Books: Jezebel

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"I at once instituted a search, and discovered the bottle left out on a
shelf. For the first time in my life, I had been guilty of inexcusable
carelessness. I had not looked round me to see that I had left everything
safe before quitting the room. The poor imbecile wretch had been
attracted by the color of "Alexander's Wine," and had tasted it (in his
own phrase) "to see if it was nice." My inquiries informed me that this
had happened at least thirty--six hours since! I had but one hope of
saving him--derived from experiments on animals, which had shown me the
very gradual progress of the deadly action of the poison.

"What I felt when I returned to the suffering man, I shall not attempt to
describe. You will understand how completely I was overwhelmed, when I
tell you that I meanly concealed my own disgraceful thoughtlessness from
my brethren in the University. I was afraid that my experiments might be
prohibited as dangerous, and my want of common prudence be made the
subject of public reprimand by the authorities. The medical professors
were permitted by me to conclude that it was a case of illness entirely
new in their experience.

"In administering the antidote, I had no previous experiments to guide
me, except my experiments with rabbits and dogs. Whether I miscalculated
or whether I was deluded by my anxiety to save the man's life, I cannot
say. This at least is certain, I gave the doses too copiously and at too
short intervals.

"The patient recovered--but it was after sustaining some incomprehensibly
deteriorating change in the blood, which destroyed his complexion, and
turned his hair gray. I have since modified the doses; and in dread of
losing the memorandum, I have attached a piece of notched paper to the
bottle, so as to render any future error of judgment impossible. At the
same time, I have facilitated the future administration of the antidote
by adding a label to the bottle, stating the exact quantity of the poison
taken by my servant, as calculated by myself.

"I ought, by the way, to have mentioned in the cipher that experience has
shown me the necessity, if the antidote is to be preserved for any length
of time, of protecting it in blue glass from the influence of light.

"Let me also tell you that I found a vegetable diet of use in perfecting
the effect of the treatment. That mean dread of discovery, which I have
already acknowledged, induced me to avail myself of my wife's help in
nursing the man. When he began to talk of what had happened to him, I
could trust Madame Fontaine to keep the secret. When he was well enough
to get up, the poor harmless creature disappeared. He was probably
terrified at the prospect of entering the laboratory again. In any case,
I have never seen him or heard of him since.

"If you have had patience to read as far as this, you will understand
that I am not sure enough yet of my own discoveries to risk communicating
them to any other person than yourself. Favor me with any chemical
suggestions which may strike you--and then, in case of accidents, destroy
the cipher. For the present farewell."

_Note to Doctor Fontaine's Letter_

"Alexander's Wine" refers to the infamous Roderic Borgia, historically
celebrated as Pope Alexander the Sixth. He was accidentally, and most
deservedly, killed by drinking one of the Borgia poisons, in a bowl of
wine which he had prepared for another person.

The formula for "The Looking-Glass Drops" is supposed to have been found
hidden on removing the wooden lining at the back of a looking-glass,
which had been used by Lucrezia Borgia. Hence the name.

III

The third and last letter which I present is written by me, and was
addressed to Mrs. Wagner during her stay at Frankfort:--

"I exaggerate nothing, my dear aunt, when I say that I write in great
distress. Let me beg you to prepare yourself for very sad news.

"It was late yesterday evening before I arrived at Bingen. A servant was
waiting to take my portmanteau, when I got out of the coach. After first
asking my name, he communicated to me the melancholy tidings of dear Mr.
Engelman's death. He had sunk under a fit of apoplexy, at an early hour
that morning.

"Medical help was close at hand, and was (so far as I can hear) carefully
and intelligently exercised. But he never rallied in the least. The fit
appears to have killed him, as a bullet might have killed him.

"He had been very dull and heavy on the previous day. In the few words
that he spoke before retiring to rest, my name was on his lips. He said,
"If I get better I should like to have David here, and to go on with him
to our house of business in London." He was very much flushed, and
complained of feeling giddy; but he would not allow the doctor to be sent
for. His brother assisted him to ascend the stairs to his room, and asked
him some questions about his affairs. He replied impatiently, 'Keller
knows all about it--leave it to Keller.'

"When I think of the good old man's benevolent and happy life, and when I
remember that it was accidentally through me that he first met Madame
Fontaine, I feel a bitterness of spirit which makes my sense of the loss
of him more painful than I can describe. I call to mind a hundred little
instances of his kindness to me--and (don't be offended) I wish you had
sent some other person than myself to represent you at Frankfort.

