‘Now, good mistress—your business,’ said the assistant; ‘for I have little time to spare. A sharp appetite hurries labour more than a sharp overseer; and my stomach keeps time better than the bell of Notre Dame.’
‘I wished to purchase something,’ returned the girl.
‘Ah! you are too late—we have nought left but holy pebbles to keep steeds from the nightmare, and philtres for the court dames to retain their butterfly lovers. Good-night, ma belle. Hir-r-r-r! Jacquot! hir-r-r-r!’
The last expression was addressed to his mules, as they rattled the old bells upon their head-pieces, and moved forwards. Again the girl seized the upraised hand of the mountebank, as he was about to use the whip, and begged him to desist.
‘I am sure you have what I want,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I will pay you for it—all that I have left from my wages is yours. Is not your master the doctor St. Antonio?’
‘Well—and suppose he is?’
‘They talk strangely of his art about Paris, as being able to play with life and death as he chooses. They say that he can enchant medicines; and with a little quicksilver so prepared destroy a whole family—nay, an army.’
‘Were you to believe an hundredth part of the lies they tell daily about Paris, your credulity would find time for nothing else,’ returned the other. ‘What should one so young and fair as you want with poison, beyond keeping the rats from your mansarde?—for to that end alone does my master prepare it, and even then in small quantities.’
‘I wanted it for myself,’ replied the girl. ‘I have nothing left in this world to care about. I wish to die.’
Her head drooped, and her voice faltered as she spoke these words, so that they were almost inaudible; more so than the deep and weary sigh that followed them.