s.

The mercenary, meanwhile, stood blandly smiling at the party, showing at
least a fine array of teeth, and wearing the patient, attentive air of
one who realizes himself to be under discussion, yet does not understand
what is being said.

"A countryman of yours, Fortunio?" sneered Marius.

The captain, whose open, ingenuous countenance dissembled as
villainous a heart as ever beat in the breast of any man, disowned the
compatriotism with a smile.

"Hardly, monsieur," said he. "'Battista' is a Piedmontese." Fortunio
himself was a Venetian.

"Is he to be relied upon, think you?" asked madame. Fortunio shrugged
his shoulders and spread his hands. It was not his habit to trust any
man inordinately.

"He is an old soldier," said he. "He has trailed a pike in the
Neapolitan wars. I have cross-questioned him, and found his answers bore
out the truth of what he said."

"And what brings him to France?" asked Tressan. The captain smiled
again, and there came again that expressive shrug of his. "A little
over-ready with the steel," said he.

They told Fortunio that they proposed to place him sentry over
mademoiselle instead of Gilles, as the Italian's absolute lack of French
would ensure against corruption. The captain readily agreed with them.
It would be a wise step. The Italian fingered his tattered hat, his eyes
on the ground.

Suddenly madame spoke to him. She asked him for some account of himself
and whence he came, using the Italian tongue, of which she had a passing
knowledge. He followed her questions very attentively, at times with
apparent difficulty, his eyes on her face, his head craned a little
forward.

Now and then Fortunio had to intervene, to make plainer to this ignorant
Piedmontese mind the Marquise's questions. His answers came in a
deep, hoarse voice, slurred by the accent of Piedmont, and madame--her
knowledge of Italian being imperfect--had frequently to have recourse to
Fortunio to discover the meaning of what he said.

At last she dismissed the pair of them, bidding the captain see that he
was washed and more fittingly clothed.

An hour later, after the Seneschal had taken his departure to ride home
to Grenoble, it was madame herself, accompanied by Marius and Fortunio,
who conducted Battista--such was the name the Italian had given--to
the apartments above, where mademoiselle was now confined practically a
prisoner.

CHAPTER XI. VALERIE'S GAOLER

My child, said the Dowager,