"He is to be buried here, in two days' time. I hope you will not consider
me negligent of your interest in accepting his brother's invitation to
follow him to the grave. I think it will put me in a better frame of
mind, if I can pay the last tribute of affection and respect to my old
friend. When all is over, I will continue the journey to London, without
stopping on the road night or day.

"Write to me at London, dear aunt; and give my love to Minna and
Fritz--and ask them to write to me also. I beg my best respects to Mr.
Keller. Please assure him of my true sympathy; I know, poor man, how
deeply he will be grieved."

PART II

MR. DAVID GLENNEY COLLECTS HIS MATERIALS AND CONTINUES THE STORY
HISTORICALLY

CHAPTER I

In the preceding portion of this narrative I spoke as an eye-witness. In
the present part of it, my absence from Frankfort leaves me dependent on
the documentary evidence of other persons. This evidence consists (first)
of letters addressed to myself; (secondly) of statements personally made
to me; (thirdly) of extracts from a diary discovered after the lifetime
of the writer. In all three cases the materials thus placed at my
disposal bear proof of truthfulness on the face of them.

Early in the month of December, Mr. Keller sent a message to Madame
Fontaine, requesting to see her on a matter of importance to both of
them.

"I hope you feel better to-day, madam," he said, rising to receive the
widow when she entered the room.

"You are very good, sir," she answered, in tones barely audible--with her
eyes on the ground. "I can't say that I feel much better."

"I have news for you, which ought to act as the best of all
restoratives," Mr. Keller proceeded. "At last I have heard from my sister
on the subject of the marriage."

He stopped, and, suddenly stepping forward, caught the widow by the arm.
At his last words she had started to her feet. Her face suddenly turned
from pale to red--and then changed again to a ghastly whiteness. She
would have fallen if Mr. Keller had not held her up. He placed her at
once in his own easy chair. "You must really have medical advice," he
said gravely; "your nerves are seriously out of order. Can I get you
anything?"

"A glass of water, sir, if you will be so kind as to ring for it."

"There is no need to ring for it; I have water in the next room."

She laid her hand on his arm, and stopped him as he was about to leave
her.

"One word first, sir. You will forgive a woman's curiosity on such an
interesting subject as the marriage of her child. Does your sister
propose a day for the wedding?"

"My sister suggests," Mr. Keller answered, "the thirtieth of this month."

He left her and opened the door of the next room.

As he disappeared, she rapidly followed out a series of calculations on
her fingers. Her eyes brightened, her energies rallied. "No matter what
happens so long as my girl is married first," she whispered to herself.
"The wedding on the thirtieth, and the money due on the thirty-first.
Saved by a day! Saved by a day!"

Mr. Keller returned with a glass of water. He started as he looked at
her.

"You seem to have recovered already--you look quite a different woman!"
he exclaimed.

She drank the water nevertheless. "My unlucky nerves play me strange
tricks, sir," she answered, as she set the empty glass down on a table at
her side.

Mr. Keller took a chair and referred to his letter from Munich.

"My sister hopes to be with us some days before the end of the year," he
resumed. "But in her uncertain state of health, she suggests the
thirtieth so as to leave a margin in case of unexpected delays. I presume
this will afford plenty of time (I speak ignorantly of such things) for
providing the bride's outfit?"

Madame Fontaine smiled sadly. "Far more time than we want, sir. My poor
little purse will leave my girl to rely on her natural attractions--with
small help from the jeweler and the milliner, on her wedding day."

Mr. Keller referred to his letter again, and looked up from it with a
grim smile.

"My sister will in one respect at least anticipate the assistance of the
jeweler," he said. "She proposes to bring with her, as a present to the
bride, an heirloom on the female side of our family. It is a pearl
necklace (of very great value, I am told) presented to my mother by the
Empress Maria Theresa--in recognition of services rendered to that
illustrious person early in life. As an expression of my sister's
interest in the marriage, I thought an announcement of the proposed gift
might prove gratifying to you."

Madame Fontaine clasped her hands, with a fervor of feeling which was in
this case, at least, perfectly sincere. A pearl necklace, the gift of an
Empress, would represent in money value a little fortune in itself. "I
can find no words to express my sense of gratitude," she said; "my
daughter must speak for herself and for me."

