“Name your price, then, Baron,” she intoned.
“Hurry,” De Medici whispered to the scientist, “and leave the rest to me. I’ll take the part. I know it well.”
He turned to the woman, his figure become polite, leering, his hand extended.
“Ah, Lady Floria,” he smiled at her, “venal my enemies call me. But remember, I do not sell myself for money. If I must betray my honor”—he paused to laugh—“I insist upon choosing my payment.”
He advanced toward the woman, his manner becoming unctuous and caressing.
“You have scorned and braved me, Lady Floria,” he spoke, “yet your beauty has kept me enslaved. I’ve watched you clinging to your lover like an amorous tigress and I vowed that you would be mine some day.”
He paused and waited. The woman’s eyes had taken fire. Her head flung itself back in a superb gesture. Her voice came throatily and distinctly.
“No. I would rather kill myself.”
For an instant De Medici beamed with delight. Then again the unctuous, leering manner returned.
“You forget,” he cried, “you forget I hold your Mario’s life in pawn for yours, Tosca.”