By this time the hunchback had opened the door and introduced to the company a dapper, affable gentleman who was habited, as became his calling, for the most part in black; but he lent an air of smartness to his notarial garb by reason that the black of his coat and breeches was of silk, and that he wore a quantity of costly lace. This was Master Griveau, one of the principal notaries of Paris, and a man that had been employed not a little by the Prince de Gonzague. For this reason his face was familiar to most of those present, and the faces of most of those present were familiar to Master Griveau, and Master Griveau nodded and bowed and smirked and smiled, and showed in a hundred little ways with a hundred little airs and graces that he was quite the man of the world and quite at home in fashionable circles. He was accompanied by two of his clerks, who seemed as anxious to efface themselves as their master was to assert his personality.

The hunchback patted the notary on the back with a pat that made him give at the knees and look somewhat ruefully about him as if an earthquake had occurred, and introduced him to the company: "Here, sirs, is my Cupid—nay, better than Cupid, for Cupid had no pockets, whereas MaÎtre Griveau has, and my marriage contract in one of them."

Master Griveau, with the air of one who could take a joke as well as any man if the joke were proffered in august company, produced a large, folded paper bound about with green ribbon. He bowed profoundly to Gonzague. "In accordance," he said, "with monseigneur’s instructions, as conveyed to me by monseigneur’s"—he halted for a moment, and then continued—"Monseigneur’s friend, the deed is prepared and ready for signature. Have I monseigneur’s permission to make a few preparations for the interesting ceremony?"

Gonzague nodded, and the brisk little man, with the aid of his two clerks, pushed a table into place, arranged writing materials, and, seating himself with a great air of formality, investigated a quill pen, spread out his contract, and surveyed the company with the air of one who should say: "I have done, and done well, all that it becometh me to do; it is now for you to play your part in this ceremony."

Gonzague addressed the notary: "Have you entered the names of groom and bride?"

Master Griveau gave a little, protesting cough. "I do not know them, your highness. I have left blank spaces for the names."

Gonzague pointed to Gabrielle, where she sat apart. "The lady is Mademoiselle de Lagardere." Then he turned to the hunchback. "And you, what is your lawful name, Æsop?"

The hunchback made an appeal to Gonzague. "Highness, humor my jest to the end. I have kept my real name a secret long enough; let me keep it secret a little longer. Will you and your friends honor me by signing as witnesses? Then I will fill in the blanks and set down my own name—a name that will make you laugh."

Oriol gave a grin. "Æsop is comic enough."

Lagardere nodded to him. "Æsop is a nickname. My true name will divert you more. Sign, sirs, sign."

Master Griveau, with due solemnity, unfolded the contract and spread it before him. Then he dipped a pen in the ink, and stood waiting for the illustrious company to sign the contract.

"Give me the pen," said Gonzague. He was beginning to tire a little of the comedy, in spite of its element of marvel, and to wish the girl well out of his sight with her hunchback husband. He signed his name and held up the pen. It was eagerly sought for. Taranne gained the privilege of taking it from the fingers of his master. Taranne signed, NocÉ signed, Oriol signed, Gironne signed, Choisy signed, Albret signed, Montaubert signed. When the pen was offered to Chavernay, Chavernay put his hands behind his back and shook his head. It came to Navailles to sign last.

"Now for the happy pair," Navailles said. As he spoke he turned to where the hunchback and Gabrielle stood together silent, a strangely contrasted bride and bridegroom—youth and age, so it seemed, beauty and ugliness, sin and purity. Truly, it appeared to be what Chavernay thought it and called it—a damnable alliance.

While the signing had been toward the hunchback had spoken softly one sentence to his bride. "Gabrielle," he said, "if I die here, I die as I have lived—your lover."

And Gabrielle had answered him in the heart of her heart: "I love you, my lover."

Now, when Navailles addressed him, the hunchback moved forward, and waved away the little, glittering crowd of gentlemen that gathered about Master Griveau at the table, ordering them to move. "Make space, sirs, for my wife and me. I need elbow-room for my signature."

He advanced to the table, holding Gabrielle by the hand, and still, though the humor of the situation had endured so long, even the wine-flushed men and the wine-flushed women seemed almost as conscious as Chavernay of the tragedy that underlay the humor of the play. All fell back and left a free table for the hunchback and his bride. Master Griveau settled himself comfortably in his seat and took up his pen. Turning to the hunchback, he began: "Give me your names, your surnames, your birthplaces—"

The hunchback interrupted him: "Have you signed?"

