"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.
"José!" 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?"
"I swear to you—"
"Ah! you have lied to me, do not swear! We are about to leave. Not for Italy. It is good for those who love each other. You do not know Fuentecarral?—You are about to make its acquaintance. It is your château now. Yours, yours, since you are a Rosas!"