble tormentors. In the jostling and confusion, Cidalise slipped neatly between the two bravos, suddenly abandoned by their plaguers; while Gabrielle, surrounded by the dexterous gentlemen, was, against her will but very steadily, edged towards a side alley. Cocardasse and Passepoil, drawing deep breaths such as Io may have drawn when freed from her gadfly, looked down and saw, as they believed, Gabrielle standing between them. The seeming Gabrielle moved on, on a third journey round the Pond of Diana, and her escort accompanied her, confident that all was well.

In the mean time, Gabrielle was appealing to the gentlemen who surrounded her. "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?"

Peyrolles pointed to the far end of the alley in which they were standing. It was a dimmer alley than the others, for, in obedience to a suggestion of Peyrolles, Oriol had been busily engaged in putting out the lights. "At the end of this alley. He is waiting for you."

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.

As the domino in pink and the dominos in black completed their third turn round the Fountain of Diana, the domino in pink plucked off her mask, and, looking up at her accompanying giants, showed to them, amazed, the pretty, impudent, unfamiliar face of Cidalise. "May I ask, gentlemen, why you follow me?" she said, merrily.

At the sight of her face, at the sound of her voice, at her question, Cocardasse and Passepoil reeled as if they had been struck. Cidalise went on: "I have many friends here, and no need for your company." Then she laughed and ran away out of sight in a moment in the shifting crowd, leaving Cocardasse and Passepoil staring at each other in staggered amazement.

"The devil!" said Cocardasse.

"That's what I'm thinking," said Passepoil.

Cocardasse groaned. "What will Lagardere say?"

"Well, we did our best," Passepoil sighed.

Cocardasse groaned again. "What's the good, if we didn't do what he wanted?"

"Where shall we find him?" asked Passepoil.

Cocardasse consulted the watch which he owed to the bounty of the Prince de Gonzague. "He will be here at midnight. It is nearly that now. Come, man, come." And the baffled, bewildered, angry pair plunged despairingly into the thickness of the crowd about them, hoping against hope to find their lost charge for the moment when Lagardere was to make his appearance.



XXV

THE GLOVE OF COCARDASSE

For a little longer the noise and revelry continued, until the moment came when the king's hospitality, offering supper to his wearied guests, emptied the gardens of many of their frequenters. Inside his tent the sovereign was supping with his friends. By his side sat the Princess de Gonzague, who neither ate nor drank, but waited with an aching heart for midnight. At a quarter to twelve Bonnivet entered the tent and advanced towards the king.

"Sire," he said, "there is a gentleman here who insists on immediate speech with you. He says you have appointed this time and place to meet him."

Louis turned to the Princess de Gonzague, whose pale face had suddenly flushed. "It is he," he said; and then turned to Bonnivet. "Introduce the gentleman."

Bonnivet went to the entrance of the tent, and a moment later Lagardere entered. He was wearing his old white coat of the Royal Light-Horse, and he advanced composedly, with head erect, towards the king.

"I am here," he said, as he saluted the duke, and all present gazed on him with curiosity. Only three knew who he was or why he was there.

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."

The king was addressing Lagardere. "You are here at our pleasure—free to come, free to go, free to speak."

Lagardere answered, firmly: "I mean to speak."

The princess turned to him. "Will you give me back my daughter?"

Lagardere made her a bow. "In a few moments she will be in your arms."

At this moment Gonzague rose and interrupted. "Sire," he said, "I can tell you something of this man."

Lagardere glanced scornfully at Gonzague. "Sire," he said, "I can tell you something of this man." He advanced towards Gonzague and addressed him in a low tone: "On that September night I told you that if you did not come to Lagardere, Lagardere would come to you. You did not come. I am here." Then he turned to the princess. "Madame, here, as in the moat of Caylus Castle; here, as by the picture in your palace, I am wholly in your service."

Gonzague turned to the king with an appealing gesture. "I implore your majesty to let no one leave this place. If Monsieur de Lagardere is desirous of darkness and mystery, I ask only for light and truth."

The king spoke, decisively: "If the attack has been secret, the justification shall be public."

Gonzague addressed Lagardere: "Where is the woman who calls herself the daughter of Louis de Nevers?"

The king also questioned: "Why is she not with you?"

Lagardere answered, composedly: "Mademoiselle de Nevers will be here at midnight, and will herself present to your Royal Highness the papers that prove her birth."

"What papers?" asked the king.

