“I think—I’m not sure—but I definitely think, that this is the most generous decision I have yet heard.”
“Do me this favor then in return: until we know Westley’s intentions, one way or another, let us continue as we have, so the festivities will not be halted. And if I seem too fond of you, remember that I cannot help myself.”
“Agreed,” Buttercup said, going to the door, but not before she kissed his cheek.
He followed her. “Off with you now and write your letter,” and he returned the kiss, smiling with his eyes at her until the corridor curved her from his sight. There was no doubt whatsoever in his mind that he was going to seem too fond of her in the days ahead. Because when she died of murder on their wedding night, it was crucial that all Florin realize the depth of his love, the epochal size of his loss, since then no one would dare hesitate to follow him in the revenge war he was to launch against Guilder.
At first, when he hired the Sicilian, he was convinced it was best that someone else do her in, all the while making it appear the work of soldiers from Guilder. And when the man in black had somehow materialized to spoil his plans, the Prince came close to going insane with rage. But now his basically optimistic nature had reasserted itself: everything always worked out for the best. The people were infatuated with Buttercup now as they had never been before her kidnapping. And when he announced from his castle balcony that she had been murdered—he already saw the scene in his mind: he would arrive just too late to save her from strangling but soon enough to see the Guilderian soldiers leaping from the window of his bedroom to the soft ground below—when he made that speech to the masses on the five hundredth anniversary of his country, well, there wouldn’t be a dry eye in the Square. And although he was just the least bit perturbed, since he had never actually killed a woman before with his bare hands, there was a first time for everything. Besides, if you wanted something done right, you did it yourself.
That night, they began to torture Westley. Count Rugen did the actual pain inducing; the Prince simply sat by, asking questions out loud, inwardly admiring the Count’s skill.
The Count really cared about pain. The whys behind the screams interested him fully as much as the anguish itself. And whereas the Prince spent his life in physically following the hunt, Count Rugen read and studied anything he could get his hands on dealing with the subject of Distress.
“All right now,” the Prince said to Westley, who lay in the great fifth-level cage; “before we begin, I want you to answer me this: have you any complaints about your treatment thus far?”
“None whatever,” Westley replied, and in truth he had none. Oh, he might have preferred being unchained a bit now and then, but if you were to be a captive, you couldn’t ask for more than he had been given. The albino’s medical ministrations had been precise, and his shoulder was fine again; the food the albino brought had always been hot and nourishing, the wine and brandy wonderfully warming against the dankness of the underground cage.
“You feel fit, then?” the Prince went on.
“I assume my legs are a little stiff from being chained, but other than that, yes.”
“Good. Then I promise you this as God himself is my witness: answer the next question and I will set you free this night. But you must answer it honestly, fully, withholding nothing. If you lie, I will know. And then I’ll loose the Count on you.”
“I have nothing to hide,” Westley said. “Ask away.”
“Who hired you to kidnap the Princess? It was someone from Guilder. We found fabric indicating as much on the Princess’s horse. Tell me that man’s name and you are free. Speak.”