The Hunchback E-Book

Walter Rott

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 1068

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

In 17th/18th century France, the best friend of the future regent of Paris falls victim to a murder plot. Considered an invincible fencing master, he was the only one who had mastered the legendary Nevers thrust, an unblockable sword thrust to the forehead of his opponents. Thus, he could only be defeated by an overwhelming superiority of fighters. Another fencing master swore revenge on those involved in the plot and relentlessly and cunningly pursued them throughout Europe and into the highest circles of Parisian society for years.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Imprint

First part

I. The Louron Valley

II. Cocardasse and Passepoil

III. The Three Philip

IV. The Little Parisian

V. The Nevers Shock

VI. The low-lying window

VII. Two against twenty

VIII. The Battle

Second part

I. The House of Gold

II. Two Returnees

III. The Auction

IV. Gifts

V. Where the absence of Faënza and Saldagne is explained

VI. Dona Cruz

VII. The Prince of Gonzaga

VIII. The Widow of Nevers

IX. The Plea

X. J'y suis

XI. Where the hunchback is invited to the court ball

Part Three

I. The house with two entrances

II. Memories of childhood

III. The Gitana

IV. Where Flor uses a spell

V. Where Aurora deals with a little Marquis

VI. When setting the table

VII. Master Louis

VIII. Two young girls

IX. The Three Wishes

X. Two dominoes

Part Four

I. In the tent

II. A special conversation

III. A Landsknecht Blow

IV. Memories of the three Philipps

V. The pink dominoes

VI. The Daughter of the Mississippi

VII. In the hornbeam arbor

VIII. Another private conversation

IX. In which the festival ends

X. Ambush

Part Five

I. The House of Gold Again

II. A stock market coup under the Regency

III. A whim of the hunchback

IV. Gascons and Normans

V. The invitation

VI. The Salon and the Boudoir

VII. An empty space

VIII. A Peach and a Bouquet

IX. The ninth stroke

X. A Triumph of the Hunchback

XI. Flowers from Italy

XII. The Enchantment

XIII. The signature of the contract

Part Six – The Death Certificate

I. The Regent's Bedroom

II. Plea

III. Three floors of prison

IV. Old acquaintances

V. Mother's Heart

VI. Sentenced to death

VII. Last conversation

VIII. Former Noblemen

IX. The dead man speaks

X. Public Apology

END

Imprint

Any inconsistencies in the text are due to the fact that it was translated using computer-aided technology for a company-wide study.

© 2025 novum publishing gmbh

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First part

I. The Louron Valley

Once upon a time, a city called Lorre stood here, with pagan temples, amphitheaters, and a Capitol; now there is only a desolate valley where the idle plow of the Gascon farmer seems to fear blunting its iron on the marble of the buried columns. The mountains are very close. The high chain of the Pyrenees reveals its snow-capped contours just in the viewer's field of vision, revealing the blue sky of the Spanish countryside beyond the deep cleft that serves as a secret route for smugglers from the Venasque region. Not far from here, Paris coughs, dances, and grins, dreaming of recovering from its incurable bronchitis at the springs of Bagnères-de-Luchon; a little further on, on the other side, another Paris, a rheumatist who believes he can cure his sciatica in the sulfur baths of Barèges-les-Bains. And faith will forever save Paris, despite iron, magnesia, or sulfur!

This is the Louron Valley, situated between the Aure and Barousse valleys, perhaps the least known to the unbridled tourists who come every year to discover this wild region; the Louron Valley with its floral oases, its mighty torrents and its river, its brown Clarabide River, which squeezes like a dark crystal between the two steep banks; the Louron Valley with its strange forests, its old, blasé, and boastful castle, shrouded in legend like a chivalric epic.

Descending to the left of the ravine, along the slope of the small Pic Véjen, one can take in the entire landscape at a glance. The Louron Valley forms the extreme tip of Gascony. It stretches in detail between the Ens Forest and the beautiful Fréchet woods, which cross the Barousse Valley and connect the paradises of Mauléon, Nestes, and Campan. The land is poor, but the views are rich. The sun beats down fiercely almost everywhere. Torrents that have torn through the grassy mats have exposed the roots of the giant beeches and the rocks to their depths; vertical ramps have formed , split from top to bottom by the overgrown roots of the pines. Many a troglodyte has carved out his dwelling at the foot of these cliffs, while a guide or shepherd has suspended his from the summit of the rock like an eagle's high, unattainable eyrie.

The Ens Forest follows the extension of a hill that abruptly drops off in the middle of the valley to allow the Clarabide to pass through. This easternmost point of the hill ends in an abrupt escarpment where no path has ever been traced. Its formation contrasts with that of the surrounding ranges. It seems to close the valley like an enormous barrier that would stretch from one mountain to the other if the river didn't abruptly stop it.

This whimsical stretch is commonly called "le Hachaz" (the axe blow). There's a legend about it, of course, but we'll spare you that. The Capitol of the town of Lorre, which undoubtedly gave its name to the Louron Valley, stood here. The ruins of the Château de Caylus-Tarrides can still be seen here.

From a distance, these ruins offer a magnificent sight. They occupy a considerable area, and a little more than a hundred paces from the Hachaz, one can still see the jagged ends of the old towers rising into the air among the trees. Up close, it looks like a fortified village. The trees have grown up among the rubble, and many a fir trunk had to pierce a stone vault to grow, and now has this as its waist. But most of these ruins are rather simple structures, with wood and clay often replacing granite.

Tradition tells us that a certain Caylus-Tarrides (the name of this branch, which was significant primarily because of its immense wealth) had a bastion built around the small hamlet of Tarrides to protect his Huguenot vassals after the abdication of Henry IV. He called himself Gaston de Tarrides and bore the title of Baron. Visitors to the ruins of Caylus are therefore often shown the Baron's oak tree.

Its roots emerge from the earth at the edge of the old moat that defended the castle to the west. One night, lightning struck the oak. Already a large tree at the time, it fell with a single blow and lay across the moat. Since then, it has lain there, vegetating on its bark, the only living part of the bark that remained at the site of the break. Strangely, a shoot has broken away from the trunk, thirty or forty feet from the edge of the moat. This sapling has grown and become a magnificent oak, an abandoned, a miracle oak, on which 2,500 tourists have already engraved their names.