"And your daughter must hear the good news as soon as possible," Mr.
Keller added kindly. "I won't detain you. I know you must be anxious to
see Minna. One word before you go. You will, of course, invite any
relatives and friends whom you would like to see at the wedding."

Madame Fontaine lifted her sleepy eyes by slow gradations to the ceiling,
and devoutly resigned herself to mention her family circumstances.

"My parents cast me off, sir, when I married," she said; "my other
relatives here and in Brussels refused to assist me when I stood in need
of help. As for friends--you, dear Mr. Keller, are our only friend. Thank
you again and again."

She lowered her eyes softly to the floor, and glided out of the room. The
back view of her figure was its best view. Even Mr.
Keller--constitutionally inaccessible to exhibitions of female
grace--followed her with his eyes, and perceived that his housekeeper was
beautifully made.

On the stairs she met with the housemaid.

"Where is Miss Minna?" she asked impatiently. "In her room?"

"In your room, madam. I saw Miss Minna go in as I passed the door."

Madame Fontaine hurried up the next flight of stairs, and ran along the
corridor as lightly as a young girl. The door of her room was ajar; she
saw her daughter through the opening sitting on the sofa, with some work
lying idle on her lap. Minna started up when her mother appeared.

"Am I in the way, mamma? I am so stupid, I can't get on with this
embroidery----"

Madame Fontaine tossed the embroidery to the other end of the room, threw
her arms round Minna, and lifted her joyously from the floor as if she
had been a little child.

"The day is fixed, my angel!" she cried; "You are to be married on the
thirtieth!"

She shifted one hand to her daughter's head, and clasped it with a fierce
fondness to her bosom. "Oh, my darling, you had lovely hair even when you
were a baby! We won't have it dressed at your wedding. It shall flow down
naturally in all its beauty--and no hand shall brush it but mine." She
pressed her lips on Minna's head, and devoured it with kisses; then,
driven by some irresistible impulse, pushed the girl away from her, and
threw herself on the sofa with a cry of pain.

"Why did you start up, as if you were afraid of me, when I came in?" she
said wildly. "Why did you ask if you were in the way? Oh, Minna! Minna!
can't you forget the day when I locked you out of my room? My child! I
was beside myself--I was mad with my troubles. Do you think I would
behave harshly to you? Oh, my own love! when I came to tell you of your
marriage, why did you ask me if you were in the way? My God! am I never
to know a moment's pleasure again without something to embitter it?
People say you take after your father, Minna. Are you as cold-blooded as
he was? There! there! I don't mean it; I am a little hysterical, I
think--don't notice me. Come and be a child again. Sit on my knee, and
let us talk of your marriage."

Minna put her arm round her mother's neck a little nervously. "Dear,
sweet mamma, how can you think me so hard-hearted and so ungrateful? I
can't tell you how I love you! Let this tell you."

With a tender and charming grace, she kissed her mother--then drew back a
little and looked at Madame Fontaine. The subsiding conflict of emotions
still showed itself with a fiery brightness in the widow's eyes. "Do you
know what I am thinking?" Minna asked, a little timidly.

"What is it, my dear?"

"I think you are almost too fond of me, mamma. I shouldn't like to be the
person who stood between me and my marriage--if _you_ knew of it."

Madame Fontaine smiled. "You foolish child, do you take me for a
tigress?" she said playfully. "I must have another kiss to reconcile me
to my new character."

She bent her head to meet the caress--looked by chance at a cupboard
fixed in a recess in the opposite wall of the room--and suddenly checked
herself. "This is too selfish of me," she said, rising abruptly. "All
this time I am forgetting the bridegroom. His father will leave him to
hear the good news from you. Do you think I don't know what you are
longing to do?" She led Minna hurriedly to the door. "Go, my dear one--go
and tell Fritz!"

The instant her daughter disappeared, she rushed across the room to the
cupboard. Her eyes had not deceived her. The key _was_ left in the lock.

CHAPTER II

Madame Fontaine dropped into a chair, overwhelmed by the discovery.

She looked at the key left in the cupboard. It was of an old-fashioned
pattern--but evidently also of the best workmanship of the time. On its
flat handle it bore engraved the words, "Pink-Room Cupboard"--so called
from the color of the curtains and hangings in the bedchamber.

"Is my brain softening?" she said to herself. "What a horrible mistake!
What a frightful risk to have run!"

