Cafe Dorian

The Comte was there the next morning as promised, in a coat of intense green. It suited him wonderfully and Titus glanced at it a few times as they walked together to Brook Street, enjoying the sunshine.

“I hope you admire my colour?” the Comte remarked quizzically.

“It is an excellent colour, in itself and on you.” He couldn’t resist making the compliment, because it was exquisitely true: The green was a perfect foil to the Comte’s dark hair, and set off his bronzed eyes in a way that made Titus shudder with pleasure. Honesty forced him to go on. “I just wondered, do you know it’s Scheele’s green?”

He got a bright-eyed glance. “Who is Scheele, and what is his green?”

“A chemist: he invented it. I wasn’t sure if you knew what it’s made of.”

“An Indian tree? A sea-creature, like the famous purple?”

“Murex. No. No, it’s copper arsenite.”

“Arsenite—” The Comte stopped short. “Arsenic?”

“It’s just that you seemed rather shocked by orpiment, so I thought you might want to know.”

“I might indeed have liked to know that, and before I bought it,” the Comte said with feeling. “Is there—I ask merely for information—is there any colour that is not made of poison, ear wax, vomit, or death?”

“Oh, many,” Titus assured him. “Well, some. It’s just that the best colours do tend to be—”

“Of course they do. The colour is all. Scheele makes his green and cares nothing for the consequence. It is safe to wear, I suppose?”

“Uh . . .”

“What?” the Comte snapped, somehow sounding rather less French than usual.

“Many people do wear it. It’s wonderfully popular as a dye and a paint for all sorts of uses. It’s just, I might avoid”—Titus mimed brushing the front of his coat—“with your hands. Or wash them before you eat.”

“Before I—” The Comte’s mouth moved silently. “I’m wearing arsenic. My tailor sold me arsenic.”

“It is very popular,” Titus repeated. “And it’s really the only way to get that excellent green.”