His captor
smiled brightly, and made a slight gesture, as one who brushes aside
a boisterous insect. With the same motion he quelled to stony quiet a
resentful impetus of his servants toward the Englishman.
"It's murder, is it, you carrion!" finished the Duke.
M. Beaucaire lifted his shoulders in a mock shiver. "What words! No, no,
no! No killing! A such word to a such host! No, no, not mur-r-der; only
disgrace!" He laughed a clear, light laugh with a rising inflection,
seeming to launch himself upon an adventurous quest for sympathy.
"You little devilish scullion!" spat out the Duke.
"Tut, tut! But I forget. Monsieur has pursue' his studies of deportment
amongs' his fellow-countrymen.
"Do you dream a soul in Bath will take your word that I--that I--"
"That M. le Duc de Winterset had a card up his sleeve?"
"You pitiful stroller, you stableboy, born in a stable--"
"Is it not an honor to be born where monsieur must have been bred?"
"You scurvy foot-boy, you greasy barber, you cutthroat groom--"
"Overwhelm'!" The young man bowed with imperturbable elation. "M. le Duc
appoint' me to all the office' of his househol'."
"You mustachioed fool, there are not five people of quality in Bath will
speak to you--"
"No, monsieur, not on the parade; but how many come to play with me
here? Because I will play always, night or day, for what one will, for
any long, and always fair, monsieur.
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