“Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, he is débonnaire!” hummed the Abbé, as he mounted the wooden staircase, and stopped at the first door on the landing. “Monsieur le Duc is welcome to make all the music for our puppet dance so long as he leaves it to Monsieur l’Abbé to pull the strings.” Two gaudily dressed footmen answered Malletort’s summons and admitted him obsequiously, as being a well-known friend of their master’s, before he had time to ask if Signor Bartoletti was within. The Abbé had visited here too often to be surprised at the luxuries of the apartment into which he was ushered, so little in character with the dirt and dilapidation that prevailed outside; but Signor Bartoletti, alleging in excuse the requirements of his southern blood, indulged in every extravagance to which his means would stretch, was consequently always in difficulties, and therefore ready to assist in any scheme, however nefarious, provided he was well paid. The Signor’s tastes were obviously florid. Witness the theatrical appearance of his lackeys, the bright colour of his furniture, the gaudy ornaments on his chimneypiece, the glaring pictures on his walls; nay, the very style and chasing of a massive flagon of red wine standing on the table by a filagree basket of fruit for his refection. The man himself, too, was palpably over-dressed, wearing a sword here in the retirement of his chamber, yet wearing it as one whose hand was little familiar with its guard. Every resource of lace, velvet, satin, and embroidery had been employed in vain to give him an outward semblance of distinction, but there was an expression of intellect and energy in his dark beetle-browed face, with its restless black eyes, that, in spite of low stature and ungainly make, redeemed him from the imputation of utter vulgarity. His hands, too (and there is a good deal of character in the hand), were strong, nervous, and exceedingly well-shaped, though sadly stained and scorched by the acids he made use of in the prosecution of his art. A less keen observer than the Abbé might not have remarked beneath the signor’s cordial greeting symptoms of anxiety, and even apprehension, blended with something of the passive defiance which seems to say, “I am in a corner. I have no escape. I don’t like it; but I must make the best of it.” A less keen observer, too, might not have detected a ring of bravado in the tone with which he accosted his visitor as a disciple and fellow-labourer in the cause of science. “Welcome, monsieur,” said he—“welcome to the teacher who needs the assistance of his pupil every step he travels on the radiant path. Have you made discoveries, Monsieur l’Abbé? Fill your glass, and impart them. Have you encountered difficulties?—Fill your glass, and conquer them. Have you seen the true light glimmering far, far off across the black waters?—Fill your glass, I say, and let us drink success to our voyage ere we embark once more in search of the Great Secret.”