The Caylus-Tarrides family died out at the beginning of the 18th century with Francis de Tarrides, one of the characters in our story. In 1699, the Marquis de Caylus was sixty years old. He had been at the court of Louis XIV at the beginning of his reign, but without much success, and had withdrawn dissatisfied. He then lived on his estates with his beautiful, only daughter, Aurora de Caylus. He was also known locally as Caylus-Verrou.1for the following reasons:

At the beginning of his fortieth year, the Marquis was a widower. His first wife had borne him no children. He fell in love with the daughter of the Count of Soto-Mayor, the governor of Pamplona. Inès de Soto-Mayor, a girl from Madrid with fiery eyes and an even fiercer heart, was eighteen at the time. Apparently having brought little happiness to his first wife, the Marquis spent his time locked away in his old castle of Caylus, where she died at the age of twenty-five. Inès declared she would never become that man's companion. But it seemed to become a business, as was usual in the Spain of dramas and comedies of that time, where the will of a young girl is broken! The alcaldes, the duenjes, the scoundrels, and the Holy Inquisition, not to mention the vaudeville artists, were set up for this purpose.

One fine evening, the sad Inès, hidden behind her blinds, was allowed to listen one last time to the serenade of the corregidor's younger son, who played the guitar quite well. On Monday, she traveled to France with the Marquis. He took Inès without a dowry and also offered Mr. de Soto-Mayor I don't know how many millions of pistoles.

The Spaniard, far more noble than the king and even more penniless than noble, could not resist such charades. When the Marquis brought his beautiful, deeply veiled Madrid lady to the castle of Caylus, a general fever arose among the young noblemen of the Louron Valley. There were no longer any tourists, but rather hiking enthusiasts who set fire to the hearts of the province wherever the course of pleasure favored travel at a discount. But the ongoing war with Spain maintained numerous partisan troops on the border, and the Marquis had to make sure he held his own.

He held his own; he bravely accepted the bet. The lover who would attempt to conquer the beautiful Inès would have had to first equip himself with siege cannons. It wasn't simply a question of a heart; the heart was protected behind the walls of a fortress. The delicate little notes were of no use here, the gentle glances lost their fire and their melancholy, even the guitar was powerless. The beautiful Inès was unapproachable. No lover, bear hunter, hermit, or captain could boast of having seen even the edge of her pupil.

That meant holding on well. After three or four years, poor Inès finally crossed the threshold of that terrible country estate again. They went to the cemetery. She had died of loneliness and boredom. She left behind a daughter.

The vengefulness of his defeated lovers gave the Marquis the nickname Verrou (Bar). From Tarbes to Pamplona, from Argèles to Saint-Gaudens, no man, woman, or child could be found who would have called the Marquis anything other than Caylus-Verrou.

After the death of his second wife, he attempted to marry again, for he had the beautiful nature of a Bluebeard, whom nothing discouraged; but the governor of Pamplona had no more daughters, and the reputation of the Marquis was so perfectly established that even the most intrepid of the marriageable young women shrank from his desires.

He remained a widower, impatiently awaiting the age when it would be necessary to put his daughter behind bars. The nobles of the land disliked him, and so, despite his wealth, he often lacked company. Boredom drove him from his castle tower. He took up the habit of going to Paris every year, where the young courtesans took advantage of his money and mocked him.

During his absence, Aurora remained under the supervision of two or three duenjen and an old castle steward.

Aurora was as beautiful as her mother. It was the Spanish blood in her veins. When she was sixteen, the good people of the hamlet of Tarrides often heard the howling of Caylus's dogs on dark nights.

At this time, Philip of Lorraine, Duke of Nevers, one of the most brilliant rulers at the French court, began living in his castle in Buch in Jurançon. He barely reached his twentieth year and, having overexploited his health, was dying of exhaustion. The mountain air did him good: after a few weeks in the countryside, he even extended his hunting trips to the Louron Valley.

When the dogs of Caylus howled for the first time in the night, the young Duke of Nevers, exhausted and tired, had asked a woodcutter from the forest of Ens for shelter.

Nevers stayed in his castle in Buch for a year. The shepherds of Tarrides said he was a noble lord.

The shepherds of Tarrides recounted two nighttime adventures that took place during his stay in the country. Once, at midnight, a glimmer was seen falling from the windows of the old chapel of Caylus.

The dogs hadn't howled, but a dark figure, which the people of the hamlet thought they knew because they had often seen it, had slipped into the moats after nightfall. These old castles are full of phantoms.

Another time, around eleven o'clock at night, Dame Martha, the youngest of the duenjes of Caylus, left the estate through the great gate and ran to the woodcutter's hut, where the young Duke of Nevers had recently found hospitality. A hand-carried chair crossed the Ens Forest a short time later. Afterward, women's voices emerged from the woodcutter's hut. By Monday, the good man had disappeared. The hut was available for use by anyone who wanted it. Dame Martha left the castle of Caylus that same day.

Four years had passed since these events. Nothing had ever been heard of either the woodcutter or Lady Martha. Philip of Nevers was no longer at his country estate in Buch. But another Philip, no less brilliant, no less great, graced the Louron Valley with his presence. This was Philip Polyxène of Mantua, Prince of Gonzaga, to whom the Marquis of Caylus wished to marry his daughter Aurora.

Gonzaga was a man of thirty, a somewhat effeminate countenance, but otherwise of rare beauty. It was impossible to find a more noble bearing than his. His black, shining hair surrounded his face, whose skin was much lighter than a woman's, and naturally formed that loose and somewhat heavy hairstyle that the courtesans of Louis XIV could not achieve even if they added two or three artificial tufts of hair to the one they were born with. His black eyes had the clear, haughty gaze of Italians. He was tall and beautifully fitted; his gait and gestures were of a theatrical majesty.

We say nothing of the house from which he came. Gonzaga's name resonates as high in history as Bouillon, Este, or Montmorency. His connections matched his nobility. He had two friends, two brothers, one a Lorraine, the other a Bourbon. The Duke of Chartres, a true nephew of Louis XIV, also Duke of Orléans and Regent of France, the Duke of Nevers, and the Prince of Gonzaga were inseparable. The court called them the Three Philip's. Their mutual respect recalled the beautiful symbols of ancient friendship.

Philip of Gonzaga was the eldest. The future regent was only twenty-four years old, and Nevers was a year younger. One can imagine how the idea of having such a son-in-law flattered the vanity of old Caylus. Popular rumor claimed that Gonzaga owned immense estates in Italy; moreover, he was a natural cousin and sole heir of Nevers, whom everyone considered a premature death. Moreover, as the sole heir to that name, Philip of Nevers owned one of the most beautiful territories in France.

Certainly no one could suspect that the Prince of Gonzaga would have desired the death of his friend; but it was not in his power to prevent it, and it is a certain fact that this death would have made him a ten or twelve times millionaire.

Father-in-law and son-in-law were almost unanimous. However, as for Aurora, she hadn't even been consulted. – System Riegel!