And Lagardere answered: "The pages torn from the parish register by her mother, and confided to me in the moat of Caylus Castle."

The princess leaned forward. "What do you say?" she asked, eagerly, and the king echoed her question.

Lagardere replied: "The princess gave those papers to me when she placed her child in my arms, believing that I was her husband, Louis de Nevers."

Gonzague questioned, with a sneer: "Why should she think you were her husband?"

Lagardere looked him full in the face. "Because, thanks to you, I gave the signal agreed upon—her husband's motto, 'I am here.'"

The princess clasped her hands. "My God, sire, it is true."

"And these papers are in your hands?" the king asked.

Lagardere answered, quietly: "They are in the hands of Mademoiselle de Nevers."

Gonzague looked triumphantly from Lagardere to the king. "Then why is this pretended Mademoiselle de Nevers not here?"

Lagardere replied, composedly: "She is to be here at midnight."

Gonzague looked at his watch. "It is midnight now—she is not here. Your majesty sees the worth of this man's word."

Louis gazed curiously at Lagardere, whose bearing, in spite of the king's prejudices as a friend of Gonzague, impressed him as that of an honest man. "Had you not better send for this lady?" he questioned.

On Lagardere's face now some anxiety was depicted, and he answered, anxiously: "She will be here; she must be here. Ah!"

In the excitement consequent upon the extraordinary scene that was passing in the king's presence, the attention of all the guests was riveted upon their host and upon the amazing altercation between Louis of Gonzague and the unknown adventurer, and the entrance of the tent was left unheeded and unguarded. 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. "Madame, your child is not here; your child must be in danger!" he cried.

The princess clasped her hands as she cried: "My child! My child!"

Gonzague pointed mockingly at Lagardere. "The impostor is already exposed!" he cried, exultingly.

Lagardere turned towards him, fiercely. "Liar! assassin!" he cried, and advanced towards Gonzague, but was stopped by Bonnivet.

The king looked at him sternly. "Sir, you have made charges you could not prove, promises you could not keep. You shall answer for this before your judges."

Bonnivet made as if to arrest Lagardere, but Lagardere held up his hand. "Stop!" he cried; "let no man dare to touch me. I have here your majesty's safe-conduct, signed and sealed—'free to come, free to go'—that was your promise, sire."

Gonzague protested. "A promise won by a trick does not count."

The king shook his head. "I have given my word. The man has forty-eight hours to cross the frontier."

Lagardere bowed to the king. "I thank you, sire. You are a true and honorable gentleman. But, sire, I give you back your word." As he spoke he tore the safe-conduct in two and flung it at his feet. "I ask but four-and-twenty hours to unmask the villain who now triumphs over truth and justice, and to give back a daughter to her mother. Nevers shall be avenged! Make way for me!"

As he spoke he turned upon his heel and passed rapidly from the king's presence, the amazed and bewildered guests giving ground before him as he passed. Instantly Gonzague turned and whispered to Peyrolles: "He must not leave this place alive."

And Peyrolles answered, confidently: "He shall not. Every gate is guarded by my spies."

The king rose gravely and addressed the assembly. "Let us disperse, friends. What we have seen and heard leaves us in little mood for merrymaking." Then he gave his hand to the now weeping princess, and, followed by his immediate escort, quitted the tent. It was soon deserted; it was soon empty. The king departed in the direction of his palace. News that the ball was ended spread rapidly, and in a short while the gardens that had been so thronged and brilliant became deserted and desolate. 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. He must be hiding in the gardens."

Gonzague commanded, sharply: "Bid your men seek till they find, and kill when they find."

Peyrolles bowed. "Yes, your excellency," he said, and disappeared down one of the silent alleys. As he departed, the hunchback emerged from the shadow of a tree and approached Gonzague noiselessly. Gonzague started a little as he suddenly became aware of the hunchback's presence.

The hunchback bowed. "Is your highness content with the night's work?"

"So far, yes," Gonzague replied. "We have got the girl and got the papers safe in my palace."

"Ah! And Lagardere?" the hunchback asked.

Gonzague answered: "Peyrolles is looking for him, with six of the best swords in Paris."

AEsop spoke, contemptuously: "Peyrolles is a bungler. Leave it to me. I will find Lagardere for you and deal with him as he deserves before an hour has passed."

Gonzague caught at his words eagerly. "You promise?"

AEsop answered, proudly: "On the word of a hunchback. Before two o'clock I will bring you the news you wish for."

