It appeared that the visitors were expected, for a couple of his heavily-decorated footmen waited on the stairs, and Célandine, following the Abbé with wondering eyes and faltering steps, found herself received with as much pomp and ceremony as if she had been a Princess of the Blood. They were ushered into the room that communicated with his laboratory. It was empty, but wine and fruit stood on the table. Malletort pressed the Quadroon to taste the former in vain. Then he passed without ceremony into the adjoining apartment, assuring her of his speedy return. Left to herself, Célandine drank greedily from the water-jug ere she crossed the floor on tiptoe, stealthy as a wild cat, and pressing her ear to the door, applied all her faculties intently to the one act of listening. She heard the Abbé’s greeting distinctly enough, and the sentence immediately following, spoken laughingly, as usual. “The parts are cast,” said he, “and the stage prepared. It remains but to dress the principal actress and make her perfect in her cue.” “Have you brought her?” answered an eager voice, hurried, agitated, and scarcely above a whisper. Indistinct as were the syllables, their effect on the Quadroon was like magic. She started, she passed her hand wildly across her face; her very lips turned white, and she trembled in every limb. Her attitude was no longer the simple act of listening. In concentrated eagerness it resembled the crouch of a leopard before its spring. The door opened, and she sprang in good earnest. As Bartoletti crossed the threshold she flew at him, and with one pounce had him fast by the throat. “Where is he?” she screamed, with foaming lips and flashing eyes. “Where is he? What have you done with him? I will kill you if you do not tell me. Man! Beast! Monster! Where have you hid my child?” It took all the Abbé’s strength, combined with the Italian’s own efforts, to untwine those nervous fingers. At last he shook himself free, to stand gasping, panting, wiping his face, exhausted, terror-stricken, and unmanned. When her physical powers yielded, her nervous system gave way as well. Sinking into a chair, she sobbed and wept hysterically, rocking herself to and fro, murmuring— “My baby! My fair-faced baby! My own! My only child!” Bartoletti had by this time found his voice, though still husky and unstrung. “Célandine!” he exclaimed, and the tone denoted fear, anxiety, surprise, even disgust, yet a something of tenderness and interest ran through it all.