God grant that man may be in Paris!
— Madame,” he added to Madame Camusot, “thank you so much for having thought of us ——”
This was Madame Camusot’s dismissal.
The daughter of the court usher had wit enough to understand the Duke; she rose. But the Duchess de Maufrigneuse, with the enchanting grace which had won her so much friendship and discretion, took Amelie by the hand as if to show her, in a way, to the Duke and Duchess.
“On my own account,” said she, “to say nothing of her having been up before daybreak to save us all, I may ask for more than a remembrance for my little Madame Camusot.
In the first place, she has already done me such a service as I cannot forget; and then she is wholly devoted to our side, she and her husband.
I have promised that her Camusot shall have advancement, and I beg you above everything to help him on, for my sake.”
“You need no such recommendation,” said the Duke to Madame Camusot. “The Grandlieus always remember a service done them.
The King’s adherents will ere long have a chance of distinguishing themselves; they will be called upon to prove their devotion; your husband will be placed in the front ——”
Madame Camusot withdrew, proud, happy, puffed up to suffocation.
She reached home triumphant; she admired herself, she made light of the public prosecutor’s hostility.
She said to herself:
“Supposing we were to send Monsieur de Granville flying ——”
It was high time for Madame Camusot to vanish.
The Duc de Chaulieu, one of the King’s prime favorites, met the bourgeoise on the outer steps.
“Henri,” said the Duc de Grandlieu when he heard his friend announced, “make haste, I beg of you, to get to the Chateau, try to see the King — the business of this;” and he led the Duke into the window-recess, where he had been talking to the airy and charming Diane.
Now and then the Duc de Chaulieu glanced in the direction of the flighty Duchess, who, while talking to the pious Duchess and submitting to be lectured, answered the Duc de Chaulieu’s expressive looks.
“My dear child,” said the Duc de Grandlieu to her at last, the aside being ended, “do be good!
Come, now,” and he took Diane’s hands, “observe the proprieties of life, do not compromise yourself any more, write no letters.
Letters, my dear, have caused as much private woe as public mischief. What might be excusable in a girl like Clotilde, in love for the first time, had no excuse in ——”
“An old soldier who has been under fire,” said Diane with a pout.
This grimace and the Duchess’ jest brought a smile to the face of the two much-troubled Dukes, and of the pious Duchess herself. “But for four years I have never written a billet-doux.
— Are we saved?” asked Diane, who hid her curiosity under this childishness.
“Not yet,” said the Duc de Chaulieu. “You have no notion how difficult it is to do an arbitrary thing.
In a constitutional king it is what infidelity is in a wife: it is adultery.”
“The fascinating sin,” said the Duc de Grandlieu.
“Forbidden fruit!” said Diane, smiling. “Oh! how I wish I were the Government, for I have none of that fruit left — I have eaten it all.”
“Oh! my dear, my dear!” said the elder Duchess, “you really go too far.”
The two Dukes, hearing a coach stop at the door with the clatter of horses checked in full gallop, bowed to the ladies and left them, going into the Duc de Grandlieu’s study, whither came the gentleman from the Rue Honore–Chevalier — no less a man than the chief of the King’s private police, the obscure but puissant Corentin.
“Go on,” said the Duc de Grandlieu; “go first, Monsieur de Saint–Denis.”
Corentin, surprised that the Duke should have remembered him, went forward after bowing low to the two noblemen.
“Always about the same individual, or about his concerns, my dear sir,” said the Duc de Grandlieu.
“But he is dead,” said Corentin.
“He has left a partner,” said the Duc de Chaulieu, “a very tough customer.”
“The convict Jacques Collin,” replied Corentin.
“Will you speak, Ferdinand?” said the Duke de Chaulieu to his friend.
“That wretch is an object of fear,” said the Duc de Grandlieu, “for he has possessed himself, so as to be able to levy blackmail, of the letters written by Madame de Serizy and Madame de Maufrigneuse to Lucien Chardon, that man’s tool.
It would seem that it was a matter of system in the young man to extract passionate letters in return for his own, for I am told that Mademoiselle de Grandlieu had written some — at least, so we fear — and we cannot find out from her — she is gone abroad.”
“That little young man,” replied Corentin, “was incapable of so much foresight.
That was a precaution due to the Abbe Carlos Herrera.” Corentin rested his elbow on the arm of the chair on which he was sitting, and his head on his hand, meditating. “Money!
— The man has more than we have,” said he. “Esther Gobseck served him as a bait to extract nearly two million francs from that well of gold called Nucingen. — Gentlemen, get me full legal powers, and I will rid you of the fellow.”
“And — the letters?” asked the Duc de Grandlieu.
“Listen to me, gentlemen,” said Corentin, standing up, his weasel-face betraying his excitement.
He thrust his hands into the pockets of his black doeskin trousers, shaped over the shoes.
This great actor in the historical drama of the day had only stopped to put on a waistcoat and frock-coat, and had not changed his morning trousers, so well he knew how grateful men can be for immediate action in certain cases.
He walked up and down the room quite at his ease, haranguing loudly, as if he had been alone. “He is a convict.
He could be sent off to Bicetre without trial, and put in solitary confinement, without a soul to speak to, and left there to die. — But he may have given instructions to his adherents, foreseeing this possibility.”
“But he was put into the secret cells,” said the Duc de Grandlieu, “the moment he was taken into custody at that woman’s house.”
“Is there such a thing as a secret cell for such a fellow as he is?” said Corentin. “He is a match for — for me!”
“What is to be done?” said the Dukes to each other by a glance.