CHAPTER XXXV. "FLASKETS OF DRUGS, FULL TO THEIR WICKED LIPS."
La Corriveau took the ebony casket from her bosom and laid it solemnlyon the table. "Do not cross yourself," she exclaimed angrily as shesaw Angelique mechanically make the sacred sign. "There can come noblessings here. There is death enough in that casket to kill every manand woman in New France."
Angelique fastened her gaze upon the casket as if she would have drawnout the secret of its contents by the very magnetism of her eyes. Shelaid her hand upon it caressingly, yet tremblingly--eager, yet fearful,to see its contents.
"Open it!" cried La Corriveau, "press the spring, and you will see sucha casket of jewels as queens might envy. It was the wedding-gift ofBeatrice Spara, and once belonged to the house of Borgia--LucreziaBorgia had it from her terrible father; and he, from the prince ofdemons!"
Angelique pressed the little spring,--the lid flew open, and thereflashed from it a light which for the moment dazzled her eyes with itsbrilliancy. She thrust the casket from her in alarm, and retreated a fewsteps, imagining she smelt the odor of some deadly perfume.
"I dare not approach it," said she. "Its glittering terrifies me; itsodor sickens me."
"Tush! it is your weak imagination!" replied La Corriveau; "yoursickly conscience frightens you! You will need to cast off both to ridBeaumanoir of the presence of your rival! The aqua tofana in the handsof a coward is a gift as fatal to its possessor as to its victim."
Angelique with a strong effort tried to master her fear, but could not.She would not again handle the casket.
La Corriveau looked at her as if suspecting this display of weakness.She then drew the casket to herself and took out a vial, gilt and chasedwith strange symbols. It was not larger than the little finger of adelicate girl. Its contents glittered like a diamond in the sunshine.
La Corriveau shook it up, and immediately the liquid was filled witha million sparks of fire. It was the aqua tofana undiluted by mercy,instantaneous in its effect, and not medicable by any antidote. Onceadministered, there was no more hope for its victim than for the soulsof the damned who have received the final judgment. One drop of thatbright water upon the tongue of a Titan would blast him like Jove'sthunderbolt, would shrivel him up to a black, unsightly cinder!
This was the poison of anger and revenge that would not wait for time,and braved the world's justice. With that vial La Borgia killed herguests at the fatal banquet in her palace, and Beatrice Spara in herfury destroyed the fair Milanese who had stolen from her the heart ofAntonio Exili.
This terrible water was rarely used alone by the poisoners; but itformed the basis of a hundred slower potions which ambition, fear,avarice, or hypocrisy mingled with the element of time, and colored withthe various hues and aspects of natural disease.
Angelique sat down and leaned towards La Corriveau, supporting her chinon the palms of her hands as she bent eagerly over the table, drinkingin every word as the hot sand of the desert drinks in the water pouredupon it. "What is that?" said she, pointing to a vial as white as milkand seemingly as harmless.
"That," replied La Corriveau, "is the milk of mercy. It brings onpainless consumption and decay. It eats the life out of a man while themoon empties and fills once or twice. His friends say he dies of quickdecline, and so he does! ha! ha!--when his enemy wills it! The strongman becomes a skeleton, and blooming maidens sink into their gravesblighted and bloodless, with white lips and hearts that cease graduallyto beat, men know not why. Neither saint nor sacrament can arrest thedoom of the milk of mercy."
"This vial," continued she, lifting up another from the casket andreplacing the first, licking her thin lips with profound satisfactionas she did so,--"this contains the acrid venom that grips the heart likethe claws of a tiger, and the man drops down dead at the time appointed.Fools say he died of the visitation of God. The visitation of God!"repeated she in an accent of scorn, and the foul witch spat as shepronounced the sacred name. "Leo in his sign ripens the deadly nuts ofthe East, which kill when God will not kill. He who has this vial fora possession is the lord of life." She replaced it tenderly. It was afavorite vial of La Corriveau.
"This one," continued she, taking up another, "strikes with the deadpalsy; and this kindles the slow, inextinguishable fires of typhus. Hereis one that dissolves all the juices of the body, and the blood of aman's veins runs into a lake of dropsy. This," taking up a green vial,"contains the quintessence of mandrakes distilled in the alembic whenScorpio rules the hour. Whoever takes this liquid"--La Corriveau shookit up lovingly--"dies of torments incurable as the foul disease of lustwhich it simulates and provokes."
