She clasped La Corriveau in her arms and kissed
her dark, withered cheek, exclaiming, "Yes, that is her name! His
cuckquean she is; his wife she is not and never shall be!--Thanks, a
million golden thanks, La Corriveau, if you fulfil your prophecy!
In thrice three days from this hour, was it not that you said?"
"Understand me!" said La Corriveau, "I serve you for your money, not
for your liking! but I have my own joy in making my hand felt in a
world which I hate and which hates me!" La Corriveau held out her
hands as if the ends of her fingers were trickling poison. "Death
drops on whomsoever I send it," said she, "so secretly and so subtly
that the very spirits of air cannot detect the trace of the aqua
tofana."
Angelique listened with amaze, yet trembled with eagerness to hear
more. "What! La Corriveau, have you the secret of the aqua tofana,
which the world believes was burnt with its possessors two
generations ago, on the Place de Greve?"
"Such secrets never die," replied the poisoner; "they are too
precious! Few men, still fewer women, are there who would not
listen at the door of hell to learn them.
Pages:
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713