Breakfast had been a most melancholy meal.
The Duchess was meditative, the Duke seemed to be vexed with himself, and Clotilde could with difficulty restrain her tears.
“My child, your father is right; you must obey him,” the mother had said to the daughter with much emotion. “I do not say as he does, ‘Think no more of Lucien.’ No — for I understand your suffering”— Clotilde kissed her mother’s hand —“but I do say, my darling, Wait, take no step, suffer in silence since you love him, and put your trust in your parents’ care.
— Great ladies, my child, are great just because they can do their duty on every occasion, and do it nobly.”
“But what is it about?” asked Clotilde as white as a lily. “Matters too serious to be discussed with you, my dearest,” the Duchess replied. “For if they are untrue, your mind would be unnecessarily sullied; and if they are true, you must never know them.”
At six o’clock the Duc de Chaulieu had come to join the Duc de Grandlieu, who awaited him in his study.
“Tell me, Henri”— for the Dukes were on the most familiar terms, and addressed each other by their Christian names. This is one of the shades invented to mark a degree of intimacy, to repel the audacity of French familiarity, and humiliate conceit —“tell me, Henri, I am in such a desperate difficulty that I can only ask advice of an old friend who understands business, and you have practice and experience.
My daughter Clotilde, as you know, is in love with that little Rubempre, whom I have been almost compelled to accept as her promised husband.
I have always been averse to the marriage; however, Madame de Grandlieu could not bear to thwart Clotilde’s passion.
When the young fellow had repurchased the family estate and paid three-quarters of the price, I could make no further objections.
“But last evening I received an anonymous letter — you know how much that is worth — in which I am informed that the young fellow’s fortune is derived from some disreputable source, and that he is telling lies when he says that his sister is giving him the necessary funds for his purchase.
For my daughter’s happiness, and for the sake of our family, I am adjured to make inquiries, and the means of doing so are suggested to me.
Here, read it.”
“I am entirely of your opinion as to the value of anonymous letters, my dear Ferdinand,” said the Duc de Chaulieu after reading the letter. “Still, though we may contemn them, we must make use of them.
We must treat such letters as we would treat a spy. Keep the young man out of the house, and let us make inquiries ——
“I know how to do it.
Your lawyer is Derville, a man in whom we have perfect confidence; he knows the secrets of many families, and can certainly be trusted with this.
He is an honest man, a man of weight, and a man of honor; he is cunning and wily; but his wiliness is only in the way of business, and you need only employ him to obtain evidence you can depend upon.
“We have in the Foreign Office an agent of the superior police who is unique in his power of discovering State secrets; we often send him on such missions.
Inform Derville that he will have a lieutenant in the case.
Our spy is a gentleman who will appear wearing the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, and looking like a diplomate.
This rascal will do the hunting; Derville will only look on.
Your lawyer will then tell you if the mountain brings forth a mouse, or if you must throw over this little Rubempre.
Within a week you will know what you are doing.”
“The young man is not yet so far a Marquis as to take offence at my being ‘Not at home’ for a week,” said the Duc de Grandlieu. “Above all, if you end by giving him your daughter,” replied the Minister. “If the anonymous letter tells the truth, what of that?
You can send Clotilde to travel with my daughter-in-law Madeleine, who wants to go to Italy.” “You relieve me immensely.
I don’t know whether I ought to thank you.” “Wait till the end.” “By the way,” exclaimed the Duc de Grandlieu, “what is your man’s name?
I must mention it to Derville. Send him to me to-morrow by five o’clock; I will have Derville here and put them in communication.” “His real name,” said M. de Chaulieu, “is, I think, Corentin — a name you must never have heard, for my gentleman will come ticketed with his official name. He calls himself Monsieur de Saint–Something — Saint Yves — Saint–Valere? — Something of the kind.
— You may trust him; Louis XVIII. had perfect confidence in him.”
After this confabulation the steward had orders to shut the door on Monsieur de Rubempre — which was done.
Lucien paced the waiting-room at the opera-house like a man who was drunk.
He fancied himself the talk of all Paris.
He had in the Duc de Rhetore one of those unrelenting enemies on whom a man must smile, as he can never be revenged, since their attacks are in conformity with the rules of society.
The Duc de Rhetore knew the scene that had just taken place on the outside steps of the Grandlieus’ house.
Lucien, feeling the necessity of at once reporting the catastrophe to his high privy councillor, nevertheless was afraid of compromising himself by going to Esther’s house, where he might find company.
He actually forgot that Esther was here, so confused were his thoughts, and in the midst of so much perplexity he was obliged to make small talk with Rastignac, who, knowing nothing of the news, congratulated him on his approaching marriage.
At this moment Nucingen appeared smiling, and said to Lucien:
“Vill you do me de pleasure to come to see Montame de Champy, vat vill infite you herself to von house-varming party ——”
“With pleasure, Baron,” replied Lucien, to whom the Baron appeared as a rescuing angel.
“Leave us,” said Esther to Monsieur de Nucingen, when she saw him come in with Lucien. “Go and see Madame du Val–Noble, whom I discover in a box on the third tier with her nabob. — A great many nabobs grow in the Indies,” she added, with a knowing glance at Lucien.
“And that one,” said Lucien, smiling, “is uncommonly like yours.”
“And them,” said Esther, answering Lucien with another look of intelligence, while still speaking to the Baron, “bring her here with her nabob; he is very anxious to make your acquaintance. They say he is very rich.
The poor woman has already poured out I know not how many elegies; she complains that her nabob is no good; and if you relieve him of his ballast, perhaps he will sail closer to the wind.”
“You tink ve are all tieves!” said the Baron as he went away.
“What ails you, my Lucien?” asked Esther in her friend’s ear, just touching it with her lips as soon as the box door was shut.
“I am lost!
I have just been turned from the door of the Hotel de Grandlieu under pretence that no one was admitted. The Duke and Duchess were at home, and five pairs of horses were champing in the courtyard.”
“What! will the marriage not take place?” exclaimed Esther, much agitated, for she saw a glimpse of Paradise.
“I do not yet know what is being plotted against me ——”
“My Lucien,” said she in a deliciously coaxing voice, “why be worried about it?