“Spare me that mention, at least, Monsieur. It is my humiliation ever to have been associated, even indirectly, with that infamous man.”
He sniggered hatefully.
“Why, it is true, by all reports,” he croaked, “that he has not taken salvation of his disappointment. Knowing him of old, as I do, that miracle, if it had happened, had converted even me, I think.”
“Monsieur!” she entreated, half weeping—“I beg you—”
She checked herself; disciplined her anguish anew; held out fawning hands to him.
“If you want thanks—recognition of that service—O, Monsieur! I am prepared to give them, to make it, to the utmost of your desire.”
“Are you?” he said. “We shall see. Perhaps your gratitude may take something less than full account of my claims on it. We shall see. For there is a deadlier claim yet to come.”
Her tears, her innocence, her beauty, moved him no more than a poor calf’s sobbings might move a butcher. Baiting made meat tender, in the opinion of his day.
She drew back a little.
“A deadlier claim!” she said faintly.