A little later in the day a company of joyous gentlemen made their way from the fair of Neuilly and came to a halt opposite the tavern whose green arbors seemed inviting enough after the heat of the dusty road. All of the company were richly dressed, most of the company were young—the joyous satellites of the central figure of the party. This was a tall, graceful Italianate man, who carried his fifty years with the grace and ease of thirty. He had a handsome face; those that admired him, and they were many, said there was no handsomer man at the court of the king than the king’s familiar friend Louis de Gonzague. A man of the hour and a man of the world, Gonzague delighted to shine almost unrivalled and quite unsurpassed in the splendid court which the cardinal had permitted the king to gather about him. Something of a statesman and much of a scholar, Gonzague delighted to be the patron of the arts, and to lend, indirectly, indeed, but no less efficaciously, his counsels to the service of the cardinal during the cardinal’s lifetime, and to the king now that the cardinal was gone. A man of pleasure, Gonzague was careful to enjoy all the delights that a society which found its chief occupation in the pursuit of amusement afforded. Even the youngest cavalier in Paris or Versailles would have regretted to find himself in rivalry with Gonzague for the favors of the fair. But in his pleasures, as in his policy, Gonzague was always discreet, reserved, even slightly mysterious, and though rumor had linked his name time and time again with the names of such gracious ladies as the cardinal had permitted to illuminate the court of the king, Gonzague had always been far too cautious, or too indifferent, to drift into anything that could in the least resemble an enduring entanglement. Indeed, there was an element of the Oriental in his tastes, which led him rather to find his entertainment in such light love as came and went by the back ways of palaces or could be sequestered in cheerful little country villas remote from curious eyes. This, however, was a matter of gossip, rumor, speculation. What was certainly known about Louis de Gonzague was that he delighted always to be surrounded by young gentlemen of blood and spirit, with whom his exquisite affability seemed at once to put him on a footing of equal age, and whose devotion to himself, his person, and his purposes he was always careful to acquire by a lavish generosity and that powerful patronage which his former friendship with the cardinal and his present influence over the king allowed him to extend.

Perhaps the most remarkable proof of Gonzague’s astuteness, of Gonzague’s suppleness, was afforded by the manner in which he had succeeded in holding the favor of the great cardinal through all the long years of Richelieu’s triumph, and yet at the same time in retaining so completely the friendship of the king. When the cardinal died, and many gentlemen that served the Red Robe found themselves no longer in esteem, Gonzague passed at once into the circle of the king’s most intimate friends. Gonzague, as the comrade of a ruling potentate, proved himself a master of all arts that might amuse a melancholic sovereign newly redeemed from an age-long tutelage, and eager to sate those many long-restrained pleasures that he was at last free to command. Gonzague’s ambition appeared to be to play the Petronius part, to be the Arbiter of Elegancies to a newly liberated king and a newly quickened court.

Very wisely Gonzague had never made himself a politician. He had always allowed himself to appear as one that was gracefully detached, by his Italianate condition, from pledge to any party issues, and so in his suave, affable fashion he went his way, liked by all men who knew him slightly, counted on by the few men who believed they knew him well, and hugely admired by that vast congregation of starers and gapers who passionately display their approval of an urbane, almost an austere, profligacy.

In the long years in which Gonzague had contrived to establish for himself the enviable reputation of the ideal of high gentlehood, he had very quietly and cautiously formed, as it were, a kind of court within a court—a court that was carefully formed for the faithful service of his interests. He managed, by dexterously conferring obligations of one kind or another, to bind his adherents to him by ties as strong as the ties of kinship, by ties stronger than the ties of allegiance to an unsettled state and a shadowy idea of justice. There was a Gonzague party among the aristocracy of the hour, and a very strong party it promised to be, and very ably guided to further his own ends by the courteous, so seeming amiable gentleman who was its head.

