“I do not remember—­”

“Well!  Vanda has gone to Russia, she left a month ago.  She will be there all the winter and summer, and part of next winter.  Her general requires her.  He is appointed to keep an eye on the Nihilists.  So she wishes to rent her house in Rue Prony.  That is very natural.  A charming house.  Very chic.  In admirable taste.  You have the chance.  And not dear.”

“Too dear for me, who have nothing!”

“Little silly!  You have yourself,” said Claire Dujarrier.  “Then you have me, I have always liked you.  I will lend you the ready cash to set yourself up, you can give me bills of exchange, little documents that your minister—­pest! you are going on well, you are, ministers!—­that His Excellency will endorse.  Vanda will not expect anything after the first quarter.  Provided that her house is well-rented to someone who does not spoil it, she will be satisfied.  If she should claim all, why, at a pinch I can make up the amount.  But, my dear,”—­and the old woman lowered her voice,—­“on no account say anything to Adolphe.”

“Adolphe?”

“Yes, my husband.  You do not know him?”

She took from the table a photograph enclosed in a photograph-case of sky-blue plush, in which Marianne recognized a swaggering fellow with flat face, large hands, fierce, bushy moustache, who leaned on a cane, swelling out his huge chest in outline against a mean, gray-tinted garden ornamented with Medicis vases.

“A handsome fellow, isn’t he?  Quite young!—­and he loves me—­I adore him, too!”

The tumid eyes of Claire Dujarrier resembled lighted coals.  She pressed kiss after kiss of her painted lips on the photograph and reverently laid it on the table.

Marianne almost pitied this half-senile love, the courtesan’s terrifying, last love.

She was, however, too content either to trouble herself, or even to reflect upon it.  She was wild with joy.  It seemed to her that a sudden rift had opened before her and a gloriously sunny future pictured itself to her mind.  What an inspiration it was to think of Claire Dujarrier!

She would sign everything she wished, acknowledge the sums lent, with any interest that might be demanded.  Much she cared about that, indeed!—­She was sure now to free herself and to succeed.

“You are jolly right,” said the ancient danseuse.  “The nest is entirely at the birds’ disposal.  Your minister—­I don’t ask his name, but I shall learn it by the bills of exchange—­would treat you as a grisette if he found you at your uncle’s.  Whereas at Vanda’s—­ah! at Vanda’s! you will have news to tell me.  So, see this is all that is necessary.  I will write to Vanda that her house is rented, and well rented.  Kiss me and skip!  I hear Adolphe coming.  He does not care to see new faces.  And then, yours is too pretty!” she added, with a peculiar significance.

She got the old servant to show Marianne out promptly, as if she felt fearful lest her husband should see the pretty creature.  Claire Dujarrier was certainly jealous.