“Is the messenger still there, Justine?”

“No, madame, he is gone.  He said that there was no reply.”

Marianne quickly tore in small pieces the note she had just read.

“Some annoyance?” asked Vaudrey.

“Yes, exactly.”

“May I know?”

“No, it does not interest you.  A family affair.”

“Ah! your uncle?” asked Vaudrey, smiling.

“My uncle, yes!”

“He has asked that he be permitted to exhibit at the Trocadero the cartoons that he has finished:  The Artist’s Mission, Hydropathy the Civilizer, I don’t know what in fact, a series of symbolical compositions—­”

“With the mirliton device underneath?—­Yes, I know,” said Marianne.

She snapped her fingers in her impatience.

The letter that she had torn up had been written by Rosas, and received by Uncle Kayser at his studio, whence he had forwarded it to his niece.  The duke informed Marianne that he would wait for her at five o’clock at Avenue Montaigne.  He had something to say to her.  He had passed the entire night reflecting and dreaming.  She remembered her own wild dreams.  Had Rosas then caught her thought floating like an atom on the night wind?

At five o’clock!  She would be punctual.  But how escape Vaudrey?  She could not now feign sickness since she had received him!  Moreover, he would instal himself near her and bombard her with his attentions.  Was there any possible pretext, any way of getting out now?  Her lover had the devoted, radiant look of a loved man who relied on enjoying a long interview with his mistress.  He looked at her with a tender glance.

“The fool—­The sticker!” thought Marianne.  “He will not leave!”

The best course was to go out.  She would lose him on the way.

“What time have you, my dear minister?”

“One o’clock!”

“Then I have time!” she said.

Vaudrey seemed surprised.  Marianne unceremoniously informed him, in fact, that she had some calls to make, to secure some purchases.

“How disagreeable!”

“Yes, for me!”

“I beg your pardon,” said Sulpice, correcting himself.

She sent for a coupe and damp and keen as the weather was, she substituted for the glorious day of snug, intimate joy that Vaudrey had promised himself, a succession of weary hours passed in the draught caused by badly-fitting windows, while making a series of trips hither and thither, Marianne meantime cudgelling her brains to find a way to leave her lover on the way, or at least to notify Rosas.

But above all to notify Lissac!  It was Lissac whom she was determined to see.  Yes, absolutely, and at once.  The more she considered the matter, the more dangerous it appeared to her.

Sulpice had not given her a moment of freedom at her house, in which to write a few lines.  He might have questioned her and that would be imprudent.