He must be deceived! They are all stupid!" she
mused.

But how was she to deceive this man as to her condition, how cloak her
want, how cause herself to pass for what she was not? With Rosas it
would have been a simple matter. Poor, she presented herself to him in
her poverty. He loved her so. She could the better mislead him. But with
Vaudrey, on the contrary, she must dazzle.

"Two innocents," Marianne said to herself, "the one thirsts for virtue,
the other for vice."

Should she confess everything to Sulpice as she had done to Rosas? Yes,
perhaps, if she discovered no better way, but a better plan had to be
found, sought, or invented. Find what? Borrow? Ask? Whom? Guy? She would
not dare to do so, even supposing that Lissac was sufficiently well off.
Then she wished to keep up appearances, even in Guy's eyes. Further,
she had never forgiven him for running off to Italy. She never would
forget it. No, no, she would ask nothing from Guy.

To whom, then, should she apply? She again found herself in the
frightful extremity of those who, in that almost limitless Paris,
involved in the terrible intricacies of that madly-directed machine,
seek money, a loan, some help, an outstretched hand, but who find
nothing, not an effort to help them in all its crowd. She was overcome
with rage and hatred. Nothing! she had nothing! She would have sold
herself to any person whatsoever, to have speedily obtained a few of the
luxuries she required. Yes; sold herself now, to sell herself more
dearly to-morrow.

Sold! Suddenly from the depths of her memory she recalled a form,
confused at first, but quickly remembered vividly, of an old woman
against whom she had formerly jostled, in the chance life she had led,
and who, once beautiful, and still clever and rich, it was said, had
been seized with a friendly desire to protect Marianne. It was a long
time since the young woman had thought of Claire Dujarrier. She met her
occasionally, her white locks hidden under a copious layer of golden
powder, looking as yellow as sawdust. The old woman had said to her:

"Whenever you need advice or assistance, do not forget my address: Rue
La Fontaine, Auteuil."

Marianne had thanked her at the time, and had forgotten all about it
till now, when in the anguish of her pursuit she recalled the name and
features of Claire Dujarrier as from the memories of yesterday. Claire
Dujarrier, a former danseuse, whose black eyes, diamonds, wild
extravagance,