In the early days of 1830 everybody in Paris was talking of Nucingen’s passion and the outrageous splendor of his house.  The poor Baron, pointed at, laughed at, and fuming with rage, as may easily be imagined, took it into his head that on the occasion of giving the house-warming he would at the same time get rid of his paternal disguise, and get the price of so much generosity.  Always circumvented by “La Torpille,” he determined to treat of their union by correspondence, so as to win from her an autograph promise.  Bankers have no faith in anything less than a promissory note.

So one morning early in the year he rose early, locked himself into his room, and composed the following letter in very good French; for though he spoke the language very badly, he could write it very well:—­

“DEAR ESTHER, the flower of my thoughts and the only joy of my life, when I told you that I loved you as I love my daughter, I deceived you, I deceived myself.  I only wished to express the holiness of my sentiments, which are unlike those felt by other men, in the first place, because I am an old man, and also because I have never loved till now.  I love you so much, that if you cost me my fortune I should not love you the less.

“Be just!  Most men would not, like me, have seen the angel in you; I have never even glanced at your past.  I love you both as I love my daughter, Augusta, and as I might love my wife, if my wife could have loved me.  Since the only excuse for an old man’s love is that he should be happy, ask yourself if I am not playing a too ridiculous part.  I have taken you to be the consolation and joy of my declining days.  You know that till I die you will be as happy as a woman can be; and you know, too, that after my death you will be rich enough to be the envy of many women.  In every stroke of business I have effected since I have had the happiness of your acquaintance, your share is set apart, and you have a standing account with Nucingen’s bank.  In a few days you will move into a house, which sooner or later, will be your own if you like it.  Now, plainly, will you still receive me then as a father, or will you make me happy?

“Forgive me for writing so frankly, but when I am with you I lose all courage; I feel too keenly that you are indeed my mistress.  I have no wish to hurt you; I only want to tell you how much I suffer, and how hard it is to wait at my age, when every day takes with it some hopes and some pleasures.  Besides, the delicacy of my conduct is a guarantee of the sincerity of my intentions.  Have I ever behaved as your creditor?  You are like a citadel, and I am not a young man.  In answer to my appeals, you say your life is at stake, and when I hear you, you make me believe it; but here I sink into dark melancholy and doubts dishonorable to us both.  You seemed to me as sweet and innocent as you are lovely; but you insist on destroying my convictions.  Ask yourself!—­You tell