“This vial,” continued the witch, “contains innumerable griefs, that wait upon the pillows of rejected and heartbroken lovers, and the wisest physician is mocked with lying appearances of disease that defy his skill and make a fool of his wisdom.”
“Oh, say no more!” exclaimed Angélique, shocked and terrified. However inordinate in her desires, she was dainty in her ways. “It is like a Sabbat of witches to hear you talk, La Corriveau!” cried she, “I will have none of those foul things which you propose. My rival shall die like a lady! I will not feast like a vampire on her dead body, nor shall you. You have other vials in the casket of better hue and flavor. What is this?” continued Angélique, taking out a rose-tinted and curiously-twisted bottle sealed on the top with the mystic pentagon. “This looks prettier, and may be not less sure than the milk of mercy in its effect. What is it?”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the woman with her weirdest laugh. “Your wisdom is but folly, Angélique des Meloises! You would kill, and still spare your enemy! That was the smelling-bottle of La Brinvilliers, who took it with her to the great ball at the Hôtel de Ville, where she secretly sprinkled a few drops of it upon the handkerchief of the fair Louise Gauthier, who, the moment she put it to her nostrils, fell dead upon the floor. She died and gave no sign, and no man knew how or why! But she was the rival of Brinvilliers for the love of Gaudin de St. Croix, and in that she resembles the lady of Beaumanoir, as you do La Brinvilliers!”
“And she got her reward! I would have done the same thing for the same reason! What more have you to relate of this most precious vial of your casket?” asked Angélique.
“That its virtue is unimpaired. Three drops sprinkled upon a bouquet of flowers, and its odor breathed by man or woman, causes a sudden swoon from which there is no awakening more in this world. People feel no pain, but die smiling as if angels had kissed away their breath. Is it not a precious toy, Mademoiselle?”
“Oh, blessed vial!” exclaimed Angélique, pressing it to her lips, “thou art my good angel to kiss away the breath of the lady of Beaumanoir! She shall sleep on roses, La Corriveau, and you shall make her bed!”
“It is a sweet death, befitting one who dies for love, or is killed by the jealousy of a dainty rival,” replied the witch; “but I like best those draughts which are most bitter and not less sure.”
“The lady of Beaumanoir will not be harder to kill than Louise Gauthier,” replied Angélique, watching the glitter of the vial in the lamplight. “She is unknown even to the servants of the Château; nor will the Intendant himself dare to make public either her life or death in his house.”
“Are you sure, Mademoiselle, that the Intendant will not dare to make public the death of that woman in the Château?” asked La Corriveau, with intense eagerness; that consideration was an important link of the chain which she was forging.
“Sure? yes, I am sure by a hundred tokens!” said Angélique, with an air of triumph. “He dare not even banish her for my sake, lest the secret of her concealment at Beaumanoir become known. We can safely risk his displeasure, even should he suspect that I have cut the knot he knew not how to untie.”