“Now the mask, Mathurin,” said Count Cleudi. One corner of his lip twitched (the black eyes glinting with malice). He seemed as light and strong as one of those bronze statues of the winged man, knuckles resting on the table. His own costume was a rich purple, as he glanced from the mirror to Rodvard’s face, masked down to the lower cheeks, but with the lips bare. “The chin is much alike. Turn around, Bergelin, slowly, pivoting on the ball of the right foot. So.” He lifted his own right arm, slightly bent, dropped his left hand to dagger-hilt, and illustrated. Rodvard tried to follow him. “Not quite right with the dagger; you are jerky. But you will hardly be dancing a corabando. Have the goodness to walk across the room. Stand. Mathurin, where does he lack the resemblance?” The servant’s fingers came up to his lip. “The voice is almost perfect, my lord, but there is something in the movement of the hands not quite . . .” “It is only birth that does it,” said Cleudi. “The wrist laces; he is not very used to handling them. But for the rest, Bergelin, you were born a most accomplished mimic and swindler. Remind me to dismiss you before your natural talent is turned in my direction. Now the instruction; repeat.” “I am to be at the ball when the opera is over, at least a glass before midnight. The fourth box on the left-hand side is yours. I am to look at the doorbase of the second box, where a handkerchief will be caught. If it is white, edged with lace, perfumed with honeymusk, I am to go below and make myself seen at the gaming tables. But if the handkerchief is blue and rose-perfumed, I am to take it away and leave in its place another; then without being seen on the dancing floor or at the games, go at once to my lord’s box, but leave the panels up and the curtains closed. Someone will presently tap twice, a lady. I am to greet her with my lord’s sonnet, eat with her; declare my passion for her . . . My lord?” “Yes?” “What if—that is—I would—” Cleudi shot him a gleam (containing amusement mingled with a little dark shade of cruelty and the thought of shaming him with the full statement of his quaver). “You want money, apprentice swindler? You should—” “No, my lord, it is not that, but—.” The Count’s toe tapped, his expression became a rictus, and Rodvard rushed on with heat at the back of his neck. “What if the intrigue does not succeed, that is if you do not appear in time—” The rictus became a bark. “Ha—why, then you must suffer the horrid fate of being alone in a secluded apartment with the shapeliest and most willing woman in Dossola. Are you impotent?” Rodvard half opened his mouth to protest in stumbling words that he was a promised man, who thought it less than honest to violate his given word, but Mathurin tittered and (the stream of hate and fury that flowed from those black eyes!) he only made a small sound. Cleudi barked again: