Five days after Monsieur Nucingen’s interview with Peyrade in the Champs Élysées, one morning, a man of about fifty, with that flake-white complexion which society life gives diplomatists, dressed in blue cloth, quite elegantly turned out, conceivably a minister of State, descended from a handsome gig tossing the reins to his servant. He asked the footman who was sitting on a bench in the columned entrance hall, and who respectfully opened the magnificent glass doors to him, if Baron Nucingen was visible.
‘What name shall I say?…’ asked the domestic.
‘Tell the baron that I come from the Avenue Gabriel,’ replied Corentin. ‘If there are people around, take care not to announce the name at the top of your voice, or you’ll be thrown out.’
A minute later, the footman came back and conducted Corentin to the baron’s study, through the inner apartments.
Corentin exchanged glances of equal impenetrability with the banker, and they greeted each other politely.
‘Monsieur le Baron,’ he said, ‘I came on behalf of Peyrade…’
‘Gut,’ said the baron slipping bolts on the two doors.
‘Monsieur de Rubempré’s mistress lives in the rue Taitbout, in what used to be the apartment of Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille, former mistress of Monsieur de Granville, the public prosecutor.’
‘Ach, chust round ze corner,’ cried the baron, ‘wie komisch!’
‘I have no difficulty in imagining that you are wild about this magnificent creature, it was a pleasure to me to see her,’ replied Corentin. ‘Lucien is so jealous of this girl that he forbids her to show herself; and he must be loved by her, for during the four years since she followed Bellefeuille, both into her living quarters and into her condition, neither the neighbours, nor the porter, nor the owners of the house have ever seen her. This infanta goes out only at night. When she drives out, the blinds of the carriage are pulled down, and the lady is veiled. It isn’t only for reasons of jealousy that Lucien conceals her: he expects to marry Clotilde de Grandlieu, and he’s also the current favourite of Madame de Sérisy. Naturally, he wants to keep both the mistress he has on show and his fiancée. And so you are in a commanding position, for Lucien will sacrifice his pleasure to his interests and his vanity. You are rich, this is probably your last chance of happiness, be generous. You will attain your ends through the girl’s maid. Give her ten thousand francs or so, and she’ll hide you in her mistress’s bedroom; it’ll be worth that!’
No figure of rhetoric could adequately describe Corentin’s sharp, clear, absolute salesmanship; the baron himself greeted it with an expression of astonishment, which his impassible visage had long denied itself.
‘I have come to ask you for five thousand francs for my friend, who lost five of your bank notes, a trifling misfortune!’ Corentin went on with the smoothest air of command. ‘Peyrade knows his Paris too well to put himself to the expense of advertising, and he counted on you. But that isn’t the most important thing,’ said Corentin changing his tone in such a way as to remove all gravity from his demand for money. ‘If you want to avoid grief in your old age, secure for Peyrade the place he asked you for, and you can obtain it without trouble. The Director General of the police forces of the Kingdom should have received a note yesterday on the subject. All that’s necessary now is to get Gondreville to speak to the Prefect of Police about it. All you need do, you see, is tell Malin Comte de Gondreville, that it’s a question of obliging one of those who got rid of the Simeuse gentlemen for him, then he’ll act…’
‘Here you are, sir,’ said the baron taking out five thousand-franc notes and handing them to Corentin.
‘The maid’s gentleman friend is a tall messenger by the name of Paccard, who lives in the rue de Provence, at a coachmaker’s, and hires himself out to run errands for those who can adopt a sufficiently princely manner. You will make contact with Madame van Bogseck’s maid through Paccard, a big rascal of a Piedmontese who is rather fond of vermouth.’
This last confidence, elegantly thrown in by way of postscript, was evidently what had cost five thousand francs. The baron tried to guess to what race of men Corentin belonged, his intelligence evidently placing him not so much among spies as among those who organized espionage; but Corentin remained for him much what an inscription is to an archeologist when at least three quarters of the letters are missing.
‘Whad iss the jambermait’s name?’ he asked.
‘Eugénie,’ replied Corentin who then bowed to the baron and left.
