“Comtesse de Saint-Prix, I have the most absolute confidence in your generous promise; but reflect for a moment on the innumerable difficulties which will accompany, hamper, and possibly prevent the handing over of this sum; a sum, which as I told you, it will be your duty to forget ever having given me, which I myself must deny ever having received; for which I am not even permitted to give you a receipt.... The only prudent method is for you to hand it over to me personally. We are watched. My presence in your house may have been observed. Can we ever be sure of the servants? Think of the Comte de Baraglioul’s election! I must not be seen here again.” But as after these words he stood rooted to the ground without stirring or speaking, the Countess understood. “But, Monsieur l’abbé, it stands to reason I haven’t got such an enormous sum as that about me. And even....” The abbé showed signs of impatience, so that she did not dare to add that she wanted time (for she had great hopes that she would not have to provide the whole sum herself). “What is to be done?” she murmured. Then, as the canon’s eyebrows grew more and more menacing: “It’s true I have a few jewels upstairs....” “Oh, fie! Madam! Jewels are keepsakes. Can you fancy me as a bagman? And do you suppose I can afford to arouse suspicion by trying to get a good price for them? Why, I should run the risk of compromising you and our undertaking into the bargain.” His deep voice had grown harsh and violent. The Countess trembled slightly. “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: “What! the incomparable honour of delivering him lies in your hands and you delay! Have a fear, Madam, have a fear that the Lord in the day of your own deliverance may keep your niggardly soul waiting and languishing in just such a manner outside the gates of Paradise!” He became menacing--terrible; then, suddenly and swiftly raising the cross of a rosary to his lips, he absented himself in a rapid prayer. “Surely there’s time for me to write to Paris?” moaned the Countess wildly.