“Madame,” said she, “here is a messenger sent from the Quai Malaquais by Celestin, M. Lucien’s servant ——”
“Bring him in — no, I will go into the ante-room.”
“He has a letter for you, madame, from Celestin.”
Esther rushed into the ante-room, looked at the messenger, and saw that he looked like the genuine thing.
“Tell him to come down,” said Esther, in a feeble voice and dropping into a chair after reading the letter. “Lucien means to kill himself,” she added in a whisper to Europe. “No, take the letter up to him.”
Carlos Herrera, still in his disguise as a bagman, came downstairs at once, and keenly scrutinized the messenger on seeing a stranger in the ante-room.
“You said there was no one here,” said he in a whisper to Europe.
And with an excess of prudence, after looking at the messenger, he went straight into the drawing-room.
Trompe-la-Mort did not know that for some time past the famous constable of the detective force who had arrested him at the Maison Vauquer had a rival, who, it was supposed, would replace him.
This rival was the messenger.
“They are right,” said the sham messenger to Contenson, who was waiting for him in the street. “The man you describe is in the house; but he is not a Spaniard, and I will burn my hand off if there is not a bird for our net under that priest’s gown.”
“He is no more a priest than he is a Spaniard,” said Contenson.
“I am sure of that,” said the detective.
“Oh, if only we were right!” said Contenson.
Lucien had been away for two days, and advantage had been taken of his absence to lay this snare, but he returned this evening, and the courtesan’s anxieties were allayed.
Next morning, at the hour when Esther, having taken a bath, was getting into bed again, Madame du Val–Noble arrived.
“I have the two pills!” said her friend.
“Let me see,” said Esther, raising herself with her pretty elbow buried in a pillow trimmed with lace.
Madame du Val–Noble held out to her what looked like two black currants.
The Baron had given Esther a pair of greyhounds of famous pedigree, which will be always known by the name of the great contemporary poet who made them fashionable; and Esther, proud of owning them, had called them by the names of their parents, Romeo and Juliet.
No need here to describe the whiteness and grace of these beasts, trained for the drawing-room, with manners suggestive of English propriety.
Esther called Romeo; Romeo ran up on legs so supple and thin, so strong and sinewy, that they seemed like steel springs, and looked up at his mistress.
Esther, to attract his attention, pretended to throw one of the pills.
“He is doomed by his nature to die thus,” said she, as she threw the pill, which Romeo crushed between his teeth.
The dog made no sound, he rolled over, and was stark dead.
It was all over while Esther spoke these words of epitaph.
“Good God!” shrieked Madame du Val–Noble.
“You have a cab waiting. Carry away the departed Romeo,” said Esther. “His death would make a commotion here. I have given him to you, and you have lost him — advertise for him.
Make haste; you will have your fifty thousand francs this evening.”
She spoke so calmly, so entirely with the cold indifference of a courtesan, that Madame du Val–Noble exclaimed:
“You are the Queen of us all!”
“Come early, and look very well ——”
At five o’clock Esther dressed herself as a bride.
She put on her lace dress over white satin, she had a white sash, white satin shoes, and a scarf of English point lace over her beautiful shoulders.
In her hair she placed white camellia flowers, the simple ornament of an innocent girl.
On her bosom lay a pearl necklace worth thirty thousand francs, a gift from Nucingen.
Though she was dressed by six, she refused to see anybody, even the banker.
Europe knew that Lucien was to be admitted to her room.
Lucien came at about seven, and Europe managed to get him up to her mistress without anybody knowing of his arrival.
Lucien, as he looked at her, said to himself,
“Why not go and live with her at Rubempre, far from the world, and never see Paris again?
I have an earnest of five years of her life, and the dear creature is one of those who never belie themselves!
Where can I find such another perfect masterpiece?”
“My dear, you whom I have made my God,” said Esther, kneeling down on a cushion in front of Lucien, “give me your blessing.”
Lucien tried to raise her and kiss her, saying, “What is this jest, my dear love?”
And he would have put his arm round her, but she freed herself with a gesture as much of respect as of horror.
“I am no longer worthy of you, Lucien,” said she, letting the tears rise to her eyes. “I implore you, give me your blessing, and swear to me that you will found two beds at the Hotel–Dieu — for, as to prayers in church, God will never forgive me unless I pray myself. “I have loved you too well, my dear.
Tell me that I made you happy, and that you will sometimes think of me. — Tell me that!”
Lucien saw that Esther was solemnly in earnest, and he sat thinking.
“You mean to kill yourself,” said he at last, in a tone of voice that revealed deep reflection.