"This cousin, my Lord, who will undoubtedly pay the sum you ask of me, happens to live at Calais."
"Ah, indeed!" said Lord Grey, suspiciously.
"Mon Dieu! yes, my Lord," added Jean Peuquoy, with every appearance of absolute sincerity; "my cousin's name is Pierre Peuquoy, and he has been for more than thirty years a gunsmith at the sign of the God Mars, Rue du Martroi."
"And he is devoted to you, is he?" asked Lord Grey.
"I believe him to be, my Lord! I am the last of the Peuquoys of my branch; so that it goes without saying that his feeling for me amounts to veneration. More than two centuries ago, one of our ancestral Peuquoys had two sons, one of whom became a weaver and settled at St. Quentin, while the other adopted the armorer's trade, and took up his abode at Calais. Ever since that time the St. Quentin Peuquoys have been weavers, and the Calais Peuquoys have continued to forge arms and armor. But although separated, distance has never cooled their mutual affection; and they have always assisted each other, as occasion arose, and as befits those bound together by ties of blood, and descendants of the same ancestor. I am sure that Pierre will loan me the sum necessary to redeem my freedom; nevertheless, I have not seen this good cousin of mine for ten years,—for you English are by no means free with your permission to us Frenchmen to enter your strong towns."
"Yes, yes," said Lord Grey, pleasantly, "for more than two hundred and ten years the Calais Peuquoys have been Englishmen."
"Oh!" cried Jean, warmly, "the Peuquoys—"
Then he suddenly interrupted himself.
"Well, well," Lord Grey rejoined in surprise, "the Peuquoys—"
"The Peuquoys, my Lord," said Jean, twirling his cap about in an embarrassed way,—"the Peuquoys do not concern themselves with politics, that is what I was about to say. Whether they are English or French, so long as they possess an anvil with which to earn their daily bread at Calais, and a shuttle here in St. Quentin, the Peuquoys have no fault to find."