“Thank you!” he said with mocking politeness.
Then he took his hand from the Frenchman’s throat, and stepped back, releasing him. Like a limp rag, De Villefort slid down the face of the wall to the floor, on which he dropped softly, gasping in the most painful manner for breath. Frank slipped the ball into his pocket, retreating a few steps. With absolute coolness, he stood watching the gasping Frenchman.
Murat de Villefort glared at him, with terrible hatred. He made a gurgling sound in his throat, but his words, if words he tried to speak, were inarticulate.
“It is a shame to choke a man so hard, unless the job is finished,” said Merry, with his hands resting on his hips. “I do not like to resort to such extreme measures, but, in this case, you forced me to, monsieur.”
De Villefort seemed to gnash his teeth. He dragged himself up to a sitting posture, with his back against the wall, and sat there, rubbing his throat, and breathing with a rasping sound.
“I trust you will be all right in a short time, monsieur,” continued the youth from across the ocean, “so that I may have the extreme satisfaction of kicking you out of this room. Nothing can give me more pleasure, I assure you, than to kick you with all the violence I can command.”
“You—you whelp!” panted the man against the wall.
“You were very polite a short time ago,” said Frank. “Even then, it seemed to me that your politeness was artificial. The real ruffian showed through the veneering.”
“Fool!” gurgled the Frenchman, once more.
“I came near being fooled,” admitted Frank; “but I tumbled to you just in time. I wish you to make as much haste as possible, for I do long to kick you!”