He never came but in a cab, with the blinds down, and always drove into the courtyard.
Thus his passion for Esther and the very existence of the establishment in the Rue Taitbout, being unknown to the world, did him no harm in his connections or undertakings. No rash word ever escaped him on this delicate subject.
His mistakes of this sort with regard to Coralie, at the time of his first stay in Paris, had given him experience.
In the first place, his life was marked by the correct regularity under which many mysteries can be hidden; he remained in society every night till one in the morning; he was always at home from ten till one in the afternoon; then he drove in the Bois de Boulogne and paid calls till five.
He was rarely seen to be on foot, and thus avoided old acquaintances.
When some journalist or one of his former associates waved him a greeting, he responded with a bow, polite enough to avert annoyance, but significant of such deep contempt as killed all French geniality.
He thus had very soon got rid of persons whom he would rather never have known.
An old-established aversion kept him from going to see Madame d’Espard, who often wished to get him to her house; but when he met her at those of the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, of Mademoiselle des Touches, of the Comtesse de Montcornet or elsewhere, he was always exquisitely polite to her.
This hatred, fully reciprocated by Madame d’Espard, compelled Lucien to act with prudence; but it will be seen how he had added fuel to it by allowing himself a stroke of revenge, which gained him indeed a severe lecture from Carlos.
“You are not yet strong enough to be revenged on any one, whoever it may be,” said the Spaniard. “When we are walking under a burning sun we do not stop to gather even the finest flowers.” Lucien was so genuinely superior, and had so fine a future before him, that the young men who chose to be offended or puzzled by his return to Paris and his unaccountable good fortune were enchanted whenever they could do him an ill turn.
He knew that he had many enemies, and was well aware of those hostile feelings among his friends.
The Abbe, indeed, took admirable care of his adopted son, putting him on his guard against the treachery of the world and the fatal imprudence of youth.
Lucien was expected to tell, and did in fact tell the Abbe each evening, every trivial incident of the day.
Thanks to his Mentor’s advice, he put the keenest curiosity — the curiosity of the world — off the scent.
Entrenched in the gravity of an Englishman, and fortified by the redoubts cast up by diplomatic circumspection, he never gave any one the right or the opportunity of seeing a corner even of his concerns.
His handsome young face had, by practice, become as expressionless in society as that of a princess at a ceremonial.
Towards the middle of 1829 his marriage began to be talked of to the eldest daughter of the Duchesse de Grandlieu, who at that time had no less than four daughters to provide for.
No one doubted that in honor of such an alliance the King would revive for Lucien the title of Marquis.
This distinction would establish Lucien’s fortune as a diplomate, and he would probably be accredited as Minister to some German Court.
For the last three years Lucien’s life had been regular and above reproach; indeed, de Marsay had made this remarkable speech about him:
“That young fellow must have a very strong hand behind him.”
Thus Lucien was almost a person of importance.
His passion for Esther had, in fact, helped him greatly to play his part of a serious man.
A habit of this kind guards an ambitious man from many follies; having no connection with any woman of fashion, he cannot be caught by the reactions of mere physical nature on his moral sense.
As to happiness, Lucien’s was the realization of a poet’s dreams — a penniless poet’s, hungering in a garret.
Esther, the ideal courtesan in love, while she reminded Lucien of Coralie, the actress with whom he had lived for a year, completely eclipsed her.
Every loving and devoted woman invents seclusion, incognito, the life of a pearl in the depths of the sea; but to most of them this is no more than one of the delightful whims which supply a subject for conversation; a proof of love which they dream of giving, but do not give; whereas Esther, to whom her first enchantment was ever new, who lived perpetually in the glow of Lucien’s first incendiary glance, never, in four yours, had an impulse of curiosity.
She gave her whole mind to the task of adhering to the terms of the programme prescribed by the sinister Spaniard.
Nay, more! In the midst of intoxicating happiness she never took unfair advantage of the unlimited power that the constantly revived desire of a lover gives to the woman he loves to ask Lucien a single question regarding Herrera, of whom indeed she lived in constant awe; she dared not even think of him.
The elaborate benefactions of that extraordinary man, to whom Esther undoubtedly owed her feminine accomplishment and her well-bred manner, struck the poor girl as advances on account of hell.
“I shall have to pay for all this some day,” she would tell herself with dismay.
Every fine night she went out in a hired carriage. She was driven with a rapidity no doubt insisted on by the Abbe, in one or another of the beautiful woods round Paris, Boulogne, Vincennes, Romainville, or Ville-d’Avray, often with Lucien, sometimes alone with Europe.
There she could walk about without fear; for when Lucien was not with her, she was attended by a servant dressed like the smartest of outriders, armed with a real knife, whose face and brawny build alike proclaimed him a ruthless athlete.
This protector was also provided, in the fashion of English footmen, with a stick, but such as single-stick players use, with which they can keep off more than one assailant.
In obedience to an order of the Abbe’s, Esther had never spoken a word to this escort.
When madame wished to go home, Europe gave a call; the man in waiting whistled to the driver, who was always within hearing.
When Lucien was walking with Esther, Europe and this man remained about a hundred paces behind, like two of the infernal minions that figure in the Thousand and One Nights, which enchanters place at the service of their devotees.
The men, and yet more the women of Paris, know nothing of the charm of a walk in the woods on a fine night.
The stillness, the moonlight effects, the solitude, have the soothing effect of a bath.
Esther usually went out at ten, walked about from midnight till one o’clock, and came in at half-past two.
It was never daylight in her rooms till eleven.
She then bathed and went through an elaborate toilet which is unknown to most women, for it takes up too much time, and is rarely carried out by any but courtesans, women of the town, or fine ladies who have the day before them.
She was only just ready when Lucien came, and appeared before him as a newly opened flower.
Her only care was that her poet should be happy; she was his toy, his chattel; she gave him entire liberty.
She never cast a glance beyond the circle where she shone.
On this the Abbe had insisted, for it was part of his profound policy that Lucien should have gallant adventures.
Happiness has no history, and the story-tellers of all lands have understood this so well that the words, “They are happy,” are the end of every love tale.
Hence only the ways and means can be recorded of this really romantic happiness in the heart of Paris.
It was happiness in its loveliest form, a poem, a symphony, of four years’ duration.
Every woman will exclaim,