“I have vanquished England!” Peyrade replied in good French to this malicious scoffer,
“Toujours, mon garcon” (Go it, my boy), which no one heard but Bixiou.
“Hallo, good men all, he is as English as I am!
— My uncle is a Gascon!
I could have no other!”
Bixiou and Peyrade were alone, so no one heard this announcement.
Peyrade rolled off his chair on to the floor.
Paccard forthwith picked him up and carried him to an attic, where he fell sound asleep.
At six o’clock next evening, the Nabob was roused by the application of a wet cloth, with which his face was being washed, and awoke to find himself on a camp-bed, face to face with Asie, wearing a mask and a black domino.
“Well, Papa Peyrade, you and I have to settle accounts,” said she.
“Where am I?” asked he, looking about him.
“Listen to me,” said Asie, “and that will sober you. — Though you do not love Madame du Val–Noble, you love your daughter, I suppose?”
“My daughter?” Peyrade echoed with a roar.
“Yes, Mademoiselle Lydie.”
“What then?”
“What then? She is no longer in the Rue des Moineaux; she has been carried off.”
Peyrade breathed a sigh like that of a soldier dying of a mortal wound on the battlefield.
“While you were pretending to be an Englishman, some one else was pretending to be Peyrade.
Your little Lydie thought she was with her father, and she is now in a safe place. — Oh! you will never find her! unless you undo the mischief you have done.”
“What mischief?”
“Yesterday Monsieur Lucien de Rubempre had the door shut in his face at the Duc de Grandlieu’s.
This is due to your intrigues, and to the man you let loose on us.
Do not speak, listen!” Asie went on, seeing Peyrade open his mouth. “You will have your daughter again, pure and spotless,” she added, emphasizing her statement by the accent on every word, “only on the day after that on which Monsieur Lucien de Rubempre walks out of Saint–Thomas d’Aquin as the husband of Mademoiselle Clotilde.
If, within ten days Lucien de Rubempre is not admitted, as he has been, to the Grandlieus’ house, you, to begin with, will die a violent death, and nothing can save you from the fate that threatens you.
— Then, when you feel yourself dying, you will have time before breathing your last to reflect,
‘My daughter is a prostitute for the rest of her life!’
“Though you have been such a fool as give us this hold for our clutches, you still have sense enough to meditate on this ultimatum from our government.
Do not bark, say nothing to any one; go to Contenson’s, and change your dress, and then go home.
Katt will tell you that at a word from you your little Lydie went downstairs, and has not been seen since.
If you make any fuss, if you take any steps, your daughter will begin where I tell you she will end — she is promised to de Marsay.
“With old Canquoelle I need not mince matters, I should think, or wear gloves, heh? —— Go on downstairs, and take care not to meddle in our concerns any more.”
Asie left Peyrade in a pitiable state; every word had been a blow with a club.
The spy had tears in his eyes, and tears hanging from his cheeks at the end of a wet furrow.
“They are waiting dinner for Mr. Johnson,” said Europe, putting her head in a moment after.
Peyrade made no reply; he went down, walked till he reached a cab-stand, and hurried off to undress at Contenson’s, not saying a word to him; he resumed the costume of Pere Canquoelle, and got home by eight o’clock.
He mounted the stairs with a beating heart.
When the Flemish woman heard her master, she asked him:
“Well, and where is mademoiselle?” with such simplicity, that the old spy was obliged to lean against the wall.
The blow was more than he could bear.
He went into his daughter’s rooms, and ended by fainting with grief when he found them empty, and heard Katt’s story, which was that of an abduction as skilfully planned as if he had arranged it himself.
“Well, well,” thought he, “I must knock under. I will be revenged later; now I must go to Corentin. — This is the first time we have met our foes.
Corentin will leave that handsome boy free to marry an Empress if he wishes!
— Yes, I understand that my little girl should have fallen in love with him at first sight. — Oh! that Spanish priest is a knowing one.
Courage, friend Peyrade! disgorge your prey!” The poor father never dreamed of the fearful blow that awaited him.
On reaching Corentin’s house, Bruno, the confidential servant, who knew Peyrade, said:
“Monsieur is gone away.”
“For a long time?”
“For ten days.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.