He walked on very fast, and she followed him; her black eyes glancing fierce misgivings, like those of a wild animal that suspects a snare.
Two or three more windings with which he seemed thoroughly familiar, a glance around that showed not a passenger visible, nor indeed a living soul, save a poor old rag-picker raking a heap of refuse with her hook, and the Quadroon suddenly emerged in mid-stream, so to speak, surrounded by the life and bustle of one of the main streets in Paris. At a few paces distant stood a plain, well-appointed coach, and the Abbé, pointing to its door, which a servant was holding open, Célandine found herself, ere she could look round, rumbling, she knew not where, over the noisy pavement, completely in that man’s power, for whom, perhaps, of all men in the world, she entertained the strongest feelings of terror, stronger even than her aversion.
She did not take long, however, to recover herself. The strain of savage blood to which she owed those fierce black eyes and jetty locks gave her also, with considerable physical courage, the insensibility of rude natures to what we may term moral fear. She might shudder at a drawn knife if she were herself unarmed, or cower before a whip if her hands were tied and her back bared; but to future evil, to danger, neither visible nor tangible, she was callous as a child.
They had not travelled half a mile ere she showed her delight in every feature of her expressive face at the rapid motion and the gay scenes through which she was driven. In a few minutes she smiled pleasantly, and asked their destination as gaily as if they had been going to a ball.
Malletort thought it a good opportunity for a few impressive words.
“Célandine,” said he, gravely, “every one of us has a treasure somewhere hidden up in the heart. What is it that you love better than everything else in the world?”
The dark face, tanned by many a year of sun, yet comely still, saddened and softened while he spoke, the black eyes grew deeper and deeper as they seemed to look dreamily into the past. After a pause she drew a sorrowful sigh, and answered, “Mademoiselle!”
“Good,” replied the Abbé. “You are bound on an errand now for which Mademoiselle will be grateful to you till her dying day.”
She looked curiously in his face. “Cerise is dear to me as my own,” said she. “How can I do more for her to-day than yesterday, and to-morrow, and every day of my life?”
He answered by another question.