“For example?” inquired Photinius, who had the best reason for confiding in the efficacy of a drug administered with dexterity and discretion.
“Two people must be in the secret at least, if not three,” replied Eustathius, “and cooks, as a rule, are a class of persons entirely unfit to be employed in affairs of State.”
“The Court physician,” suggested Photinius.
“Is only available,” answered Eustathius, “in case his Majesty should send for him, which is most improbable. If he ever did, poison, praised be the Lord! would be totally unnecessary and entirely superfluous.”
“My dear friend,” said Photinius, venturing at this favourable moment on a question he had been dying to ask ever since he had been an inmate of the convent, “would you mind telling me in confidence, did you ever administer any potion of a deleterious nature to his Sacred Majesty?”
“Never!” protested Eustathius, with fervour. “I tried once, to be sure, but it was no use.”
“What was the impediment?”
“The perverse opposition of the cupbearer. It is idle attempting anything of the kind as long as she is about the Emperor.”
“She!” exclaimed Photinius.
“Don’t you know that?” responded Eustathius, with an air and manner that plainly said, “You don’t know much.”