Gonzague gave a cry of triumph. "Then ask and have your own reward." Then he turned and hurriedly left the gardens, his breast swelled with exultation. When he was out of sight, the hunchback whistled softly, and Cocardasse and Passepoil came out of the shadow of the trees. The lights were now rapidly dying out, and the gardens lay in darkness checkered by the moonlight.

Lagardere turned to his friends. "She is in Gonzague's palace. We must rescue her at once."

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."

Even as he spoke there was a tramp of feet and a flare of light in a side alley, and Peyrolles came towards them followed by half a dozen men, each of whom carried a torch in his left hand and a naked sword in his right. Peyrolles came towards the hunchback.

"Well, AEsop, we cannot find him anywhere."

"That," the hunchback answered, coldly, "is because you don't know where to look."

Peyrolles turned to his followers. "Seek in all directions," he said, and the men with the swords and torches dispersed in twos down the adjacent alleys.

The hunchback laid his hand on Peyrolles's shoulder. "I know where to find him."

Peyrolles turned in astonishment. "You do?"

"I am here!" the hunchback said, sternly. He drew himself up erect and menacing, and flung back the long hair from his face. Peyrolles gave a gasp of horror as he recognized the man whom he had seen such a short while before in the presence of the king.

"Lagardere!" he cried, and was about to scream for help when Cocardasse grasped him by the throat. There was a short struggle, and then Cocardasse flung the dead body of Peyrolles at the feet of Lagardere.

Lagardere bent over him and spoke his epitaph: "The last of the lackeys. Now for the master."



XXVI

THE REWARD OF AESOP

Paris lay quiet enough between the midnight and the dawn. All the noise and brilliance and turbulence, all the gayety and folly and fancy of the royal ball had died away and left the Palais Royal and the capital to peace. Little waves of frivolity had drifted this way and that from the ebbing sea to the haven of this great house and that great house, where certain of those that had made merry in the king's gardens now made merrier still at a supper as of the gods. The Palace of Gonzague was one of those great houses. The hall where the Three Louis gazed at one another—one so brave, one so comely, one so royal—was indeed a brilliant solitude where the lights of many candles illuminated only the painted canvases throned over emptiness. But from behind the great gilded doors came the sound of many voices, men's voices and women's voices, full of mirth and the clatter of glasses. His Highness Prince Louis de Gonzague was entertaining at supper a chosen company of friends—flowers from the king's garland carefully culled. There were the brilliant, insolent youths, who formed the party of Gonzague; there were the light, bright, desirable women whom the party of Gonzague especially favored among the many of their kind in Paris. Noce was there, and Oriol and Taranne and Navailles and the others, and the dainty, daring, impudent Cidalise and her sisters of the opera, and Oriol's flame, who made game of him—all very pretty, all very greedy, as greedy of food and wine as they were greedy of gold and kisses, and all very merry. One face was wanting from the habitual familiars of Gonzague. The little, impertinent Marquis de Chavernay was not present. Gonzague had not thought fit to include him in the chosen of that night. Chavernay was getting to be too critical of his kinsman's conduct. Chavernay was not as sympathetic with his kinsman's ambitions and wishes as his kinsman would have had him be.

At the head of the table sat the illustrious host, beaming with an air of joyousness that astonished even his friends. It was as though the sun that had shone for so long upon all their lives, and in whose light and heat they had prospered, had suddenly taken upon himself a braver radiance, a fiercer effulgence, in the glow of which they all, men and women alike, seemed to feel their personal fortunes patently flourishing. No one knew why Louis de Gonzague was so gladsome that night; no one, of course, ventured to ask the reason of his gayety. It was enough for those, his satellites, who prospered by his favor and who battened on his bounty that the prince, who was their leader, chose on this occasion to show a spirit of careless mirth that made the thought of serving him, and of gaining by that service, more than ever attractive.

Outside, in the deserted hall, the Three Louis stared at one another, heedless of the laughter behind the gilded doors, indifferent to the hilarity, regardless of the license characteristic of a supper-party in such a house at such an hour. For long enough the Three Louis kept one another company, while the great wax candles dwindled slowly, and the noise and laughter beyond seemed interminable. Then the door of the antechamber opened, and the hunchback entered the hall and paused for a moment, glancing at each of the Three Louis, with a look of love for one, a look of hate for the other, and a look of homage for the third. At the hunchback's heels came Cocardasse and Passepoil, waiting on events. The hunchback stood for a moment listening to the noise and jollity beyond the doors. Then he turned to his followers:

"My enemy makes merry to-night. I think I shall take the edge off his merriment by-and-by. But the trick has its risks, and we hazard our lives. Would you like to leave the game? I can play it alone."

