In a business of this kind, he knew from
experience, the more difficulties he advanced, the better a bargain
he drove in the end; and if he was to be persuaded to risk his neck in
this, he should want good payment. But even for good payment on this
occasion he was none too sure as yet that he would let himself be
persuaded.

"Monsieur Fortunio," the Marquise said, very softly, "heed not Monsieur
Marius's words. Attend to me. The Marquis de Condillac, as no doubt you
will have learned for yourself, is lying at La Rochette. Now it happens
that he is noxious to us--let the reasons be what they may. We need a
friend to put him out of our way. Will you be that friend?"

"You will observe," sneered Marius, "how wide a difference there is
between what the Marquise suggests and my own frank question of what
price you would take to cut my brother's throat."

"I observe no difference, which is what you would say," Fortunio
answered truculently, his head well back, his brown eyes resentful
of offence--for none can be so resentful of imputed villainy as your
villain who is thorough-paced. "And," he concluded, "I return you the
same answer, madame--that I am no cut-throat."

She repressed her anger at Marius's sneering interference, and made a
little gesture of dismay with her eloquent white hands.

"But we do not ask you to cut a throat."

"I have heard amiss, then," said he, his insolence abating nothing.

"You have heard aright, but you have understood amiss. There are other
ways of doing these things. If it were but the cutting of a throat,
should we have sent for you? There are a dozen in the garrison would
have sufficed for our purpose."

"What is it, then, you need?" quoth he.

"We want an affair contrived with all decency. The Marquis is at the
Sanglier Noir at La Rochette. You can have no difficulty in finding
him, and having found him, less difficulty still in giving or provoking
insult."

"Excellent," murmured Marius from the background. "It is such an
enterprise as should please a ready swordsman of your calibre,
Fortunio."

"A duel?" quoth the fellow, and his insolence went out of him, thrust
out by sheer dismay; his mouth fell open. A duel was another affair
altogether. "But, Sangdieu! what if he should slay me? Have you thought
of that?"

"Slay you?" cried the Marquise, her eyes resting on his face with an
expression as of wonder at such a question. "You jest, Fortunio."

"And he with the fever," put