"That was on the Congo River, in Africa, master."
"I believe so: but it does not matter if the young is black. I remember that what they offered were sprightly, woolly-headed, jolly little urchins."
"Unfortunately we are no longer on the Congo. We are in Paris."
"Well, we can embark from Marseilles and be in Africa in six weeks."
"That can be done; but I must stay in France on serious business."
"Business?" sneered the old man, sending forth a peal of shrill laughter, most lugubrious. "True, I had forgotten that you have political clubs to organize, conspiracies to foster, and, in short, serious business!" And he laughed again forced and false.
Balsamo held his peace, reserving his powers for the storm impending.
"How far has your business advanced?" he inquired, painfully turning in his chair and fixing his large gray eyes on the pupil.
"I have thrown the first stone," he replied, feeling the glance go through him. "The pool is stirred up. The mud is in agitation—the philosophic sediment."