The words were spoken with such sincerity of accent, that poor Esther looked at the old man with a compassion in her eyes that almost maddened him.
Lovers, like martyrs, feel a brotherhood in their sufferings!
Nothing in the world gives such a sense of kindred as community of sorrow.
“Poor man!” said she, “he really loves.”
As he heard the words, misunderstanding their meaning, the Baron turned pale, the blood tingled in his veins, he breathed the airs of heaven.
At his age a millionaire, for such a sensation, will pay as much gold as a woman can ask.
“I lofe you like vat I lofe my daughter,” said he. “An’ I feel dere”— and he laid her hand over his heart —“dat I shall not bear to see you anyting but happy.”
“If you would only be a father to me, I would love you very much; I would never leave you; and you would see that I am not a bad woman, not grasping or greedy, as I must seem to you now ——”
“You hafe done some little follies,” said the Baron, “like all dose pretty vomen — dat is all.
Say no more about dat.
It is our pusiness to make money for you. Be happy! I shall be your fater for some days yet, for I know I must make you accustom’ to my old carcase.”
“Really!” she exclaimed, springing on to Nucingen’s knees, and clinging to him with her arm round his neck.
“Really!” repeated he, trying to force a smile.
She kissed his forehead; she believed in an impossible combination — she might remain untouched and see Lucien. She was so coaxing to the banker that she was La Torpille once more.
She fairly bewitched the old man, who promised to be a father to her for forty days.
Those forty days were to be employed in acquiring and arranging the house in the Rue Saint–Georges.
When he was in the street again, as he went home, the Baron said to himself,
“I am an old flat.”
But though in Esther’s presence he was a mere child, away from her he resumed his lynx’s skin; just as the gambler (in le Joueur) becomes affectionate to Angelique when he has not a liard.
“A half a million francs I hafe paid, and I hafe not yet seen vat her leg is like.
— Dat is too silly! but, happily, nobody shall hafe known it!” said he to himself three weeks after.
And he made great resolutions to come to the point with the woman who had cost him so dear; then, in Esther’s presence once more, he spent all the time he could spare her in making up for the roughness of his first words.
“After all,” said he, at the end of a month,
“I cannot be de fater eternal!”
Towards the end of the month of December 1829, just before installing Esther in the house in the Rue Saint–Georges, the Baron begged du Tillet to take Florine there, that she might see whether everything was suitable to Nucingen’s fortune, and if the description of “a little palace” were duly realized by the artists commissioned to make the cage worthy of the bird.
Every device known to luxury before the Revolution of 1830 made this residence a masterpiece of taste.
Grindot the architect considered it his greatest achievement as a decorator.
The staircase, which had been reconstructed of marble, the judicious use of stucco ornament, textiles, and gilding, the smallest details as much as the general effect, outdid everything of the kind left in Paris from the time of Louis XV.
“This is my dream! — This and virtue!” said Florine with a smile. “And for whom are you spending all this money?”
“For a voman vat is going up there,” replied the Baron.
“A way of playing Jupiter?” replied the actress. “And when is she on show?”
“On the day of the house-warming,” cried du Tillet.
“Not before dat,” said the Baron.
“My word, how we must lace and brush and fig ourselves out,” Florine went on.
“What a dance the women will lead their dressmakers and hairdressers for that evening’s fun!
— And when is it to be?”
“Dat is not for me to say.”
“What a woman she must be!” cried Florine. “How much I should like to see her!”
“An’ so should I,” answered the Baron artlessly.
“What! is everything new together — the house, the furniture, and the woman?”
“Even the banker,” said du Tillet, “for my old friend seems to me quite young again.”
“Well, he must go back to his twentieth year,” said Florine; “at any rate, for once.”
In the early days of 1830 everybody in Paris was talking of Nucingen’s passion and the outrageous splendor of his house.
The poor Baron, pointed at, laughed at, and fuming with rage, as may easily be imagined, took it into his head that on the occasion of giving the house-warming he would at the same time get rid of his paternal disguise, and get the price of so much generosity.
Always circumvented by “La Torpille,” he determined to treat of their union by correspondence, so as to win from her an autograph promise.
Bankers have no faith in anything less than a promissory note.
So one morning early in the year he rose early, locked himself into his room, and composed the following letter in very good French; for though he spoke the language very badly, he could write it very well:—
“DEAR ESTHER, the flower of my thoughts and the only joy of my life, when I told you that I loved you as I love my daughter, I deceived you, I deceived myself.
I only wished to express the holiness of my sentiments, which are unlike those felt by other men, in the first place, because I am an old man, and also because I have never loved till now.
I love you so much, that if you cost me my fortune I should not love you the less.