“And with what object,” asked I, gasping—“safe for what?”
“For you, lllustrissimo,” said he, bowing, “when you pay me two thousand francs for them.”
“I’ll knock your brains out first,” said I, with another clutch at the poker, but the muzzle of the pistol was now directly in front of me.
“I am moderate in my demands, signor,” said he, quietly; “there are men in my position would ask you twenty thousand; but I am a galantuomo——”
“And the friend of Gioberti,” added I, with a sneer.
“Precisely so,” said he, bowing with much grace.
I will not weary you, dear reader, with my struggles—conflicts that almost cost me a seizure on the brain—but hasten to the result. I beat down the noble Count’s demand to one-half and for a thousand francs I possessed myself of the fatal originals, written unquestionably and indisputably by my wife’s hand; and then, giving the Count a final piece of advice, never to let me see more of him, I hurried off to Mrs O’Dowd.
She was out paying some bills, and only arrived a few minutes before dinner-hour.
“I want you, madam, for a moment here,” said I, with something of Othello, in the last act, in my voice and demeanour.
“I suppose I can take off my bonnet and shawl first, Mr O’Dowd,” said she, snappishly.