“What would you like? Cowslip? Lime-flower? Camomile?” “It doesn’t matter.... Tea, I think.... I wouldn’t believe it myself at first.” “There’s some boiling water in the kitchen. It won’t take a minute.” While Arnica busied herself about the tea, the Countess appraised the drawing-room and its contents with a calculating eye. They were depressingly modest. A few green rep chairs; one red velvet arm-chair; one other arm-chair (in which she was seated) in common tapestry; one table; one mahogany console; in front of the fire-place, a woolwork rug; on the chimney-piece, on each side of the alabaster clock (which was in a glass case), two large vases in alabaster fretwork, also in glass cases; on the table, a photograph album for the family photographs; on the console, a figure of Our Lady of Lourdes in her grotto, in Roman Plaster (a small-sized model)--there was not a thing in the room that was not discouraging, and the Countess felt her heart sink within her. But after all they were perhaps only shamming poverty--perhaps they were merely miserly.... Arnica came back with the tea-pot, the sugar and a cup on a tray. “I’m afraid I’m giving you a great deal of trouble.” “Oh, not at all!... I’d rather do it now--before; afterwards, I mightn’t be able to.” “Well, then, listen!” began Valentine, after Arnica had sat down. “The Pope----” “No, no, don’t tell me! don’t tell me!” exclaimed Madame Fleurissoire instantly, stretching out her hand in front of her; then, uttering a faint cry, she fell back with her eyes closed. “My poor dear! My poor dear!” said the Countess, patting her on the wrist. “I felt sure it would be too much for you.” 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!” The Comtesse de Saint-Prix left Arnica in a state of depression bordering on faintness. When Amédée came in from his walk: