He fixed his eyes upon D’Aubray with such a terrible expression that François firmly believed the power rested in them which he vaunted. He returned no answer, but stretched out his hand for the small phial that Exili held towards him.
‘Now seek the fairest dame galante that you can find, who would have an officer of the Normandy cavalry for her lover, and bid her drink it—fearlessly, for it is harmless. Gaudin de Sainte-Croix will be in her toils from that instant. The whirlpool of passion will drag him round faster and faster in its eddies, until he is lost; for in perdition alone can an attachment formed on passion end.’
‘Is there any one above another to whom I should give the draught?’ asked D’Aubray.
‘’Tis immaterial,’ replied Exili; ‘there is no lack of such beauties at present in our gay city. Seek, if to-morrow be fine, and you will find a score upon the Pont Neuf to serve your turn. If not, Marotte Dupré, La Duménil, La Varenne—pshaw! even Montespan herself, in all the plumage of her last triumph, if you choose to fly at such high game.’
D’Aubray placed some pieces of gold on the table, and rose to depart, taking the potion with him. Exili also got up from the seat at the same time, as he said—
‘Stay—let me light you down. The stairs are old and crumbling, and the passage obscure.’
He took the lamp from the table, and, preceding his guest, led the way down the staircase. As they reached the street door he said hurriedly to D’Aubray—
‘Your hatred of Sainte-Croix cannot be deadlier, fiercer than my own. Be satisfied with knowing that, should the philtre fail, his days are numbered.’
He watched the retreating form of François d’Aubray until it was lost in the obscurity of the Rue de l’Hirondelle, and then returned back to his apartment.
Sainte-Croix had emerged from his place of concealment, and was now conversing with Lachaussée. Their talk ceased suddenly as Exili entered; but there was an air of excitement about both, as though they had been engaged in a warm, though brief argument. Gaudin’s face was flushed, his brow knit, and his breathing forcible and hurried; whilst Lachaussée was compressing his under-lip forcibly against his teeth, as he caressed the mastiff with his foot—merely, however, with the pretence of doing something, for his eye was fixed on Sainte-Croix with no very bland expression.