“Well, then, you must see the man,” said he to Lucien. “But do not say a single compromising word, do not let a sign of surprise escape you. It is the enemy.”
“You will overhear me,” said Lucien.
Carlos hid in the adjoining room, and through the crack of the door he saw Corentin, whom he recognized only by his voice, such powers of transformation did the great man possess.
This time Corentin looked like an old paymaster-general.
“I have not had the honor of being known to you, monsieur,” Corentin began, “but ——”
“Excuse my interrupting you, monsieur, but ——”
“But the matter in point is your marriage to Mademoiselle Clotilde de Grandlieu — which will never take place,” Corentin added eagerly.
Lucien sat down and made no reply.
“You are in the power of a man who is able and willing and ready to prove to the Duc de Grandlieu that the lands of Rubempre are to be paid for with the money that a fool has given to your mistress, Mademoiselle Esther,” Corentin went on. “It will be quite easy to find the minutes of the legal opinions in virtue of which Mademoiselle Esther was summoned; there are ways too of making d’Estourny speak.
The very clever manoeuvres employed against the Baron de Nucingen will be brought to light.
“As yet all can be arranged.
Pay down a hundred thousand francs, and you will have peace. — All this is no concern of mine.
I am only the agent of those who levy this blackmail; nothing more.”
Corentin might have talked for an hour; Lucien smoked his cigarette with an air of perfect indifference.
“Monsieur,” replied he, “I do not want to know who you are, for men who undertake such jobs as these have no name — at any rate, in my vocabulary.
I have allowed you to talk at your leisure; I am at home.
— You seem to me not bereft of common sense; listen to my dilemma.”
There was a pause, during which Lucien met Corentin’s cat-like eye fixed on him with a perfectly icy stare.
“Either you are building on facts that are absolutely false, and I need pay no heed to them,” said Lucien; “or you are in the right; and in that case, by giving you a hundred thousand francs, I put you in a position to ask me for as many hundred thousand francs as your employer can find Saint–Esteves to ask for. “However, to put an end, once and for all, to your kind intervention, I would have you know that I, Lucien de Rubempre, fear no one.
I have no part in the jobbery of which you speak.
If the Grandlieus make difficulties, there are other young ladies of very good family ready to be married.
After all, it is no loss to me if I remain single, especially if, as you imagine, I deal in blank bills to such advantage.”
“If Monsieur l’Abbe Carlos Herrera ——”
“Monsieur,” Lucien put in, “the Abbe Herrera is at this moment on the way to Spain. He has nothing to do with my marriage, my interests are no concern of his.
That remarkable statesman was good enough to assist me at one time with his advice, but he has reports to present to his Majesty the King of Spain; if you have anything to say to him, I recommend you to set out for Madrid.”
“Monsieur,” said Corentin plainly, “you will never be Mademoiselle Clotilde de Grandlieu’s husband.”
“So much the worse for her!” replied Lucien, impatiently pushing Corentin towards the door.
“You have fully considered the matter?” asked Corentin coldly.
“Monsieur, I do not recognize that you have any right either to meddle in my affairs, or to make me waste a cigarette,” said Lucien, throwing away his cigarette that had gone out.
“Good-day, monsieur,” said Corentin. “We shall not meet again. — But there will certainly be a moment in your life when you would give half your fortune to have called me back from these stairs.”
In answer to this threat, Carlos made as though he were cutting off a head.
“Now to business!” cried he, looking at Lucien, who was as white as ashes after this dreadful interview.
If among the small number of my readers who take an interest in the moral and philosophical side of this book there should be only one capable of believing that the Baron de Nucingen was happy, that one would prove how difficult it is to explain the heart of a courtesan by any kind of physiological formula.
Esther was resolved to make the poor millionaire pay dearly for what he called his day of triumph.
And at the beginning of February 1830 the house-warming party had not yet been given in the “little palace.”
“Well,” said Esther in confidence to her friends, who repeated it to the Baron, “I shall open house at the Carnival, and I mean to make my man as happy as a cock in plaster.”
The phrase became proverbial among women of her kidney.
The Baron gave vent to much lamentation; like married men, he made himself very ridiculous, he began to complain to his intimate friends, and his dissatisfaction was generally known.
Esther, meanwhile, took quite a serious view of her position as the Pompadour of this prince of speculators.
She had given two or three small evening parties, solely to get Lucien into the house.
Lousteau, Rastignac, du Tillet, Bixiou, Nathan, the Comte de Brambourg — all the cream of the dissipated crew — frequented her drawing-room.
And, as leading ladies in the piece she was playing, Esther accepted Tullia, Florentine, Fanny Beaupre, and Florine — two dancers and two actresses — besides Madame du Val–Noble.
Nothing can be more dreary than a courtesan’s home without the spice of rivalry, the display of dress, and some variety of type.
In six weeks Esther had become the wittiest, the most amusing, the loveliest, and the most elegant of those female pariahs who form the class of kept women.
Placed on the pedestal that became her, she enjoyed all the delights of vanity which fascinate women in general, but still as one who is raised above her caste by a secret thought.
She cherished in her heart an image of herself which she gloried in, while it made her blush; the hour when she must abdicate was ever present to her consciousness; thus she lived a double life, really scorning herself.
Her sarcastic remarks were tinged by the temper which was roused in her by the intense contempt felt by the Angel of Love, hidden in the courtesan, for the disgraceful and odious part played by the body in the presence, as it were, of the soul.
At once actor and spectator, victim and judge, she was a living realization of the beautiful Arabian Tales, in which a noble creature lies hidden under a degrading form, and of which the type is the story of Nebuchadnezzar in the book of books — the Bible.
Having granted herself a lease of life till the day after her infidelity, the victim might surely play awhile with the executioner.
Moreover, the enlightenment that had come to Esther as to the secretly disgraceful means by which the Baron had made his colossal fortune relieved her of every scruple. She could play the part of Ate, the goddess of vengeance, as Carlos said.