“Ah!” replied the officer, “for myself, it would be madness. But you—you are beautiful—you may dare.”
I did not hesitate, but, stealing catlike to a couch, took the opportunity of His Majesty’s passing to seize him by his wing-cases, and with such effect that in a moment he was sprawling on his back on the cushions, with his legs in the air. Then, before he could protest or avoid me, I had clapped the duck-stone to his nostrils. Instantly the convulsion of his limbs relaxed, and a great sigh heaved itself out of his depths. His wig had tumbled off; his brows were dark over goggle eyes; he had a long, aquiline nose falling to a slack jaw. Imagine all this revealing itself in an expression of the most perfect contentment and idiocy.
The soldier tiptoed across, and looked down scared.
“God in heaven, madam!” he whispered, “what have you done to His Majesty? He is not himself.”
“Pardon me, monsieur,” I said; “never so much so.”
He came round in about ten minutes, and gazed at me in a sort of affectionate beatitude.
“Dio mercè!” he murmured; “I dreamt I was in purgatory, and awake to find myself in paradise. Another dose—one more.”
I shook my head.
“Enough is as good as a feast.”
“I will give thee a fortune for thy talisman.”