TWO GREAT VILLAINS
Meanwhile, things being thus arranged, Sainte-Croix and Lachaussée
left the guard, and proceeded to the Rue des Bernardines, where Gaudin
still resided. On arriving at his chamber, whither they passed
unnoticed, Gaudin complained of cold; and, in effect, the evening was
damp and chilly. At his wish, the other fanned the embers of the
fireplace into a flame with his hat, and his so-called master then
produced a flask of wine, which he placed on the table with some
glasses.
‘There is some of the best hock,’ said he, ‘that the Rhine ever
produced. Drink--you need some wine after your late adventure. Fear
not a long draught--a cask of it would not hurt you.’
‘You will drink with me?’ asked Lachaussée, as Sainte-Croix filled a
glass for his companion, and then replaced the bottle on the table.
‘Not now,’ replied Gaudin. ‘I have to play to-night, and must keep my
head cool. A little water will quench my thirst.’
‘Here’s to our renewed acquaintanceship, then, _mon capitaine_,’ said
Lachaussée, as he raised the glass. But before touching its contents
with his lips, as if struck by some sudden thought, he held the glass
between his eyes and the lamp, and then, replacing it on the table,
took a small set of tablets from his pocket and pulled from them a
leaf of white paper.
‘What are you going to do?’ inquired Sainte-Croix.
‘Nothing,’ replied Lachaussée, ‘beyond using a common precaution in
these treacherous times. I do not mistrust you; but you know not who
is about you.’
As he was speaking, he dipped the slip of paper into the wine. The
effect was instantaneous--the white was changed to a bright scarlet.
Sainte-Croix uttered a feigned exclamation of surprise.
‘Poison!’ he cried, as he saw the change.
‘Ay--poison,’ repeated Lachaussée calmly. ‘Did I not well before I
drank? It was doubtless intended for you, Monsieur Gaudin. Your cups
are evidently not of Venice glass, or they would have shivered at its
contact.’
‘This shall be looked into,’ said Gaudin, as he threw the remainder
into the fireplace--‘and closely. But, at present, to business.’
‘Ay, to business,’ answered the other, as a most sinister smile passed
across his ill-favoured countenance--the result of what had just
occurred.
‘I have something to propose to you,’ said Gaudin, ‘if you feel
inclined to join me in the venture. We have worked together before,
and you know me.’
‘I do,’ answered Lachaussée, with meaning emphasis, as he glanced at
the drinking-glass. ‘We can both be trusted to the same extent, for we
are in each other’s hands.’
‘You allude to Milan,’ observed Sainte-Croix.
‘No,’ replied the other coldly; ‘to the château of M. d’Aubray at
Offemont.’
‘A truce to this recrimination,’ said Gaudin. ‘Hear what I have to
say. M. d’Aubray is dead--how, it matters not--and buried. One hundred
and fifty thousand livres were to have been the legacy to his
daughter, Madame de Brinvilliers, and, what was perhaps more, her
absolute freedom to act as she pleased. The money has passed to her
brothers, in trust for her, and she is entirely under their
surveillance. This must be altered.’
‘And you would have me assist you?’
‘On consideration of paying you one-fifth of whatever possessions
might fall to the Marchioness thereupon. Do you agree to this?’
‘Go on,’ was Lachaussée’s reply, ‘and tell me the means.’
‘Ay--the means--there lies the difficulty,’ said Sainte-Croix. ‘What
think you of----?’
There was a minute of silence, as they regarded each other with fixed
intensity, waiting for the suggestion. Plunged as they were in the
dregs of crime, they hesitated to unfold their plan, although they
knew there was but one scheme intended. Lachaussée was the first who
spoke.
‘Diseases are hereditary,’ said he. ‘The present lieutenant-civil, and
his brother the councillor, might follow their father to the cemetery,
which keeps the secrets of its occupants even better than the
Bastille.’
‘We are agreed,’ observed Gaudin; ‘but some care and patience will be
necessary. Of course there is a barrier between the brothers of Madame
de Brinvilliers and myself that must for ever prevent our meeting. I
will provide the means, and you their application.’
‘I care not if I do,’ answered Lachaussée. ‘But what assurance have I
that you will fulfil your part of our intent? Our words are breaths of
air--our souls are no longer our own to deal with.’
‘You shall have a fair and written compact on your own part,’ said
Gaudin; ‘on mine, I have still your letter after the affair at Milan.’
He rose to depart as he uttered these words; and, when he had quitted
the room, Gaudin threw himself into a fauteuil and was for a time
wrapt in silence. Then divesting himself of his upper garments, he put
on a dingy working-dress, corroded into holes, and black with the
smoke and dirt of a laboratory, and passing into an adjoining chamber,
fitted up with a chemical apparatus as if for the study of
alchemy--the outward pretext which most of the disciples of Tofana
adopted to veil their proceedings--he applied himself to work with the
most intense application. Certain as the action was of the poisons he
had hitherto used, defying all attempts to trace their existence,
except of those who had created them, yet they appeared too slow for
the projects he was conceiving; and he was now commencing a series of
experiments upon the properties of the deadly elements in his
possession, before the results of which the achievements of Spara and
Tofana fell into insignificance.