Geveaux’s left foot found the stirrup. He heaved himself into the saddle as if he was trying to jump all the way over it. He clutched Francois’ sword hand with both hands and forced it upward.
“Draw it, damn you! Draw it!”
Francois’ horse staggered into the roadway. Francois stared at the oncoming carriage as if he was recovering from a five day debauch.
“Get it done!” Geveaux bellowed. “It’s your last chance. Do you want to spend the rest of your life eating potato soup and pronging the oldest w***e in some pox-infested village?”
The sword had been a relatively dainty weapon in the era in which it had been fashioned. To modern eyes, it looked like a heavy, business-like cavalry brawler—an odd sight on the belt of a gentlemen who looked like he would be more at ease with a court sword
