“Par Dieu!” he swore between his teeth. “We’ll see the colour of your dirty blood, you that lay hands upon a gentleman.”
But before he could send home the weapon, before Garnache could move to defend himself, Valerie had slipped between them. Marius looked into her white, determined face, and was smitten with surprise. What was this hind to her that she should interfere at the risk of taking the sword herself?
Then a slow smile spread upon his face. He was smarting still under her disdain and resistance, as well as under a certain sense of the discomfiture this fellow had put upon him. He saw a way to hurt her, to abase her pride, and cut her to the very soul with shame.
“You are singularly concerned in this man’s life,” said he, an odious undercurrent of meaning in his voice.
“I would not have you murder him,” she answered, “for doing no more than madame your mother bade him.”
“I make no doubt he has proved a very excellent guard,” he sneered.
Even now all might have been well. With that insult Marius might consider that he had taken payment for the discomfiture he had suffered. He might have bethought him that, perhaps, as she said, “Battista” had done no more than observe the orders he had received—a trifle excessively, maybe, yet faithfully nevertheless. Thinking thus, he might even have been content to go his ways and take his fill of vengeance by slaying Florimond upon the morrow. But Garnache’s rash temper, rising anew, tore that last flimsy chance to shreds.
The insult that mademoiselle might overlook might even not have fully understood—set him afire with indignation for her sake. He forgot his role, forgot even that he had no French.
“Mademoiselle,” he cried, and she gasped in her affright at this ruinous indiscretion, “I beg that you will stand aside.” His voice was low and threatening, but his words were woefully distinct.
“Par la mort Dieu!” swore Marius, taken utterly aback. “What may your name be—you who hitherto have had no French?”