You can get at Madame van Bogseck’s woman through Paccard, a brawny Piemontese, who has a liking for vermouth.”
This information, gracefully thrown in as a postscript, was evidently the return for the five thousand francs.
The Baron was trying to guess Corentin’s place in life, for he quite understood that the man was rather a master of spies than a spy himself; but Corentin remained to him as mysterious as an inscription is to an archaeologist when three-quarters of the letters are missing.
“Vat is dat maid called?” he asked.
“Eugenie,” replied Corentin, who bowed and withdrew.
The Baron, in a transport of joy, left his business for the day, shut up his office, and went up to his rooms in the happy frame of mind of a young man of twenty looking forward to his first meeting with his first mistress.
The Baron took all the thousand-franc notes out of his private cash-box — a sum sufficient to make the whole village happy, fifty-five thousand francs — and stuffed them into the pocket of his coat.
But a millionaire’s lavishness can only be compared with his eagerness for gain.
As soon as a whim or a passion is to be gratified, money is dross to a Croesus; in fact, he finds it harder to have whims than gold.
A keen pleasure is the rarest thing in these satiated lives, full of the excitement that comes of great strokes of speculation, in which these dried-up hearts have burned themselves out.
For instance, one of the richest capitalists in Paris one day met an extremely pretty little working-girl.
Her mother was with her, but the girl had taken the arm of a young fellow in very doubtful finery, with a very smart swagger.
The millionaire fell in love with the girl at first sight; he followed her home, he went in; he heard all her story, a record of alternations of dancing at Mabille and days of starvation, of play-going and hard work; he took an interest in it, and left five thousand-franc notes under a five-franc piece — an act of generosity abused.
Next day a famous upholsterer, Braschon, came to take the damsel’s orders, furnished rooms that she had chosen, and laid out twenty thousand francs.
She gave herself up to the wildest hopes, dressed her mother to match, and flattered herself she would find a place for her ex-lover in an insurance office. She waited — a day, two days — then a week, two weeks. She thought herself bound to be faithful; she got into debt.
The capitalist, called away to Holland, had forgotten the girl; he never went once to the Paradise where he had placed her, and from which she fell as low as it is possible to fall even in Paris.
Nucingen did not gamble, Nucingen did not patronize the Arts, Nucingen had no hobby; thus he flung himself into his passion for Esther with a headlong blindness, on which Carlos Herrera had confidently counted.
After his breakfast, the Baron sent for Georges, his body-servant, and desired him to go to the Rue Taitbout and ask Mademoiselle Eugenie, Madame van Bogseck’s maid, to come to his office on a matter of importance.
“You shall look out for her,” he added, “an’ make her valk up to my room, and tell her I shall make her fortune.”
Georges had the greatest difficulty in persuading Europe–Eugenie to come.
“Madame never lets me go out,” said she; “I might lose my place,” and so forth; and Georges sang her praises loudly to the Baron, who gave him ten louis.
“If madame goes out without her this evening,” said Georges to his master, whose eyes glowed like carbuncles, “she will be here by ten o’clock.”
“Goot.
You shall come to dress me at nine o’clock — and do my hair. I shall look so goot as possible. I belief I shall really see dat mistress — or money is not money any more.”
The Baron spent an hour, from noon till one, in dyeing his hair and whiskers.
At nine in the evening, having taken a bath before dinner, he made a toilet worthy of a bridegroom and scented himself — a perfect Adonis.
Madame de Nucingen, informed of this metamorphosis, gave herself the treat of inspecting her husband.
“Good heavens!” cried she, “what a ridiculous figure!
Do, at least, put on a black satin stock instead of that white neckcloth which makes your whiskers look so black; besides, it is so ‘Empire,’ quite the old fogy. You look like some super-annuated parliamentary counsel.
And take off these diamond buttons; they are worth a hundred thousand francs apiece — that slut will ask you for them, and you will not be able to refuse her; and if a baggage is to have them, I may as well wear them as earrings.”
The unhappy banker, struck by the wisdom of his wife’s reflections, obeyed reluctantly.
“Ridikilous, ridikilous!
I hafe never telt you dat you shall be ridikilous when you dressed yourself so smart to see your little Mensieur de Rastignac!”
“I should hope that you never saw me make myself ridiculous. Am I the woman to make such blunders in the first syllable of my dress?
Come, turn about.
Button your coat up to the neck, all but the two top buttons, as the Duc de Maufrigneuse does.
In short, try to look young.”
“Monsieur,” said Georges, “here is Mademoiselle Eugenie.”
“Adie, motame,” said the banker, and he escorted his wife as far as her own rooms, to make sure that she should not overhear their conference.
On his return, he took Europe by the hand and led her into his room with a sort of ironical respect.
“Vell, my chilt, you are a happy creature, for you are de maid of dat most beautiful voman in de vorlt. And your fortune shall be made if you vill talk to her for me and in mine interests.”
“I would not do such a thing for ten thousand francs!” exclaimed Europe. “I would have you to know, Monsieur le Baron, that I am an honest girl.”
“Oh yes.
I expect to pay dear for your honesty.
In business dat is vat ve call curiosity.”
“And that is not everything,” Europe went on. “If you should not take madame’s fancy — and that is on the cards — she would be angry, and I am done for! — and my place is worth a thousand francs a year.”
“De capital to make ein tousant franc is twenty tousand franc; and if I shall gif you dat, you shall not lose noting.”
“Well, to be sure, if that is the tone you take about it, my worthy old fellow,” said Europe, “that is quite another story.
— Where is the money?”
“Here,” replied the Baron, holding up the banknotes, one at a time.