She got on her feet again, and opened the cupboard.

The two lower shelves were occupied by her linen, neatly folded and laid
out. On the higher shelf, nearly on a level with her eyes, stood a plain
wooden box about two feet in height by one foot in breadth. She examined
the position of this box with breathless interest and care--then gently
lifted it in both hands and placed it on the floor. On a table near the
window lay a half-finished watercolor drawing, with a magnifying glass by
the side of it. Providing herself with the glass, she returned to the
cupboard, and closely investigated the place on which the box had stood.
The slight layer of dust--so slight as to be imperceptible to the
unassisted eye--which had surrounded the four sides of the box, presented
its four delicate edges in perfectly undisturbed straightness of line.
This mute evidence conclusively proved that the box had not been moved
during her quarter of an hour's absence in Mr. Keller's room. She put it
back again, and heaved a deep breath of relief.

But it was a bad sign (she thought) that her sense of caution had been
completely suspended, in the eagerness of her curiosity to know if Mr.
Keller's message of invitation referred to the wedding day. "I lose my
best treasure," she said to herself sadly, "if I am beginning to lose my
steadiness of mind. If this should happen again----"

She left the expression of the idea uncompleted; locked the door of the
room; and returned to the place on which she had left the box.

Seating herself, she rested the box on her knee and opened it.

Certain tell-tale indentations, visible where the cover fitted into the
lock, showed that it had once been forced open. The lock had been
hampered on some former occasion; and the key remained so fast fixed in
it that it could neither be turned nor drawn out. In her newly-aroused
distrust of her own prudence, she was now considering the serious
question of emptying the box, and sending it to be fitted with a lock and
key.

"Have I anything by me," she thought to herself, "in which I can keep the
bottles?"

She emptied the box, and placed round her on the floor those terrible six
bottles which had been the special subjects of her husband's
precautionary instructions on his death-bed. Some of them were smaller
than others, and were manufactured in glass of different colors--the six
compartments in the medicine-chest being carefully graduated in size, so
as to hold them all steadily. The labels on three of the bottles were
unintelligible to Madame Fontaine; the inscriptions were written in
barbarously abridged Latin characters.

The bottle which was the fourth in order, as she took them out one by
one, was wrapped in a sheet of thick cartridge-paper, covered on its
inner side with characters written in mysterious cipher. But the label
pasted on the bottle contained an inscription in good readable German,
thus translated:

"The Looking-Glass Drops. Fatal dose, as discovered by experiment on
animals, the same as in the case of 'Alexander's Wine.' But the effect,
in producing death, more rapid, and more indistinguishable, in respect of
presenting traces on post-mortem examination."

The lines thus written were partially erased by strokes of the pen--drawn
through them at a later date, judging by the color of the ink. In the
last blank space left at the foot of the label, these words were
added--also in ink of a fresher color:

"After many patient trials, I can discover no trustworthy antidote to
this infernal poison. Under these circumstances, I dare not attempt to
modify it for medical use. I would throw it away--but I don't like to be
beaten. If I live a little longer I will try once more, with my mind
refreshed by other studies."

Madame Fontaine paused before she wrapped the bottle up again in its
covering, and looked with longing eyes at the ciphers which filled the
inner side of the sheet of paper. There, perhaps, was the announcement of
the discovery of the antidote; or possibly, the record of some more
recent experiment which placed the terrible power of the poison in a new
light! And there also was the cipher defying her to discover its secret!

The fifth bottle that she took from the chest contained "Alexander's
Wine." The sixth, and last, was of the well-remembered blue glass, which
had played such an important part in the event of Mr. Keller's recovery.

David Glenney had rightly conjectured that the label had been removed
from the blue-glass bottle. Madame Fontaine shook it out of the empty
compartment. The inscription (also in the German language) ran as
follows:--

"Antidote to Alexander's Wine. The fatal dose, in case of accident, is
indicated by the notched slip of paper attached to the bottle. Two fluid
drachms of the poison (more than enough to produce death) were
accidentally taken in my experience. So gradual is the deadly effect
that, after a delay of thirty-six hours before my attention was called to
the case, the administration of the antidote proved successful. The doses
are to be repeated every three or four hours. Any person watching the
patient may know that the recovery is certain, and that the doses are
therefore to be discontinued, by these signs: the cessation of the
trembling in the hands; the appearance of natural perspiration; and the
transition from the stillness of apathy to the repose of sleep. For at
least a week or ten days afterwards a vegetable diet, with cream, is
necessary as a means of completing the cure."