There was one vial which contained a black liquid like oil. "It is arelic of the past," said she, "an heir-loom from the Untori, the ointersof Milan. With that oil they spread death through the doomed city,anointing its doors and thresholds with the plague until the peopledied."
The terrible tale of the anointers of Milan has, since the days of LaCorriveau, been written in choice Italian by Manzoni, in whose wonderfulbook he that will may read it.
"This vial," continued the witch, "contains innumerable griefs, thatwait upon the pillows of rejected and heartbroken lovers, and the wisestphysician is mocked with lying appearances of disease that defy hisskill and make a fool of his wisdom."
"Oh, say no more!" exclaimed Angelique, shocked and terrified. Howeverinordinate in her desires, she was dainty in her ways. "It is like aSabbat of witches to hear you talk, La Corriveau!" cried she, "I willhave none of those foul things which you propose. My rival shall dielike a lady! I will not feast like a vampire on her dead body, nor shallyou. You have other vials in the casket of better hue and flavor.What is this?" continued Angelique, taking out a rose-tinted andcuriously-twisted bottle sealed on the top with the mystic pentagon."This looks prettier, and may be not less sure than the milk of mercy inits effect. What is it?"
"Ha! ha!" laughed the woman with her weirdest laugh. "Your wisdom isbut folly, Angelique des Meloises! You would kill, and still spare yourenemy! That was the smelling-bottle of La Brinvilliers, who took itwith her to the great ball at the Hotel de Ville, where she secretlysprinkled a few drops of it upon the handkerchief of the fair LouiseGauthier, who, the moment she put it to her nostrils, fell dead upon thefloor. She died and gave no sign, and no man knew how or why! But shewas the rival of Brinvilliers for the love of Gaudin de St. Croix,and in that she resembles the lady of Beaumanoir, as you do LaBrinvilliers!"
"And she got her reward! I would have done the same thing for the samereason! What more have you to relate of this most precious vial of yourcasket?" asked Angelique.
"That its virtue is unimpaired. Three drops sprinkled upon a bouquet offlowers, and its odor breathed by man or woman, causes a sudden swoonfrom which there is no awakening more in this world. People feel nopain, but die smiling as if angels had kissed away their breath. Is itnot a precious toy, Mademoiselle?"
"Oh, blessed vial!" exclaimed Angelique, pressing it to her lips, "thouart my good angel to kiss away the breath of the lady of Beaumanoir! Sheshall sleep on roses, La Corriveau, and you shall make her bed!"
"It is a sweet death, befitting one who dies for love, or is killed bythe jealousy of a dainty rival," replied the witch; "but I like bestthose draughts which are most bitter and not less sure."
"The lady of Beaumanoir will not be harder to kill than LouiseGauthier," replied Angelique, watching the glitter of the vial in thelamplight. "She is unknown even to the servants of the Chateau; nor willthe Intendant himself dare to make public either her life or death inhis house."
"Are you sure, Mademoiselle, that the Intendant will not dare to makepublic the death of that woman in the Chateau?" asked La Corriveau, withintense eagerness; that consideration was an important link of the chainwhich she was forging.
"Sure? yes, I am sure by a hundred tokens!" said Angelique, with an airof triumph. "He dare not even banish her for my sake, lest the secretof her concealment at Beaumanoir become known. We can safely risk his
displeasure, even should he suspect that I have cut the knot he knew nothow to untie."
"You are a bold girl!" exclaimed La Corriveau, looking on heradmiringly, "you are worthy to wear the crown of Cleopatra, the queen ofall the gypsies and enchantresses. I shall have less fear now to do yourbidding, for you have a stronger spirit than mine to support you."
"'Tis well, La Corriveau! Let this vial of Brinvilliers bring me thegood fortune I crave, and I will fill your lap with gold. If the lady ofBeaumanoir shall find death in a bouquet of flowers, let them be roses!"
"But how and where to find roses? they have ceased blooming," said LaCorriveau, hating Angelique's sentiment, and glad to find an objectionto it.
