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.”
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.
“Would you like to see your darling a Princess of France?”
The Quadroon’s eyes glistened and filled with tears.
“I would lay down my life for the child,” was all she said in reply.
But he had got her malleable now, and he knew it. Those tear-drops showed
him she was at the exact temperature for fusion. A little less, she would
have remained too cold and hard. A little more, and over-excitement would
have produced irritation, anger, defiance: then the whole process must
have been begun again. It was a good time to secure her confederacy, and
let her see a vague shadowy outline of his plans.
In a few short sentences, but glowing and eloquent, because of the
tropical nature to which they were addressed, Malletort sketched out
the noble destiny he had in view for her mistress, and the consequent
elevation of Cerise to the rank of royalty. He impressed on his listener
the necessity of implicit, unquestioning obedience to his commands. Above
all, of unbroken silence and unvaried caution till their point was gained.
“As in your own beautiful island,” said the Abbé, soaring for the
occasion to the metaphorical; “if you would pass by night through its
luxuriant jungles, you must keep the star that guides you steadily
in view, nor lose sight of it for an instant; so in the path I shall
indicate, never forget, however distant and impracticable it may seem,
the object to which our efforts are directed. In either case, if your
attention wanders for a moment, in that moment your feet stray from the
path; you stumble amongst the tangled creepers—you pierce yourself with
the cruel cactus—you tread on some venomous reptile that turns and stings
you to the bone; nay, you may topple headlong down a precipice into the
deep, dark, silent waters of the lagoon. Once there, I tell you fairly,
you might wait for a long while before the Marquise, or Mademoiselle, or
myself would wet a finger to pull you out!”
Thus urging on his listener the importance of her task, now in plain
direct terms, now in the figurative language of parables, their drive
seemed to have lasted but a few minutes, when it was brought to an abrupt
termination by the stoppage of the coach before Signor Bartoletti’s
residence.
It appeared that the visitors were expected, for a couple of his
heavily-decorated footmen waited on the stairs, and Célandine, following
the Abbé with wondering eyes and faltering steps, found herself received
with as much pomp and ceremony as if she had been a Princess of the Blood.
They were ushered into the room that communicated with his laboratory.
It was empty, but wine and fruit stood on the table. Malletort pressed
the Quadroon to taste the former in vain. Then he passed without ceremony
into the adjoining apartment, assuring her of his speedy return.
Left to herself, Célandine drank greedily from the water-jug ere she
crossed the floor on tiptoe, stealthy as a wild cat, and pressing her
ear to the door, applied all her faculties intently to the one act of
listening.
She heard the Abbé’s greeting distinctly enough, and the sentence
immediately following, spoken laughingly, as usual.
“The parts are cast,” said he, “and the stage prepared. It remains but to
dress the principal actress and make her perfect in her cue.”
“Have you brought her?” answered an eager voice, hurried, agitated, and
scarcely above a whisper.
Indistinct as were the syllables, their effect on the Quadroon was like
magic. She started, she passed her hand wildly across her face; her
very lips turned white, and she trembled in every limb. Her attitude
was no longer the simple act of listening. In concentrated eagerness it
resembled the crouch of a leopard before its spring.
The door opened, and she sprang in good earnest. As Bartoletti crossed
the threshold she flew at him, and with one pounce had him fast by the
throat.
“Where is he?” she screamed, with foaming lips and flashing eyes. “Where
is he? What have you done with him? I will kill you if you do not tell
me. Man! Beast! Monster! Where have you hid my child?”
It took all the Abbé’s strength, combined with the Italian’s own efforts,
to untwine those nervous fingers. At last he shook himself free, to
stand gasping, panting, wiping his face, exhausted, terror-stricken, and
unmanned.
When her physical powers yielded, her nervous system gave way as well.
Sinking into a chair, she sobbed and wept hysterically, rocking herself
to and fro, murmuring—
“My baby! My fair-faced baby! My own! My only child!”
Bartoletti had by this time found his voice, though still husky and
unstrung.
