"They sometimes remain for years upon the scene of their guilt. They defy the laws which they have outraged, and triumph in their undiscovered and successful villainy."
Don Juan laughed mockingly, but a close observer might have detected an uneasy quiver of his mustachio-shaded lip.
"Mademoiselle Corsi appears to speak from experience," he said. "She has perhaps known such people?"
"I have known such people," answered the Frenchwoman in the same quiet tone in which she had first addressed Don Juan.
"They could scarcely be desirable acquaintances for the instructress of—"
"The daughter of so honorable a man as yourself, Don Juan," said Pauline, as if interpreting the thoughts of her employer.
While this conversation was going forward between Mademoiselle Corsi and the Spaniard, Camillia Moraquitos had strolled out onto the balcony, to escape the watchful eyes of her father, and to conceal the relief she felt in her lover's escape. Pauline and Don Juan were, therefore, alone. Their eyes met. There was something in the glance of the Frenchwoman which told plainly that her words had no common meaning.
For some moments the gaze of Don Juan was rooted upon that fair face and those clear and radiant blue eyes—a face which was almost childlike in its delicacy and freshness, and which yet, to the experienced eye of the physiognomist, revealed a nature rarely matched for intelligence and cunning.
Don Juan crossed the apartment to the curtained recess in which Pauline Corsi was seated, and, placing himself in the chair opposite to her, grasped her slender wrist in his muscular hand.
"There is a hidden significance in your words," he said.