"Not for her, La Corriveau; fate is kinder than you think!" Angeliquethrew back a rich curtain and disclosed a recess filled with pots ofblooming roses and flowers of various hues. "The roses are blooming herewhich will form the bouquet of Beaumanoir."
"You are of rare ingenuity, Mademoiselle," replied La Corriveau,admiringly. "If Satan prompts you not, it is because he can teach younothing either in love or stratagem."
"Love!" replied Angelique quickly, "do not name that! No! I havesacrificed all love, or I should not be taking counsel of La Corriveau!"
Angelique's thoughts flashed back upon Le Gardeur for one regretfulmoment. "No, it is not love," continued she, "but the duplicity of a manbefore whom I have lowered my pride. It is the vengeance I have vowedupon a woman for whose sake I am trifled with! It is that prompts me tothis deed! But no matter, shut up the casket, La Corriveau; we will talknow of how and when this thing is to be done."
The witch shut up her infernal casket of ebony, leaving the vial ofBrinvilliers shining like a ruby in the lamplight upon the polishedtable.
The two women sat down, their foreheads almost touching together, withtheir eyes flashing in lurid sympathy as they eagerly discussed theposition of things in the Chateau. The apartments of Caroline, the hoursof rest and activity, were all well known to Angelique, who had adroitlyfished out every fact from the unsuspecting Fanchon Dodier, as had alsoLa Corriveau.
It was known to Angelique that the Intendant would be absent fromthe city for some days, in consequence of the news from France. Theunfortunate Caroline would be deprived of the protection of his vigilanteye.
The two women sat long arranging and planning their diabolical scheme.There was no smile upon the cheek of Angelique now. Her dimples, whichdrove men mad, had disappeared. Her lips, made to distil words sweeterthan honey of Hybla, were now drawn together in hard lines like LaCorriveau's,--they were cruel and untouched by a single trace of mercy.
The hours struck unheeded on the clock in the room, as it ticked louderand louder like a conscious monitor beside them. Its slow finger hadmarked each wicked thought, and recorded for all time each murderousword as it passed their cruel lips.
La Corriveau held the casket in her lap with an air of satisfaction, andsat with eyes fixed on Angelique, who was now silent.
"Water the roses well, Mademoiselle," said she; "in three days I shallbe here for a bouquet, and in less than thrice three days I promise youthere shall be a dirge sung for the lady of Beaumanoir."
"Only let it be done soon and surely," replied Angelique,--her very tonegrew harsh,--"but talk no more of it; your voice sounds like a cry froma dark gallery that leads to hell. Would it were done! I could then shutup the memory of it in a tomb of silence, forever, forever, and wash myhands of a deed done by you, not me!"
"A deed done by you, not me!" She repeated the words, as if repeatingthem made them true. She would shut up the memory of her crime forever;she reflected not that the guilt is in the evil intent, and the sin thesame before God even if the deed be never done.
Angelique was already an eager sophist. She knew better than thewretched creature whom she had bribed with money, how intensely wickedwas the thing she was tempting her to do; but her jealousy maddened her,and her ambition could not let her halt in her course.
There was one thought which still tormented her "What would theIntendant think? What would he say should he suspect her of the murderof Caroline?" She feared his scrutinizing investigation; but, trustingin her power, she risked his suspicions, nay, remembering his words,made him in her own mind an accessory in the murder.
If she remembered Le Gardeur de Repentigny at all at this moment, it wasonly to strangle the thought of him. She shied like a horse on the brinkof a precipice when the thought of Le Gardeur intruded itself. Risingsuddenly, she bade La Corriveau be gone about her business, lest sheshould be tempted to change her mind.
La Corriveau laughed at the last struggle of dying conscience, and badeAngelique go to bed. It was two hours past midnight, and she would bidFanchon let her depart to the house of an old crone in the city whowould give her a bed and a blessing in the devil's name.
Angelique, weary and agitated, bade her be gone in the devil's name, ifshe preferred a curse to a blessing. The witch, with a mocking laugh,rose and took her departure for the night.
Fanchon, weary of waiting, had fallen asleep. She roused herself,offering to accompany her aunt in hopes of learning something of herinterview with her mistress. All she got was a whisper that the jewelswere found. La Corriveau passed out into the darkness, and plodded herway to the house of her friend, where she resolved to stay until sheaccomplished the secret and cruel deed she had undertaken to perform.