While Fortier was trying to convince her that the _Revue spéculative_ was unworthy of her qualities, that money, rare everywhere, had a sort of dread of his till, Moscowitch asked: "Who is this woman?" "They call her the Marquise, why I do not know. Her coins have earned her better names: the Medal Cabinet, and this one, the Reliquary, most cruel of all. Then, as she signs herself 'Françoise' to kitchen recipes, Renaudeau has nicknamed her Françoise the Blue-Stocking. She probably has a real name; it is either ordinary or insignificant." "To think that at my age," Renaudeau said, "I have never seen any blue stockings. The _modistes_ wear them red most often, and it is among them I have my loves." "Red? I, too," the Marquise said. She camped her foot on a chair, lifting her petticoat as far as the garter. The leg was still pretty and her repartee clever. Renaudeau, confessing himself outflanked by the movement, bowed and assumed the air of one wishing to say, "I regret I can do no more." "And I, too," the eyes of the Marquise answered. Having bowed, not without a certain ironic charm, she departed, certain now that her article would be accepted. Fortier chided his secretary. She had paid with her person, payment signed and received. Her prose could no longer be refused; but she should get no money. "Renaudeau, you must sacrifice yourself." "Well," said Renaudeau, "this jade is full of surprises. I accept." Moscowitch, very much astonished, found these customs singular. He asked Entragues: "And will this woman's article, even if wretched, appear in the _Revue_ simply because she has shown her leg?" "Yes," Entragues answered distractedly, for he reflected, while listening to Moscowitch's question, how dangerous such a profoundly naive man might be. "He must be full of spontaneity, like a concealed spring which the blow of a pickax puts in motion. Some day Sixtine will wound his heart and violent effusions of love will burst forth from the wound. It would be well to watch him, to infuse him with literary distraction. This would be a way: have him understand that he has genius, that he owes it to himself, to his two fatherlands, to humanity, not to put the marvelous plant in jeopardy, the plant which ... which ... God, Nature, Glory and other entities ... I am not at all jealous ... my chapter cured me of jealousy this morning. I have tortured Delia Preda and the tormentor has let fall the pincers which tortured my flesh ... not jealous, but uneasy. In short, it is a question of myself, I have incorporated Sixtine into my life. If she is taken away, I am mutilated."