Archambault looked at him placidly, his round eyes showing neither amazement nor curiosity.
“The ring is in the hands of M. de Nançay,” he said calmly.
Péron rose from his chair with a sharp exclamation.
“I fear I am ruined!” he cried; “tell me all you know, Archambault.”
The pastry cook rubbed his hands together with a certain unctuous enjoyment of the situation.
“They were at my shop,” he said, with a deliberation that tormented his auditor; “M. de Nançay, M. de Vesson, and another, a relative, I take it, of M. de Bouillon. They had a private room, and—” he stopped, looking a little abashed under Péron’s searching eyes. “Well, monsieur,” he went on with a shrug, “what would you? I have found it useful to keep an eye on my guests; I have known many things. In that same room I heard the challenge discussed of the famous duel on the Place Royale, for which M. de Bouteville and M. de Chapelles suffered,—monsignor’s example to enforce his edict. I—”
“Ciel, Archambault, go on!” cried Péron in despair.
“I am going on,” the pastry cook replied aggrieved. “I have a peep-hole—un œil-de-bœuf—concealed in the partition, you understand, M. Jehan, and there I overheard the story of the cardinal’s ring. They sent a man into your rooms here through some window—” the narrator stopped again to look for it—“Ah, bah! do you not see that roof? He found the ring in your coat and they have it. There is mischief brewing; they would ruin you with the cardinal,—for I think they suspect your identity,—and they would ruin the cardinal’s schemes. They start to-morrow with that ring for Brussels; doubtless you know more of what they can do with it than I do.”
He stopped, gazing at Péron eager for enlightenment, but he received none. His host was on his feet in a moment looking at sword and pistols and gathering some necessaries together. Archambault looked on in aggrieved amazement; he had that natural love for gossip that belongs to his class and character.
“What will you do, M. Jehan?” he asked blankly.