“Madame forbade our waking her on any pretence whatever.  She is in bed —­asleep——­”

“Ach der Teufel!” said the Baron.  “But, Europe, she shall not be angry to be tolt that she is fery, fery rich.  She shall inherit seven millions.  Old Gobseck is deat, and your mis’ess is his sole heir, for her moter vas Gobseck’s own niece; and besides, he shall hafe left a vill.  I could never hafe tought that a millionaire like dat man should hafe left Esther in misery!”

“Ah, ha!  Then your reign is over, old pantaloon!” said Europe, looking at the Baron with an effrontery worthy of one of Moliere’s waiting-maids.  “Shooh! you old Alsatian crow!  She loves you as we love the plague!  Heavens above us!  Millions!—­Why, she may marry her lover; won’t she be glad!”

And Prudence Servien left the Baron simply thunder-stricken, to be the first to announce to her mistress this great stroke of luck.  The old man, intoxicated with superhuman enjoyment, and believing himself happy, had just received a cold shower-bath on his passion at the moment when it had risen to the intensest white heat.

“She vas deceiving me!” cried he, with tears in his eyes.  “Yes, she vas cheating me.  Oh, Esther, my life!  Vas a fool hafe I been!  Can such flowers ever bloom for de old men!  I can buy all vat I vill except only yout!—­Ach Gott, ach Gott!  Vat shall I do!  Vat shall become of me!—­She is right, dat cruel Europe.  Esther, if she is rich, shall not be for me.  Shall I go hank myself?  Vat is life midout de divine flame of joy dat I have known?  Mein Gott, mein Gott!”

The old man snatched off the false hair he had combed in with his gray hairs these three months past.

A piercing shriek from Europe made Nucingen quail to his very bowels.  The poor banker rose and walked upstairs on legs that were drunk with the bowl of disenchantment he had just swallowed to the dregs, for nothing is more intoxicating than the wine of disaster.

At the door of her room he could see Esther stiff on her bed, blue with poison—­dead!

He went up to the bed and dropped on his knees.

“You are right!  She tolt me so!—­She is dead—­of me——­”

Paccard, Asie, every one hurried in.  It was a spectacle, a shock, but not despair.  Every one had their doubts.  The Baron was a banker again.  A suspicion crossed his mind, and he was so imprudent as to ask what had become of the seven hundred and fifty thousand francs, the price of the bond.  Paccard, Asie, and Europe looked at each other so strangely that Monsieur de Nucingen left the house at once, believing that robbery and murder had been committed.  Europe, detecting a packet of soft consistency, betraying the contents to be banknotes, under her mistress’ pillow, proceeded at once to “lay her out,” as she said.

“Go and tell monsieur, Asie!—­Oh, to die before she knew that she had seven millions!  Gobseck was poor madame’s uncle!” said she.