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.
