"Yes, seigneur; for I believe that in that case they would have killed me on the spot.—Hoo! I am bruised to a jelly! I shall have a serious illness!"
"Nonsense! a man should not be so delicate! Just for a few blows with a cudgel!"
"A few blows? No, thanks, seigneur! they rained on my body like hail! If you had been beaten like that——"
"I would have defended myself! I would have killed two or three of the miserable lackeys!"
"Oh, yes! that would have been the finishing touch. I should have got myself into a pretty pickle! to trot off to the Châtelet or the Bastille, and rot there!"
"Nonsense! hold your peace and take this gold, which will heal your wounds."
"Thanks, seigneur! I certainly do need to buy medicines, ointments to rub my body."
"And before long you will be in condition to return to the marchioness's house."
"Return to the Hôtel de Santoval? Merciful heaven!"
And, waiting to hear no more, Bahuchet ran off as fast as his bruised legs allowed, and soon vanished from the count's sight.