Upon the edge of the table lay the half of a peach, in which the impression of a row of teeth was still visible.  Catherine’s attention was drawn to this in a particular manner, for the fruit, usually of a rich crimson near the core, had become as black as the rose, and was discolored by violet and brown spots.  The corrosive action was more especially visible upon the part which had been cut, and particularly so where the knife must have passed.

“This explains the state of the lips,” she said; “but Francois had only bitten one piece out of this peach.  He did not keep the bouquet long in his hand, for the flowers are still fresh; the evil may yet be repaired, for the poison cannot have penetrated very deeply.

“And yet, if the evil be merely superficial, why should this paralysis of the senses be so complete, and why indeed should the decomposition of the flesh have made so much progress?  There must be more that I have not seen.”

And as she spoke Catherine again looked all round her, and observed, hanging by a silver chain to its pole, the red and blue parrot to which Francois was so attached.

The bird was dead, stiff, and the feathers of its wings rough and erect.

Catherine again looked closely and attentively at the torch which she had once before already narrowly inspected, to satisfy herself that, by its having burned out completely, the prince had returned early in the evening.

“The smoke,” said Catherine to herself; “the smoke! the wick of that torch was poisoned; my son is a dead man.”

She called out immediately, and the chamber was in a minute filled with attendants and officers of the household.

“Miron, Miron!” cried some of them.

“A priest!” exclaimed the others.

But Catherine had, in the meantime, placed to the lips of Francois one of the small bottles which she always carried in her alms-bag, and narrowly watched her son’s features to observe the effect of the antidote she applied.

The duke immediately opened his eyes and mouth, but no glance of intelligence gleamed in his eyes, no voice or sound escaped from his lips.

Catherine, in sad and gloomy silence, quitted the apartment, beckoning to the two attendants to follow her, before they had as yet had an opportunity of communicating with any one.

She then led them into another chamber, where she sat down, fixing her eyes closely and watchfully on their faces.

“Monsieur le Duc d’Anjou,” she said, “has been poisoned some time during his supper last evening; and it was you who served the supper.”

At these words the two men turned as pale as death.

“Torture us, kill us, if you will,” they said; “but do not accuse us.”

“Fools that you are; do you suppose that if I suspected you, that would have already been done?  You have not yourselves, I know, assassinated your master, but others have killed him; and I must know who the murderers are.  Who has entered the pavilion?”