“Célandine!” he exclaimed, and the tone denoted fear, anxiety, surprise,
even disgust, yet a something of tenderness and interest ran through it
all.
Malletort lifted his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, and had recourse
to his snuff-box. A few words had settled his business with the Adept,
and his fine perceptions told him that in a scene like the present,
however it originated, the interference of a third person would do more
harm than good. Had he permitted himself such weaknesses, he felt he
could have been astonished; but the Abbé had long established as an
axiom, that, “he might be disgusted, but could never be surprised.” He
had skill to distinguish, moreover, the nice point at which a delicate
piece of workmanship may be quite spoiled by one additional touch, and
knew the exact moment when it is advisable to leave both well and ill
alone; so he pocketed his snuff-box, and made a bow to the agitated pair.
“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!”
A horrible fear came across her. She rose to her feet, and shook both
fists in his face.
“Man!” she exclaimed, “do not tell me he is dead! You shall answer for
it, if heaven or hell have any power on earth!”
There were tears in his little beady eyes, unaccustomed tears, that
vouched for his truth, even to _her_, while he replied—
“You are unjust, Célandine; and you would see your injustice if you did
but think for a moment. What had I to gain by taking care of the boy?
What had I to gain by ridding myself of him? Had I been to blame, do you
suppose I should have sent you the earliest information of his flight?
Have I not felt your sorrows keenly as if they were my own? Do I not feel
for you now? Listen. I am the same Stefano Bartoletti who told you the
secret of his life, the desire of his heart, by the side of that sweet
serene lagoon, in the beautiful island which probably neither of us may
ever see again. I have learned many strange lessons—I have witnessed
many strange scenes since then. Many years have passed over my head, and
wisdom has not despised me as the least apt among her pupils. Statesmen,
nobles, princes themselves have been glad to visit me in person, and reap
the fruit of my studies and my experience. But I tell you, Célandine,”
and here the little man smote his breast, and for the moment looked every
inch a champion, “I am the same Stefano Bartoletti. I swear to you that
if you will but join me heart and hand in this, the last and greatest of
my schemes, I will never rest till I have found the boy, and brought him
back into his mother’s arms!”
She gave a wild, fierce cry of joy, and was hugging the brown hand to her
bosom once more.
“Money,” observed the Signor, walking thoughtfully up and down the room
as soon as she had sufficiently composed herself to listen, “money, you
perceive, is the one thing we require. Money alone can overcome this,
like all other difficulties on earth. Money in sufficient quantity would
make me independent, contented, perhaps happy.” Here he stole a tender
look in the Quadroon’s face. “Money would enable me to quit these cold,
dull regions; this constrained, confined, unnatural life. Money would
restore _me_ my liberty, and _you_ your child. Célandine, will you help
me to get it?”
He had touched the right chord. There was eager hope and wild
unscrupulous energy in her face while she answered—
“I will! I swear it! Heart and hand I go in with you for this object, and
neither fire nor water, nor steel nor poison shall turn me now. You know
me, Stefano. I will shrink from nothing. But it is—it is not a question
of blood?”
“No, no!” he replied, laughing. “You, too, are unchanged, Célandine.
Always in extremes. Make yourself easy on that score. It is but a trick
of your former trade. None but yourself can do it half so well. I will
explain it all in five minutes when I have finished this cup of wine.
But, Célandine,” and here her old admirer drew closer and whispered in
her ear.
“I cannot tell,” she laughed. “It is impossible to give an answer yet.”
“And the price?” continued he, earnestly. “Surely it must have fallen
now, though the Marquise is hard to deal with on such matters.”
The Quadroon shook her head archly, indeed, coquettishly for her years
and replied—
“Certainly not less than a couple of thousand francs?”
“But suppose she knew everything!” urged the lover.
“Then I think she would be so angry, she would have me flogged and give
me away for nothing!”
He shook his head, pondering deeply. The flogging was indeed a serious
consideration. But then, what a reduction it would make in the price!
There was grave matter, he thought, for reflection in the whole business,
and his manner was more sedate than usual, while he instructed Célandine
in a certain part that the Abbé and he had agreed she should perform.