She laid the label aside, and looked at the two bottles--the poison and
the antidote--ranged together at her feet.

"Power!" she thought, with a superb smile of triumph. "The power that I
have dreamed of all my life is mine at last! Alone among mortal
creatures, I have Life and Death for my servants. You were deaf, Mr.
Keller, to my reasons, and deaf to my entreaties. What wonderful
influence brought you to my feet, and made you the eager benefactor of my
child? My servant Death, who threatened you in the night; and my servant
Life, who raised you up in the morning. What a position! I stand here, a
dweller in a populous city--and every creature in it, from highest to
lowest, is a creature in my power!"

She looked through the window of her room over the houses of Frankfort.
At last her sleepy eyes opened wide; an infernal beauty irradiated her
face. For one moment, she stood--a demon in human form. The next, she
suddenly changed into a timid woman, shaken in every limb by the cold
grasp of fear.

What influence had wrought the transformation?

Nothing but a knock at the door.

"Who's there?" she cried.

The voice that answered her was the voice of Jack Straw.

"Hullo, there, Mrs. Fontaine! Let me in."

She placed a strong constraint on herself; she spoke in friendly tones.
"What do you want, Jack?"

"I want to show you my keys."

"What do I care about the crazy wretch's keys?"--was the thought that
passed through Madame Fontaine's mind, when Jack answered her from the
outer side of the door. But she was still careful, when she spoke to him,
to disguise her voice in its friendliest tones.

"Excuse me for keeping you waiting, Jack. I can't let you in yet."

"Why not?"

"Because I am dressing. Come back in half an hour; and I shall be glad to
see you."

There was no reply to this. Jack's step was so light that it was
impossible to hear, through the door, whether he had gone away or not.
After waiting a minute, the widow ventured on peeping out. Jack had taken
himself off. Not a sign of him was to be seen, when she bent over the
railing of the corridor, and looked down on the stairs.

She locked herself in again. "I hope I haven't offended him!" she
thought, as she returned to the empty medicine-chest.

The fear that Jack might talk of what had happened to him in the
laboratory at Wurzburg, and that he might allude to his illness in terms
which could not fail to recall the symptoms of Mr. Keller's illness, was
constantly present to her mind. She decided on agreeably surprising him
by a little present, which might help her to win his confidence and to
acquire some influence over him. As a madman lately released from Bedlam,
it might perhaps not greatly matter what he said. But suspicion was
easily excited. Though David Glenney had been sent out of the way, his
aunt remained at Frankfort; and an insolent readiness in distrusting
German ladies seemed to run in the family.

Having arrived at these conclusions, she gave her mind again to the still
unsettled question of the new lock to the medicine-chest.

Measuring the longest of the bottles (the bottle containing the
antidote), she found that her dressing case was not high enough to hold
it, while the chest was in the locksmith's workshop. Her trunks, on the
other hand, were only protected by very ordinary locks, and were too
large to be removed to the safe keeping of the cupboard. She must either
leave the six bottles loose on the shelf or abandon the extra security of
the new lock.

The one risk of taking the first of these two courses, was the risk of
leaving the key again in the cupboard. Was this likely to occur, after
the fright she had already suffered? The question was not really worth
answering. She had already placed two of the bottles on the shelf--when a
fatal objection to trusting the empty box out of her own possession
suddenly crossed her mind.

Her husband's colleagues at Wurzburg and some of the elder students, were
all acquainted (externally, at least) with the appearance of the
Professor's ugly old medicine-chest. It could be easily identified by the
initials of his name, inscribed in deeply-burnt letters on the lid.
Suppose one of these men happened to be in Frankfort? and suppose he saw
the stolen chest in the locksmith's shop? Two such coincidences were in
the last degree improbable--but it was enough that they were possible.
Who but a fool, in her critical position, would run the risk of even one
chance in a hundred turning against her? Instead of trusting the chest in
a stranger's hands, the wiser course would be to burn it at the first
safe opportunity, and be content with the security of the cupboard, while
she remained in Mr. Keller's house. Arriving at this conclusion, she put
the chest and its contents back again on the shelf--with the one
exception of the label detached from the blue-glass bottle.

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