Malletort lifted his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, and had recourse to his snuff-box. A few words had settled his business with the Adept, and his fine perceptions told him that in a scene like the present, however it originated, the interference of a third person would do more harm than good. Had he permitted himself such weaknesses, he felt he could have been astonished; but the Abbé had long established as an axiom, that, “he might be disgusted, but could never be surprised.” He had skill to distinguish, moreover, the nice point at which a delicate piece of workmanship may be quite spoiled by one additional touch, and knew the exact moment when it is advisable to leave both well and ill alone; so he pocketed his snuff-box, and made a bow to the agitated pair. “An unexpected recognition,” said he, politely, “and agitating, I perceive, to both. My introduction is then unnecessary. Pardon! You will permit me to wish you good-day, and leave you to arrange matters between yourselves!” Insensibly Bartoletti opened the door for his guest. Insensibly he returned the parting salutation, and insensibly, like a sleep-walker, he sat down opposite and gazed blankly in the Quadroon’s face. She at least was awake, and on the alert. The storm of her emotion had subsided. She summoned all her energies for the object she had in view. “Stefano!” she said, in a kindly conciliating tone, “forgive my violence. You and I have been friends for years. You know my quick temper of old. I can trust you. You can never be indifferent to my welfare.” He was sufficiently reassured by this time to fill a large goblet of wine, which he half emptied at a gulp. His cheek regained its swarthy bloom, and his little black eye glistened fondly, while he answered— “Never indifferent, Célandine! Never false! Never changed in all these years!” She was, as we know, one-fourth a negress, and past middle age—of an exterior so wild and weird, that the courtiers called her, as we also know, “The Mother of Satan.” He was turned fifty, self-indulgent, dishonest, with oily skin and beady eyes; short, swarthy, thick-set, and altogether not unlike a mole! Yet was there a spark of true love for his visitor lurking somewhere not entirely smothered amongst all the mass of impurities with which the man’s heart was filled. She was too much a woman to be quite unconscious of her power. She spoke in soft and coaxing accents now, while she replied— “I know it, Stefano. I believe it. I have also a good memory, and am not likely to forget. And, Stefano, you have a kind heart—you will not keep me longer in suspense about the child. He is here? In this house? In the next room? Oh! let me see him! Let me only see him, and I will do anything you ask!” She had slid from her chair, and knelt before him, holding the Adept’s scarred, burned fingers to her lips.