‘Receive, dear madam, the assurance of my highest and most distinguished consideration,
RIGAUD BLANDOIS.
‘A thousand friendships to that dear Flintwinch.
‘I kiss the hands of Madame F.’
When he had finished this epistle, Rigaud folded it and tossed it with a flourish at Clennam’s feet. ‘Hola you! Apropos of producing, let somebody produce that at its address, and produce the answer here.’
‘Cavalletto,’ said Arthur. ‘Will you take this fellow’s letter?’
But, Cavalletto’s significant finger again expressing that his post was at the door to keep watch over Rigaud, now he had found him with so much trouble, and that the duty of his post was to sit on the floor backed up by the door, looking at Rigaud and holding his own ankles,—Signor Panco once more volunteered. His services being accepted, Cavalletto suffered the door to open barely wide enough to admit of his squeezing himself out, and immediately shut it on him.
‘Touch me with a finger, touch me with an epithet, question my superiority as I sit here drinking my wine at my pleasure,’ said Rigaud, ‘and I follow the letter and cancel my week’s grace. You wanted me? You have got me! How do you like me?’
‘You know,’ returned Clennam, with a bitter sense of his helplessness, ‘that when I sought you, I was not a prisoner.’
‘To the Devil with you and your prison,’ retorted Rigaud, leisurely, as he took from his pocket a case containing the materials for making cigarettes, and employed his facile hands in folding a few for present use; ‘I care for neither of you. Contrabandist! A light.’