Only such would be lef' to you. Do you want it tol'?
And you can keep out of France, monsieur? I have lef' his service, but
I have still the ear of M. de Mirepoix, and he know' I never lie. Not a
gentleman will play you when you come to Paris."
The Englishman's white lip showed a row of scarlet dots upon it. "How
much do you want?" he said.
The room rang with the gay laughter of Beaucaire. "I hol' your note' for
seven-hunder' pound'. You can have them, monsieur. Why does a such great
man come to play M. Beaucaire? Because no one else willin' to play M.
le Duc--he cannot pay. Ha, ha! So he come' to good Monsieur Beaucaire.
Money, ha, ha! What I want with money?"
His Grace of Winterset's features were set awry to a sinister pattern.
He sat glaring at his companion in a snarling silence.
"Money? Pouf!" snapped the little gambler. "No, no, no! It is that M.
le Duc, impoverish', somewhat in a bad odor as he is, yet command the
entree any-where--onless I--Ha, ha! Eh, monsieur?"
"Ha! You dare think to force me--"
M. Beaucaire twirled the tip of his slender mustache around the end
of his white forefinger. Then he said: "Monsieur and me goin' to Lady
Malbourne's ball to-night--M. le Duc and me!"
The Englishman roared, "Curse your impudence!"
"Sit quiet. Oh, yes, that's all; we goin' together."
"No!"
"Certain. I make all my little plan'. 'Tis all arrange'.
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