I went back to the flat, and a servant met me in the hall with a message that mademoiselle was now quite recovered, and would like to see me in her boudoir.  I hurried to her.  A fire was burning on the hearth, and before this were two lounge chairs.  Rosa occupied one, and she motioned me to the other.  Attired in a peignoir of pure white, and still a little languorous after the attack, she looked the enchanting perfection of beauty and grace.  But in her eyes, which were unduly bright, there shone an apprehension, the expectancy of the unknown.

“I am better,” she said, with a faint smile.  “Feel my pulse.”

I held her wrist and took out my watch, but I forgot to count, and I forgot to note the seconds.  I was gazing at her.  It seemed absurd to contemplate the possibility of ever being able to call her my own.

“Am I not better?”

“Yes, yes,” I said; “the pulse is—­the pulse is—­you are much better.”

Then I pushed my chair a little further from the fire, and recollected that there were several things to be said and done.

“I expected the attack would pass very quickly,” I said.

“Then you know what I have been suffering from,” she said, turning her chair rapidly half-round towards me.

“I do,” I answered, with emphasis.

“What is it?”

I was silent.

“Well,” she said, “tell me what it is.”  She laughed, but her voice was low and anxious.

“I am just wondering whether I shall tell you.”

“Stuff!” she exclaimed proudly.  “Am I a child?”

“You are a woman, and should be shielded from the sharp edges of life.”

“Ah!” she murmured “Not all men have thought so.  And I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.”

“Nevertheless, I think like that,” I said.  “And I’m really anxious to save you from unnecessary annoyance.”

“Then I insist that you shall tell me,” she replied inconsequently.  “I will not have you adopt that attitude towards me.  Do you understand?  I won’t have it!  I’m not a Dresden shepherdess, and I won’t be treated like one—­at any rate, by you.  So there!”

I was in the seventh heaven of felicity.

“If you will have it, you have been poisoned.”

I told her of my suspicions, and how they had been confirmed by Yvette’s avowal.  She shivered, and then stood up and came towards me.

“Do you mean to say that Carlotta Deschamps and my own maid have conspired together to poison me simply because I am going to sing in a certain piece at a certain theatre?  It’s impossible!”

“But it is true.  Deschamps may not have wished to kill you; she merely wanted to prevent you from singing, but she ran a serious risk of murder, and she must have known it.”

Rosa began to sob, and I led her back to her chair.

“I ought not to have told you to-night,” I said.  “But we should communicate with the police, and I wanted your authority before doing so.”