“Why, yes, I don’t mind letting you know what is in my mind, though you know how I hate telling of what I propose to do or propose to find. As a matter of fact, you are the only man in France to whom I can talk, and yet feel that I have not lost energy in so doing; for it is a strange thing, but once one opens one’s mind to an ordinary person, a blight seems to creep in on the precious thoughts, hopes or ambitions that one cherishes in darkness. And I will tell you why it is different with you. You do not criticize or throw doubts upon budding fancies. Were I to open my mind to Monsieur de Sartines quite fully, he would put his hand in and take out my most precious thoughts, turn them over, criticize them, throw cold water upon them, perhaps, and put them back—then they would be dying—or dead.”
“I do not criticize you, Lavenne, because I have a lively feeling that any criticism of mine would be an impertinence, at least on the work of so close a reasoner as you are. Tell me, then, and I will repeat nothing—Who was the poisoner of Atalanta?”
“Count Camus.”
Beauregard whistled.
“And who is the lady whose life you are going to save?”
“The Comtesse Camus.”
“The man’s wife?”
“Precisely.”
“Good God!—and how is it threatened?”
“By poison.”