“You are an enchantress,” said the Baron, kissing Esther’s glove.  “I should be villing to listen to abuse for ein hour if alvays der vas a kiss at de ent of it.”

“But if I am not obeyed, I——­” and she threatened the Baron with her finger as we threaten children.

The Baron raised his head like a bird caught in a springe and imploring the trapper’s pity.

“Dear Heaven!  What ails Lucien?” said she to herself when she was alone, making no attempt to check her falling tears; “I never saw him so sad.”

This is what had happened to Lucien that very evening.

At nine o’clock he had gone out, as he did every evening, in his brougham to go to the Hotel de Grandlieu.  Using his saddle-horse and cab in the morning only, like all young men, he had hired a brougham for winter evenings, and had chosen a first-class carriage and splendid horses from one of the best job-masters.  For the last month all had gone well with him; he had dined with the Grandlieus three times; the Duke was delightful to him; his shares in the Omnibus Company, sold for three hundred thousand francs, had paid off a third more of the price of the land; Clotilde de Grandlieu, who dressed beautifully now, reddened inch thick when he went into the room, and loudly proclaimed her attachment to him.  Some personages of high estate discussed their marriage as a probable event.  The Duc de Chaulieu, formerly Ambassador to Spain, and now for a short while Minister for Foreign Affairs, had promised the Duchesse de Grandlieu that he would ask for the title of Marquis for Lucien.

So that evening, after dining with Madame de Serizy, Lucien had driven to the Faubourg Saint-Germain to pay his daily visit.

He arrives, the coachman calls for the gate to be opened, he drives into the courtyard and stops at the steps.  Lucien, on getting out, remarks four other carriages in waiting.  On seeing Monsieur de Rubempre, one of the footmen placed to open and shut the hall-door comes forward and out on to the steps, in front of the door, like a soldier on guard.

“His Grace is not at home,” says he.

“Madame la Duchesse is receiving company,” observes Lucien to the servant.

“Madame la Duchesse is gone out,” replies the man solemnly.

“Mademoiselle Clotilde——­”

“I do not think that Mademoiselle Clotilde will see you, monsieur, in the absence of Madame la Duchesse.”

“But there are people here,” replies Lucien in dismay.

“I do not know, sir,” says the man, trying to seem stupid and to be respectful.

There is nothing more fatal than etiquette to those who regard it as the most formidable arm of social law.  Lucien easily interpreted the meaning of this scene, so disastrous to him.  The Duke and Duchess would not admit him.  He felt the spinal marrow freezing in the core of his vertebral column, and a sickly cold sweat bedewed his brow.  The conversation had taken place in the presence of his own body-servant, who held the door of the brougham, doubting whether to shut it.  Lucien signed to him that he was going away again; but as he stepped into the carriage, he heard the noise of people coming downstairs, and the servant called out first, “Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu’s people,” then “Madame la Vicomtesse de Grandlieu’s carriage!”