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!"