“You smiled just now, madame, when it was intended to butcher a man before your eyes. You smile no longer, I observe, at this the first of the fine deeds I promised you.”
“Let him go,” she said, and her voice was scarce louder than a whisper, horror-laden. “Let him go, monsieur, if you would save your own neck.”
“At that price, yes—though, believe me, you are paying too much for so poor a life as this. Still, you value the thing, and I hold it; and so you’ll forgive me if I am extortionate.”
“Release him, and, in God’s name, go your ways. None shall stay you,” she promised him.
He smiled. “I’ll need some security for that. I do not choose to take your word for it, Madame de Condillac.”
“What security can I give you?” she cried, wringing her hands, her eyes on the boy’s ashen face ashen from mingling fear and rage—where it showed beyond Garnache’s heavy boot.
“Bid one of your knaves summon my servant. I left him awaiting me in the courtyard.”
The order was given, and one of the cut-throats departed.
In a tense and anxious silence they awaited his return, though he kept them but an instant.
Rabecque’s eyes took on a startled look when he had viewed the situation. Garnache called to him to deprive those present of their weapons.