"Instantly, madame; but—tell me first how they kill."
He was regarding her in such apparent amusement that, for the moment, she was nettled by the suspicion of mockery. "They are now five months old—what I have there. But two of them would kill a grown man to-day. There is no perceptible effect till from four to nine hours after eating. Then—then, monsieur," she said, dryly, "the agony is not pretty to behold."
"Um—and do they taste?"
"No. They are like leather now. Will you replace them in the cupboard, monsieur?—and we will speak of other things."
Without further protest Richelieu obeyed her, putting the fungi carefully away, replacing the scoparium among the other bottles, and closing the little door of the cabinet after him. Its key was in the lock. He turned it. And then—then—Deborah was wrapping a cloudy veil about her head; she was turned from him—he suddenly drew the key from the lock and slipped it into his pocket. It was instinct that bade him do it—perhaps. Five minutes later a coach rolled away from the house in the Rue d'Anjou and entered upon the Paris road.
"Who—are to be with us this evening?" asked Deborah, as she settled back in a corner of the roomy vehicle.
"Marshal Coigny, Mme. d'Egmont, Mme. de Chaulnes, and d'Aiguillon will join us at the opera. Afterwards supper will be served us in my salon at Versailles. These long drives—I trust they will not fatigue you. Were it not for the hunt to-morrow, we might have remained overnight in Paris. As it is, however, it will be necessary to return. Will you be at Choisy to-morrow afternoon, when the hunt goes there for its famous refreshment?"
"I was asked to go. Claude—" She stopped suddenly.
"He did not wish it?" asked Richelieu, gently.
"I am going," was the unexpected reply.