The prince had turned about upon my entrance, and regarded me certainly with no alarm, but with a profundity of wonder which almost robbed me of my self-possession. “My dear madam,” he cried at last, “and who the devil are you?”
I was already on the floor beside the dying man. I had, of course, no idea with what drug he had attempted his life, and I was forced to try him with a variety of antidotes. Here were both oil and vinegar, for the prince had done the young man the honour of compounding for him one of his celebrated salads; and of each of these I administered from a quarter to half a pint, with no apparent efficacy. I next plied him with the hot coffee, of which there may have been near upon a quart.
“Have you no milk?” I inquired.
“I fear, madam, that milk has been omitted,” returned the prince.
“Salt, then,” said I; “salt is a revulsive. Pass the salt.”
“And possibly the mustard?” asked his highness, as he offered me the contents of the various salt-cellars poured together on a plate.
“Ah,” cried I, “the thought is excellent! Mix me about half a pint of mustard, drinkably dilute.”
Whether it was the salt or the mustard, or the mere combination of so many subversive agents, as soon as the last had been poured over his throat, the young sufferer obtained relief.
“There!” I exclaimed, with natural triumph, “I have saved a life!”
“And yet, madam,” returned the prince, “your mercy may be cruelly disguised. Where the honour is lost, it is, at least, superfluous to prolong the life.”