‘Sorcery is still thriving,’ said the latter personage, ‘and we have had a good day. Here are twelve pistoles from the Demoiselle La Varenne, who came to-day suspicious of her new patron, M. Chanralon, the Archbishop of Paris. He has taken up with the Marchioness of Gourville.’
‘The sister of the maréchal?’ asked Exili.
‘The same. Ho! ho! ours is a brave court!’ continued the other with a derisive laugh. ‘Better be magician than superintendent at the Gobelins. Here is a piece of gold from the same clique. Pierre-Pont, the lieutenant of the Gardes-du-corps, is crazy with jealousy for La Varenne. He came to-day for a philtre: he will come for poison next.’
‘Hush!’ exclaimed Exili; ‘the very echoes linger about these walls to repeat themselves to the next comers. I find liberty too sweet to run the chance of another sojourn in the Bastille, where Sainte-Croix would too gladly see me—curses wither him!’
‘He will be here to-night,’ replied Lachaussée—for such was Exili’s companion—‘to have his wound dressed. M. François d’Aubray is an expert swordsman, and the Captain found his match on the terrain last night.’
The ex-superintendent alluded to a duel which had been fought on the preceding night on a lonely piece of waste-ground behind Notre Dame, frequently chosen for such engagements from the facility of escape which the river on all sides afforded. Gaudin had met the brother of the Marchioness—the result of the rencontre at Versailles—and had been wounded. He had taken Lachaussée with him as an attendant; for that person, since the affair in the catacombs of the Bièvre, had been leading but a sorry life during Gaudin’s imprisonment, and was now assisting Exili in professing the art and mystery of a sorcerer. The cause of the Italian’s release from the Bastille was never publicly stated, though many knew it. Threatened revelations, which would deeply have affected those high in position in Paris, procured his discharge within a few days of Sainte-Croix’s liberation; and once more thrown upon the world of the great city, he had, under his old cloak of an alchemist, set up for a magician. He had encountered Lachaussée ready to assist him, or to avail himself, in fact, of any chance of livelihood that might turn up; and linked together as they, in a measure, were, by the affair of the Croce Bianca at Milan, they had become trusty partners; for the bondages of crime, despite the evil natures of the allies, are firmer than those of honour and friendship. Exili, with the deeply-vindictive and unforgiving disposition of his countrymen, desired only to be revenged upon Gaudin for his arrest and confinement; and Lachaussée, knowing that he was in the power of Sainte-Croix as long as the letter announcing the crime at Milan was in his possession, was equally anxious for his downfall. More than once he had counselled Exili to instil some poison into the wound as he dressed it, that might have induced an agonising death. But the Italian patiently awaited his time to pounce, as an eagle would have done, upon his prey. He wished to play with his victim, secretly sure that he would eventually fall miserably, through his agency—and not alone.
‘Twenty crowns more,’ said Lachaussée, as he swept the remaining pieces of coin into the chest, ‘and that from the armourer’s wife of the Place Dauphin to show her the devil! It is lucky her courage did not fail her until after she had paid her money. We should else have been terribly put to our wits to exhibit his highness.’
‘Unless our interest with M. de Sainte-Croix could have produced Madame de Brinvilliers,’ answered Exili, as a ghastly smile flitted over his sallow countenance—a dull and transient sunbeam playing upon the face of a corpse.
‘And we shall have more money still,’ said Lachaussée, taking no notice of Exili’s speech. ‘I know two customers who will come after curfew this evening. Witchcraft is flourishing.’
‘The infernal powers grant that it may not turn round upon us,’ said Exili. ‘Recollect, within four days of each other, that César and Ruggieri were both strangled by the devil—at least, so goes the story.’