One fine autumn day in 1699, Louis XIV was feeling old and tired of war. The Peace of Ryswyck had just been signed; but the skirmishes between the partisans on the borders continued, and the Louron Valley had a number of these inconvenient guests.

In the dining room of the Château de Caylus, half a dozen diners sat around the lavishly laid table. The Marquis may have had his faults, but at least he entertained properly.

Apart from the Marquis, Gonzaga, and Mademoiselle de Caylus, who occupied the upper end of the table, those present were all middle-class and servants. First was Don Bernard, the chaplain of Caylus, who was in charge of the pastoral care of the small hamlet of Tarrides and recorded deaths, births, and marriages in the sacristy of his chapel; then came Dame Isidora of the Gabour farm, who had replaced Dame Martha in her duties to Aurora; and in third place was Monsieur Peyrolles, a member of the Prince de Gonzaga's personal entourage.

We want to get to know this in more detail for our story.

Monsieur de Peyrolles was a middle-aged man, thin and pale, with sparse hair, tall, and somewhat hunched. Today, one would hardly imagine such a person without glasses ; such fashion did not exist back then. His features were blurred, but his nearsighted gaze had a certain impudence. Gonzaga assured him that de Peyrolles was very adept at wielding the sword that hung on his left side.

Overall, Gonzaga valued him highly; he needed him.

The other table companions, employees of Caylus, could be considered mere extras.

Miss Aurora of Caylus received guests with a frosty and taciturn dignity. It can generally be said that women, especially the most beautiful ones, behave according to their feelings. This may be admirable towards those they love, but otherwise rather unpleasant. Aurora was one of those women who are admired despite her manner.

She wore traditional Spanish dress. Three rows of textile lace cascaded between the wavy jets of her hair.

Although she was not yet twenty years old, the pure and proud features around her mouth already expressed sadness. But how much light could a smile shine around her young lips! And how many rays then arose in her eyes, which were deeply shaded by her long, curled silken eyelashes.

There were also days when you could see a smile on Aurora's lips.

Her father said, “All this will change when she becomes Mrs. Princess.”

At the end of the second course, Aurora rose and asked permission to retire. Dame Isidora cast a long, regretful glance at the pastries, jams, and preserves that were just being brought in. It was her duty to follow the young lady. After Aurora left, the Marquis adopted a more cheerful expression.

“Prince,” he said, “you owe me my revenge in chess… Are you ready?”

“Always at your command, dear Marquis,” replied Gonzaga.

At Caylus's command, a table and chessboard were brought in. This was probably the fiftieth game that had begun in the two weeks the prince had been in the palace.

At thirty years old, with Gonzaga's name and looks, this passion for chess should give him pause. One of two things is likely true: either he was passionately in love with Aurora, or he was eager to put the dowry in his coffer.

Every day after dinner, the chessboard was brought out. The good fellow Verrou showed fourteenfold strength. Every day, Gonzaga won a dozen games, after which the triumphant Verrou, without leaving the battlefield, fell asleep in his armchair, snoring like a righteous man.

In this way, Gonzaga courted Miss Aurora.

"Dear Prince," said the Marquis as he set up his pieces, "I will show you today a combination I found in the learned treatise of Cessolis. I don't play chess like everyone else, but I try to draw on good sources. The first person I meet couldn't tell you that chess was invented by Attalus, King of Pergamon, to entertain the Greeks during the long siege of Troy. Only ignorant people or those without a word attribute this honor to Palamed... Let's see, it's your turn, please."

“I don’t know,” Gonzaga replied, “how to express to you all the joy I have in participating in this match.”

They began. The table companions were still present.

After losing the first game, Gonzaga signaled to Peyrolles, who put down his napkin and left. One by one, the chaplain and the other staff did the same. Verrou and Gonzaga were left alone...

"The Latins," the idiot continued, "called it the game of latrunculi , or petty thieves; the Greeks called it latrikion . Sarrazin states in his excellent book..."

“Mr. Marquis,” interrupted Philip of Gonzaga, “will you allow me to capture this piece, if you please?”

He accidentally advanced a pawn, winning the game. Verrou tugged slightly on his earlobe, but he wore it with magnanimity.

"Beat her, dear Prince," he said. "But please don't think better of it. Chess is not a game for children." Gonzaga let out a deep sigh. "I know, I know," the good fellow continued with a mocking accent, "we're in love..."

“To lose your mind because of this, Marquis?”

"I know how it is, dear Prince. Attention to the game! I'll take your knight."

"In my eyes, you accomplished nothing yesterday," said Gonzaga, a man who wanted to awaken embarrassing thoughts about the story of the nobleman who wanted to break into his house...

"Oh, how cunning and sly!" exclaimed Verrou. "You try to distract me; but I'm like Caesar, who dictated five letters at once. You know he played chess...?"

Well, the nobleman received half a dozen sword blows down there in the moat. Such adventures occurred more than once; and slander could never complain about the behavior of the ladies of Caylus.

“And what you did back then as a husband, Mr. Marquis,” asked Gonzaga carelessly, “would you also do it as a father?”

"Quite right," replied the fool. "I know of no other way to look after the Daughters of Eve... Shah moto , as the Persians say, dear Prince. You are defeated again."

He stretched out in his armchair.

"And from these two words, Shah moto ," he continued, settling in for his siesta, "which mean the king is dead, we have made check and mate if we wish to follow Ménage and Frère. As for women, believe me, beautiful rapiers around beautiful walls represent the most radiant of virtue!"

He closed his eyes and fell asleep. Gonzaga left the dining room in a hurry.

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon. Monsieur de Peyrolles was waiting for his master while wandering through the corridors.

“Our villains?” Gonzaga asked when he saw him.

“Six of them came,” replied Peyrolles.

“Where are they?”

“In the Adam’s Apple Inn on the other side of the moats.”

“Who are the two missing people?”

“Mr. Cocardasse junior of Tarbes and Brother Passepoil, his bailiff.”

"Two fine swords!" said the prince. "And the other matter?"

“Lady Martha is now with Miss von Caylus.”

“With a child?”

“With child.”

“Where did she enter?”

“Through the low window of the sweat room, which faces the trenches under the bridge.”

Gonzaga thought for a moment, then replied: “Have you questioned Don Bernard?”

“He is mute,” replied Peyrolles.

“How much did you bid?”

“Five hundred pistols.”

"This lady Martha must know where the register is. There's no need for her to leave the castle."

“Good,” said Peyrolles.

Gonzaga walked around with long strides.

"I want to speak to her myself," he said. "But are you sure my cousin Nevers received the message from Aurora?"

