“Of that we will speak hereafter,” said the young soldier, shortly, “and if I am ever marquis, I shall not forget your devotion to the orphan boy; but of that another time. I am bound on an errand outside of Paris, and I need four good men-at-arms. Do you think of any out of employment now?”
“There is one in the public room at this moment,” Archambault replied at once. “I can always tell men by what they put into their stomachs. This man is a great fighter, by the way he eats. I have fed men for forty years, and I know their appetites: the ambitious man eats sparingly, his mind being elsewhere; the penurious man eats still less when he pays himself; when another pays he is greedy, but he will always have more than the worth of his money, and reviles you for a denier. The soldier craves strong meat and drink, the epicure wants a new dish, and the glutton cleans the platter. The man in yonder is a great fighter, not only by his food but by his looks; you may see him through the little window there from which I overlook my guests.”
He pointed as he spoke to a small curtained window in the side of the room, and with some curiosity Péron looked out into the outer apartment. As usual, it was full of guests, but Archambault showed him the man of whom he spoke. Péron saw, with surprise and pleasure, the broad shoulders, thick neck, great shock of grizzled black hair, and the broad nose and small eyes of Choin, the fencing-master.
“The very man I need!” he exclaimed; and with a few words of thanks to the pastry cook, he opened the door and entered the public dining-room.
Choin met him with equal pleasure. The maître d’armes had long since forgiven his defeat in the tennis court, and entertained a kind of rough affection for his former pupil. Choin was alone at a small table, which gave Péron the opportunity he desired to explain to him the nature of his errand, and ask him to accompany him. The old swordsman was willing enough, for since the edict against duelling, such men found life in Paris dull and profitless compared with the old days. For, since the famous duel of M. de Bouteville and M. de Beuvron on the Place Royale which had sent two noblemen to the scaffold, sword practice had fallen out of favor in Paris.
“Pardieu!” said Choin, laying down his knife, “I will gladly go, Péron. The chance of a fight is as good as meat to me, and I can get you three other stout knaves and the horses, if you have the money to pay for all.”
Péron took out the cardinal’s purse and counted out a sufficient sum.
“We must have two led horses besides,” he said, “for there will be two women to go also.”
Choin gave him a quizzical look.
“What is this?” he asked bluntly, “an elopement as well as a possible fight?”