A friend!  This man dared to say before her who bore the name of Duchesse de Rosas that he came to her as an intimate.  This alcoholic braggart had assisted Marianne in sub-renting, he knew not what hotel, from a wanton!—­Rue Prony!—­Vanda!—­What was there in common between these names and that of the duchess?  And the Dujarrier, that Dujarrier whose manner of living was known to the Castilian, how had she become associated with Marianne’s life?

Ah! since he had commenced, this Gochard would make an end of it.  He would tell everything!  Even if he did not wish it, he would speak now.  Rosas, frightened himself, and terrified at the prospect of some unknown baseness and doubtful transaction, felt Marianne’s hand tremble in his, and by degrees, as Gochard proceeded, the duke realized that Marianne wished to get away and it was he who now retained her; holding the young woman’s wrist tightly within his fingers, he forcibly prevented her from escaping, insisting that she should listen and hear everything.

“Ah! if you think that I am afraid of speaking,” said Gochard, “you will soon see!”

And then with a sort of swaggering air like that of a fencing-master or tippler, searching for some droll expressions, cowardly avenging himself by jests ejected like so many streams of tobacco, against this woman who had just insulted him, who spoke of blackmail and the police, and of thrusting the miserable fellow out of doors, he told everything that he knew; Marianne’s neediness, her weariness, her loves, the Dujarrier connection, the renting of the Hotel Vanda, the Vaudrey paper and its renewals, his own foolishness as a too artless and tender, good sort of fellow, relying on Claire Dujarrier’s word, and not reserving to himself so much per cent in the affair!

Rosas listened open-mouthed, his ears tingling and his blood rushing to his temples, while he sunk his fingers into Marianne’s arms, she, meanwhile, glaring at Gochard.

When he had finished, she disengaged herself from Rosas’s clutch by an extreme effort, and ran to the rascal and spat in his face.

He lifted his hand to her and said: 

“Ah! but!—­”

“Begone!” said the duke.  “You wish to be paid?”

“The money is not all.  I demand respect!” replied Gochard, as he wiped his cheek.

He placed his card on the mantelpiece.

“Adolphe Gochard! there is my address.  Besides, Madame knows it.  With the pistol, the sabre, or the espadon, as you please!  I am afraid of no one.”

“You will be paid, you have been told, you shall be paid!” cried Marianne, absolutely crazy and ready to tear him with her nails.  “Be off! ruffian! begone, thief!”

“Fiddle-faddle!” replied Adolphe, as he replaced his hat on the side of his bald head.  “I have said what I have to say.  I do not like to be made a fool of!”

He disappeared, waddling away like a strolling player uncertain of his exit.