“Three hundred thousand francs,” cried the Baron; “dat is a fery ’xpensive vaking for a man vat has passed the night on a sofa,” he added in Europe’s ear.

“Is that man really the Baron de Nucingen?” asked Europe to Louchard, giving weight to the doubt by a gesture which Mademoiselle Dupont, the low comedy servant of the Francais, might have envied.

“Yes, mademoiselle,” said Louchard.

“Yes,” replied Contenson.

“I shall be answerable,” said the Baron, piqued in his honor by Europe’s doubt.  “You shall ’llow me to say ein vort to her.”

Esther and her elderly lover retired to the bedroom, Louchard finding it necessary to apply his ear to the keyhole.

“I lofe you more as my life, Esther; but vy gife to your creditors moneys vich shall be so much better in your pocket?  Go into prison.  I shall undertake to buy up dose hundert tousant crowns for ein hundert tousant francs, an’ so you shall hafe two hundert tousant francs for you——­”

“That scheme is perfectly useless,” cried Louchard through the door.  “The creditor is not in love with mademoiselle—­not he!  You understand?  And he means to have more than all, now he knows that you are in love with her.”

“You dam’ sneak!” cried Nucingen, opening the door, and dragging Louchard into the bedroom; “you know not dat vat you talk about.  I shall gife you, you’self, tventy per cent if you make the job.”

“Impossible, M. le Baron.”

“What, monsieur, you could have the heart to let my mistress go to prison?” said Europe, intervening.  “But take my wages, my savings; take them, madame; I have forty thousand francs——­”

“Ah, my good girl, I did not really know you!” cried Esther, clasping Europe in her arms.

Europe proceeded to melt into tears.

“I shall pay,” said the Baron piteously, as he drew out a pocket-book, from which he took one of the little printed forms which the Bank of France issues to bankers, on which they have only to write a sum in figures and in words to make them available as cheques to bearer.

“It is not worth the trouble, Monsieur le Baron,” said Louchard; “I have instructions not to accept payment in anything but coin of the realm—­gold or silver.  As it is you, I will take banknotes.”

“Der Teufel!” cried the Baron.  “Well, show me your papers.”

Contenson handed him three packets covered with blue paper, which the Baron took, looking at the man, and adding in an undertone: 

“It should hafe been a better day’s vork for you ven you had gife me notice.”

“Why, how should I know you were here, Monsieur le Baron?” replied the spy, heedless whether Louchard heard him.  “You lost my services by withdrawing your confidence.  You are done,” added this philosopher, shrugging his shoulders.

“Qvite true,” said the baron.  “Ah, my chilt,” he exclaimed, seeing the bills of exchange, and turning to Esther, “you are de fictim of a torough scoundrel, ein highway tief!”