"To my arms, brother, to my arms!" cried Cocardasse, and in a moment the amazing pair were clasped in each other’s embrace.
"Is it really you?" said Cocardasse, when he thought the embrace had lasted long enough, holding Passepoil firmly by the shoulders and gazing fixedly into his pale, pathetic face.
Passepoil nodded. "Truly. What red star guides you to Paris?"
Cocardasse dropped his voice to a whisper. "I had a letter."
Passepoil whispered in reply: "So had I."
Cocardasse amplified: "My letter told me to be outside the Inn of the Three Graces, near Neuilly, on a certain day—this day—to serve the Prince of Gonzague."
Passepoil nodded again. "So did mine."
Cocardasse continued: "Mine enclosed a draft on the Bank of Marseilles to pay expenses."
Passepoil noted a point of difference: "Mine was on the Bank of Calais."
"I suppose Gonzague wants all that are left of us," Cocardasse said, thoughtfully.