The Signor turned a shade paler, but taking down some phials, and two or three papers of powders from a shelf, he did as he was bid, and proceeded systematically enough to explain their contents, gaining confidence, and even growing enthusiastic in his subject as he went on. At the third packet the Abbé stopped him. “It is harmless, you say, as a perfume when sprinkled in the form of a powder?” The Signor nodded. “But a deadly poison, mixed with three drops of St. Mark’s balsam?” “Right!” assented the Italian. “And combined with any vegetable substance, its very odour would be dangerous and even fatal to animal life?” “You are an apt pupil,” said the other, not without approval, though he turned paler still. “It took me seven weeks’ close study, and a hundred experiments, to find that out.” “You worked with the glass mask on, of course,” continued the Abbé; “what would have been the effect had you inhaled the odour?” “I should have come out in red spots at the first inspiration, turned black at the second, and at the third Monsieur l’Abbé should have been lost to the world, to science, and to you,” was the conclusive reply. “I am not quite satisfied yet,” said Malletort. “I will take a packet home with me for further examination, if you please, and ten drops of St. Mark’s balsam as well.” “It is worth a thousand francs a drop,” observed the adept, producing at the same time a tiny sealed phial from a drawer under his hand. “Of course you name your own price,” replied Malletort, snatching up his purchase with impatience, and leaving in its place a purse through which the gold shone temptingly, and which clanked down on the table as if the weight of its lining was satisfactory enough. The two men seemed to understand each other, for almost before the Signor’s grasp was on the purse his visitor had left the house; but Bartoletti, locking up the drawer, returned to his gaudy sitting-room, with a twitching lip and a cold sweat bursting from his brow. Till the adept had summoned his theatrical footman, and ordered another flagon of the red wine, he gasped and panted like a man awaking from a nightmare; nor did he recover his equanimity till the flagon was three-parts emptied. By that time, however, he was scarce in a condition to pursue his researches after the philosopher’s stone. CHAPTER VIII THE GREY MUSKETEERS A bugler, thirteen years of age, and about three feet high, a veritable “Child of the Regiment,” was blowing “The Assembly” for the Grey Musketeers with a vigour that made itself heard through the adjoining Faubourg.