Baron Nucingen, transported with joy, abandoned his business and the premises on which he conducted it and went up to his private quarters in the happy state of mind of a young man of twenty anticipating his first meeting with a first mistress. The baron took out all the thousand-franc notes then in his private strong-box, a sum with which he could have made a whole village happy, fifty-five thousand francs! and put them in his pocket. But the prodigality of millionaires can only be compared with their greed for gain. As soon as some whim or passion is involved, money becomes nothing to these Croesuses: it is indeed more difficult for them to have whims than gold. Enjoyment is the greatest rarity in that surfeited life, full of the emotions which arise from great draughts of Speculation, upon which these dry hearts feed. For example. One of the richest capitalists in Paris, widely known for his eccentricities, meets one day, on the boulevards, an excessively pretty little working girl. Accompanied by her mother, this grisette walked arm in arm with a young man questionably attired, who swayed his hips in an affected manner. At first sight, the millionaire falls in love with this Parisian girl; he follows her home, he goes in; he listens to the story of a life made up of dances at Mabile’s, of days without bread, of work and amusement; he becomes interested, and leaves five thousand-franc notes under a five-franc piece: a misplaced piece of generosity. Next day, a celebrated upholsterer, Braschon, comes to take the wench’s orders, furnishes an apartment of her choice, spends some twenty thousand francs on it. The working girl abandons herself to wild dreams: she buys her mother good clothes, she imagines she can get her ex-boy-friend into the offices of an Insurance Company. She waits… one, two, three days; then a week… and then two. She considers herself obliged to remain faithful, she runs up debts. The capitalist, called to Holland, had forgotten the little seamstress; he never once visited the Paradise in which he had installed her, and from which she fell as low as one may fall in Paris. Nucingen didn’t gamble, Nucingen did not patronize the arts, Nucingen had no hobbies; he must then fling himself into his passion for Esther with a blindness upon which Carlos Herrera counted.
After luncheon, the baron sent for Georges, his personal servant, and told him to go to the rue Taitbout, to beg Mademoiselle Eugénie, Madame van Bogseck’s maid, to call at his office on important business.
‘Look her out,’ he added, ‘and take her up to my room, delling her zet her vortune iss mate.’
Georges had endless trouble in persuading Europe-Eugénie to come. Madame, she told him, never allowed her out; she might lose her job, etc., etc. Georges, therefore, lauded her merits to the baron, who gave him ten francs.
‘If Madame goes out this evening without her,’ said Georges to his master whose eyes sparkled like carbuncles, ‘she’ll come sharp on ten.’
‘ Gut! you will come ant tress me at neun hours,… mek my hair; for I will look nice es bossiple… I belief zet I shell be tek to zee my mizdress, where money will be of no count…’
Between noon and one o’clock, the baron dyed his hair and whiskers. At nine o’clock, the baron, who took a bath before dinner, dressed like a bridegroom, scented himself, made himself beautiful. Madame de Nucingen, told of this metamorphosis, gave herself the pleasure of contemplating her husband.
‘Good God!’ she said, ‘you do look a fool!… Why don’t you put a black satin bow on, instead of that white thing which makes your whiskers stand out so? besides, it’s Empire, it makes you a cosy old man, you look like a former counsellor of the Parlement. And for goodness’ sa
ke remove those diamond studs, every one of them is worth a hundred thousand francs; that monkey’ll ask you for them, and you won’t be able to refuse; if you’re going to give them to a tart, I might as well put them in my ears.’
The poor financier, struck by the justice of his wife’s remarks, submitted with a bad grace.
‘Look a fool! look a fool!… I hef never told you zet you look a fool when you was mek yourself look your best for your liddle Monsieur te Rasdignag.’
‘I should hope you’ve never thought I looked a fool. Am I a woman to make that kind of spelling mistake in her dress? Look, turn round!… Button your coat right up, like the Duc de Maufrigneuse, leaving the top two buttonholes free. In fact, try to make yourself look young.’
‘Monsieur,’ said Georges, ‘here’s Mademoiselle Eugénie.’
‘Goot-bye, my tear…,’ cried the banker. He led his wife back to the farthest end of their respective apartments, so as to be quite certain that she would not overhear the discussion.
Disappointments
RETURNING, he took Europe by the hand, and conducted her into his room, with a kind of ironical respect.
‘Well, my liddle one, you are very lucky, for you are in ze zerfiz off ze breddiest woman in de uniferse… Your vortune iss mate, if you will spik for me, if you will ect in my inderests.’