“Our German delivered it.”

“And will Nevers come?”

"Tonight."

They were now at the door to Gonzaga's apartment.

In the castle of Caylus, three corridors intersected at right angles: that of the main building, to which those of the two wings were connected.

The Prince's apartment was in the west wing, the corridor of which ended at the staircase leading to the saunas. A noise arose in the central gallery. It came from Dame Martha leaving Mademoiselle de Caylus's apartment. Peyrolles and Gonzaga quickly entered the latter, leaving the door half-open.

A moment later, Dame Martha crossed the corridor with brisk steps. It was broad daylight, but siesta time, and this Spanish custom had crossed the Pyrenees. Everyone was asleep in the castle of Caylus. Dame Martha therefore had every reason to believe that no unpleasant encounter lay ahead of her.

As she was passing Gonzaga's door, Peyrolles unexpectedly rushed at her and pressed his handkerchief firmly against her mouth, thus stifling her first scream.

Then he took her under his arms and carried her, half unconscious, into his master's room.

II. Cocardasse and Passepoil

One man swung himself onto an old workhorse with a long, badly combed mane and long-haired knock-knees; the other sat on a donkey like a traveling lady on the back of her palfrey.

The first, despite his poor attire, carried himself proudly, despite the humility of his mount, whose sad head hung between its two forelegs. He wore a laced buffalo-leather doublet, tapered in the middle like a breastplate, perforated shoulder bows, and those beautiful funnel-shaped boots, much in the fashion of Louis XIII. He had, among other things, a ostentatious felt hat and a huge rapier. This was Master Cocardasse Junior, born in Toulouse, Master of Arms of the City of Paris, currently living in Tarbes on meager fare.

The second man's appearance was rather timid and modest. His attire could have suited a threadbare clergyman: a long black doublet, cut at right angles like a cassock, covered his black shoulder ribbons, which had become shiny with constant wear. As a headdress, he wore a woolen cap, carefully folded down over his ears, and despite the oppressive heat, he wore good, lined lace-up boots.

Unlike Master Cocardasse, who enjoyed a rich, curly head of hair, black as an African quiff and very shaggy, his companion had only a few strands of ash-blond hair glued to his temples. The same difference existed in their formidable, upturned mustaches, of which the bailiff's consisted of only three crisscrossing whitish hairs beneath a long nose.

So this peaceful traveler was a bailiff, and we attest to the reader that the former, on occasion, knew how to vigorously handle the large, hideous sword that struck the flanks of his donkey. He called himself Amable Passepoil. His hometown was Villedieu in Lower Normandy, a town that disputes Condé-sur-Noireau's famous reputation for producing good fellows. His friends liked to call him Brother Passepoil, either because of his clerical attire or because he had been a barber's servant and worked in a chemistry laboratory before donning his sword. There was nothing handsome about him, despite the sentimental gleam in his blinking eyes whenever a woman's red skirt crossed his path. Cocardasse Junior, on the other hand, was considered a very handsome rogue who wandered through the countryside.

They both moved, for better or for worse, under the midday sun. Every pebble made Cocardasse Junior's horse stumble, and every twenty-five steps, Passepoil's donkey stallion displayed his moods.

"Well then, my good fellow," said Cocardasse in a terrible Gascon accent, "we've been looking at that accursed castle on that accursed mountain for two hours now. It seems it's running away as fast as we're approaching."

Passepoil replied, singing through his nose according to the Norman scale: "Patience, patience! We'll still arrive early enough to do what we have to do there."

"Capédédiou, Brother Passepoil!" Cocardasse snorted with a heavy sigh. "If we had had a little manners, we, with our talents, could have chosen our work..."

"You are right, friend Cocardasse," replied the Norman. "But our passions have destroyed us."

"The game, caramba! The wine..."

“And the women,” added Passepoil, looking up at the sky.

They were riding along the banks of the Clarabide River, in the heart of the Louron Valley. The Hachaz, supporting the massive structures of the Château de Caylus like an immense pedestal, loomed opposite them. There was no defensive wall on this side. The ancient building was visible from foundation to top, and this was surely an obligatory stopping point for lovers of magnificent views.

The castle of Caylus, in fact, worthily crowned this imposing wall, the result of certain major faults in the ground, the memory of which has been lost. Beneath the moss and undergrowth that covered the substructure, one could discern traces of pagan constructions. The robust hand of the Roman soldier must have been at work here. But only traces of this remained, and everything that protruded from the earth belonged to the Lombard style of the tenth and eleventh centuries. The two main towers flanking the main building were square and rather squat than tall. The windows, always placed under a loophole, were small, without ornamentation, and their arches rested on simple pilasters without cornices. The only luxury the architect had allowed himself was a kind of mosaic. The hewn and symmetrically arranged stones were separated from each other by projecting bricks.

This was the original plan, and this sober arrangement remained in harmony with the bareness of the Hachaz. But behind the straight line of this ancient main building, which seemed to have been built for Charlemagne, a jumble of gables and turrets followed the rising plain of the hill and revealed itself as an amphitheater. The watchtower, a tall, octagonal tower capped by a Byzantine gallery of trefoil-shaped arcades, crowned this cluster of roofs, resembling a standing giant among dwarfs.

It was said in the country that this castle was probably much older than Caylus himself.

To the left and right of the two Lombard towers were the two ditches, namely their outermost ends, which were formerly sealed by walls to contain the water they contained.

Beyond the ditches to the north, the last houses of the hamlet of Tarrides appeared among the beech trees. Inside, one could see the spire of the chapel, built in the pointed arch style at the beginning of the thirteenth century, with its twin mullions and sparkling panes of five-leaf granite.

The castle of Caylus was the wonder of the Pyrenees valleys.

But Cocardasse Junior and Brother Passepoil had no inclination for the fine arts. They continued on their way, and the glance they cast at the dark citadel served only to assess the rest of the route still to be covered. They wanted to reach the castle of Caylus, and although they were only about half a mile away as the crow flies, the necessity of bypassing the Hachaz forced them to walk for a good hour.

This cocardasse must have been a cheerful fellow if his purse was round; Brother Passepoil himself, with his naive and clever figure, had all the signs of a habitually good humor; but today they were sad, and they had their reasons for it.

An empty stomach, a flat vest pocket, the prospect of potentially dangerous work. One can turn down such work when one has bread on the plank. Unfortunately for Cocardasse and Passepoil, their passions had consumed everything. Cocardasse also said: "Capédédiou! I'll never touch another card or glass."

“I renounce love forever,” added the sensitive Passepoil.

