‘Listen to me, Gaston,’ she said, taking no notice of his sneer; ‘you will never marry Madame Midas; sooner than that, I will reveal all and kill myself.’
‘You forget,’ he said, gently; ‘it is comedy, not tragedy, we play.’
‘That is as I choose,’ she retorted; ‘see!’ and with a sudden gesture she put her hand into the bosom of her dress and took out the bottle of poison with the red bands. ‘I have it still.’
‘So I perceive,’ he answered, smiling. ‘Do you always carry it about with you, like a modern Lucrezia Borgia?’
‘Yes,’ she answered quietly; ‘it never leaves me, you see,’ with a sneer. ‘As you said yourself, it’s always well to be prepared for emergencies.’
‘So it appears,’ observed Vandeloup, with a yawn, sitting up. ‘I wouldn’t use that poison if I were you; it is risky.’
‘Oh, no, it’s not,’ answered Kitty; ‘it is fatal in its results, and leaves no trace behind.’
‘There you are wrong,’ replied Gaston, coolly; ‘it does leave traces behind, but makes it appear as if apoplexy was the cause of death. Give me the bottle?’ peremptorily.
‘No!’ she answered, defiantly, clenching it in her hand.
‘I say yes,’ he said, in an angry whisper; ‘that poison is my secret, and I’m not going to have you play fast and loose with it; give it up,’ and he placed his hand on her wrist.