Cocardasse answered with his favorite salute: "I am with you in this if it ends in the gallows."

Passepoil commented: "That's my mind."

Lagardere looked at them as one looks at friends who act in accordance with one's expectation of them.

"Thanks, friends," he said. Then he sat at Gonzague's table, dipped pen in ink, and wrote two hurried letters. One he handed to Cocardasse. "This letter to the king, instantly." The other he handed to Passepoil. "This to Gonzague's notary, instantly. Come back and wait in the anteroom. When you hear me cry out, 'Lagardere, I am here,' into the room and out with your swords for the last chance and the last fight."

Cocardasse laid his hand on the sham hump of the sham AEsop. "Courage, comrade, the devil is dead."

Lagardere laughed at him, something wistfully. "Not yet."

Passepoil suggested, timidly: "We live in hopes."

Then Cocardasse and Passepoil went out through the antechamber, and Lagardere remained alone with the Three Louis. He rose again and looked at them each in turn, and his mind was hived with memories as he gazed. Before Louis de Nevers he thought of those old days in Paris when the name of the fair and daring duke was on the lips of all men and of all women, and when he met him for the first time and got his lesson in the famous thrust, and when he met him for the second and last time in the moat at Caylus and gave him the pledge of brotherhood. Looking now on the beautiful, smiling face, Lagardere extended his hand to the painted cloth, as if he almost hoped that the painted hand could emerge from it and clasp his again in fellowship, and so looking he renewed the pledge of brotherhood and silently promised the murdered man a crown of revenge.

He turned to the picture of Louis de Gonzague, and he thought of his speech in the moat of Caylus with the masked shadow, and of the sudden murder of Nevers, and of his own assault upon the murderer, and how he set his mark upon his wrist. The expression on Lagardere's face was cold and grave and fatal as he studied this picture. If Gonzague could have seen his face just then he would not have made so merry beyond the folded doors.

Lagardere turned to the third Louis, the then solemn, the then pale, Louis of France, and gave him a military salute. "Monseigneur," he murmured, "you are an honest man and a fine gentleman, and I trust you cheerfully for my judge to-night." Turning, he advanced to the doors that shut him off from the noisy folk at supper, and listened for a moment, with his head against the woodwork, to the revelry beyond, an ironical smile on his face. Then, as one who recalls himself abruptly to work that has to be done, he who had been standing straight when he contemplated the images now stooped again into the crippled form of the hunchback and shook his hair about his face. Raising his hand, he tapped thrice on a panel of the doors, then moved slowly down to the centre of the hall. A moment later the doors parted a little, and Gonzague entered the room, closing the doors behind him.

He advanced at once to where the hunchback awaited him. "Your news?" he cried.

The hunchback made a gesture of reassurance. "Sleep in peace. I have settled Lagardere's business."

Gonzague gave a great sigh of satisfaction. "He is dead?" he questioned.

The hunchback spoke, warmly. "As dead as my hate could wish him."

"And his body?" Gonzague questioned.

The hunchback answered: "I have concealed his body very effectively."

Gonzague brought his palms together silently in silent applause. "Excellent AEsop! Where is Peyrolles?" he asked.

The hunchback paused for a moment before replying. "He sends his excuses. The events of the night have upset him. But I think he will be with you soon."

The indisposition of Peyrolles did not seem to affect his master very profoundly. What, indeed, did it matter at such a moment to a man who knew that his great enemy was harmless at last and that his own plans and ambitions were safe? Gonzague came nearer to the hunchback.

"AEsop, there is no doubt that Lagardere's girl is Nevers's daughter. She has his features, his eyes, his hair. Her mother would recognize her in a moment if she saw her, but—"

He paused, and the hunchback repeated his last word interrogatively: "But—?"

Gonzague smiled, not enigmatically. "She never will see her. Nevers's daughter is not destined to live long."

Well at ease now, and more than ever in the mood for joyous company, Gonzague turned to re-enter the supper-room, but the hunchback clawed at him and brought him to a halt. Gonzague stared at his follower in a bewilderment which the hunchback proceeded partially to enlighten. "You have forgotten something."

"What?" asked Gonzague, in amazement.

The hunchback made a little, appealing gesture. "Little AEsop wants his reward."

