_On n’a jamais bon marché de mauvaise marchandise._
In a little we were installed in comfortable rooms.
“Now order wine,” I said, “and we will drink.”
I sipped, while he sat on a stool at my feet, soothing the weariness
from them with a touch that was only my monster’s. The Chianti and the
sorcery of his hand began to drug me.
“Drink you too,” I murmured.
He reached for his glass.
“To whom?” he said. “What are we now? It makes no difference; only I
must know.”
“Death to all republics,” I cried, “and long life to the King of
Naples!”
“Ah!” he said, between a groan and a sigh. “Well--the poor child--you
have cast her off, I suppose,” and he drained his glass.