the Baron de Clinchain is a perjurer, as proved by his own handwriting;
Ludovic has been tampered with, but my client, an honorable man, must
not be classed with these, etc., etc.' Have I made myself understood?"

Indeed, he had, and with such cold and merciless logic that it seemed
hopeless to expect to escape from the net that had been spread.

As these thoughts passed through the Count's brain, he saw at a glance
the whole terrible notoriety that the case would cause, and society
gloating over the details. Yet such was the obstinacy of his
disposition, and so impatient was he of control, that the more desperate
his position seemed, the fiercer was his resistance. He knew the world
well, and he also knew that the cutthroats who demanded his money with
threats had every reason to dread the lynx eye of the law. If he refused
to listen to them, as his heart urged him, perhaps they would not dare
to carry out their threats. Had he alone been concerned in the matter,
he would have resisted to the last, and fought it out to the last drop
of his blood, and as a preliminary, would have beaten the sneering rogue
before him to a jelly; but how dared he expose his friend Clinchain, who
had already braved so much for him? As he paced up and down the library,
these and many other thoughts swept across his brain, and he was
undecided whether to submit to these extortions or throw the agent out
of the window. His excited demeanor and the occasional interjections
that burst from his lips showed Mascarin that the account of him was
not exaggerated, and that when led by passion he would as soon shoot
a fellow-creature as a rabbit. And yet, though he knew not whether he
should make his exit by the door or the window, he sat twirling his
fingers with the most unconcerned air imaginable. At last the Count gave
ear to prudence. He stopped in front of the agent, and, taking no pains
to hide his contempt, said,--