“Truly?”
“Indeed, I hope you will come; and my sister, I am sure, will fix a day for you also.”
“Mein habbiness vill be den gomplete,” he said, “vor I tid not zee you put at de Champes-Hailysées, ven you passed in de carrisch, fery rarely.”
The thought of this dried the tears which had gathered in the old man’s eyes, and he offered his arm to his fair pupil, who could feel the wild beats of his heart.
“You thought of us then sometimes,” she said.
“Efery time ven I mein pret eat!” he replied. “Virst ass mein pountivul laties, ant den ass de two virst young girls vurty of luf dat I haf zeen.”
The Countess dared say no more! There was a marvelous and respectful solemnity in these words, as though they formed part of some religious service, breathing fidelity. That smoky room, that den of refuse, became a temple for two goddesses. Devotion there waxed stronger, all unknown to its objects.
“Here, then, we are loved, truly loved,” she thought.
The Countess shared the emotion with which old Schmucke saw her get into her carriage, as she blew from the ends of her fingers one of those airy kisses, which are a woman’s distant greeting. At this sight, Schmucke stood transfixed long after the carriage had disappeared.
A few minutes later, the Countess entered the courtyard of Mme. de Nucingen’s house. The Baroness was not yet up; but, in order not to keep a lady of position waiting, she flung round her a shawl and dressing gown.
“I come on the business of others, and promptitude is then a virtue,” said the Countess. “This must be my excuse for disturbing you so early.”
“Not at all! I am only too happy,” said the banker’s wife, taking the four papers and the guarantee of the Countess.
She rang for her maid.
“Theresa, tell the cashier to bring me up himself at once forty thousand francs.”
Then she sealed the letter of Mme. de Vandenesse, and locked it into a secret drawer of her table.
“What a pretty room you have!” said the Countess.
“M. de Nucingen is going to deprive me of it; he is getting a new house built.”
“You will no doubt give this one to your daughter. I hear that she is engaged to M. de Rastignac.”
The cashier appeared as Mme. de Nucingen was on the point of replying. She took the notes and handed him the four bills of exchange.
“That balances,” said the Baroness to the cashier.
“Egzebd for de disgound,” said the cashier. “Dis Schmucke iss ein musician vrom Ansbach,” he added, with a glance at the signature, which sent a shiver through the Countess.
“Do you suppose I am transacting business?” said Mme. de Nucingen, with a haughty glance of rebuke at the cashier. “This is my affair.”
In vain did the cashier cast sly glances now at the Countess, now at the Baroness; not a line of their faces moved.
“You can leave us now.—Be so good as remain a minute or two, so that you may not seem to have anything to do with this matter,” said the Baroness to Mme. de Vandenesse.
“I must beg of you to add to your other kind services that of keeping my secret,” said the Countess.
“In a matter of charity that is of course,” replied the Baroness, with a smile. “I shall have your carriage sent to the end of the garden; it will start without you; then we shall cross the garden together, no one will see you leave this. The whole thing will remain a mystery.”
“You must have known suffering to have learned so much thought for others,” said the Countess.
“I don’t know about thoughtfulness, but I have suffered a great deal,” said the Baroness; “you, I trust, have paid less dearly for yours.”
The orders given, the Baroness took her fur shoes and cloak and led the Countess to the side door of the garden.
When a man is plotting against anyone, as du Tillet did against Nathan, he makes no confidant. Nucingen had some notion of what was going on, but his wife remained entirely outside this Machiavellian scheming. She knew, however, that Raoul was in difficulties, and was not deceived therefore by the sisters; she suspected shrewdly into whose hands the money would pass, and it gave her real pleasure to help the Countess. Entanglements of the kind always roused her deepest sympathy.
Rastignac, who was playing the detective on the intrigues of the two bankers, came to lunch with Mme. de Nucingen. Delphine and Rastignac had no secrets from each other, and she told him of her interview with the Countess. Rastignac, unable to imagine how the Baroness had become mixed up in this affair, which in his eyes was merely incidental, one weapon amongst many, explained to her that she had this morning in all probability demolished the electoral hopes of du Tillet and rendered abortive the foul play and sacrifices of a whole year. He then went on to enlighten her as to the whole position, urging her to keep silence about her own mistake.
“If only,” she said, “the cashier does not speak of it to Nucingen.”
Du Tillet was at lunch when, a few minutes after twelve, M. Gigonnet was announced.
“Show him in,” said the hanker, regardless of his wife’s presence. “Well, old Shylock, is our man under lock and key?”
“No.”
“No! Didn’t I tell you Rue du Mail, at the hotel?”
“He has paid,” said Gigonnet, drawing from his pocketbook forty banknotes.
A look of despair passed over du Tillet’s face.
“You should never look askance at good money,” said the impassive crony of du Tillet; “it’s unlucky.”
“Where did you get this money, madame?” said the banker, with a scowl at his wife, which made her scarlet to the roots of her hair.
“I have no idea what you mean,” she said.
“I shall get to the bottom of this,” he replied, starting up in a fury. “You have upset my most cherished plans.”
“You will upset your lunch,” said Gigonnet, laying hold of the tablecloth, which had caught
