"This document, sir, is a royal mandate and whoever refuses to obey it is liable to penalties."
"What penalties?"
"A fine of eighty florins."
"Eighty florins? There you are then, take them!" cried Mr. John flinging down the amount eagerly and thinking to himself that this mandate was indeed a juridical masterpiece, not being binding on a rich man—for what after all is eighty florins?
"Very good," said Mr. Monori, giving him a receipt for the amount, "I'll come again to-morrow."
"What for?"
"I shall again call upon you to answer my interrogatories upon oath."
"And if I won't swear?"
"Why then you'll have to pay the court fine toties-quoties. A juratus tabulae regiae notarius will call regularly every day and exact the fine from you until such time as you make up your mind to take the oaths. Good-day."
After the magistrate had withdrawn Mr. John's fury reached its climax. First of all he poured forth his wrath upon the poor inkstand, with the ink from which Monori had written out the receipt. This he dashed to the ground. The lacquey who rushed in at the commotion to inquire if his honour had rung, he seized by the nape of the neck and flung out of the room. Then he rushed after the man and pommelled him for daring to go out before he had been told to go. Finally he dashed out and, for the lowest silver coin he could make up his mind to part with, hired a hackney coach to take him to his villa near the park, for thither he had resolved to fly.