‘Which I will not do for ten thousand francs, sir,’ cried Europe. ‘You must understand, Monsieur le Baron, that to begin with I am an honest girl…’
‘Oh, yes. I know I shall hef to bay for your honesty. It iss what in pusiness we gall a gommotidy in shord zupply.’
‘And that is not all,’ said Europe. ‘If Madame doesn’t like the gentleman, and it’s quite possible! she turns nasty, I’m sacked, and my job is worth a thousand francs a year.’
‘De gabidal neeted for tausend francs iss twenty tausend, end if I gif you zet, you will not pe out of bocket.’
‘My, if that’s how you’re going to talk, big daddy,’ said Europe, ‘it’ll make quite a nice difference. Where are they?…’
‘Here,’ replied the baron showing her the bank-notes one by one.
He observed the separate flash which each note caused to dart from Europe’s eyes, and which displayed the concupiscence he was expecting.
‘That pays for my job, but what about my honesty, my conscience?…’ said Europe lifting up her crafty face and giving the baron a seria-buffa look.
‘The gonscience is not worth as much as the chob; but, let us say, five tausend vranc for zet,’ he replied adding five more thousand-franc notes.
‘No, twenty thousand francs for the conscience, and five thousand for the job, if I lose it…’
‘Es you wish…,’ he said, putting all the notes together. ‘But to earn them, you must hite me in your misdress’ jember during the night, when she iss alone…’
‘If you’ll promise me never to tell who let you in, I consent. But I must warn you of one thing: Madame is as strong as a Turk, she is madly in love with Monsieur de Rubempré, and you could give her a million francs in bank-notes, without persuading her to be unfaithful… It’s silly, but that’s how she is when she’s in love, she’s worse than an honest woman, eh? When she goes out in the woods with Monsieur, Monsieur doesn’t often stay at the house; she’s gone out this evening, so I can hide you in my room. If Madame comes back alone, I’ll let you know; you can stay in the drawing-room, I won’t shut the bedroom door, and the rest,… well! the rest, that’s up to you… Be prepared!’
‘I give you the twenty-five tausend vrancs in the trawing-room, gash town.’
‘Ah!’ said Europe, ‘are you as trusting as that?… Forgive me for so little…’
‘You will hef blendy off obbordunidies for tittle me… We shell ged to know each other…’
‘Well, then, be at the rue Taitbout at midnight; but then you’d better bring thirty thousand francs with you. Like cabs, a lady’s maid’s honesty costs more after midnight.’
‘From brudence, I will gif you a gash-orter on de Pank…’
‘No, no,’ said Europe, ‘notes, or it’s all off…’
At one o’clock in the morning, Baron Nucingen, hidden in the attic in which Europe slept, was prey to all the anxieties which may beset a man in luck. He was alive, his blood tingled in his toes, his head was on the point of bursting like an overheated steam engine.
‘From a moral boint of fiew,' he said to du Tillet when he told him of this adventure, ‘I hef enjoyed more than five thousand crowns worth.’ He listened to the least sounds from the street, at two o’clock in the morning he heard his mistress’s carriage from the boulevard. His heart beat enough to take the silk off his waistcoat, when the gate swung on its hinges: he was about see once again the divine, the ardent face of Esther!… His heart received the sounds of the carriage steps and the slam of its door. Waiting for the supreme moment agitated him more than if it had been a matter of losing his fortune.
‘Ha!’ he cried, ‘that was truly to live! To live efen too much, I shell be ingabaple of anyzing at oll!’
‘Madame is alone, come on down,’ said Europe appearing suddenly. ‘Above all, don’t make a noise, big elephant!’
‘Pig elevant!’ he repeated laughing and walking as though on a red-hot iron grating.
Europe preceded him, taper in hand.
‘Zere, gount zem,’ said the baron handing Europe the bank-notes when they were in the drawing-room.
Europe took the thirty notes with a solemn air, and went out shutting the banker in. Nucingen went straight into the bedroom, where he found the fair English who said to him: ‘Is that you, Lucien?…’
‘No, pudivul jild,’ cried Nucingen, but stopped short.
He was stupefied to see a woman totally the opposite of Esther: fair indeed where she had been dark, weakness where he had admired strength! a soft night in Brittany where the sun of Arabia had blazed.
‘Well, well! where have you come from?… who are you?… what do you want?...’ said the Englishwoman ringing without the bell making any sound.
