“A woman’s letter!” exclaimed Madame Schontz, as she came in. “The paper, the wax, are scented—”
“Here you are, sir,” said a porter from the coach office, setting down two huge hampers in the anteroom. “Carriage paid. Please to sign my book.”
“Carriage paid!” cried Madame Schontz. “It must have come from Sancerre.”
“Yes, madame,” said the porter.
“Your Tenth Muse is a remarkably intelligent woman,” said the courtesan, opening one of the hampers, while Lousteau was writing his name. “I like a Muse who understands housekeeping, and who can make game pies as well as blots. And, oh! what beautiful flowers!” she went on, opening the second hamper. “Why, you could get none finer in Paris!—And here, and here! A hare, partridges, half a roebuck!—We will ask your friends and have a famous dinner, for Athalie has a special talent for dressing venison.”
Lousteau wrote to Dinah; but instead of writing from the heart, he was clever. The letter was all the more insidious; it was like one of Mirabeau’s letters to Sophie. The style of a true lover is transparent. It is a clear stream which allows the bottom of the heart to be seen between two banks, bright with the trifles of existence, and covered with the flowers of the soul that blossom afresh every day, full of intoxicating beauty—but only for two beings. As soon as a love letter has any charm for a third reader, it is beyond doubt the product of the head, not of the heart. But a woman will always be beguiled; she always believes herself to be the determining cause of this flow of wit.
By the end of December Lousteau had ceased to read Dinah’s letters; they lay in a heap in a drawer of his chest that was never locked, under his shirts, which they scented.
Then one of those chances came to Lousteau which such bohemians ought to clutch by every hair. In the middle of December, Madame Schontz, who took a real interest in Étienne, sent to beg him to call on her one morning on business.
“My dear fellow, you have a chance of marrying.”
“I can marry very often, happily, my dear.”
“When I say marrying, I mean marrying well. You have no prejudices: I need not mince matters. This is the position: A young lady has got into trouble; her mother knows nothing of even a kiss. Her father is an honest notary, a man of honor; he has been wise enough to keep it dark. He wants to get his daughter married within a fortnight, and he will give her a fortune of a hundred and fifty thousand francs—for he has three other children; but—and it is not a bad idea—he will add a hundred thousand francs, under the rose, hand to hand, to cover the damages. They are an old family of Paris citizens, Rue des Lombards—”
“Well, then, why does not the lover marry her?”
“Dead.”
“What a romance! Such things are nowhere to be heard of but in the Rue des Lombards.”
“But do not take it into your head that a jealous brother murdered the seducer. The young man died in the most commonplace way of a pleurisy caught as he came out of the theatre. A head-clerk and penniless, the man entrapped the daughter in order to marry into the business—A judgment from heaven, I call it!”
“Where did you hear the story?”
“From Malaga; the notary is her milord.”
“What, Cardot, the son of that little old man in hair-powder, Florentine’s first friend?”
“Just so. Malaga, whose ‘fancy’ is a little tomtit of a fiddler of eighteen, cannot in conscience make such a boy marry the girl. Besides, she has no cause to do him an ill turn.—Indeed, Monsieur Cardot wants a man of thirty at least. Our notary, I feel sure, will be proud to have a famous man for his son-in-law. So just feel yourself all over.—You will pay your debts, you will have twelve thousand francs a year, and be a father without any trouble on your part; what do you say to that to the good? And, after all, you only marry a very consolable widow. There is an income of fifty thousand francs in the house, and the value of the connection, so in due time you may look forward to not less than fifteen thousand francs a year more for your share, and you will enter a family holding a fine political position; Cardot is the brother-in-law of old Camusot, the député who lived so long with Fanny Beaupré.”
“Yes,” said Lousteau, “old Camusot married little Daddy Cardot’s eldest daughter, and they had high times together!”
“Well!” Madame Schontz went on, “and Madame Cardot, the notary’s wife, was a Chiffreville—manufacturers of chemical products, the aristocracy of these days! Potash, I tell you! Still, this is the unpleasant side of the matter. You will have a terrible mother-in-law, a woman capable of killing her daughter if she knew—! This Cardot woman is a bigot; she has lips like two faded narrow pink ribbons.
“A man of the town like you would never pass muster with that woman, who, in her well-meaning way, will spy out your bachelor life and know every fact of the past. However, Cardot says he means to exert his paternal authority. The poor man will be obliged to do the civil to his wife for some days; a woman made of wood, my dear fellow; Malaga, who has seen her, calls her a penitential scrubber. Cardot is a man of forty; he will be mayor of his district, and perhaps be elected deputy. He is prepared to give in lieu of the hundred thousand francs a nice little house in the Rue Saint-Lazare, with a forecourt and a garden, which cost him no more than sixty thousand at the time of the July overthrow; he would
