“At the end of a month the Comtesse Samoris had resumed her usual entertainments, as though nothing had occurred. One day, under the pretext that she had a bad toothache, Yvette purchased a few drops of chloroform from a neighboring chemist. The next day she purchased more, and every time she went out she managed to procure small doses of the narcotic. She filled a bottle with it.
“One morning she was found in bed, lifeless and already quite cold, with a cotton mask soaked in chloroform over her face.
“Her coffin was covered with flowers, the church was hung in white. There was a large crowd at the funeral ceremony.
“Ah! well, if I had known—but you never can know—I would have married that girl, for she was infernally pretty.”
“And what became of the mother?”
“Oh! she shed a lot of tears over it. She has only begun to receive visits again for the past week.”
“And what explanation is given of the girl's death?”
“Oh! they pretended that it was an accident caused by a new stove, the mechanism of which got out of order. As a good many such accidents have occurred, the thing seemed probable enough.”