“It’s no use, Monsieur l’Abbé!” were the first words she gasped. “I cannot, and I dare not, and I _will_ not. Besides, I have no time, I must be back directly. There’s Mademoiselle, most likely, wanting me this minute. The idea of such a thing! It’s out of the question altogether!” Malletort laughed good-humouredly. He could afford to be good-humoured, for the woman was in his power. “And the alternative?” said he. “Not that I want to _drive_ you, my Queen of Sheba, but still, a bargain is a bargain. Do you think Mademoiselle would engross your time much longer if the Marquise knew all I know, and, indeed, all that it is my duty to tell her?” Célandine clasped her hands imploringly, and dropped at once into complete submission. “I will go with you, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said she, humbly. “But you will not forget your promise. If you were to betray me I should die.” “And I, too,” thought Malletort, who knew the nature with which he had to deal, and treated it as a keeper treats the tigress in her cage. “It is no question of betrayal,” he said, aloud. “Follow me. When we reach the carriage, step in. My people know where to drive.” He walked on very fast, and she followed him; her black eyes glancing fierce misgivings, like those of a wild animal that suspects a snare. Two or three more windings with which he seemed thoroughly familiar, a glance around that showed not a passenger visible, nor indeed a living soul, save a poor old rag-picker raking a heap of refuse with her hook, and the Quadroon suddenly emerged in mid-stream, so to speak, surrounded by the life and bustle of one of the main streets in Paris. At a few paces distant stood a plain, well-appointed coach, and the Abbé, pointing to its door, which a servant was holding open, Célandine found herself, ere she could look round, rumbling, she knew not where, over the noisy pavement, completely in that man’s power, for whom, perhaps, of all men in the world, she entertained the strongest feelings of terror, stronger even than her aversion. She did not take long, however, to recover herself. The strain of savage blood to which she owed those fierce black eyes and jetty locks gave her also, with considerable physical courage, the insensibility of rude natures to what we may term _moral_ fear. She might shudder at a drawn knife if she were herself unarmed, or cower before a whip if her hands were tied and her back bared; but to future evil, to danger, neither visible nor tangible, she was callous as a child. They had not travelled half a mile ere she showed her delight in every feature of her expressive face at the rapid motion and the gay scenes through which she was driven. In a few minutes she smiled pleasantly, and asked their destination as gaily as if they had been going to a ball. Malletort thought it a good opportunity for a few impressive words.