In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. It is in vain to struggle against the arm of fate. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. But I don't understand her; she's over my head. I know the Dutch. I wouldn't touch the stuff for all the pearls in India.
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