Aristides saw his fear and loved it.
“Once it did certainly seem as though we were friends,” he admitted, “but now, you see, I am the husband of the woman you live with.”
Terror shook Georges in his very vitals, and he leaned over as though to vomit.
“Ah! Yes, yes!” he muttered. And his consciousness seemed to dart about in his brain like a ferret in its cage.
Aristides stood savouring the quaking fear of his victim, but it was with difficulty he prevented himself from rushing upon his enemy and crushing out his life.
“Your Highness will wait here a little time whilst I tidy up,” he said.
And he began folding the towels and swabbing the floor. Georges, sitting with his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, watched him with apprehensive eyes. Finding this period of waiting no longer bearable, he said, humbly:
“Will you let me go? I am too ill to.... You know, I am not entirely to blame. She was tired of you.... Living with you made her....”
He stopped, fearing to speak more. Then:
“Please let me go,” he added.