I and my wife have his secrets even as you, most noble Sire de Sille, possess those of my new master.

You, or he either, by God's grace, will think twice before cutting my throat.

Moreover, you will be good enough at this point to state your business or get to bed.

For I am off to mine.

I serve my master, but I am not compelled to spend the night parleying with his lacqueys." Now the concierges of Paris are very free and independent personages, and their tongues are accustomed to wag freely and to some purpose in their heads.
"Whither has my master gone ?" asked de Sille, curbing his wrath in order to get an answer.
"He _said_ that he went to Tiffauges.