About him at this moment were grouped some of the joyous members of that jovial sodality. There was Navailles, the brisk, the dissolute, the witty, always ready to risk everything, including honor, for a cast of the dice, for a kiss, for a pleasure or a revenge. There was NocÉ, pleasure-loving, pleasure-giving, always good-tempered, always good-humored, always serenely confident that the world as it existed was made chiefly for his amusement and the amusement of his friends. There was Taranne, a darker spirit, as ready as the rest of the fellowship to take the wine of life from the cup of joy in the hands of the dancing-girl, but a less genial drinker, a less cheerful and perhaps more greedy lover and feaster, as one who dimly and imperfectly appreciates that the conditions of things about him might not be destined to endure forever, and was, therefore, resolved to get as much of his share of the spoil of the sport while it lasted as any bandit of them all. There, too, was Oriol, the fat country gentleman, at once the richest and most foolish of the company. There, too, was Albret, who loved women more than wine; and Gironne, who loved wine more than women; and Choisy, who never knew which to love the best, but with whom both disagreed.

At the present moment the party was extremely hilarious. Its members had ransacked the toy-shops of the fair, and every man was carrying some plaything and making the most of it, and extolling its greater virtues than the playthings of his fellows. Taranne carried a pea-shooter, and peppered his companion’s legs persistently, grinning with delight if any of his victims showed irritation. Oriol had got a large trumpet, and was blowing it lustily. NocÉ had bought a cup-and-ball, and was trying, not very successfully, to induce the sphere to abide in the hollow prepared for it. Navailles had got a large Pulcinello doll that squeaked, and was pretending to treat it as an oracle, and to interpret its mechanical utterances as profound comments on his companions and prophecies as to their fortunes. Albret was tripping over a skipping-rope; Gironne puffed at a spinning windmill; Choisy played on a bagpipes, and Montaubert on a flute. In the background Monsieur Peyrolles watched all this mirthfulness with indifference and his master’s face with attention.

Gonzague looked round upon his friends with the indulgent smile of a still youthful school-master surrounded by his promising pupils. "Well, gentlemen, does the fair amuse you?" he asked, urbanely.

Navailles turned to his doll for inspiration, made it give its metallic squeak, and then, as if repeating what Pulcinello had whispered to him, replied: "Enormously."

Oriol trumpeted his approval loudly, and the expressions of the others bore ample testimony to their enjoyment.

"Well, gentlemen," said Gonzague, "I hope and think that I reserved the best for the end." He made a sign to Peyrolles, who approached him. "Where is the girl?" he questioned, in a low voice.

Peyrolles pointed to the caravan. "Shall I bring her?" he asked.

Gonzague nodded. Peyrolles crossed the grass, his course followed curiously by the eyes of Gonzague’s friends, till he halted at the caravan and knocked at the door. Flora put out her head, and, recognizing Peyrolles, greeted him with an eager smile.

"The time has come," said Peyrolles, in a low voice, "for you to dance to this gentleman."

Flora touched him eagerly on the arm. "Which is my prince?" she asked.

Peyrolles gave a jerk of his head in the direction of Gonzague, and answered: "He in black with the star."

In a moment Flora had retired within the caravan, and emerged again with a pair of castanets in her hands. She advanced to Gonzague and made him a reverence. "Shall I dance for you, pretty gentleman?" she asked.

Gonzague watched her curiously, seeing in one swift, incisive glance that she might very well serve for his purpose. "With all my heart," he answered, courteously.

