The Abbé’s metaphor, drawn from that fashionable pastime which had been a favourite amusement of the late king, was not without its effect on his listener. Like a skilful practitioner, he suffered his advice to sink into the adept’s mind before he took advantage of its effects. In other sciences besides chemistry and cookery, it is well to let your ingredients simmer undisturbed in the crucible till they are thoroughly fused and amalgamated. He wanted the Signor malleable, and nothing, he knew by experience, rendered Bartoletti so obliging as a conviction that he lacked means to provide for his self-indulgence. Like the general public, he had been tempted by the great Mississippi scheme, and had invested in its shares the small amount of ready money at his command. It was gradually dawning on him that his speculations would entail considerable loss—that loss he felt, and showed he felt, must be made good. This was the Abbé’s opportunity. He could offer his own price now for the co-operation of his friend. “We are wasting time sadly,” said the visitor, after a pause. “Let us go to our studies at once,” and he led the way to an inner apartment, as though he had been host and teacher rather than visitor and disciple. The Signor followed, obedient though unwilling, like a well-trained dog bid to heel by its master. Malletort turned his cuffs back, seized a small pair of bellows, and blew a heap of powdered coal, mingled with other substances, into a deep violet glow. “By the by,” he asked as if suddenly recollecting something of no importance, “have you ever had any dealings with negroes? Do you know anything of the superstitions of Obi?” “I know something of every superstition in the world,” answered the other, “Christian as well as pagan, or how could I afford to drink such wine as you tasted in the next room?” He laughed while he spoke, heartily enough, and so did Malletort, only the mirth of the latter was assumed. He believed in very little, this Abbé, very little indeed, either for good or evil; but he would have liked, if he could, to believe in the philosopher’s stone. “I have made acquaintance with an Obi-woman lately,” pursued he; “she may be useful to us both. I will bring her to see you in a day or two, if you will refresh your mind in the meantime with what you can remember of their mysteries, so as to meet her on equal terms.” Bartoletti looked much relieved, and indeed gratified, when informed that this Obi-woman, instead of being a hideous old negress, was a fine-looking quadroon. “Is that all you wanted?” said he, quite briskly; but his countenance fell once more on perceiving that the Abbé made no preparations for departure. “Not quite,” replied the latter. “I am hardly perfect yet in the nature of those essences we studied at my last lesson. Let us go over their powers and properties again.”