But perplexities will creep in, even into the best-planned schemes, for as Marse Charles talked he thoughtlessly drew from his bosom the devil’s snuff-box, and as he toyed idly with the lid the sharp eyes of Demetria remarked its curious workmanship.
“A trophy!—a memento to mark the day!” she cried, throwing down a jewelled medallion, into which she had deftly slipped a ring of her own bright hair.
“A pawn of love as precious as heart’s blood!” cried Marse Charles, twirling his mustache and gallantly kissing the golden curl as he threw upon the grass an Egyptian bracelet, which he always wore concealed from view, and which held a tiny needle and a poisoned drop, forgotten by Marse Charles.
“No!” pouted the spoiled Demetria. “A manlier trophy—I would have the box—the little box you toyed with just now!”
The blood of poor Marse Charles ran cold. What would he not give to please the sweet Demetria? He almost reached his hand to yield it, but the little fly buzzed hard within, and, starting with a shock, he hid it in his bosom.
“A princess wore the bracelet once,” began Marse Charles. “It has a wonderful history. Make it more wonderful and wear it for me, sweet!”
“But I would have the box!”
“But it will make thee sneeze!”
“Then I will sneeze! Your love means less than any bubble here if you shall hold so fast to such a trifling thing!”
Then Demetria shed tears, and more reproaches followed, and Marse Charles, cold even to the marrow’s centre from fear, let loose the devil’s little fly and threw the box upon the grass.