M. Bertrand, the cook, was in high dudgeon. How dared anybody hint that he had poisoned madame's biscuits? It was all owing to that oaf of a scullion, who had laid the large square copper-plate on the confectionery table, without remembering that it had been unused for a week. Was he, a _cordon bleu_, a chef _de premier caliber_, to be blamed for the stupidity of a scullion? He would be expected to clean his own saucepans next. When the marquis returned--who always appreciated efforts to please--he would give warning and leave this _sale maison_, which was only fit for cockroaches and rats. "Go back to Paris!" gibed Toinon. "Safer where you are, believe me. A chef with so splendid a reputation for pampering the palates of the gangrened aristocracy, would surely be strung up to a lantern! This bouillon looks excellent," she added saucily; "but M. Bertrand will be good enough to sip two spoonfuls, lest the scullion should have dipped his fingers in it." Next day, thanks to Toinon's vigilant solicitude, the marquise was sufficiently recovered to sit at her embroidery as usual. Holding out a hand to the abigail while tears rose to the eyes of both, "My sister," she said, "it is worth while to be a little ill just to learn how much we are beloved." Alas! beloved! Poor lady. Hated by four persons without consciences, who were panting and thirsting for her death! A target for poisoned arrows! After sagely considering the matter, Toinon made up her mind that if she did not interfere, she might become in some sort an accessary to a tragedy. In whom was faith to be placed? Honest Jean? What could he do, if he were to come, in the face of such diabolical ingenuity? He would learn that his favourite dog--companion of many trudgings through the woods at all times and seasons--had died of poisoned cakes. But then was it not admitted in the household, that the abbé as well as the marquise had accidentally partaken, and that the abbé of the two had been the most sick? Had not varlets and kitchen wenches cowered and clung together at sound of his piercing screams? He was well again, for he had had the presence of mind to swallow mustard. The marquise had recovered, thanks to a like precaution. Toinon had been cunning enough to keep two cakes which, when the time came should be examined, and if the abbé were foolish enough to declare that he had been poisoned by similar articles, it would be easy to prove that his agonies were sham, as they were not the natural results of such a poison as had been administered to Gabrielle. Meanwhile, something must be done, and the question that troubled Toinon was what that something was to be. At last she made up her mind and broke the ice. "Will madame pardon me for what may appear an act of presumption," she inquired, gently rearranging the wraps about the invalid. "I have taken something on myself which may anger madame, who will, I know, believe that if I was guilty of an error it was made through excess of zeal."