“No, no!” he replied, laughing. “You, too, are unchanged, Célandine. Always in extremes. Make yourself easy on that score. It is but a trick of your former trade. None but yourself can do it half so well. I will explain it all in five minutes when I have finished this cup of wine. But, Célandine,” and here her old admirer drew closer and whispered in her ear. “I cannot tell,” she laughed. “It is impossible to give an answer yet.” “And the price?” continued he, earnestly. “Surely it must have fallen now, though the Marquise is hard to deal with on such matters.” The Quadroon shook her head archly, indeed, coquettishly for her years and replied— “Certainly not less than a couple of thousand francs?” “But suppose she knew everything!” urged the lover. “Then I think she would be so angry, she would have me flogged and give me away for nothing!” He shook his head, pondering deeply. The flogging was indeed a serious consideration. But then, what a reduction it would make in the price! There was grave matter, he thought, for reflection in the whole business, and his manner was more sedate than usual, while he instructed Célandine in a certain part that the Abbé and he had agreed she should perform. CHAPTER XIV THE DÉBONNAIRE “It is good to be superior to mortal weakness,” said Malletort to himself as he re-entered his coach and drove from Bartoletti’s door. “In the human subject I cannot but observe how few emotions are conducive to happiness. That which touches the heart seems always prejudicial to the stomach. How ridiculous, how derogatory, and how uncomfortable to turn red and pale, to burst into tears, to spring at people’s throats, nay, even to feel the pulse beat, the head swim, the voice fail at a word, a look, a presence! What, then, constitutes the true well-being of man, the _summum bonum_, the vantage point, the grand _desideratum_ to which all philosophy is directed? Self-command! But self-command leads to the command of others—to success, to victory, to power! and power, with none to share it, none to benefit by it, is it worth the labour of attainment? Can it be that its eminence is but like the crest of a mountain, from which the more extended the horizon the flatter and the more monotonous appears the view. It may, but what matter? Let me only get to the summit, and I can always come down again at my leisure. _Basta!_ here we are. Now to gain a foothold on the slippery path that leads to the very top!” The Abbé’s carriage was brought to a halt while he spoke by a post of Grey Musketeers stationed in front of the Palais-Royal. The churchman’s plain and quiet equipage had no right of entrance, and he alighted to pass through the narrow ingress left unguarded for foot-passengers. Hence he crossed a paved court, turned short into a wing of the building with which he seemed well acquainted, and stopped at the foot of a narrow staircase, guarded by one solitary sentry of the corps.