Cursing my ill-fortune at having fallen into the hands of this bore, I was about to make my excuses and exit at the same time; but he put a bottle on the floor and seized me by the lapel of my cloak.
“Now you are not going to say you have another engagement! You must come and join us. There is Lignières, the brightest wit in Paris, and some one you will be glad to see, no less than your old friend Ponthieu of the Trans-Alpine Infantry, who served with you in Milan and the Sicilies; he is my mother’s cousin, and but arrived in Paris this morning.”
I would have shaken him off but for the mention of Ponthieu’s name. He was Gascon of good family, an old friend of mine, and one of the most trusted agents of our party—a man whose reckless daring often succeeded where skilful plans failed, and it would, perhaps, be well to meet him. I hesitated and was lost, for St. Cyergue shouted out.
In a moment the door of an adjoining room opened, and half a dozen men crowded around me, and I found myself shaking hands with Ponthieu, who asked twenty questions in a breath, and five minutes later we were seated round a table pledging our host’s health. To tell the truth, now that I had joined the party, I felt the better for it. It took me out of myself, and it was a pleasure to meet Ponthieu. We were able to exchange a word or so, and the Gascon told me he was leaving Paris that very night.
“If you are caught, it will be Montfauçon!” I said, and Ponthieu smiled.
“Mon ami! I am leaving Paris in the train of Catherine herself.” I looked at him hardly, and was about to express my surprise and add another warning when St. Cyergue cut in, the wine passed, and the conversation became general.
Now, in the strangeness of things, what followed was to affect the whole of my future, and it is necessary that I should go into some detail. The room in which we sat opened out into a small courtyard surrounded by a high wall. A side door gave access to the street, and near it grew a stunted apple-tree that somehow lived and thrived amidst its sterile surroundings. Beneath the apple-tree was a rustic seat and a table, and as we drank and talked I observed the side door open, and the Capuchin entered and called for alms. The innkeeper went out, not best pleased to attend to him, but it was dangerous to cross a priest then. He motioned the friar to a seat on the bench and served him—as sparingly as possible. As I looked the vague mistrust I had of that strange figure when we first met came upon me once more, and I said, as I pointed to him:
“See there! He might be a spy for all we know.”
“He is welcome to spy here,” said St. Cyergue, “we but conspire against red wine.”
“Let us call the friar and make him drink our health,” said some one.