“Yes, a killing bait—a—killing—bait,” he said; and threw his handkerchief into his hat, and covered himself—all deliberately. “Well,” he said, “congratulate me, Mr Trix. He was shy; but—he’s taken her at last.”
Cartouche yawned.
“In the name of patience—who’s taken whom?” said he.
“Who? Why M. Saint-Péray has taken his Marchesa, that’s all.”
“Well, those are news, to be sure.”
“Are they not—eh? He-he! You are looking worn, Mr Trix. I’m afraid you take your new duties too seriously. You shouldn’t forget that all social office is a compromise—a figure representing the balance between good and evil, to lower one of which unduly is to exalt the other unduly. Yes, we’ve married our couple.”
“Have we, indeed? And who are ‘we,’ my Bonito?”
“There! these low levels tell on one coming from the heights. You must be careful of your throat. I notice a huskiness in it already. Why, indeed, save for a natural diffidence, I might say, Monsieur, that ‘we’ stands for ‘I’; seeing that, as a fact, the initiative was mine. In any case, what we were one in desiring is, at this moment, an accomplished thing. The two are married—not, as you may suppose, a union regarded with favour in certain quarters.”
“No; I suppose not. And how did you bring it about?”
“Ah—ha! there’s the marrow! Why, how you flush and pale! I doubt the prudence of exciting you, Mr Trix, in this present turbulent state of your blood.”