The Parthian dart which Mademoiselle de Laurebourg had cast behind
her went true to the mark; the allusion to Norbert’s impetuosity and
awkwardness rendered the Counsellor very unhappy. He sat down in his
arm-chair, and, resting his head on his hands, and his elbows on his
desk, he strove to review the position thoroughly. Perhaps by now
all might be over. Where was Norbert, and what was he doing? he asked
himself.
At the time that Daumon was reflecting, Norbert was on the road leading
to Champdoce. He had entirely lost his head, but he found that his
reason was clear and distinct. Those who have been accustomed to the
treatment of maniacs know with what startling rapidity they form a chain
of action, and the cloud that veiled Norbert’s brain appeared to throw
out into stronger relief the murderous determination he had formed. He
had already decided how the deed was to be done. The common wine of the
country was always served to the laborers at the table, but the Duke
kept a better quality for his own drinking, and the bottle containing
this was after meals placed on a shelf in a cupboard in the dining-room.
It was thus within every one’s reach, but not a soul in the household
would have ventured to lay a finger upon it. Norbert’s thoughts fell
upon this bottle, and in his mind’s eye he could see it standing in its
accustomed place. He crossed the courtyard, and the laborers, engaged
in their tasks, gazed at him curiously. He passed them, and entered the
dining-room, which was untenanted. With a caution that was not to
be expected from the agitation of his mind, he opened each door
successively, in order to be certain that no eyes were gazing upon him.
Then, with the greatest rapidity, he took down the bottle, drew the cork
with his teeth, and dropped into the wine, not one, but two or three
pinches of the contents of the little vial. He shook the bottle gently,
to facilitate the dissolution of the powder. A few particles of the
poison clung to the lip of the bottle; he wiped off these, not with a
napkin, a pile of which lay on the shelf beside him, but with his
own handkerchief. He replaced the bottle in its accustomed place, and
seating himself by the fire, awaited the course of events.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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