gnorance of the services demanded," he corrected. "Well,
good Monsieur Peyrolles, let us have that three hundred pistoles as
earnest money for the larger sum."

Somewhat reluctantly Monsieur Peyrolles produced from his doublet a small
canvas bag and threw it into the hollow of Cocardasse's extended palm. It
chinked pleasantly as it fell, and Cocardasse weighed it tenderly.

"I will not affront your worthiness," he said, "by affecting to doubt the
contents of this little bag, and putting it to the scrutiny of a count. I
will take your word for the tale."

As he spoke he tossed the bag over to Staupitz, who caught it dexterously
and put it in his pocket. On this Peyrolles made to rise, and again found
that the hand of Passepoil, obedient to a glance from Cocardasse,
descended upon his shoulder and nailed him to his place.

"Wait," said Cocardasse, amiably, "we must have some surety for the lave
of the money."

"Is not my word enough?" Peyrolles asked, with an ineffective air of
dignity. Cocardasse smiled very sweetly.

"The best of us may have a bad memory," he said, and sighed over the
frailties of humanity. He turned to his nominal leader. "Papa Staupitz,"
he said, "will you not see if a pen and ink be available?"

Staupitz rose while Peyrolles glowered, and going to the door that led to
the kitchen, summoned Martine. Martine, heedless of the adoring homage
renewed in Passepoil's eyes, went to a cupboard in the wall and extracted
from its depths a dingy ink-horn and a stubby quill, together with a page
of fairly clean paper torn from the back of an old account-book. Setting
these on the table, she departed as quietly as she came, wholly
indifferent to the languishing glances of the Norman. Cocardasse waved a
space for Peyrolles at the table.

"Be so good," he said, with a quiet insistence, "as to write a formal
promise to pay Papa Staupitz two thousand seven hundred pistoles
to-morrow. Date it carefully, and sign it with your excellent and
honorable name, my dear Monsieur Peyrolles."

Peyrolles frowned, but there was no help for it; so he rose to his feet,
untroubled this time by the restraining fingers of Passepoil, and, going
to the table, wrote the demanded document, with every appearance of
repugnance at the task and its conditions, for the pen was vile, the ink
viler, and the paper vilest. When he had finished, Cocardasse took it
from him and scanned it carefully.

"That is all right," he said, and place