Arnica at last feebly opened half an eye and murmured sadly:
“Dead?”
Then Valentine, bending towards her, slipped into her ear the single word:
“Imprisoned!”
Sheer stupefaction brought Madame Fleurissoire back to her senses; and Valentine began her long story, stumbling over the dates, mixing up the names and muddling the chronology; one fact, however, stood out, certain and indisputable—our Holy Father had fallen into the hands of the infidel—a crusade was being secretly organised to deliver him, and in order to conduct it successfully a large sum of money was necessary.
“What will Amédée say?” moaned Arnica in dismay.
He was not expected home before evening, having gone out for a walk with his friend Blafaphas....
“Mind you impress on him the necessity of secrecy,” repeated Valentine several times over as she took her leave of Arnica. “Give me a kiss, my dear, and courage!”
Arnica nervously presented her damp forehead to the Countess.
“I will look in to-morrow to hear what you think of doing. Consult Monsieur Fleurissoire, but remember that the Church is at stake!... It’s agreed, then—only to your husband! You promise, don’t you? Not a word! Not a word!”