The jesters had just begun a fresh assault with cakes and pies, when the door of the inner room opened and a tall man came slowly out, pausing at the sound of the merriment at the table by the counter, and glancing in that direction with an air of displeasure. He was evidently a person of consequence, as his bearing and the richness of his dress indicated. His face was handsome and severe, and his brow was concealed by a great plumed hat; he wore a collar of rich lace over his velvet coat, and ruffles of lace, two fingers deep, finished his satin breeches at the knee and fell over the wide tops of his boots. He stared haughtily at the laughing circle about the boy, and then his glance alighted on Péron and seemed for the moment arrested by the child’s face and figure, and he looked long and attentively at him. There were still many persons at the other tables in the room, and presently the tall stranger began to attract nearly as much notice, though of a respectful kind, as did Péron. But the new-comer heeded no one save the child, and it was evident that the scene did not meet with his approval. At last he moved forward to the edge of the circle of jesters, and as one of the servants approached he spoke to him with an imperative tone and gesture.
“Who is the child?” he demanded sharply.
At the sound of his voice the musketeers and their friends looked about, and seeing him fell back discomfited; only the little boy remained motionless in his seat on the table, not knowing how to escape.
“Who is that child?” exclaimed the great man again, impatiently.
Some one had warned the chief pastry cook, and Archambault came hurrying from the kitchens. A glance told him the story, and with a swift movement he swept the little fellow from the table into the background and stood bowing obsequiously to his tall guest.
“Are you all deaf?” exclaimed that personage tartly; “I have asked three times about that boy. Who is he?”
“Only little Péron, M. le Marquis,” replied Archambault blandly; “the son of a poor tradesman.”
“An ill-mannered cub to make such a scene,” remarked the great man haughtily. “I did not know you kept a playhouse, Archambault.”
The pastry cook was profuse in his apologies. He was a little round man with a bald spot the size of a poached egg on the back of his round head, he had little round eyes that glistened not unkindly, and even his fingers were as round and plump as croquettes. He made a thousand excuses and waited on M. le Marquis to the door, looking out at the liveried lackeys awaiting his irritable guest. When he was safely out of hearing, however, Archambault was no longer amiable. He hurried back, and as he passed through the group of musketeers he flourished his hands in frantic gesticulations.
“Morbleu!” he cried, “you will ruin me, you coxcombs! That was M. de Nançay, and he is more ticklish for the proprieties than M. de Luynes! Between your appetites and your manners I shall be a ruined man! If you do not mend your ways, you dogs,” he added, shaking his fat fist at them, “I will run you all out with a spit. Mordieu! I shall be outlawed!”