— Your daughter,
“ESTHER.”
On receiving the first letter, the Baron fell into a cold fury such as a millionaire may die of; he looked at himself in the glass and rang the bell.
“An hot bat for mein feet,” said he to his new valet.
While he was sitting with his feet in the bath, the second letter came; he read it, and fainted away.
He was carried to bed.
When the banker recovered consciousness, Madame de Nucingen was sitting at the foot of the bed.
“The hussy is right!” said she. “Why do you try to buy love?
Is it to be bought in the market!
— Let me see your letter to her.”
The Baron gave her sundry rough drafts he had made; Madame de Nucingen read them, and smiled.
Then came Esther’s third letter.
“She is a wonderful girl!” cried the Baroness, when she had read it.
“Vat shall I do, montame?” asked the Baron of his wife.
“Wait.”
“Wait? But nature is pitiless!” he cried.
“Look here, my dear, you have been admirably kind to me,” said Delphine; “I will give you some good advice.”
“You are a ver’ goot voman,” said he. “Ven you hafe any debts I shall pay.”
“Your state on receiving these letters touches a woman far more than the spending of millions, or than all the letters you could write, however fine they may be. Try to let her know it, indirectly; perhaps she will be yours!
And — have no scruples, she will not die of that,” added she, looking keenly at her husband.
But Madame de Nucingen knew nothing whatever of the nature of such women.
“Vat a clefer voman is Montame de Nucingen!” said the Baron to himself when his wife had left him.
Still, the more the Baron admired the subtlety of his wife’s counsel, the less he could see how he might act upon it; and he not only felt that he was stupid, but he told himself so.
The stupidity of wealthy men, though it is almost proverbial, is only comparative.
The faculties of the mind, like the dexterity of the limbs, need exercise.
The dancer’s strength is in his feet; the blacksmith’s in his arms; the market porter is trained to carry loads; the singer works his larynx; and the pianist hardens his wrist.
A banker is practised in business matters; he studies and plans them, and pulls the wires of various interests, just as a playwright trains his intelligence in combining situations, studying his actors, giving life to his dramatic figures.
We should no more look for powers of conversation in the Baron de Nucingen than for the imagery of a poet in the brain of a mathematician.
How many poets occur in an age, who are either good prose writers, or as witty in the intercourse of daily life as Madame Cornuel?
Buffon was dull company; Newton was never in love; Lord Byron loved nobody but himself; Rousseau was gloomy and half crazy; La Fontaine absent-minded.
Human energy, equally distributed, produces dolts, mediocrity in all; unequally bestowed it gives rise to those incongruities to whom the name of Genius is given, and which, if we only could see them, would look like deformities.
The same law governs the body; perfect beauty is generally allied with coldness or silliness.
Though Pascal was both a great mathematician and a great writer, though Beaumarchais was a good man of business, and Zamet a profound courtier, these rare exceptions prove the general principle of the specialization of brain faculties.
Within the sphere of speculative calculations the banker put forth as much intelligence and skill, finesse and mental power, as a practised diplomatist expends on national affairs.
If he were equally remarkable outside his office, the banker would be a great man.
Nucingen made one with the Prince de Ligne, with Mazarin or with Diderot, is a human formula that is almost inconceivable, but which has nevertheless been known as Pericles, Aristotle, Voltaire, and Napoleon.
The splendor of the Imperial crown must not blind us to the merits of the individual; the Emperor was charming, well informed, and witty.
Monsieur de Nucingen, a banker and nothing more, having no inventiveness outside his business, like most bankers, had no faith in anything but sound security.
In matters of art he had the good sense to go, cash in hand, to experts in every branch, and had recourse to the best architect, the best surgeon, the greatest connoisseur in pictures or statues, the cleverest lawyer, when he wished to build a house, to attend to his health, to purchase a work of art or an estate.
But as there are no recognized experts in intrigue, no connoisseurs in love affairs, a banker finds himself in difficulties when he is in love, and much puzzled as to the management of a woman.
So Nucingen could think of no better method than that he had hitherto pursued — to give a sum of money to some Frontin, male or female, to act and think for him.
Madame de Saint–Esteve alone could carry out the plan imagined by the Baroness.
Nucingen bitterly regretted having quarreled with the odious old clothes-seller.
However, feeling confident of the attractions of his cash-box and the soothing documents signed Garat, he rang for his man and told him in inquire for the repulsive widow in the Rue Saint–Marc, and desire her to come to see him.
In Paris extremes are made to meet by passion.
Vice is constantly binding the rich to the poor, the great to the mean.
The Empress consults Mademoiselle Lenormand; the fine gentleman in every age can always find a Ramponneau.
The man returned within two hours.
“Monsieur le Baron,” said he, “Madame de Saint–Esteve is ruined.”
“Ah! so much de better!” cried the Baron in glee. “I shall hafe her safe den.”