Sainte-Croix gazed at her with a gloomy and meaning smile. ‘This time,’ he said, ‘the suggestion is yours. Be it so: there will be no blood spilled, at all events; and we may rid ourselves of one who, whilst he lives, must ever be a serpent in our path. Is Henri with him?’
‘He is,’ answered Marie.
‘There is enough for two,’ muttered Sainte-Croix, who had taken a phial from its compartment, and was holding it up to the light of the candle.
‘Must Henri die too?’ said the Marchioness. ‘He is so young—so gay—has been so kind to me. We were almost playmates.’
And a trace of emotion passed over her brow.
‘Both or neither,’ replied Sainte-Croix; ‘decide at once. I shall await your determination.’
And he seated himself at the table, coolly humming the burden of a chanson à boire.
There was a fearful struggle in Marie’s mind. But the fiend triumphed, and no agitation was perceptible in her voice when, after a moment’s reflection, she replied, ‘Both.’
‘Now for an agent in the work. You cannot trust any of your own domestics. I foresaw something like this, and have brought my instrument,’ said Gaudin. He rose, and drawing aside the curtain beckoned from the window. The signal was answered by a cough from below, and followed by the appearance of Lachaussée, who had evidently expected the summons. He clumsily greeted the Marchioness, and dropping his hat awaited Gaudin’s orders.
‘Let Françoise find a livery of your brothers’ people, and give it to this honest fellow, Marie,’ said Sainte-Croix.