“Thirty thousand a year, at least.”

“It is a question of conquer or die, is it?”

“It is.”

“Well, then, I must reflect on the necessary means to that end; it will need all our cleverness to manage our forces.  I will give you some instructions on my arrival this evening; follow them carefully, and I think I may promise you a successful issue.  Is the Comte de Manerville in love with Mademoiselle Natalie?” he asked as he rose to take leave.

“He adores her.”

“That is not enough.  Does he desire her to the point of disregarding all pecuniary difficulties?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I call having a lien upon a daughter’s property,” cried the notary.  “Make her look her best to-night,” he added with a sly glance.

“She has a most charming dress for the occasion.”

“The marriage-contract dress is, in my opinion, half the battle,” said Solonet.

This last argument seemed so cogent to Madame Evangelista that she superintended Natalie’s toilet herself, as much perhaps to watch her daughter as to make her the innocent accomplice of her financial conspiracy.

With her hair dressed a la Sevigne and wearing a gown of white tulle adorned with pink ribbons, Natalie seemed to her mother so beautiful as to guarantee victory.  When the lady’s-maid left the room and Madame Evangelista was certain that no one could overhear her, she arranged a few curls on her daughter’s head by way of exordium.

“Dear child,” she said, in a voice that was firm apparently, “do you sincerely love the Comte de Manerville?”

Mother and daughter cast strange looks at each other.

“Why do you ask that question, little mother? and to-day more than yesterday> Why have you thrown me with him?”

“If you and I had to part forever would you still persist in the marriage?”

“I should give it up—­and I should not die of grief.”

“You do not love him, my dear,” said the mother, kissing her daughter’s forehead.

“But why, my dear mother, are you playing the Grand Inquisitor?”

“I wished to know if you desired the marriage without being madly in love with the husband.”

“I love him.”

“And you are right.  He is a count; we will make him a peer of France between us; nevertheless, there are certain difficulties.”

“Difficulties between persons who love each other?  Oh, no.  The heart of the Pink of Fashion is too firmly planted here,” she said, with a pretty gesture, “to make the very slightest objection.  I am sure of that.”

“But suppose it were otherwise?” persisted Madame Evangelista.

“He would be profoundly and forever forgotten,” replied Natalie.

“Good!  You are a Casa-Reale.  But suppose, though he madly loves you, suppose certain discussions and difficulties should arise, not of his own making, but which he must decide in your interests as well as in mine—­hey, Natalie, what then?  Without lowering your dignity, perhaps a little softness in your manner might decide him—­a word, a tone, a mere nothing.  Men are so made; they resist a serious argument, but they yield to a tender look.”