He seated himself at a table under the trees, with his little court grouped about him, and Flora began to dance. It was such a dance as only a Spaniard trained in the gypsy school could dance—a dance whose traditions go back to days when the Roman Empire was old, to days when the Roman Empire was young. Now active, now languid, by turns passionate, daring, defiant, alluring, a wonderful medley of exquisite contradictions, the girl leaped hither and thither, clicking her castanets and sending her bright glances like arrows towards the admiring spectators. She moved like a flame fluttered by the wind, like a butterfly, like a leaf, like any swift, volatile, shifting, shimmering thing. She seemed as agile as a cat, as tireless as a monkey, as free as a bird. Suddenly the dance that was all contradiction ended in a final contradiction. At the moment when her exuberance seemed keenest, her vitality fiercest, her action most animated, when her eyes were shining their brightest, her lips smiling their sweetest, and her castanets clicking their loudest, she suddenly became rigid, with arms extended, like one struck motionless by a catalepsy, her face robbed of all expression, her limbs stiff, her arms extended. She stood so for a few seconds, then a smile rippled over her face, her arms dropped to her sides, and she seemed to swoon towards the ground in a surrendering courtesy. The dance was at an end.

The delighted gentlemen applauded enthusiastically. All would have been eager to seek closer acquaintance with the gypsy, but all refrained because Gonzague himself rose from his seat and advanced towards the girl, who watched him, respectful and excited, with lowered lids.

Gonzague laid his hand on her shoulder with a caress that was almost paternal while he spoke: "I know more about you than you know yourself, child. Go back now. I have long been looking for you."

Flora could scarcely find breath to stammer: "For me?" She ventured to look up into the face of this grave and courtly gentleman, and she found something very attractive in the dark eyes that were fixed upon her with a look of so much benevolence. Gonzague pointed to Peyrolles, who was standing a little apart from the group of gentlemen.

"Peyrolles will come for you presently," he said. "Peyrolles will tell you what to do. Obey him implicitly."

Flora made him another courtesy. "Yes, monseigneur," she faltered, and, turning, ran swiftly to the caravan and disappeared within its depths. Each of the young gentlemen gladly would have followed her, but, as before, they were restrained by the action of Gonzague, who seemed to have taken the girl under his protection, and no one of them was foolhardy enough to dream of crossing Gonzague in a pleasure or a caprice.

But during the progress of the dance there had been an addition to the little group of gentlemen. Chavernay had come over the bridge, with, curiously enough, Cocardasse and Passepoil at his heels. When he saw that a dance was toward, he made a sign to his followers to remain upon the bridge, while he himself mingled with his habitual companions. When the dance was over and Flora had disappeared, Chavernay advanced to Gonzague. He, at least, was foolhardy enough for anything. "I give you my word, cousin," he said, "that I have already lost the half of my heart to your dancer. Are we rivals with the gypsy lass, cousin?"

Gonzague looked urbanely and yet gravely at his impudent kinsman. "You must look for love elsewhere," he said, decisively. "I have reasons, though not such reasons as yours; but you will oblige me."

Chavernay laughed contentedly. "My faith! there are plenty of pretty women in the world, and plenty of ugly men, as it would seem. I have brought you some friends of yours."

He made a signal as he spoke, and Cocardasse and Passepoil, descending from their post upon the bridge, advanced towards the brilliant group, bowing grotesquely as they did so, with their big hats in their hands and their long rapiers tilting up their ragged cloaks. All the party gazed in amazement at the whimsical apparitions, to the great indignation of Cocardasse, who whispered angrily to his companion: "Why the devil do they stare at us so?" While to him his companion replied, soothingly: "Gently, gently."

The gentlemen were screaming with laughter. Taranne fired a volley of peas, which rattled harmlessly against the long boots of Passepoil. Navailles consulted his oracle, and declared that he liked the big one best. Oriol, with a flourish of his trumpet, announced that he preferred the smug fellow. Peyrolles, with a look of horror on his face, rushed forward and attempted to intercept the new-comers, but he was too late. Cocardasse was already in front of Gonzague, and had made him a tremendous obeisance. "We have the honor to salute your highness," he said, sonorously.

Gonzague observed him with well-restrained astonishment, and questioned Chavernay: "Who are these—gentlemen?"

