m her in alarm, and retreated a few
steps, imagining she smelt the odor of some deadly perfume.

"I dare not approach it," said she. "Its glittering terrifies me; its
odor sickens me."

"Tush! it is your weak imagination!" replied La Corriveau; "your
sickly conscience frightens you! You will need to cast off both to rid
Beaumanoir of the presence of your rival! The aqua tofana in the hands
of a coward is a gift as fatal to its possessor as to its victim."

Angelique with a strong effort tried to master her fear, but could not.
She would not again handle the casket.

La Corriveau looked at her as if suspecting this display of weakness.
She then drew the casket to herself and took out a vial, gilt and chased
with strange symbols. It was not larger than the little finger of a
delicate girl. Its contents glittered like a diamond in the sunshine.

La Corriveau shook it up, and immediately the liquid was filled with
a million sparks of fire. It was the aqua tofana undiluted by mercy,
instantaneous in its effect, and not medicable by any antidote. Once
administered, there was no more hope for its victim than for the souls
of the damned who have received the final judgment. One drop of that
bright water upon the tongue of a Titan would blast him like Jove's
thunderbolt, would shrivel him up to a black, unsightly cinder!

This was the poison of anger and revenge that would not wait for time,
and braved the world's justice. With that vial La Borgia killed her
guests at the fatal banquet in her palace, and Beatrice Spara in her
fury destroyed the fair Milanese who had stolen from her the heart of
Antonio Exili.

This terrible water was rarely used alone by the poisoners; but it
formed the basis of a hundred slower potions which ambition, fear,
avarice, or hypocrisy mingled with the element of time, and colored with
the various hues and aspects of natural disease.

Angelique sat down and leaned towards La Corriveau, supporting her chin
on the palms of her hands as she bent eagerly over the table, drinking
in every word as the hot sand of the desert drinks in the water poured
upon it. "What is that?" said she, pointing to a vial as white as milk
and seemingly as harmless.

"That," replied La Corriveau, "is the milk of mercy. It brings on
painless consumption and decay. It eats the life out of a man while the
moon empties and fills once or twice. His friends say he dies of quick
decline, and so he does! ha! ha!--when his en