"Courteously!" foamed Beaufoy, struggling vainly as he was hustled across the road out of earshot. "Curse your courtesy, footpad! Some day you shall answer me for this."
"If the King permits," was the ironic reply. "Be a little more gentle,
Jan. Now, Perrault?"
"Monsieur Marc, they will never let us into Valmy."
"Not all of us, not you—I alone."
"Alone? Monsieur Marc, you would never venture——"
"Never venture? As God lives, Perrault, I would venture to the gates of hell for just five minutes with Louis of France, and you know it."
"But it is impossible."
"Desperate, not impossible. This," and he shook the paper in his closed hand, "gives me Stephen La Mothe; La Mothe has the King's signet, he told Villon and Villon told Saxe; the signet gives me Valmy if I have any luck. La Mothe and the King at one cast—La Mothe, through whom I have twice missed the Dauphin! Perrault, I'll do it; by all the saints, I'll do it."
"Yes," said Perrault, and there was a wistful tenderness in his rough voice, "you may get into Valmy, but, Master Marc, you'll never win out again."
"Old friend, would you have me turn coward with such a chance flung in my way? And would Guy have done less for me?"