And both of them built beautiful and virtuous dreams about their future savings.

“I will buy a complete outfit,” cried Cocardasse enthusiastically, “and become a soldier in the little Parisian’s company.”

"Me too," Passepoil confirmed. "Soldier or servant of the Major-Surgeon."

“Will I not find a good hunter for the king?”

“In the regiment I will be serving with, it will certainly be possible, at least, to bleed clean.”

And both of them started again:

"We'd see the little Parisian! We'd probably spare him a few blows from time to time."

“He’ll call me his old cocardasse!”

“He will mock Brother Passepoil as he once did.”

"Hole in the air," exclaimed the Gascon, giving his little horse, who could no longer bear it, a firm punch. "But we have fallen pretty low for men of the sword, my dear; but—with all sin and mercy!—I feel that I will mend my ways with the little Parisian."

Passepoil shook his head sadly.

“Who knows if he’ll want to recognize us?” he asked, casting a discouraged glance at his equipment.

“Well, my good fellow,” exclaimed Cocardasse, “that boy has heart!”

“What guard,” sighed Passepoil, “and what speed?”

“What uniform under arms and what frankness!”

“Do you remember his about-face when he cut off the retreat?”

“Do you remember his three straight punches that he announced in the attack at Delespine?”

“A heart?”

"A true heart! Always lucky in his games, capédédiou! And how he can drink!"

“And turned his head to the women!”

Every argument made them heated up. They insisted on mutual agreement and shook hands. Their excitement was genuine and deep.

"Curse it," replied Cocardasse, "we'll be his servants if he wants, the little Parisian! Won't we, my good fellow?"

"And we'll make him a great lord," Passepoil concluded. "That way, Peyrolles' money won't bring us any misfortune."

It was therefore H. de Peyrolles, the confidant of Philip of Gonzaga, who summoned Master Cocardasse and Brother Passepoil.

They knew this Peyrolles well, and even better H. de Gonzaga, his patron. Before teaching the Squires of Tarbes the noble and dignified art of Italian fencing, they had held courses at the Armory in Paris, on the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs, a stone's throw from the Louvre. And without the turmoil that passions brought into their affairs, they might have made their fortune, for the entire court flocked to them.

They were two good devils who, in a moment of distress, had undoubtedly played many terrible tricks. They handled their swords very well! Let us be lenient and not try to fathom why, one fine day, they left the keys under the door and left Paris as if there were a fire burning under their trousers.

It's certain that in Paris at that time, the armorers rubbed shoulders with the greatest lords. They often knew more about the underside of the cards than the court itself. They were living gazettes. Judge for yourself whether Passepoil, who had been a barber, among other things, shouldn't have known some wonderful gossip himself!

Under these circumstances, both probably calculated to take advantage of their skills. Upon leaving Tarbes, Passepoil had said:

"This is a matter where millions are involved. Nevers is the first address in the world after the little Parisian. When it comes to Nevers, one has to be generous!"

And Cocardasse could only approve of such a brave speech.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon when they arrived at the hamlet of Tarrides, and the first farmer they met showed them how to get to the inn "The Adam's Apple".

As they entered, they saw that the small, low-ceilinged hall of the inn was almost full. A young girl, wearing the striking skirt and laced bodice of the peasant women of Foix, served with zeal, bringing jugs, pewter cups, pipes in a wooden shoe, and everything that six brave souls could claim after a long ride under the sun of the Pyrenean valleys.

On the wall hung six strong rapiers with accessories.

There wasn't a single head that didn't have the word "thug" written on it in legible letters. They were all tanned figures with insolent looks and cheeky mustaches. An upstanding citizen who happened to enter here would be shocked if they had seen nothing but these profiles of loudmouths.

Three of them sat at the first table, near the door: three Spaniards, who could be judged by their appearance. At the next table sat an Italian with a face badly mangled up to his chin, and opposite him sat a sinister villain whose accent betrayed his German origins. A third table was occupied by a kind of peasant lout with long, unkempt hair who spoke the Brittany dialect.

The three Spaniards were named Saldagne, Pinto, and Pépé, nicknamed the Matador. All three were escriminadores , the first from Murcia, the second from Seville, and the third from Pamplona. The Italian was a Bravo from Spoleto; he called himself Giuseppe Faënza. The German was called Staupitz, and the man from Lower Brittany was Joël de Jugan. It was H. de Peyrolles who had gathered all these swords: he knew his way around these matters.

When Master Cocardasse and Brother Passepoil crossed the threshold of the Adam's Apple tavern after putting their poor mounts in the stable, both recoiled at the sight of this respectable group. The low-ceilinged hall was lit only by a single window, and during this half-day the pipe was making a cloud. Therefore, at first, our friends saw only the mustaches beneath the protruding hooked noses and the rapiers hanging on the wall. But six hoarse voices called out at once:

“Master Cocardasse?”

“Brother Passepoil!”

And this was not without the accompaniment of appropriate curses: curses from the states of Saint-Père, curses from the banks of the Rhine, curses from Quimper-Coretin, curses from Murcia, from Navarre and Andalusia.

Cocardasse placed his hand over his eyes as a sight.

“Oh my gosh!” he exclaimed, “ todos cameradas! ”

“All the old comrades,” Passepoil translated, his voice still a little trembling.

This Passepoil was a coward by birth, made brave by necessity. Goosebumps came to him for nothing, but he did better than the devil.

Now handshakes were exchanged, such good handshakes that they would break your fingers; there were big hugs; the silk waistcoats rubbed against each other; the old cloth and the bare velour entered into communication. Every color, except white, was found in the clothing of the intrepid.

Nowadays, the masters of arms, or, to use their language, the gentlemen, are fencing professors, good industrialists, good husbands, good fathers who practice their profession honorably.

In the seventeenth century, a fencing and embouchure virtuoso was a kind of saint, a favorite of the court and the city, or a poor devil forced to do worse than get drunk on bad wine in a dirty pub. There was no middle ground.

Our comrades at the Adam's Apple tavern may have had their good days. But the sun of prosperity had dimmed for all of them. They had evidently been struck by the same storm.

Before the arrival of Cocardasse and Passepoil, the three different groups had been unrelated. The Breton knew no one. The German only associated with the man from Spoleto, and the three Spaniards proudly kept their tabs. But Paris was already a center of the fine arts at that time. People like Cocardasse Junior and Amable Passepoil, who had kept their house on Croix-des-Petits-Champs Street behind the royal palace open to the public, were probably known to all the fencers in Europe. They served as integrating figures for the three groups, allowing them to get to know and understand each other. The ice was broken, everyone sat down at a common table, clinked their mugs, and introduced themselves.

