As soon as the light was sufficient, Péron found that his horse was suffering from a loose shoe on one of his forefeet, and that the animal must be attended to before he could proceed on his journey to Flanders. This made it imperative for him to stop at the town in search of a smith, much against his own wishes; for he would be readily recognized if he came across any of the retainers of Condé, who were all more or less acquainted with the former protégé of the prince. However, there was no help for it, and making the best of a bad business he turned his horse’s head toward the spot where he remembered that there used to be a smithy. He had no difficulty in finding the forge, but there was no fire; and the blacksmith was evidently asleep over his shop, for the place was quiet. Péron knocked so loudly, however, that he finally succeeded in rousing the inmates, and the smith came down with reluctance to answer his summons, having no wish to go to work so early.
“No horses will be shod here for two good hours,” he said bluntly, eying his visitor from head to foot with a scowl of disapproval.
He was a big, brawny fellow; a Gascon from his tongue, and the smut on his face added to his natural ugliness; but Péron remembered him as a not ill-natured retainer of Condé. A delay of two hours would be fatal to the musketeer’s interests, and he did not hesitate to use every argument at his command.
“Do you not know me, Ferré?” he said; “you taught me once to shoe a horse, and it was from you that I first learned to strike a straight blow from the shoulder.”
“Pardieu, ’tis monseigneur’s boy!” exclaimed the smith, with a change of expression. “I did not know you, Péron, in your black cloak, and with the air you have of a great gentleman. So, ’tis you that cannot shoe your horse? You have forgotten some useful lessons, and I am minded to let you wait for your pains; I have had no breakfast, and I am not the man to work on an empty stomach.”
“Yet do me this favor, good Ferré, for old times’ sake,” Péron urged; “I am bound on a pressing errand, and if I delay there may be bad results—for me.”
The smith still hesitated, looking from the musketeer to his horse.
“Leave the beast with me,” he said gruffly, “and get a new horse at the inn; you dress like a man with a purse.”
“But it does not suit me to change horses,” Péron replied; “and though I am not the rich man you take me for, I will pay well for this piece of work.”
Ferré gave him a sharp look. “I see,” he said bluntly, “you are either in mischief or some one else is—good, then, I will shoe the horse. But I care nothing for your money; I do this for old friendship.”