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.
Gonzague rubbed his hands. "Æsop is my good genius." Then he touched a bell and a servant entered, to whom he gave instructions. "Tell Madame Berthe to come with the girl who was placed in her charge to-night."
The servant bowed and disappeared. Gonzague went to the golden doors and threw them open. Standing in the aperture, he summoned his friends to join him. Instantly there was a great noise of rising revellers, of chairs set back, of glasses set down, of fans caught up, of fluttered skirts and lifted rapiers. Men and women, the guests of Gonzague, flooded from the supper-room into the great hall, and under the gaze of the Three Louis, Oriol with his fancy, Navailles with Cidalise, Taranne, Nocé, and the others, each with his raddled Egeria of the opera-house and the ballet. As they fluttered and flirted and laughed and chattered into the great hall, Gonzague held up his hand for a moment, as one that calls for silence, and in a moment the revellers were silent.
Gonzague spoke: "Friends, I have good news. Lagardere is dead."
A wild burst of applause greeted these words. The pretty women clapped their hands as they would have clapped them in the theatre for some dance or song that took their fancy. The men were not less enthusiastic. The difference between the men and the women was that the men applauded because they knew why their master was pleased; the women applauded because their master was pleased without asking the reason why. The name of Lagardere meant little or nothing to them.