“Their name is enough,” said Lucien.

“We are only three wisk players—­Maufrigneuse, d’Espard, and I—­will you make a fourth?” said the Duke, pointing to the card-table.

Clotilde came to the table to watch her father’s game.

“She expects me to believe that she means it for me,” said the Duke, patting his daughter’s hands, and looking round at Lucien, who remained quite grave.

Lucien, Monsieur d’Espard’s partner, lost twenty louis.

“My dear mother,” said Clotilde to the Duchess, “he was so judicious as to lose.”

At eleven o’clock, after a few affectionate words with Mademoiselle de Grandlieu, Lucien went home and to bed, thinking of the complete triumph he was to enjoy a month hence; for he had not a doubt of being accepted as Clotilde’s lover, and married before Lent in 1830.

On the morrow, when Lucien was smoking his cigarettes after breakfast, sitting with Carlos, who had become much depressed, M. de Saint-Esteve was announced—­what a touch of irony—­who begged to see either the Abbe Carlos Herrera or Monsieur Lucien de Rubempre.

“Was he told downstairs that I had left Paris?” cried the Abbe.

“Yes, sir,” replied the groom.

“Well, then, you must see the man,” said he to Lucien.  “But do not say a single compromising word, do not let a sign of surprise escape you.  It is the enemy.”

“You will overhear me,” said Lucien.

Carlos hid in the adjoining room, and through the crack of the door he saw Corentin, whom he recognized only by his voice, such powers of transformation did the great man possess.  This time Corentin looked like an old paymaster-general.

“I have not had the honor of being known to you, monsieur,” Corentin began, “but——­”

“Excuse my interrupting you, monsieur, but——­”

“But the matter in point is your marriage to Mademoiselle Clotilde de Grandlieu—­which will never take place,” Corentin added eagerly.

Lucien sat down and made no reply.

“You are in the power of a man who is able and willing and ready to prove to the Duc de Grandlieu that the lands of Rubempre are to be paid for with the money that a fool has given to your mistress, Mademoiselle Esther,” Corentin went on.  “It will be quite easy to find the minutes of the legal opinions in virtue of which Mademoiselle Esther was summoned; there are ways too of making d’Estourny speak.  The very clever manoeuvres employed against the Baron de Nucingen will be brought to light.

“As yet all can be arranged.  Pay down a hundred thousand francs, and you will have peace.—­All this is no concern of mine.  I am only the agent of those who levy this blackmail; nothing more.”

Corentin might have talked for an hour; Lucien smoked his cigarette with an air of perfect indifference.

“Monsieur,” replied he, “I do not want to know who you are, for men who undertake such jobs as these have no name—­at any rate, in my vocabulary.  I have allowed you to talk at your leisure; I am at home.  —­You seem to me not bereft of common sense; listen to my dilemma.”