“And where does this Monsieur Gochard live?” Vaudrey promptly asked.

“Oh! it would not be necessary for you to go to see him,” replied Marianne.  “On receipt of a bill of exchange from me, Madame Dujarrier would undertake to let me have a hundred thousand francs from hand to hand.”

“A hundred thousand francs!—­In three months,” said Vaudrey to himself, “in a vast placer like Paris, one can find many veins of gold.”

He had, besides, his personal property and land in Dauphiny.  If need be, without Adrienne’s even knowing it, he could mortgage his farms at Saint-Laurent-du-Pont!

“Monsieur de Rosas would not have hesitated.  But in his case there would have been no merit,” said Mademoiselle Kayser.

At the name of that man, coupled with the recollection of him, Sulpice felt himself spurred to a decision.  Clearly the great millionaire noble would not have delayed before snatching this woman from the claws of her creditors.  A hundred thousand francs, a mere trifle for the count!  Well, Vaudrey would give it as the Spaniard would have done.  He would find it.  Within three months, he would have put everything right; he did not know how, but that mattered little.

“Have you a pen, Marianne?”

The minister had not noticed the sheet of white paper that was lying on the blotting pad of Russia leather, among the satin finished envelopes and the ivory paper-cutters.

“What are you going to do, my friend?”

She pretended to put away the green, sharkskin penholder lying near the inkstand, but drew it imperceptibly nearer to Sulpice, who with a quick movement had already seated himself in front of the secretaire.

“A minister’s signature is sufficient, I suppose?” he said with a smile.

He commenced to write.

“What did you say?—­Gochard?—­”

She was quite pale as she looked over Sulpice’s shoulder and saw him rapidly write several lines on the paper, then she spelled: 

“Adolphe Gochard—­Go-go-c-h-ar-d.”

“There it is!” he said, as he handed her the sheet of paper.

“I wish to know what is thereon, or I would never consent.”

She took the paper between her fingers as if to tear it to pieces.  Sulpice prevented her.

“No,” he said, “I request you to keep it; it is the best reply you can give to those people.—­Rely on me!”

“Do you wish it?” asked Marianne, with a toss of her head, speaking in a very sweet voice.

“Decidedly.  It is selfish, but I wish to feel myself not a little at home here,” Sulpice replied.

He seized her hands, her plump, soft, coaxing hands, and as he clasped them within his own, he carried them to his lips and kissed them, as well as her face, neck, ear and mouth, which he covered with kisses; and Marianne, still holding the satin paper that the minister had just signed, said with a laugh as she feebly defended herself: