Rosas did not even see him go.

He had seized Marianne by both hands and was dragging her toward the window, through which the daylight still entered, and convulsed with rage he penetrated her eyes with his glance, his face looking still more pallid, in contrast with his red beard.

She was terrified.  She believed herself at the point of death.  She felt that he was going to kill her.

She suddenly fell on her knees.

He still looked at her, leaning over her with the appearance of a madman.

“Vaudrey?—­Vaudrey?  The man whom I saw at your uncle’s?—­The man whom I have elbowed with you?—­Vaudrey?—­This man was your lover, then?”

She was so alarmed that she did not reply.

“You have lied to me, then?  But, tell me, wretched woman, have you not lied to me?”

“I loved you and I desired you!” said Marianne.

“Nonsense!” said Rosas, in a strident, deep-chested voice.  “You wanted what that rascal wanted:  money!  You should have asked me for it!  I would have given you everything, all my fortune, all!  But not my name!  Not my name!”

He roughly repelled her.

She remained on her knees.  Her hands hung down and rested on the carpet. 
She looked at it stupefied, hardly distinguishing its rose pattern.

She was certain that she was about to die.  Jose’s sudden anger had the fitfulness of a wild beast’s.  He crushed her with a terrible glance from his bloodshot eyes.

Then he began to laugh hysterically, like a young girl.

“Idiot!  Idiot!  Idiot!—­In a wanton’s house yonder in Rue Prony, at Vanda’s!  Vanda’s!  At Vanda’s, in a harlot’s bed, she gave herself, sold herself!—­A Rosas, for she is a Rosas!  A Duchesse de Rosas now!  Idiot!  Idiot that I am!”

Marianne would have spoken, entreated, but fear froze her, coming over her flesh and through her veins.  She realized that an implacable resolution possessed this trusting man.  She found a master this time.

“Jose!” said Marianne softly, in a timid voice.

He drew himself up as if the mention of this name were an insult.

“Come!” he said calmly, “so let it be.  What is done, is done.  So much the worse for the fools!  But listen carefully.”

This little, pale, blond man seemed, in the growing darkness, like a portrait of former days stepped forth from its frame.

His hand of steel again seized Marianne’s wrists.

“You are called the Duchesse de Rosas?—­You were ambitious for that name, you eagerly desired and struggled hard for that title, did you not?  Well, I will not, at least, suffer you to drag it like so many others into intruders’ salons, under ironical glances, before mocking smiles and lorgnettes, in view of the papers, and into the gossip of the Paris whose gutter-odor tempts you so strongly that you have not yet been able to leave it. Parbleu! you have another lover in it, I wager!—­Vaudrey!—­Or Lissac and many others!—­Is it as I say?”