‘I will reply by putting another question,’ said Exili; ‘where did you get this mineral?’
‘I have had it many years; let that suffice. Now, I claim to know the import of your speech.’
‘You may yet triumph,’ repeated the Italian; ‘and by my means alone. I am not, you see, the enemy you thought me. Again, I say, wait until to-morrow.’
‘Nay, to-night,’ exclaimed Sainte-Croix. ‘I beseech you tell me what you mean.’
‘The charm may be broken,’ continued the other; ‘it is not yet time.’
The manner of the physician had worked upon Sainte-Croix’s curiosity strangely. He again implored to know what the other alluded to.
‘To-night—now—this instant!’ he exclaimed.
‘I will gratify you,’ replied Exili. ‘To-morrow they will bring me my chemical glasses from the boat-mill, together with such dull elements as the ground yields—simple and harmless—in order, as they suppose, that I may practise alchemy. Fools! they little know the change that paltry lamp can work in innocuous earths.’
‘What do you propose to do?’ asked Sainte-Croix.
‘To put you in possession of all I know myself,’ continued Exili, ‘and bring Marie de Brinvilliers once more near you, unquestioned, undisturbed. Seek no further. The life and death of those you love or hate shall be alike within your grasp. The destroying angel shall become your slave, and go abroad, obedient to your will alone. Your bosom should now harbour but one thought—and that must be revenge.’