“I have not forgotten it!” replied the Marquise, and her flashing eye showed that neither had she forgiven the offence. “That little compliment alone would make me her enemy,” continued the Abbé, “if I allowed myself such luxuries as likes and dislikes; but she is in our way, and that is a far better reason for putting her aside. Now my beautiful cousin has admired those flowers in the window more than once. She thinks they are an offering from her faithful kinsman. It is not so. I have procured them with no small trouble for Madame de Parabére!” “Then why bring them here?” asked the Marquise, with a spice of pardonable pique in her tone. “Because, if I sent them to her with the compliments of Monsieur l’Abbé Malletort, the Swiss would probably not take them in; because if I offered them to her myself, I, the cynic, the unimpressionable, the man of marble, who has eyes but for his kinswoman, she would suspect a trick, or perhaps some covert insult or irony that would cause her to refuse the gift point-blank. No, my plan is better laid. You go to the masked ball at the opera to-night. She will be there on the Regent’s arm. Jealous, suspicious, domineering, she will never leave him. There is not another petal of stephanotis to be procured for love or money within thirty leagues of Paris; I have assured myself of this. They are her favourite flowers. You will appear at the ball with your _bouquet_; but for the love of heaven, my cousin,” and the Abbé’s countenance was really in earnest while he thus adjured her, “do not, even with a mask on, put it within six inches of your face!” “It is poisoned!” exclaimed the Marquise, walking, nevertheless, to the open window where the flowers stood. “Poisoned! I will have nothing to do with it. If we were men, I would force her to cross swords with me on the turf down there. But poison! No, my cousin. I tell you no. Never!” “Poison is entirely a relative term,” observed the Abbé, philosophically. “All drugs in excess become poisons. These pretty flowers are not poisoned so much as medicated. There is no danger to life in smelling them—none. But their effect on the skin is curious, really interesting from a scientific point of view. A few hours after inspiration, even of one leaf, the complexion loses its freshness, fades, comes out in spots—turns brown.” The Marquise listened attentively. “Brown! Deep brown! Browner than any mulatto!” The Marquise wavered. “It really would not be a bad joke, and I think she deserves it for what she said of you.” The Marquise consented. “I will take them to the ball,” said she, “and if Madame de Parabére asks for them, why, in common politeness, she must have them. But mask or no mask, I will take care to let her know who I _am_!”