“A rose poisoned with one of those subtle poisons, whose secret was brought to France by the Italians in the time of King Charles IX. Once prepared, these roses have to be kept under cover, enclosed in a box. So kept, their virtue, or rather their vice, remains unimpaired for a considerable time, but once removed from the box, it disappears in the course of a few hours.” “Yes, yes, but what is their power, and how is it used?” “Quite simply. The person who smells the perfume of the rose dies.” “Dies, simply from the perfume?” “Absolutely, and as certainly as though he had drunk the Aqua Tofana of the Florentines.” “Go on.” “Well, our man, walking with his wife in the grounds of the Trianon close to Les Onze Arpents, took this rose from its box unseen by his companion, and carrying it very gingerly, you may be sure, by the tip of the stalk with the flower hanging downwards, was about to present it laughingly to her, when Atalanta, who was following them, out of caprice, or playfulness, or perhaps attracted by something in the scent of the flower, made a snap at it. Camus, on feeling what had happened, threw the ruined flower away behind his back into some bushes—and Atalanta paid the penalty instead of the lady.” “You are sure of this?” “Absolutely.” “Can you prove it against the Count?” “Not in the least. Or, that is to say, not effectually. I could cover him with suspicion, but that is useless.” “How, then, do you propose to proceed?” “Ah, my dear captain, if I were to tell you that, I would tell you what I don’t exactly know.” “You don’t know what you are going to do?” “Pardon me. I do, but not in an exact manner. But I will tell you this. My first move is to get into the house of Count Camus.” “On a warrant from de Sartines?” “Heavens, no, as a servant. We have a man in all the important houses, and I believe one in the house of the Count.” “Certainly we have. You know that Sartines suspects him, and where suspicion goes there our servants go also. Stay.” He rang a bell. When a clerk answered the summons, he gave him an order, and the clerk returned in a few minutes with a huge book, bound in vellum and with a brass lock. Beauregard took a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one and opened the book. He turned to the pages marked C, and ran his finger down the first column for the space of three inches. “Yes. Jumeau is acting as pantry-man in the service of the Count.”