Everyone's deeds were known. It made your hair stand on end! Those six rapiers hanging on the wall had cut more Christian flesh than the swords of all the executioners in France and Navarre combined.

If the man from Quimper had been a Huron, he would have carried two or three dozen scalps on his belt; the Spoletian must have had twenty or more nightmares in his dreams; the German had massacred two counts, three margraves, five Rhinegraves, and one landgrave; he was still looking for a burgrave.

And that was nothing compared to the three Spaniards who literally drowned in the blood of their countless victims. Pepe the Butcher only talked about stabbing three men at once.

In praise of our Gascon or our Norman, we could not say anything more flattering than that they enjoyed the general esteem in this assembly of mountain swordsmen.

When the first round of jugs had been emptied and the noise of boasting had died down, Cocardasse said:

“Now, my dears, let us discuss our affairs.”

The innkeeper's daughter, who appeared trembling among these cannibals, was summoned and ordered to fetch more wine. She was a fat, brown-haired woman with a slight cross-eyed look. Passepoil had already unleashed an armada of loving glances; he wanted to follow her to speak to her, under the pretext of being able to get some younger wine. But Cocardasse grabbed him by the collar.

“You promised to control your passions, my good man,” he said to him with dignity.

"My dear friends," Cocardasse spoke again, "Brother Passepoil and I did not expect to meet such an expensive group here, away from the cities, away from the densely populated centers where you usually practice your talents."

"Well then!" interrupted the thug from Spoleto. "Do you know any cities where there's a job available right now, Cocardasse, dear me ?"

And they all shook their heads like men who think their strength has not been sufficiently rewarded.

Then Saldagne asked, “Don’t you know why we’re here?”

The Gascon opened his mouth to reply when Brother Passepoil's foot rested on his boot.

Although Cocardasse Junior was the nominal head of the community, he was in the habit of following the advice of his bailiff, a wise and virtuous Norman.

“I know,” he replied, “that we have been called here…”

“That was me,” Staupitz interrupted.

“And that in normal cases,” added the Gascon, “the two of us, Brother Passepoil and I, are enough for a coup.”

" Carajo! " cried the killer. "When I'm here, people don't usually call anyone else."

Each varied the theme, according to his eloquence or degree of vanity; after which Cocardasse concluded: "Will we now have to deal with an army?"

“We will,” Staupitz replied, “only have to deal with one gentleman.”

Staupitz was linked to the person of H. Peyrolles, the confidant of Prince Philip of Gonzaga.

The statement was met with roaring laughter.

Cocardasse and Passepoil laughed louder than the others; but the foot of the Norman always remained on the Gascon's boot.

This should say, “Let me lead this!”

Passepoil asked unconcernedly: “And what is the name of this giant who will fight against eight men?”

“Each of them, sandiéou, is worth half a dozen good fellows!” added Cocardasse.

Staupitz replied: “It is Duke Philip of Nevers.”

“But they say he’s dying!” cried Saldagne.

“Narrow-minded!” said Pinto.

“Overworked, dying, suffering from lung disease!” the others added.

Cocardasse and Passepoil said nothing more.

The latter slowly shook his head, then pushed back his glass. The Gascon imitated him.

Her sudden display of seriousness did not fail to attract general attention.

“What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you?” people asked from all sides.

One could see that Cocardasse and his bailiff looked at each other calmly.

“What the hell does this mean?” Saldagne exclaimed in astonishment.

“One would say,” added Faënza, “that you feel like leaving the game.”

“My dears,” replied Cocardasse gravely, “one would not be far off the mark.”

A thunder of complaints drowned out his voice.

"We saw Philip of Nevers in Paris," Brother Passepoil replied gently. "He came to our hall. He's a dying man who's causing you trouble!"

“Us?” the choir shouted back, and everyone shrugged their shoulders disdainfully.

“I see,” said Cocardasse, looking around the circle, “that you have never heard of the Nevers thrust.”

People opened their eyes and ears.

“The blow of the old master Delapalme, who struck down seven gentlemen between the market town of Roule and the gate of Saint-Honoré,” added Passepoil.

“Nonsense things, these secret thrusts,” cried the killer.

"Good footing, good eyesight, good cover," added the Breton. "I mock the secret thrusts like the Flood!"

"Oh my goodness!" replied Cocardasse Junior proudly. "I think being good on your feet, having a good eye, and good cover, my dears..."

“Me too,” Passepoil asserted emphatically.

“Such good foot, good cover, good eye, like none of you…”

“To prove it,” Passepoil added with his usual gentleness, “we are prepared to make a corresponding attempt, if you wish.”

"And besides," Cocardasse resumed, "the Nevers blow doesn't seem like a nonsense to me. I was hit by it in my own academy... What do you say now?"

"Me too."

“ Hit right in the forehead, between the two eyes, three times in a row…”

“And me too, three times between both eyes, right on the forehead!”

“Three times, without being able to find the sword to parry.”

The six ruffians now listened attentively. No one laughed anymore.

“Then,” said Saldagne, crossing himself, “this is not a secret push but magic.”

The man from Lower Brittany put his hand in his pocket, where he probably had a piece of a rosary.

"They did well to call us all up, my dears," Cocardasse resumed. "You spoke of an army: I would prefer an army. Believe me, there is only one man in the world capable of standing up to Philip of Nevers, sword in hand."

"And who is this man?" six voices shouted at once. "It's the little Parisian," Cocardasse answered.

"Yes, that's him!" exclaimed Passepoil with sudden enthusiasm. "That's the devil."

“The little Parisian?” the group repeated. “Does he have a name, your little Parisian?”

“A name you all know, gentlemen: it is Chevalier de Lagardère.”

Everyone present seemed to know this name, because a great silence spread among them.

“I’ve never met him,” Saldagne finally said.

"So much the better for you, my good fellow," replied the Gascon. "He doesn't like characters of your stature."

“Is that the one they call the beautiful Lagardère?” asked Pinto.

“Is he,” added Faënza, lowering his voice, “the one who killed the three Flemings under the walls of Senlis?”

“Is it the one,” Joël de Jugan wanted to know, “the one…”

But Cocardasse interrupted him, pronouncing emphatically these short words:

“There are no two Lagardères.”

III. The Three Philip

The only window in the lower hall of the Adam's Apple Inn overlooked a kind of slope planted with beech trees, extending to the Caylus moats. A cart track cut through the woods and ended in a plank bridge over the moats, which were very deep and wide. They ran around the castle on three sides and ended in the void at the top of the Hachaz.

After the walls designed to hold back the water were demolished, the drying out took place naturally, and the soil of the ditches produced two magnificent hay crops intended for the lord's stables.

