‘There were two soldiers staying at the Croce Bianca: one was an officer in the French service, the other a renegade who turned his back upon the Fronde with the Prince de Condé; went with him into Spain to take up arms against his own country; and then, when the chances turned, deserted again and joined the French army. He must have been a double knave. What think you?’
Lachaussée gave no answer. He moved his lips in reply, but no sound escaped them.
‘The resources of these two were nearly exhausted,’ resumed Sainte-Croix—‘for they led a gallant life, when a French nobleman, rich and young, arrived at Milan. He was courted, feted, in all circles; and he became introduced to the officer and his companion. They marked him for their prey; and one night, at the gaming-table, carried off a large sum of money, offering the noble his revenge on the following evening at the Croce Bianca. He embraced the chance, and came alone; fortune once more patronised him, and he gained back, not merely what he had lost, but every sou the others possessed in the world.
‘There was a grand festival that evening given by one of the Borromeo family, and the officer departed to it, leaving the renegade and the nobleman still playing. In the middle of the fete, a mask approached the officer and slipped a letter into his hand, immediately quitting the assembly.’
Sainte-Croix took a small pouncet-box from his breast, and opened it. He then unfolded a scrap of paper, and continued—
‘It read as follows: “Exili’s potion has done its work. I have started with everything to the frontier. Do not return to the Croce Bianca until after daybreak.” The officer followed the advice; and when he went back to the inn the noble had been found dead in the room, with an empty phial of the terrible “Manna of St. Nicholas de Barri”[2] clutched in his hand. He was presumed to have committed suicide, and the crime was in twenty-four hours hidden by the grave. The officer soon afterwards left Milan and joined the other in Paris. His name was Gaudin de Sainte-Croix; the renegade and real murderer was called Lachaussée.’
‘What is the use of thus recalling all that has long past?’ said Lachaussée, who, during Gaudin’s story, had recovered his composure. ‘The same blow that strikes one, must hurl the other as well to damnation. Exili, who is known to be in Paris, could crush us both.’
‘Exili has been this night conveyed to the Bastille by a lettre de cachet,’ replied Sainte-Croix; ‘and this small piece of writing is enough to send you to join him. You were grumbling at your position: a subterranean cell in St. Antoine is less pleasant than this room at the Gobelins.’
‘I am as much at your disposal as at your mercy,’ returned Lachaussée, swallowing down a large draught of wine. ‘What next do you require of me?’
‘No very unpleasant task,’ said Sainte-Croix. ‘It regards a woman, young, and fair enough, in all conscience. She has been working here, it seems, until a very short period since. Have you the name of Louise Gauthier amongst the artists of your ateliers?’