“The same.”
A sudden change manifested itself on every face; no more laughter was to be heard. All eyes were fixed with curiosity on the Sicilian.
“Monsieur l’Abbe! The matter grows serious,” said the Englishman. “I advise you to think of beating a retreat.”
“The fellow is in league with the devil,” exclaimed the Frenchman, and rushed out of the house. The ladies ran shrieking from the room. The virtuoso followed them. The German prebendary was snoring in a chair. The Russian officer continued sitting in his place as before, perfectly indifferent to what was passing.
“Perhaps your attention was only to raise a laugh at the expense of that boaster,” said the prince, after they were gone, “or would you indeed fulfil your promise to us?”
“It is true,” replied the Sicilian; “I was but jesting with the abbe. I took him at his word, because I knew very well that the coward would not suffer me to proceed to extremities. The matter itself is, however, too serious to serve merely as a jest.”
“You grant, then, that it is in your power?”
The sorcerer maintained a long silence, and kept his look fixed steadily on the prince, as if to examine him.
“It is!” answered he at last.
The prince’s curiosity was now raised to the highest pitch. A fondness for the marvellous had ever been his prevailing weakness. His improved understanding and a proper course of reading had for some time dissipated every idea of this kind; but the appearance of the Armenian had revived them. He stepped aside with the Sicilian, and I heard them in very earnest conversation.