The second harvest was just being harvested. From where our eight riders were, we could see the haymakers placing the hay in bundles under the bridge.

In places where water was lacking, the ditches remained intact. Their inner edges rose steeply up to the glacis.

There was only one gap, intended to allow passage for hay carts. It ended in the path that led past the window of the inn.

The parterre of the bulwark behind the moat was pierced by countless loopholes; but there was only one opening that allowed a human being to pass through. This was a low window, located just beneath the solid bridge that had long since replaced the drawbridge. This window was closed with a grille and strong shutters. It provided air and light to the sweat room of Caylus, a large underground hall that housed the remains of magnificent objects. It is well known that in the High Middle Ages, the luxury of bathing rooms was carried to great heights. The clock in the castle tower struck three times. And that terrible braggart, whom they called the handsome Lagardère, finally failed to appear, and it was not he they were expecting. Moreover, after their initial shock, our masters at arms soon resumed their boasting.

"Well," exclaimed Saldagne, "I'll tell you something, friend Cocardasse. I would give ten pistoles to see him, your Chevalier Lagardère."

"Sword in hand?" asked Cocardasse, after taking a deep drag and letting his tongue click. "Now, on this day, my good fellow," he added weightily, "see that you enter a state of grace and place yourself in the care of God!"

Saldagne tilted his felt hat. No blows had been exchanged yet: it was like a miracle. The dance might have begun when Staupitz, sitting by the window, exclaimed:

"Peace, children! Here comes H. de Peyrolles, the factotum of the Prince of Gonzaga."

In fact, he came over the glacis: he was on horseback.

"We've already talked too much," Passepoil suddenly said. "And we haven't said anything. Nevers and his secret thrust are worth their weight in gold, my comrades; it's important that you know that. Would you like to make your fortune in one fell swoop?"

Needless to say, Passepoil's comrades responded. He continued:

"If that's what you want, just let Master Cocardasse and me do the work. Support us in what we tell Peyrolles ."

“Agreed,” they shouted in unison.

“At least those,” added Brother Passepoil, sitting down again, “who will have their skin pierced by the sword of Nevers this evening will be able to have masses said for the poor souls.”

Peyrolles entered.

Passepoil was the first to very respectfully lift his woolen cap. The others greeted him warmly.

Peyrolles had a large sack of money under his arm. He threw it loudly on the table and said: "Take your food, my brave men!"

Then, counting them by eye, he said, "Bravo! You're all complete! I'll tell you a few words about what you have to do."

"We hear it, my good Monsieur de Peyrolles," replied Cocardasse, resting both elbows on the table. "Well then!"

The others replied: “We hear.”

Peyrolles assumed a speaker's pose.

"This evening," he said, "around eight o'clock, a man will come along this path you see just below the window. He will be on horseback; he will tie his mount to a pillar of the bridge after crossing the edge of the ditch. Look, there under the bridge. Do you see a deep window closed with oak shutters?"

"Quite right, my dear Monsieur de Peyrolles," replied Cocardasse. "Oh, my goodness! We're not blind."

“The man will approach the window.”

“So, should we talk to him at this moment?”

“Polite,” interrupted Peyrolles with a sinister smile, “and you’ve earned your money.”

“Capédédiou,” exclaimed Cocardasse, “this good Monsieur de Peyrolles always has a word to make you laugh!”

"Agreed?"

"Sure. But you're not leaving us, I assume?"

“My good friends, I am in a hurry,” said Peyrolles, already making a retreat.

"How!" exclaimed the Gascon. "Without mentioning the name we're supposed to... address?"

“You don’t care about that name.”

Cocardasse gave a nod with his eye; immediately, a disgruntled murmur arose among the group of riders. Passepoil, in particular, seemed to take the response badly.

“Without a doubt,” continued Cocardasse, “we have learned who the honorable master is for whom we are to work.”

Peyrolles paused to observe him. His long face wore an expression of alarm.

“What is important to you?” he said, trying to put on a haughty expression.

“This is very important to us, my good Lord de Peyrolles.”

“Since you get paid well?”

“Perhaps we find that we are not paid sufficiently, my good Lord de Peyrolles.”

“What do you mean by that, friend?”

Cocardasse stood up, everyone else imitated him.

"Capédédiou, my darling," he said, adopting a harsh tone, "let's speak openly. We are all here commanders of arms and, consequently, gentlemen. I, as a Gascon, in particular, am paid by the provincial administration! Our rapiers (and he tapped his, which he hadn't yet laid down), our rapiers want to know what they're supposed to do."

“Here you go!”, insisted Passepoil, politely offering a letter to Philip of Gonzaga’s confidant.

Peyrolles seemed to hesitate for a moment.

"My brave ones," he said, "since you have such a great thirst for knowledge, you will have to guess. Who does this castle belong to?"

"To the Marquis of Caylus, Sandiéou, a good gentleman with whom women never grow old. The castle belongs to Mr. Caylus-Riegel. Now?"

"So? What fine insight!" Peyrolles replied sincerely. "You work for the Marquis of Caylus."

“No,” replied Brother Passepoil.

“No,” replied the obedient troop.

Peyrolles' bloodless cheeks flushed a little.

“What, villains?” he exclaimed.

"Everything's fine!" the Gascon interrupted. "My friends are grumbling... beware! Let's discuss this calmly, as is customary in good company. If I understand you correctly, here's the fact: The Marquis of Caylus has learned that a handsome and respectable nobleman has occasionally entered his castle at night through this low window. Is that what this is about?"

“Yes,” said Peyrolles.

“He knows that Miss Aurora of Caylus, his daughter, loves this nobleman.”

“That is the exact truth,” repeated the factotum.

"In your opinion, Mr. de Peyrolles! That's how you explain our reunion at the Adam's Apple Inn. Others may find this explanation plausible; but I, I have my reasons for finding it untruthful. You haven't told the truth, Mr. de Peyrolles."

"For heaven's sake!" he exclaimed. "This is too much impudence!"

His voice was drowned out by those of the riders who were saying: “Speak, cockadasse, speak, speak!”

The Gascon didn’t need to be asked twice.

“First,” he said, “my friends and I know that this night visitor, who has been recommended to our swords, is nothing less than a prince…”

“A prince,” said Peyrolles, shrugging his shoulders.

Cocardasse continued: “Prince Philip of Lorraine, Duke of Nevers.”

“You know more about this matter than I do, that’s all!” said Peyrolles.

"Not at all, capédédiou! That's not all. There's another matter, and my noble friends may not even know about it. Aurora of Caylus is by no means the mistress of H. of Nevers..."

