"What folly? I have work to do in Tunis. I must go there."
"Why, you can't think of such a thing, my dear child."
"Oh! enough of your paternal airs, Jenkins. I know what is hidden underneath. Pray talk to me as you did just now. I prefer you as the bulldog, rather than as the fawning cur. I'm less afraid of you."
"Very good! I tell you that you must be mad to go to that country all alone, young and lovely as you are."
"Why, am I not always alone? Would you have me take Constance, at her age?"
"What about me?"
"You?" She emphasized the word with a most satirical laugh. "And Paris? and your patients? Deprive Paris of its Cagliostro! No, indeed, never!"
"I am thoroughly resolved, however, to follow you wherever you go," said Jenkins, with decision.
There was a moment's pause. Paul wondered if it were very dignified in him to listen to this discussion, which seemed pregnant with terrible disclosures. But, in addition to his fatigue, an unconquerable curiosity glued him to his place. It seemed to him that the engrossing enigma by which he had been so long puzzled and disturbed, to which his mind still held by the end of its veil of mystery, was about to speak at last, to reveal itself, to disclose the woman, sorrowful or perverse, hidden beneath the shell of the worldly artist. So he remained perfectly still, holding his breath, but with no need to listen closely; for the others, believing themselves alone in the hotel, allowed their passions and their voices to rise without restraint.
"After all, what do you want of me?"