g her right foot nervously upon the wrought-iron fender.

"The Dujarrier's money will not go much further," she thought. "It is
finished."

She thought of striking a decisive blow. Up to the present time, her
relations with Sulpice had floated in the regions of the
sentimentalities of the novel, or of romance. The minister believed
himself loved for love's sake. He saw in Marianne only an eccentric girl
free from all prejudices and every duty, who disposed of her life as
seemed best to her, without being under the necessity of accounting to
either husband or lover. Free, she made of her liberty pleasure or
passion according to her fancy. The frightful, practical questions, the
daily necessities, were lost sight of by this man who was burdened with
the governmental question of France. Again, he never asked himself the
source of Marianne's luxury. He delighted in it without thinking of
analyzing anything or of knowing anything, and this ingenuously.
Mademoiselle Kayser's first word must necessarily awaken him to the
situation.

She knew that Vaudrey was to come, and suddenly leaving the fire, she
arrayed herself for him in a black satin peignoir lined with red surah,
with lapels of velvet thrown widely apart and allowing the whiteness of
her neck and chest to be seen under folds of old lace. Her fair hair
fell upon her velvet collar, and surmounting this strange costume, her
pale face against the background of the red-draped salon assumed the
disturbing charm of an apparition.

On seeing her, Sulpice could not refrain from stopping short and looking
at her in admiration. Seated there, in the centre of her salon, she was
awaiting him and arranging bundles of papers in a basket with gilded
feet and lined with pink satin. She extended her hand to him. It was a
pale hand, as inanimate as the hand of a dead person, and she languidly
asked him why he remained there stupefied without approaching her.

"I am looking," said the minister.

"You are always the most gallant of men," said Marianne, and she added:

"You are not already tired then of looking at me? Usually, caprices do
not last so long."

"The affection that I have for you is not a caprice."

"What is it, then? I am curious--"

"It is a passion, Marianne, an absolute, deep, mad passion--"

"Oh! nonsense! nonsense!" said Marianne. "I know that you speak
wonderfully well, I have heard you in the tribune. A declaration of love
costs you no more than a minister