“An unexpected recognition,” said he, politely, “and agitating, I perceive, to both. My introduction is then unnecessary. Pardon! You will permit me to wish you good-day, and leave you to arrange matters between yourselves!”
Insensibly Bartoletti opened the door for his guest. Insensibly he returned the parting salutation, and insensibly, like a sleep-walker, he sat down opposite and gazed blankly in the Quadroon’s face.
She at least was awake, and on the alert. The storm of her emotion had subsided. She summoned all her energies for the object she had in view.
“Stefano!” she said, in a kindly conciliating tone, “forgive my violence. You and I have been friends for years. You know my quick temper of old. I can trust you. You can never be indifferent to my welfare.”
He was sufficiently reassured by this time to fill a large goblet of wine, which he half emptied at a gulp. His cheek regained its swarthy bloom, and his little black eye glistened fondly, while he answered—
“Never indifferent, Célandine! Never false! Never changed in all these years!”
She was, as we know, one-fourth a negress, and past middle age—of an exterior so wild and weird, that the courtiers called her, as we also know, “The Mother of Satan.” He was turned fifty, self-indulgent, dishonest, with oily skin and beady eyes; short, swarthy, thick-set, and altogether not unlike a mole! Yet was there a spark of true love for his visitor lurking somewhere not entirely smothered amongst all the mass of impurities with which the man’s heart was filled.
She was too much a woman to be quite unconscious of her power. She spoke in soft and coaxing accents now, while she replied—
“I know it, Stefano. I believe it. I have also a good memory, and am not likely to forget. And, Stefano, you have a kind heart—you will not keep me longer in suspense about the child. He is here? In this house? In the next room? Oh! let me see him! Let me only see him, and I will do anything you ask!”
She had slid from her chair, and knelt before him, holding the Adept’s scarred, burned fingers to her lips.
His face betrayed the pain he suffered in inflicting pain on her. “What can I tell you?” he answered. “It is cruel to deceive you. It is cruel to speak the truth. I have never seen the boy since he left me. Do you think I would have kept him from you? How can I find him? How can I bring him back? You talk as if I was King of France!”