“In what way? You would believe in the most marvellous things, did I not show you my poor results. Take care not to soil yourself; everything here is not perfectly clean.”
Opening the door of the summer-house, he introduced the Count into the panelled room, leading to the laboratory, and which he used as a workroom. A blush mounted to Cesare’s temples. He looked eagerly around. On a Louis XVI. bureau, leaning against the wall, were scattered some papers covered with figures. A half-opened drawer exhibited boxes of different sizes and colours, carefully labelled. A massive table supported wide-mouthed jars, on the rough glass of which could be read the indications: sulphuric acid, nitro-benzine, picric acid, and a whole series of chlorates. The Italian, pointing to the table, said—
“Ah! Here are some chemicals you do not make use of for your dyes!”
“No,” said Marcel, evasively; “those are for something else.”
And, as his visitor drew near, stretching out his hand towards one of the wide-mouthed jars—
“Do not touch these jars—they are dangerous. If, by any chance, you were to upset the contents, both yourself and myself might find ourselves in a very disagreeable position. Come this way!”
Opening the door of the laboratory, he bade him take a seat in the alchemist’s armchair, by the window, as he said—
“Here you may smoke, if you like, without danger; there is nothing explosive here.”
“Whilst in the next room?” asked the Italian, carelessly.
“In the next room, if you threw down a match in the wrong place, you might explode the whole works!”