and, averting his eyes in shame, seeing now all the littleness, all the
baseness of his position, "Has he--married her?" he continued.

"Ho, ho!" she cried in triumph. "I've hit you now, have I, Monsieur?
I've hit you!" And mocking him, "Has he--married her?" she lisped. "No;
but he will marry her, have no fear of that! He will marry her. He
waits but to get a priest. Would you like to see what he says?" she
continued, playing with him as a cat plays with a mouse. "I had a note
from him yesterday. Would you like to see how welcome you'll be at the
wedding?" And she flaunted a piece of paper before his eyes.

"Give it me," he said.

She let him seize it the while she shrugged her shoulders. "It's your
affair, not mine," she said. "See it if you like, and keep it if you
like. Cousin Hannibal wastes few words."

That was true, for the paper contained but a dozen or fifteen words, and
an initial by way of signature.

"I may need your shaveling to-morrow afternoon. Send him, and
Tignonville in safeguard if he come.--H."

"I can guess what use he has for a priest," she said. "It is not to
confess him, I warrant. It's long, I fear, since Hannibal told his
beads."

M. de Tignonville swore. "I would I had the confessing of him!" he said
between his teeth.