“Her price, you mean? Well, she shall have it. Now I must go. I have business which can wait no longer.”
He went off, humming a little song. As once before, the doctor stood conning his receding figure, until it had vanished round a corner. Then he gave a short sudden laugh, and turned to his own way.
“Well acted,” he thought; “and well out of the reckoning, he; and well saved, my own skin—for the present—I’m a little afraid at the expense of the dear signorina’s. But, bah! if the wind were to hold its breath for fear a leaf or two might fall, there’d be no clearing the air in this world of scruples.”
* * * * * * * *
Cartouche walked straight to the little villa in the Lane of Chestnuts. It was a glowing, lustful day. The white curtains in the windows bosomed out to him like love’s own welcome; lizards basked on the walls; the flowers in the garden hung sweet drowsy heads. He was singing still when he reached the door: singing when he greeted Fiorentina with a chin-chuck: he walked, with a song on his lips, into the parlour. She was there, sure enough—a flushed palpitating beauty, with a brave front of greeting, and a quaking heart behind it. He had no idea of making many words about the thing. He stopped in the middle of the room, smiling at her.
“What!” said he: “no kiss for me?”
She had never realised until this moment the fulness of her daring, nor its madness. She gulped sickly, as she crept up to him without a word, and put her lips to his cheek.
He had a purse of gold ready, and held it out to her.
“There are your wages, Judas.”
As if her legs had been knocked from under her, she went down at his feet.