"Certainly," Master Griveau answered, something astonished at being thus carelessly treated.

"Then, by your leave," said the hunchback, and dexterously edged the indignant notary out of the chair. "Leave the rest to me. Back, friends, till I finish." Pushing the chair aside, he restrained with a sweep of his arm the advancing crowd of gentlemen eager to see the name that Æsop would acknowledge.

While Master Griveau, with a very much offended air, edged himself into the circle of Gonzague’s friends as one that had earned the right to move freely in such company, the hunchback began rapidly to fill in the blank spaces on the parchment before him.

Master Griveau felt it his duty to say a few words of protest on behalf of the slightly offended majesty of the law. "A very extraordinary ceremony, highness."

Gonzague smiled ironically, but cared nothing for the offended majesty of the law, so long as his own purposes were being served. "Æsop is an extraordinary man," he said.

The hunchback, who had overheard this conversation, pointed with the feather of the pen he had just been using to Gonzague. "You are right, prince," he said. Then he gave the pen to Gabrielle and whispered to her, so low that no one heard him: "Sign Gabrielle de Nevers."

The girl took the pen from his hand and signed boldly, though she signed that signature for the first time in her young life.

The hunchback took the pen from her fingers. "Now my turn." Deliberately and swiftly he signed his name and flung down the pen. Then he moved back a little way from the table and drew Gabrielle behind him. He turned to the expectant company. "Come and see, sirs. You will stare, I promise you."

All were eager to press forward and read the signature, but all restrained their desire until the curiosity of the master of the house was satisfied. Gonzague advanced leisurely to the table, relieved to think the comedy had come to an end, and that he had satisfactorily rid himself of an incubus. He bent carelessly over the parchment, and then sprang back with face as pale and eyes as wild and lips as trembling as if on the pitiful piece of sheepskin he had seen some terror as dread as the face of Medusa. His twitching mouth whispered one word, but that word was "Lagardere!" and that word was repeated on the lips of every man and woman that watched him.

Before the eyes of all present a new miracle happened, more marvellous than its predecessor, for the hunchback suddenly stiffened himself and became erect and soldierly; the hunchback swept back the grizzled locks that had so long served to conceal his features; the hunchback stood before them a strong and stalwart man, with drawn sword in his hand. Stretching out his arm, he extended the sword between Gonzague and the parchment and touched with its point the signature that was still wet upon its surface.

In a terrible voice he cried: "Lagardere, who always keeps his tryst! I am here!"

For a moment that seemed sempiternal a kind of horrible silence reigned over the room. It was hard to understand what had happened. The startled guests stared at one another, terrified by the terror on Gonzague’s face, amazed at the metamorphosis of the hunchback, shuddering at the name of Lagardere. The first to recover courage, composure, and resolution was Gonzague himself. He sprang from the table to where his friends stood together and drew his sword.

Pointing to where Lagardere stood, with Gabrielle clinging to his arm, he cried: "He must not escape! Your swords, friends! It is but one man!"

But even as he spoke, and while Lagardere was waiting with lifted sword for the inevitable attack, Chavernay crossed the room and stood at Lagardere’s side. "We shall be two!" he cried, and drew his sword.

At the same moment the doors of the antechamber opened, and Cocardasse and Passepoil, with their naked swords in their hands, entered and ranged themselves on the side of Lagardere.

"We shall be three!" said Cocardasse.

"We shall be four!" said Passepoil.

The situation was changed, but the situation was still perilous. On the one side of the splendid room stood Lagardere, with Chavernay, Cocardasse, and Passepoil, their gleaming weapons ready for attack. On the other side, with a great gap of space between the two parties, stood Gonzague and his cluster of light friends, every man of whom had bared his rapier and was ready to obey the summons of his chief. Behind these the women huddled together, some screaming, but the most part too frightened to scream. Flora, overstrained, had fainted.

Lagardere taunted Gonzague. "Come, monseigneur," he said, "are you afraid? The odds are not so favorable as they were at Caylus."

With a writhing face Gonzague screamed to his friends: "Charge!"

And Lagardere answered with a ringing cry: "I am here!"

In another moment the two parties would have met and blended in battle; but before Gonzague’s followers could obey his command and follow his lead, they were stiffened into immobility by a sudden knocking at the golden doors. At that unexpected sound every sword was lowered, and then from beyond a stern voice came, commanding: "Open, in the king’s name!"