From that day, her mind was possessed of a new idea that imperiously directed it.  When Rosas had returned to her, she had only regarded him as a possible lover, rich and agreeable.  The mistress of a minister, she would become the mistress of a duke.  A millionaire duke.  The change would be profitable, assuming that she could not retain both.  Her calculations were speedily made.  She would only make Rosas pay more dearly for the resistance he had offered before surrendering himself.

But now, abruptly and without her having thought of it, he had, with the incautiousness of a soldier who discloses his attack and lays himself open to a bully who tries to provoke him, the duke showed her the extent of his violent passion by a single phrase that feverishly agitated her.

His mistress!  Why his mistress, since he had shown her that perhaps?—­

“Idiot that I am!” thought Marianne.  “Suppose I play my cards for marriage?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“It will cost no more!”

Married!  Duchess! and Duchesse de Rosas!  At first she laughed.  Duchess!  I am asking a little from you!  The mistress of Pierre Meran, the artist’s drudge, the wretch who abducted her and debauched her, adding his depravity to hers, and who died of consumption while quite young, after having plunged this girl into vice, this Marianne Kayser, born and moulded for vice:  she a duchess!

“It would be too funny, my dear!” she thought.

Never had Vaudrey, whom she saw that evening at Rue Prony, seemed so provincial, or, as she said, so Sulpice.  Besides, he was gloomy and unable to express himself clearly at first, but finally he brought himself to acknowledge that he was embarrassed about providing for the bill of exchange—­she understood—­

“No, I do not know!”

“The bill of exchange in favor of Monsieur Gochard!”

“Ah! that is so.  Well! if you cannot pay it, my dear, I will advise—­I will seek—­”

There was nothing to seek.  Vaudrey would evidently get himself out of the affair—­but the document matured at an unfortunate time.  He did not dare to mortgage La Sauliere, his farm at Saint-Laurent-du-Pont.  He had reflected that Adrienne might learn all about it.  And then—­

Marianne broke in upon his confidences.

“Don’t speak to me about these money matters, my friend, you know that sort of thing disgusts me!—­”

“I understand you and ask your pardon.”

They were to see each other again the next day, as parliament was to take a rest.

“What joy!  Not to be away from you for the whole of the day!” remarked Vaudrey.

“Well then, till to-morrow!”

She felt intense pleasure in being alone again, wrapped in her sheets, with the light of the lamp that ordinarily shone upon her hours of love with Sulpice, still burning, and to be free to dream of her Spanish grandee who had said, plainly, with the trembling of passion on his lips:  “I should esteem you enough to become your husband!”