“My lord will not need these things soon.”
“Have you no gratitude?” stammered the marquis, whose physical and mental condition was truly pitiable.
“Gratitude for having been called ‘idiot,’ ‘dog,’ and ‘blockhead’ nearly all my life! I am somewhat lacking in that quality, I fear.”
“Is there no shame in you?”
“Shame?” repeated François, as he proceeded to ransack another drawer. “There might have been before I went into your service, my lord. Yes; once I felt shame for you. It was years ago, in London, when you deserted your beautiful wife. When I saw how she worshiped you and what a noble woman she was, I confess I felt ashamed that I served one of the greatest blackguards in Europe––”
“Oh, you scoundrel––” exclaimed the marquis, his face becoming a ghastly hue.
“Be calm, my lord. You really are in need of all 361 your energy. For years I have submitted to your shameful service. I have been at the beck and call of one of the greatest roués and villains in France. Years of such association would somewhat soil any nature. Another thing, my lord, I must tell you, since you and I are settling our last accounts. For years I have endured your miserable King Louis Philippe. A king? Bah! He fled from the back door! A coward, who shaved his whiskers for a disguise.”
“No more, rascal!”
“Rascal yourself, you worn-out, driveling breath of corruption! It is so pleasant to exercise a gentleman’s privilege of invective! Ah, here is the purse. Au revoir, my lord. A pleasant dissolution!”
But by this time the marquis was speechless, and François, taking the valise in hand, deferentially left the room. He locked the door behind him and thrust the key into his pocket.