Lavenne drew a deep breath.
The situation was saved. Relieved of that terrible presence, his mind could now work freely. Up to this, he had been unable to guess the meaning of Camus’ labours.
Why had Camus used this terrible fluid to poison the knife only on one side? Why had he used such immense precaution that the other side of the steel should remain untainted.
The answer came now in a flash. Cabuchon had told him of this old medieval trick, only Cabuchon had used the word knife, not dagger.
Camus would use his dagger in this way. Laughingly, at some festival or banquet, he would take out his beautiful dagger, and, cutting a pear or a peach or an apple in two, offer half to his companion, whoever he or she might be.
And the half offered to his companion would be poisoned, inasmuch as it would have come closely in contact with the poisoned side of the knife, whereas the half retained for himself would be innocuous.
And who could say to him, “Madame Camus died after eating that peach you offered her,” considering the fact that he had also eaten of it?