Chavernay was eager to explain that he had come across them in the fair, and had taken a great fancy to them. After some conversation he found that they were seeking the Prince de Gonzague, and thereupon he had consented to be their guide and to present them. At this point Peyrolles interposed. Coming close to Gonzague, he whispered something to him which caused for a moment a slight expression of dislike, almost of dread, to disturb the familiar imperturbability of his countenance. Then he looked at the bravos. "Gentlemen," he said, "I believe it is your wish to serve me. A man can never have too many friends. Gentlemen, I accept your services." He turned to his familiar, and ordered: "Peyrolles, get them some new clothes."

Peyrolles hurriedly beckoned Cocardasse and Passepoil apart, and could be seen at a little distance transferring money from his pocket to their palms, giving them instructions, and finally dismissing them.

Chavernay looked at Gonzague. "I congratulate you on your new friends."

Gonzague shook his head. "Judge no man by his habit. Hearts of gold may beat beneath those tatters."

Chavernay smiled. "I dare say they are no worse than most of your friends."

Taranne, NocÉ, Navailles, Oriol, Albret, Choisy, Gironne, and Montaubert caught him up angrily. They seemed offended at the suggestion. Gonzague placated them with a phrase: "Our dear Chavernay includes himself, no doubt."

Chavernay accepted the suggestion. "Oh yes; there is devilishly little to choose between any of us."

The impertinence of the answer and the impertinence of the speaker’s carriage were not calculated to smooth the ruffled feelings of the gentlemen, but Chavernay was never one to bridle his speech in deference to the susceptibility of his cousin’s satellites. He now eyed them mockingly, even provokingly, full of amusement, while they fumed and fretted, and hands crept to hilts. Cheerfully courageous, Chavernay was prepared at any moment to back his words with his sword. Gonzague, studying the lowering faces of his adherents, and smiling compassionately at the boyish insolence of Chavernay, interposed and stifled the threatened brawl. "Come, gentlemen," he said, graciously, "let there be no bickering. Chavernay has a sharp tongue, and spares no one, not even me, yet I am always ready to forgive him his impudence."

A word of Gonzague was a command—a wish, a law—to his faithful followers, and their countenances cleared as he spoke. Gonzague went on: "His Gracious Majesty the King will be leaving the fair soon, though I am glad to think that it seems to have diverted his majesty greatly. Let us attend upon him, gentlemen." Gonzague emphasized his words by leading the way across the bridge, and Chavernay and the others followed at his heels, a laughing, chattering, many-colored company of pleasure-seekers. Only Peyrolles remained behind.

When the last of them had crossed the bridge and was far away upon the road to Neuilly, a man came to the door of the Inn and looked thoughtfully after them.

The man was clad in black from head to foot, and his body was heavily bowed. As he moved slowly across the grass, Peyrolles hastened towards him, seeming to recognize him. "I was looking for you, Master Æsop," he cried; "I have good news for you."

The hunchback answered, quietly: "Good news is always welcome." And to the ears of Peyrolles the voice was the voice of Æsop, and to the eyes of Peyrolles the form and the face of the speaker were the form and the face of Æsop.

Peyrolles went on: "His highness the Prince de Gonzague is delighted with the girl you have found; she will pass admirably for the girl of Nevers."

The seeming Æsop nodded his head and said, quietly: "I am glad to hear it."

"The Prince wishes to see you," Peyrolles continued. "The Prince wishes you to enter his service. Master Æsop, Master Æsop, your fortune is made, thanks to me."

"Thanks to me, I think," the hunchback commented, dryly.

Peyrolles shrugged his shoulders. "As you please," he said. "Come to the HÔtel de Gonzague to-morrow, and ask for me."

"I will come," the hunchback promised. Then Peyrolles hastened over the bridge, and made all speed to rejoin his master.

When he was well on his way the hunchback drew himself into a chair, laughing heartily. "Oh, Æsop, Æsop," Lagardere murmured to himself, "how vexed you would be if you knew how useful you prove to me!"