“Wait a minute, Monsieur le chanoine, I will go and see what I have got upstairs.”
She came down again in a moment or two, nervously crumpling a bundle of bank-notes in her hand.
“Fortunately I have just collected my rents. I can give you six thousand, five hundred francs at once.”
The canon shrugged his shoulders:
“What do you suppose I can do with that?”
And with an air of sorrowful contempt he loftily waved the Countess away.
“No, Madam, no! I will not take those notes. I will take them with the others or not at all. Only petty souls can consent to petty dealings. When can you give me the whole amount?”
“How much time can you let me have?... a week ...?” asked the Countess, who was thinking how she could make a collection.
“Comtesse de Saint-Prix, has the Church been deceived in you? A week! I will say but one word—the Pope is waiting.”
Then, raising his arms to Heaven: