Count Hannibal

Tavannes scanned the man shrewdly. "Perhaps she is of the same way of

thinking?" he said.

The Provost started, and lost one half of his colour. "God forbid!" he

cried, "saving Madame's presence! Who says so, my lord, lies!"

"Ay, lies not far from the truth."

"My lord!"

"Pish, man, Lescot has said it, and will act on it. And Thuriot, who

prints for the University! Would you 'scape them? You would? Then

listen to me. I want but two things. First, how many men has

Montsoreau's fellow in the Castle? Few, I know, for he is a niggard, and

if he spends, he spends the Duke's pay."

"Twelve. But five can hold it."

"Ay, but twelve dare not leave it! Let them stew in their own broth! And

now for the other matter. See, man, that before daybreak three gibbets,

with a ladder and two ropes apiece, are set up in the square. And let

one be before this door. You understand? Then let it be done! The

rest," he added with a ferocious smile, "you may leave to me."

The magistrate nodded rather feebly. "Doubtless," he said, his eye

wandering here and there, "there are rogues in Angers. And for rogues

the gibbet! But saving your presence, my lord, it is a question

whether--"

But M. de Tavannes' patience was exhausted. "Will you do it?" he roared.

"That is the question. And the only question."

The Provost jumped, he was so startled. "Certainly, my lord, certainly!"

he muttered humbly. "Certainly, I will!" And bowing frequently, but

saying no more, he backed himself out of the room.

Count Hannibal laughed grimly after his fashion, and doubtless thought

that he had seen the last of the magistrate for that night. Great was

his wrath, therefore, when, less than a minute later--and before Bigot

had carved for him--the door opened, and the Provost appeared again. He

slid in, and without giving the courage he had gained on the stairs time

to cool, plunged into his trouble.

"It stands this way, M. le Comte," he bleated. "If I put up the gibbets

and a man is hanged, and you have letters from the King, 'tis a rogue the

less, and no harm done. But if you have no letters from His Majesty,

then it is on my shoulders they will put it, and 'twill be odd if they do

not find a way to hang me to right him."

Count Hannibal smiled grimly. "And your sister's son?" he sneered. "And

your girl who is white-faced for his sake, and may burn on the same

bonfire with him? And--"

"Mercy! Mercy!" the wretched Provost cried. And he wrung his hands.

"Lescot and Thuriot--"

"Perhaps we may hang Lescot and Thuriot--"

"But I see no way out," the Provost babbled. "No way! No way!"