Nobody but that burly banker could have betrayed a secret contained in the minds of Contenson, Peyrade, and Corentin.
The old man accused the banker of wishing to avoid paying now that he had gained his end.
A single interview had been enough to enable him to read the astuteness of this most astute of bankers.
“He tries to compound with every one, even with us; but I will be revenged,” thought the old fellow. “I have never asked a favor of Corentin; I will ask him now to help me to be revenged on that imbecile money-box.
Curse the Baron!
— Well, you will know the stuff I am made of one fine morning when you find your daughter disgraced! — But does he love his daughter, I wonder?”
By the evening of the day when this catastrophe had upset the old man’s hopes he had aged by ten years.
As he talked to his friend Corentin, he mingled his lamentations with tears wrung from him by the thought of the melancholy prospects he must bequeath to his daughter, his idol, his treasure, his peace-offering to God.
“We will follow the matter up,” said Corentin. “First of all, we must be sure that it was the Baron who peached.
Were we wise in enlisting Gondreville’s support?
That old rascal owes us too much not to be anxious to swamp us; indeed, I am keeping an eye on his son-in-law Keller, a simpleton in politics, and quite capable of meddling in some conspiracy to overthrow the elder Branch to the advantage of the younger. — I shall know to-morrow what is going on at Nucingen’s, whether he has seen his beloved, and to whom we owe this sharp pull up. — Do not be out of heart.
In the first place, the Prefet will not hold his appointment much longer; the times are big with revolution, and revolutions make good fishing for us.”
A peculiar whistle was just then heard in the street.
“That is Contenson,” said Peyrade, who put a light in the window, “and he has something to say that concerns me.”
A minute later the faithful Contenson appeared in the presence of the two gnomes of the police, whom he revered as though they were two genii.
“What is up?” asked Corentin.
“A new thing!
I was coming out of 113, where I lost everything, when whom do I spy under the gallery?
Georges!
The man has been dismissed by the Baron, who suspects him of treachery.”
“That is the effect of a smile I gave him,” said Peyrade.
“Bah! when I think of all the mischief I have known caused by smiles!” said Corentin.
“To say nothing of that caused by a whip-lash,” said Peyrade, referring to the Simeuse case. (In Une Tenebreuse affaire.) “But come, Contenson, what is going on?”
“This is what is going on,” said Contenson. “I made Georges blab by getting him to treat me to an endless series of liqueurs of every color — I left him tipsy; I must be as full as a still myself!
— Our Baron has been to the Rue Taitbout, crammed with Pastilles du Serail.
There he found the fair one you know of; but — a good joke! The English beauty is not his fair unknown!
— And he has spent thirty thousand francs to bribe the lady’s-maid, a piece of folly!
“That creature thinks itself a great man because it does mean things with great capital. Reverse the proposition, and you have the problem of which a man of genius is the solution.
— The Baron came home in a pitiable condition.
Next day Georges, to get his finger in the pie, said to his master:
“‘Why, Monsieur le Baron, do you employ such blackguards?
If you would only trust to me, I would find the unknown lady, for your description of her is enough. I shall turn Paris upside down.’—‘Go ahead,’ says the Baron; ‘I shall reward you handsomely!’— Georges told me the whole story with the most absurd details.
But — man is born to be rained upon!
“Next day the Baron received an anonymous letter something to this effect:
‘Monsieur de Nucingen is dying of love for an unknown lady; he has already spent a great deal utterly in vain; if he will repair at midnight to the end of the Neuilly Bridge, and get into the carriage behind which the chasseur he saw at Vincennes will be standing, allowing himself to be blindfolded, he will see the woman he loves.
As his wealth may lead him to suspect the intentions of persons who proceed in such a fashion, he may bring, as an escort, his faithful Georges.
And there will be nobody in the carriage.’— Off the Baron goes, taking Georges with him, but telling him nothing.
They both submit to have their eyes bound up and their heads wrapped in veils; the Baron recognizes the man-servant.
“Two hours later, the carriage, going at the pace of Louis XVIII. — God rest his soul!
He knew what was meant by the police, he did! — pulled up in the middle of a wood.
The Baron had the handkerchief off, and saw, in a carriage standing still, his adored fair — when, whiff! she vanished.
And the carriage, at the same lively pace, brought him back to the Neuilly Bridge, where he found his own.
“Some one had slipped into Georges’ hand a note to this effect:
‘How many banknotes will the Baron part with to be put into communication with his unknown fair?
Georges handed this to his master; and the Baron, never doubting that Georges was in collusion with me or with you, Monsieur Peyrade, to drive a hard bargain, turned him out of the house.
What a fool that banker is!
He ought not to have sent away Georges before he had known the unknown!”
“Then Georges saw the woman?” said Corentin.
“Yes,” replied Contenson.
“Well,” cried Peyrade, “and what is she like?”