Then he paced slowly back, not to the place he had lately occupied at table, but to the hearth, where he took his stand with his shoulders squared to the overmantel.
Fortunio came, fair-haired and fresh-complexioned as a babe, his supple, not ungraceful figure tawdrily clad in showy clothes of poor material the worse for hard usage and spilt wine.

The Countess bade him sit, and with her own hands she poured a cup of Anjou for him.
In some wonder, and, for all his ordinary self-possession, with a little awkwardness, the captain did her bidding, and with an apologetic air he took the seat she offered him.
He drank this wine, and here was a spell of silence till Marius, grown impatient, brutally put the thing for which the Marquise sought delicate words.
"We have sent for you, Fortunio," said he, in a blustering tone, "to inquire of you what price you'd ask to cut the throat of my brother, the Marquis de Condillac." The Seneschal sank back in his chair with a gasp.

The captain, a frown between his frank-seeming, wide-set eyes, started round to look at the boy.

The business was by no means too strong for the ruffler's stomach, but the words in which it was conveyed to him most emphatically were.
"Monsieur de Condillac," said he, with an odd assumption of dignity, "I think you have mistaken your man.

I am a soldier, not a cut-throat." "But yes," the Marquise soothed him, throwing herself instantly into the breach, and laying a long, slender hand upon the frayed green velvet of the captain's sleeve.