“Ah! …” cried the factotum.

“She is his wife!” added Cocardasse resolutely.

Peyrolles turned pale and stammered: “How do you know that, you?”

"I know, that's for sure. How I know is of little concern to you. I'll show you immediately that I know other things as well. A secret wedding was celebrated in the chapel of Caylus almost four years ago, and, if I'm correctly informed, you and your noble lord..."

He paused to raise his felt hat in a mocking manner and added: “You were best man, Monsieur de Peyrolles.”

He did not deny it.

“What are you getting at with all this nonsense?” he simply asked.

“To find out the name of the illustrious patron,” replied the Gascon, “whom we are to serve tonight.”

"Nevers married the girl without her father's consent," said Peyrolles. "H. de Caylus is taking revenge. Is there anything simpler?"

"Nothing simpler, if only that idiot Verrou knew. But you were discreet. H. de Caylus knows nothing... Capédédiou! The cunning old man was careful not to rush into the richest match in France! Everything would have been arranged long ago if H. de Nevers had told the idiot: 'The King wants to marry me to Mademoiselle de Savoy, his niece; I don't want to; I am your daughter's secret husband.' But the reputation of Caylus-Verrou frightened the poor prince. He feared for his wife, whom he adores..."

“The conclusion?” interrupted Peyrolles.

“The conclusion is that we are not working for H. von Caylus.”

“Sure!” said Passepoil.

“Like the day,” boomed the choir.

“And who do you think you’re working for?”

"For whom? Ah, ah! Sandiéou! For whom? Do you know the story of the three Philip's? No? I'll tell you in two words. These are three gentlemen from a good family, vivadiou! The first is Philip of Mantua, Prince of Gonzaga, your lord, Monsieur de Peyrolles, a ruined, persecuted highness who sold himself cheaply to the devil; the second is Philip of Nevers, whom we are awaiting; the third, Philip of France, Duke of Chartres. All three beautiful, my God, young and brilliant. If you were to try to understand their mutual friendship, the most unshakable, heroic, almost incomprehensible friendship, you would have only a faint idea of the mutual love that the three Philip's feel for each other. So they say in Paris. Let us, please, for good reason, leave aside the king's nephew. Let us concern ourselves only with Nevers and Gonzaga, as with Pythias and Damon."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Peyrolles. "Are you accusing Damon of trying to murder Pythias?"

"Well then!" said the Gascon. "The real Damon acted as he pleased, the Damon of the time of Denys, the tyrant of Syracuse; and the real Pythias did not have an income of six hundred thousand thalers."

“So, of what our Pythias possesses,” interrupted Passepoil, “in our opinion, our Damon is the presumptive heir.”

"You see, my good Master de Peyrolles," continued Cocardasse, "that this probably changes the theory; I would add that the true Pythias did not have a lovable mistress like Aurora of Caylus, and that the true Damon was not in love with the beautiful woman, or rather with her dowry."

"There we have it!" Brother Passepoil concluded for the second time. Cocardasse took his glass and emptied it.

"Gentlemen!" he began again. "To the health of Damon... that is, Gonzaga, who tomorrow will have six hundred thousand thalers of income, Mademoiselle de Caylus, and her dowry, if Pythias... that is, Nevers, passes away this night!"

“To the health of Prince Damon of Gonzaga,” shouted all the thugs, especially Passepoil.

“Well then! What do you say to that, Monsieur de Peyrolles?” added Cocardasse triumphantly.

“Daydreaming,” grumbled the confidant, “lies!”

"Those are harsh words. My brave friends will judge between us. I take them as witnesses."

“Rightly spoken, rightly spoken, Gascon!” was heard around the table.

“Prince Philip of Gonzaga,” declaimed Peyrolles, trying to feign dignity, “is far too far above comparable infamies to need to seriously justify himself on this account.”

Cocardasse interrupted him.

“Now, sit down, my good Monsieur de Peyrolles,” he said.

And when the shop steward resisted, he pulled him by force onto a stool and picked up the thread again.

“We will come to much more significant infamies, Passepoil?”

“Cocardasse!” replied the Norman.

“Since H. de Peyrolles isn’t giving in on the matter, it’s your turn to preach, my good fellow!”

The Norman blushed up to his ears and cast his eyes down.

“The thing is,” he stammered, “I’m not good at public speaking.”

"Do you want to go?" commanded Master Cocardasse, straightening his mustache again. "Good heavens! These gentlemen will excuse it, given your experience and youth."

“I count on their leniency,” murmured the shy Passepoil.

And in the voice of a young girl being questioned about the catechism, the esteemed bailiff began:

"H. de Peyrolles is certainly right to consider his master a perfect gentleman. Here is the detail that has come to my attention; I personally see no malice in it; however, evil spirits might judge differently. While the three Philippes lived a joyful life in Paris, so joyful that King Louis threatened to send his nephew to his country estates... I am speaking of two or three years in which I was in the service of an Italian doctor, a pupil of the scholar Exili named Peter Garba."

"Pietro Garba and Gaëte!" Faënza interrupted. "I knew him. He was a total drunken scoundrel."

Brother Passepoil smiled gently.

"He was a tidy man," he continued, "with quiet habits, who was enthusiastic about religion, who was schooled like thick books, and whose trade was to make soothing medicinal potions, which he called the liqueur of long life."

The thugs almost burst with laughter, all at once.

"Oh my goodness!" exclaimed Cocardasse. "You talk like a god! Go on!"

H. von Peyrolles wiped his sweaty forehead.

“Prince Philip of Gonzaga,” Passepoil began again, “often came to see the good Peter Garba.”

"Quieter!" the confidant interrupted, as if against his will. "Louder!" the brave ones shouted.

All this amused them immensely, even more so when they saw an increase in their wages at the end.

“Speak, Passepoil; speak, speak!” they cried, narrowing their circle.

And Cocardasse, stroking his bailiff's neck, said in a very fatherly tone: "Praise to the rogue's success, capédédiou!"

"I am annoyed," continued Brother Passepoil, "to have to repeat something that H. de Peyrolles does not seem to like; but it is a fact that the Prince of Gonzaga came to Garba very often, no doubt to learn. At that time, Nevers was struck by a disease of languor."

"Slander!" exclaimed Peyrolles. "Revolting slander!"

Passepoil asked unconcernedly: “Whom have I accused, my master?”

And as the confidant bit his lip until it bled, Cocardasse added:

“This good H. von Peyrolles is no longer a big voice, perhaps not at all.”

He suddenly stood up.

“You will allow me to withdraw, I think!” he said with concentrated anger.