Gonzague thought he understood now. "True. What is your price?"

The hunchback, more bowed than ever, with his hair more than ever huddled about his face, swayed his crippled body whimsically, and when he spoke he spoke, apologetically: "I am a man of strange fancies, highness."

Gonzague was annoyed at these preliminaries to a demand, this beating about the bush for payment. "Don't plague me with your fancies. Your price?"

The hunchback spoke, slowly, like a man who measures his words and enjoys the process of measurement: "If I killed Lagardere, it was not solely to please you. It was partly to please myself. I was jealous."

Gonzague smiled slightly. "Of his swordsmanship?"

The hunchback protested, vehemently. "No, I was his equal there. I was jealous of his luck in love."

Gonzague laughed. "AEsop in love!"

The hunchback seemed to take the laugh in good part. "AEsop is in love, and you can give him his heart's desire. She was in Lagardere's keeping. She is now in yours. Give her to me."

Gonzague almost reeled under the amazing impudence of the suggestion. "Gabrielle de Nevers! Madman!"

He laughed as he spoke, but the hunchback interrupted his laugh. "Wait. You have to walk over two dead women to touch the wealth of Nevers. I offer to take one woman out of your way. Do not kill Gabrielle; give her to me."

Gonzague stared for a while at the hunchback in silence. "I believe the rogue is serious," he said, more as a reflection addressed to himself than as a remark addressed to the hunchback.

But the hunchback answered it: "Yes, for I love her. Give her to me, and I will take her far away from Paris, and you shall never hear of her again. She will no longer be the daughter of Nevers; she will be the wife of AEsop the hunchback."

The proposition was not unpleasing to Louis of Gonzague. It certainly seemed to offer a way of getting rid of the girl without the necessity of killing her, and Gonzague was too fastidious to desire to commit murder where murder was wholly unnecessary, but the thing seemed impossible. "She would never consent," he protested.

The hunchback laughed softly, a low laugh of self-confidence. "Look at me, monseigneur," he said, "AEsop the hunchback, but do not laugh while you look and damn me for an impossible gallant. Crooked and withered as I am, I have power to make women love me. Let me try. If I fail to win the girl, do what you please with her, and I will ask no more."

Gonzague looked keenly at the bowed, supplicating figure. "Are you thinking of playing me false?" he murmured. "Do you dream of taking the girl to give her to her mother?"

The hunchback laughed—a dry, strident laugh. "Would AEsop be a welcome son-in-law to the Princess de Gonzague?"

Gonzague seemed to feel the force of the hunchback's reasoning. To marry the girl to this malformed assassin was to destroy her more utterly, she still living, than to destroy her by taking her life. "Well," he said—"well, you shall try your luck. If she marries you, she is out of my way. If she refuses you, you shall be avenged for her disdain. We can always revert to my first intention."

A slight shudder seemed to pass over the distorted form of the hunchback, but he responded with familiar confidence: "She will not disdain me."

Gonzague laughed. "Confident wooer. When do you mean to woo?"

The hunchback came a little nearer to him and spoke, eagerly: "No time like the present, highness. I thought that on this night of triumph for you I could provide for you and your friends such an entertainment as no other man in all Paris could command. I have ventured to summon your notary. Let your supper be my wedding-feast, your guests my witnesses. Bring the girl and I will win her. I am sure of it—sure."

Gonzague was too well-bred, too scholarly a man not to have a well-bred, scholarly sense of humor. His nimble Italian fancy saw at once the contrasts between his noisy company of light men and loose women and the withered hunchback who was a murderer and the beautiful girl whom he had robbed of her birthright and was now ready to rob of her honor. "It will be a good jest," he murmured.

The hunchback indorsed his words: "The best jest in the world. You will laugh and laugh and laugh to watch the hunchback's courtship."

Gonzague turned again towards the doors. "I must rejoin my guests," he said; "but you look something glum and dull for a suitor. You should have fine clothes, fellow; they will stimulate your tongue when you come to the wooing. Go to my steward for a wedding-garment. Your bride will be here when you return."

The hunchback's bowed head came nearer still to earth in his profound inclination. "You overwhelm me with kindness."

Gonzague paused, with his hand on the door, to look at him again. "You kill Lagardere; you marry Gabrielle. Do I owe you most as bravo or bridegroom?"

Again the hunchback abased himself. "Your highness shall decide by-and-by." Then he turned and went out through the antechamber and left Gonzague alone.