“Mordieu, why! He is a poisoner—that’s all.”
“A poisoner!”
“Precisely. He poisoned his uncle with a plate of soup, he poisoned his wife with a pot of rouge, and he would poison me with all his heart if he could get into my kitchen. You ask me how I know all this? I know it. Yet I cannot touch him because my evidence is not as complete as my knowledge. But the rope is ready for him, and he will fall as surely as my name is Sartines, for he is an expert in the art, and my eye is always upon him.”
Rochefort, who had recovered from his shock, laughed. He did not entirely believe Sartines; besides, his attention was distracted from the thought of Camus by a face.
“Who is that lady seated in the alcove beside Madame de Courcelles?” asked he.
De Sartines turned.
“That?” said he. “Why, it is La Fleur de Martinique. How is it possible that you do not know her?”
“I have been away from Paris for two months. She must have bloomed in my absence, this flower of Martinique. Her name, my dear Sartines? I am burning to know her name.”
“Mademoiselle Fontrailles. But beware of her, Rochefort; she is even more dangerous than Camus.”
“Why, does she poison people?”