The sense of what he had sacrificed in making the journey seemed suddenly to gall him, for he glared ferociously at Peyrolles, and said, sharply: "Here have I been talking myself dry while you sit mumchance. Tell me some tale for a change. Why in the name of the ancient devil did Nevers’s widow marry Gonzague?"
Peyrolles laughed feebly. "Love, I suppose."
Æsop waved the suggestion away. "Don’t talk like a fool. I expect old Caylus made her. He was a grim old chip, after my own heart, and our widow had no friends. Oh yes; I expect daddy Caylus made her marry Gonzague. What a joke!—what an exquisite joke!"
Peyrolles replied, with attempted dignity: "You didn’t travel all the way from Madrid to talk about my master’s marriage, I suppose."
In a moment Æsop’s manner became ferocious again. Again he thrust forward his seamed, malicious face, and again the yellow mask drew back from it. "You are right, I did not. I came because I am tired of Spain, because I lust for Paris, because I desire to enter the service of his Highness Prince Louis de Gonzague, to whom I am about to render a very great service."
Peyrolles looked at him thoughtfully, the yellow mask wrinkled with dubiety. "Are you serious about this service?" he asked. "Can you really perform what your letter seemed to promise?"
"I should not have travelled all this way if I did not know what I was about," Æsop growled. "I think it matters little if I have lost Lagardere if I have found the daughter of Nevers."
Peyrolles was thoroughly interested, and leaned eagerly across the table. "Then you think you have found her?"
Æsop grinned at him maliciously. "As good as found her. I have found a girl who may be—come, let’s put a bold face on it and say must be—Nevers’s daughter. I told you so much in my letter."
Peyrolles now drew back again with a cautious look on his face as he answered, cautiously: "My master, Prince Gonzague, must be satisfied. Where is this girl?"