CHAPTER XIII
THE MOTHER OF SATAN
Malletort, leaving his cousin’s house by its principal egress, did not enter his coach at once, but whispering certain directions to the servants, proceeded leisurely down a narrow lane or alley, leading, after a variety of windings, into one of the great thoroughfares of Paris. The street was well adapted for such an interview, either of love or business, as it was desirable to keep secret, consisting, on one side, only of the backs of the houses, in which the windows were built up, and on the other, of the high dead wall that bounded the extensive premises of the Hôtel Montmirail. Casting a hasty glance before and behind, to make sure he was not watched, the Abbé, when he reached the narrowest part of the narrow passage—for it was hardly more—halted, smiled, and observed to himself: “A man’s character must be either very spotless or very good for nothing if he can thus afford to set the decencies of life at defiance. A churchman with an assignation! and at noon in this quarter of Paris! My friend, it is rather a strong measure, no doubt! And suppose, nevertheless, she should fail to appear? It would be the worse for her, that’s all! Ah! the sweet sultana! There she is!”
While he spoke, a woman, wrapped in a large shawl, with another folded round her head, came swiftly down the alley, and stopped within two paces of him. It was the Quadroon, agitated, hurried, a good deal out of breath, and, perhaps, also a little out of temper.
“It’s no use, Monsieur l’Abbé!” were the first words she gasped. “I cannot, and I dare not, and I will not. Besides, I have no time, I must be back directly. There’s Mademoiselle, most likely, wanting me this minute. The idea of such a thing! It’s out of the question altogether!”
Malletort laughed good-humouredly. He could afford to be good-humoured, for the woman was in his power.
“And the alternative?” said he. “Not that I want to drive you, my Queen of Sheba, but still, a bargain is a bargain. Do you think Mademoiselle would engross your time much longer if the Marquise knew all I know, and, indeed, all that it is my duty to tell her?”
Célandine clasped her hands imploringly, and dropped at once into complete submission.
“I will go with you, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said she, humbly. “But you will not forget your promise. If you were to betray me I should die.”
“And I, too,” thought Malletort, who knew the nature with which he had to deal, and treated it as a keeper treats the tigress in her cage. “It is no question of betrayal,” he said, aloud. “Follow me. When we reach the carriage, step in. My people know where to drive.”