“By the by,” he asked as if suddenly recollecting something of no importance, “have you ever had any dealings with negroes? Do you know anything of the superstitions of Obi?”
“I know something of every superstition in the world,” answered the other, “Christian as well as pagan, or how could I afford to drink such wine as you tasted in the next room?”
He laughed while he spoke, heartily enough, and so did Malletort, only the mirth of the latter was assumed. He believed in very little, this Abbé, very little indeed, either for good or evil; but he would have liked, if he could, to believe in the philosopher’s stone.
“I have made acquaintance with an Obi-woman lately,” pursued he; “she may be useful to us both. I will bring her to see you in a day or two, if you will refresh your mind in the meantime with what you can remember of their mysteries, so as to meet her on equal terms.”
Bartoletti looked much relieved, and indeed gratified, when informed that this Obi-woman, instead of being a hideous old negress, was a fine-looking quadroon.
“Is that all you wanted?” said he, quite briskly; but his countenance fell once more on perceiving that the Abbé made no preparations for departure.
“Not quite,” replied the latter. “I am hardly perfect yet in the nature of those essences we studied at my last lesson. Let us go over their powers and properties again.”
The Signor turned a shade paler, but taking down some phials, and two or three papers of powders from a shelf, he did as he was bid, and proceeded systematically enough to explain their contents, gaining confidence, and even growing enthusiastic in his subject as he went on.
At the third packet the Abbé stopped him.
“It is harmless, you say, as a perfume when sprinkled in the form of a powder?”