‘I muffled ze bells, but ton’t pe afrait,… I go away,’ he said. ‘Zet’s tirty tausend vrancs trown away. Are you inteet ze mistress of Monsieur Lucien de Rubempré?’
‘More or less, nephew,’ said the Englishwoman who spoke French very well. ‘But you, who are you?’ she said imitating Nucingen’s way of speaking.
‘A man who hes peen tittled!…’ he replied piteously.
‘Iss a man tittled when he finds a pretty woman?’ she asked him jokingly.
‘Permit me tomorrow to zent you a necklace, to remint you of de Paron de Nuchingen.’
‘Don’t know him!…’ she said laughing like a madwoman; ‘but the jewellery will be very welcome, you great big housebreaker.’
‘You will know. Goot-pye, Madame. You are a king’s morsel; but I em only a boor panker bast sixty years, and you hef mate me unterstend how much power hes the woman I luf, since your own suberhuman beauty hes not peen aple to make me forget it…’
‘Well, zet’s fery nice what you say me there,’ replied the Englishwoman.
‘It is less nice than the laty who inspires de zentiment…’
‘You spoke of thirty thousand francs… Who did you give those to?’
‘To your scountrel off a mait…’
The Englishwoman rang, Europe was not far away.
‘Oh!’ she cried, ‘a man in Madame’s bedroom, and it isn’t Monsieur!… How dreadful!’
‘Did he give you thirty thousand francs to be let in?’
‘No, Madame; the two of us together aren’t worth that much…’
And Europe began to cry thief so loud and implacably that the terrified banker made for the door, from which Europe hustled him down the stairs…
‘Great scoundrel,’ she yelled at him, ‘you tell on me to my mistress! Thief!… thief!’
The amorous baron, in despair, was able without affront to reach his carriage which was stationed on the boulevard; but he no
longer knew which of the spies to trust.
‘Could Madame, by any chance, wish to deprive me of my earnings?…’ said Europe turning like a fury upon the Englishwoman.
‘I don’t know your French ways,’ said the Englishwoman.
‘I need only say one word to Monsieur, and Madame will be thrown out tomorrow,’ Europe insolently replied.
‘Zet accorsed maid,’ said the baron to Georges who naturally wished to know whether his master was content, ‘tittled me off torty tausend vrancs,… put it iss my own vault, it iss my own vault!…’
‘So all Monsieur’s care for his person was wasted. Oh, dear, oh, dear! I don’t advise Monsieur to take his jujubes for nothing…’
‘Georges, I am tying of tespair… I feel colt… I hef ice in my heart… No more Esther, my friend.’
Georges was always a friend to his master when the circumstances were grave.
First round to the Abbé
Two days after this scene, which young Europe had just recounted more amusingly than it can be done here for she added mimicry, Carlos was taking his luncheon alone with Lucien.
‘Neither the Police nor anyone, my dear, must poke his nose into our affairs,’ he said in a low voice lighting a cigar from Lucien’s. ‘It’s unhealthy. I’ve thought of a daring but infallible way of keeping our baron and his agents quiet. You will go to Madame de Sérisy’s, and you’ll be very nice to her. You will tell her, in the course of conversation, that, in order to oblige Rastignac, who for some time has felt he’s had enough of Madame de Nucingen, you’ve agreed to serve him as a cloak to conceal a mistress. Monsieur de Nucingen, infatuated with the woman Rastignac is hiding (this will make her laugh) has taken it into his head to employ the Police to spy on you, who are perfectly innocent of your compatriot’s knavery, and whose interest with the Grandlieus could be compromised. You will beg the countess to enlist the support of her husband, who’s a minister of State, in going to the Prefecture of Police. Once there, in the Prefect’s presence, complain, but do it as a politician who will soon be playing an influential part in the vast machinery of government. As such, you understand the Police, you admire them, the Prefect included. The most highly-skilled mechanics drop oil or spit. Don’t seem really annoyed. You have no grudge against Monsieur le Préfet; but say that he ought to keep an eye on his people, and sympathize with him at having to grumble at them. The pleasanter, the more gentlemanly you are, the angrier the Prefect will be with his agents. Then we shall be left quiet, and we can recall Esther, who must be troating like a stag in that forest.’
A Harlot High and Low Page 16
